The Lincoln catafalque is a catafalque hastily constructed in 1865 to support the casket of Abraham Lincoln while the president’s body lay in state in the Capitol Rotunda in Washington, D.C. The catafalque has since been used for all those who have lain in state in the Capitol Rotunda, as listed below. When not in use, the catafalque is kept below the Crypt in a small vaulted chamber called Washington’s Tomb, which was originally intended, but never used, as the burial place for the first American president.
Hey, this is pretty interesting. To me, anyway. But I’m that kind of geek. I was the kind of kid who memorized the presidents, in order; read books about the architecture of the Capitol; and pretended he was the first openly gay congressman from Oklahoma. In fifth or sixth grade, I even gave a speech on assassinated presidents at a 4-H event. Stop looking at me like that! It’s not that nerdy.
Ok, maybe it is.
Anyway, the Wikipedia article lists all the notables who’ve lain in state on the Lincoln catafalque. They range from Lincoln to Gen. Pershing to Congressman Claude Pepper to President Gerald Ford. Among the list is Thaddeus Stevens, who was a powerful congressman in the Civil War and Reconstruction eras. Strangely enough, my grandfather was named after Stevens. Happily, the name “Thaddeus” didn’t get passed down to me….
That’s Thaddeus Stevens’s photo up there, by the way. Wild and crazy guy, huh?
According to the explanation, I merited this rating because of the use of the following words: gay (5x), dick (2x), dangerous (1x). And, yeah, I guess they got me on “gay.” I am that, and I talk about that. But the references to “dick” were to Philip K. Dick. That’s sci-fi, not risqué!
Actually, I’m sort of disappointed I’m the blog’s not at least R-rated. I aspire to be more edgy!
I had a fairly peaceful weekend—outwardly, anyway. Saturday was a gorgeous day, with the temperatures reaching only into the mid 70s. By this time of year, Philly’s usually hitting the 90s nearly every day. (It looks like we’re about to start that this week. Ugh.) So on Saturday I took the train to Manayunk, one of Philly’s most distinctive neighborhoods, for the 18th Annual Manayunk Arts Festival.
The festival—which is really a craft show—takes place right on Main Street, for blocks and blocks and blocks. In terms of goods, it isn’t anywhere near the best show in the city. But there’s usually some interesting photography and cheap-ish pottery.
When I’ve been to the festival in the past, it was always so dang hot that I couldn’t really enjoy just walking the street. This time, I ambled up and down Main Street, sticking my head in every interesting tent (and a few stores). Strangely enough, though, I didn’t buy anything. I was tempted by some cool pottery, but I already own too much stuff like that. I have to be really, really, really impressed anymore to buy a mug or bowl….
Actually, more than shopping, I people-watched. There were so many couples on the street. And pooches. And couples with pooches. It made me miss being in a couple…and having a dog. At times, I felt conspicuously alone on Saturday. Sigh.
I always tell myself I’m not just going to sit home when I can’t find anyone to hang out with. And I don’t sit home all that much. On Saturday, for instance, when my usual weekend buds were occupied, I went to Manayunk…. As you know, I go to movies alone. I take classes alone. But it would be so much nicer to be a part of a couple, to share some of these things with a partner.
I’m beginning to wonder if that’ll ever happen again. I know that’s probably irrational—and I’m only “just” 40—but it’s ridiculously hard to meet a man who is (a) single, (b) not insane, (c) not self-destructive, (d) not cheating on his partner, and (e) nice. And would ‘cute’ be too much to hope for, too? Sigh, again.
I also started wishing, again, that I had a dog. I saw a beautiful Chocolate Lab on Saturday, and I wanted one of my own, dang it. It’s a completely impractical idea, though. I work too many long hours, and I live too far from work, to have a dog. The dog would be home alone too much, and I’d never get it (him/her?) trained. And, of course, Labs are particularly needy dogs. Obviously, too, getting a dog because you’re lonely is a profoundly bad idea….
Just so you know, I am the target audience for this film. I love foreign films. I love singer-songwriters. I love films about love. I love love-songs.
I loved Once.
Once is the story of a thirtysomething Dublin street musician, played by Glen Hansard of The Frames. One day, he’s approached by a younger Czech woman (Markéta Irglová). She is disarmingly direct about his music, and everything else, and we quickly learn about his broken heart. Less quickly, we learn that she, too, is a musician. Even less quickly than that, we learn that she has some relationship issues of her own. Nevertheless, a friendship—and a flirtation, of sorts—ensue. I won’t go into the details here; you’ll want to experience them for yourself. Suffice it to say, though, that it’s just too easy, and a bit misleading, to call this “a love story.” Once is as much about limits as it is a love story. Director John Carney reminds us that there are many different kinds of affairs.
Once is also about music. As A.O. Scott said in the New York Times, it surely “seems silly and grandiose to lavish praise on a movie whose dramatic crux is the recording of a demo tape.” But you’ll definitely find yourself rooting for the main characters to meld musically. They’re each struggling financially as well as spiritually, and that demo tape sort of seems like it might be an answer to any number of problems.
The music is central. I haven’t mentioned it yet, because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea, but Once is a sort of musical. It’s a musical in the sense that the music advances the plot, anyway. But it’s not a musical in the South Pacific or Oklahoma! sense, where songs spring out of nowhere. Once is a low-key, everyday sort of musical. The music is entirely natural to the plot, and there’s never a song that feels like it was grafted on. Best of all, the music is smart and beautiful. (You can listen to some of it at the film’s website.)
I haven’t at all done Once justice here. But I liked everything about it. Hansard and Irglová, despite not being actors, are charming and polished. The plot is intimate, touching. The music stays with you.
Last night, for the first time in several weeks, I attended a beer-tasting at Tria Fermentation School. (And, dang, I was missing it.) The class was led by Tom Kehoe, a respected local brewer and the co-owner of Yards Brewing Company. His topic was sugar, the dirty-little-secret ingredient in many non-German beers.
Those uptight Germans (hey, I’m just joking — sorta), with their Purity Law, the Reinheitsgebot, didn’t allow sugar in beers until 1987, when a European court ruling forced the issue. German beers are still an almost entirely sugar-free product. I tend to be a fan of those freewheeling, sugar-friendly Belgians.
Anyway, tonight’s session was lots of fun. We actually started out by tasting Colt 45(!), which is made with high-fructose corn syrup and is, well, pretty much disgusting. I hadn’t tasted it in years. It’ll probably be years before I have another taste…. It’s like beer-scented water. That said, it was definitely amusing to see all the beer snobs in the room, myself included, swirling and tasting Colt 45! It works every time, you know.
I particularly enjoyed three of last night’s beer. Yards Brewing’s own General Washington Tavern Porter, based on a recipe written the former general/president himself, uses molasses. It’s a dark, aromatic brew, and I got some pleasant coffee notes out of it. Rochefort Brewery’s No. 8, which I’ve enjoyed before, is a sophisticated dark ale. I appreciated its caramel notes (not to mention its impressive head). My favorite beer of the evening might have been Gale’s Prize Old Ale. It smelled and tasted something like a barleywine. In fact, it reminded me strongly of a sweet, aged liqueur that I might want to sip over the course of an evening. It’s not something I’d want to polish off in a half hour, or with dinner, though.
I have another beer-tasting next week. I doubt there’ll be any Colt 45 at that one!
Sadly, this is not a review of the spice. If it were, I’d be in favor of it. Especially on deviled eggs.
Actually, though, I caught Paprika, the Japanese anime movie, on Wednesday night. It was pretty dreadful. I can’t recommend it.
The film starts out fairly promisingly, sketching out a plot about a device, the DC Mini, that allows a psychologist to enter a patient’s dreams for treatment purposes. The therapist leading research into the DC Mini is, prematurely, using the DC Mini to treat some patients. She conducts this therapy through her alter ego, Paprika. Unfortunately, one of the DC Mini prototypes goes missing, and—with disastrous consequences—it starts being used against members of the DC Mini’s development team.
From there, all sorts of stuff happens. Unfortunately, only a little bit of it makes any real, er, sense. I can tell you that the film attempts to merge dream worlds and reality, whatever that is, in complicated ways. There’s also a sort of anti-business theme. Without a copy of the script, or a detailed synopsis (the press kit‘s “long” synopsis extends for 17 full paragraphs), though, you’ll be hard-pressed to say at any point just exactly what’s going on. When the film was over, I had a general idea about what had taken place, and there were various satisfying “resolutions” to the plot lines, but I was unable to say how Point A led to Point B and so forth. I mostly felt like I’d just sat through a whirlwind of color and baffling symbolism.
The film is colorful, to be sure. The animation is far better than nearly anything produced in Hollywood, and I certainly appreciated the attempt to make a film that would appeal to adult fans of animation. In the end, though, I have two real demands for any film: (a) I should be able to understand what happens and (b) the story ought to make some resonant, meaningful commentary, however modest, about life. Paprika failed me, in substantial ways, on both grounds.
I also have a particular gripe about the plot. Early in the story, the attentive viewer (and, golly, I was trying!) sees evidence that what seems to be a “bad” guy is gay. Ok, fine. I certainly don’t expect every gay character to be admirable. Later, though, when we have a better idea who the bad guys are, we learn that the really bad guy has sold his, um, assets to more than one unsavory man. If there’s some nonprejudicial message in that, it was lost on me. In Paprika‘s world, gay seems to be code for the morally questionable. Ugh.
Having written all this, let me point out that many film critics have loved Paprika. I think some of that may be due to a subplot that romanticizes/idealizes film-going. But I freely admit that I might be wrong about Paprika. I just don’t think I am.
In my local newspaper, film critic Carrie Rickey wrote that Paprika “might have been imagined by a tag team of novelist Philip K. Dick, cyberpunk scribe William Gibson, and technoscientist Donna Haraway.” That line helped propel me to the theater. While Dick and Gibson might have imagined worlds like Paprika‘s, though, they’d’ve done more with it.
On a four-star scale, I’d give Paprika one-and-a-half or two stars.
The crossbow often has a complicated legal status due to its lethality and its similarities with both firearms and other archery weapons.
This is really a very strange Wikipedia entry. There’s no general content whatsoever. After the single sentence I just quoted, the article proceeds to give some sketchy details about the legality of crossbows in a handful of countries—from Australia to Denmark. If I were thinking about buying a crossbow(!) in one of those jurisdictions, and I’m not, I don’t think I’d feel confident in the information provided here…. For instance, the section on the United States provides specific information only as to Georgia and Ohio. Are those states the crossbow capitals of the nation? Somehow I doubt it. (Hi, Texas! Hi, Arkansas!)
Where are the crossbow-legality experts, and why haven’t they found Wikipedia?
This entry is bound to draw some creepy traffic to the blog via search engines…. If you’re a crossbow fan, creepy or non-creepy, leave me a message, ok?
I guess I’m actually way too middle-aged to be doing it, but I buy t-shirts from Threadless. Threadless is the company that’s getting all the presslately (links via Population Statistic, and, oh, here’s a link to NPR’s recent piece, too) for crowdsourcing. It’s built an online community that actually designs—and helps select the most promising designs for—the shirts. So I frequently spend free time looking at designs and ranking them on a 0-5 scale. (I’m a tough grader; currently, my average score is 1.55.) Somehow or other, it’s fun, even though I know I’m (literally) being made a capitalist tool in the process….
Anyway, a few months ago, I bought a t-shirt called Funkalicious, designed by Christopher Golebiowski. The design is retro or ironic or ironically retro, of the 80s persuasion; it shows an astronaut carrying a boom box, and there are silly, delightful primary-color echoes suggesting movement. Whenever I wear the shirt, I get comments (sometimes about the astronaut’s, er, bulge). I love the shirt.
I occasionally see someone wearing one of the bazillion different Threadless t-shirts, and that’s not surprising, given all the attention the company has received lately. On Sunday, though, while I was wearing my t-shirt, I saw someone else wearing the same Funkalicious tee. That’s a first for me. Each t-shirt is printed in limited numbers. In fact, if you see a t-shirt that you like, you better buy it quickly, particularly if you wear a medium or large. The clever tees sell out quickly. So I’m thinking that the odds of seeing someone else wearing the same Threadless t-shirt that you’re actually wearing must be pretty slim.
Whatever the odds, I felt a little bit like I’d shown up at a party wearing the hostess’s dress. [Clarification: I’ve never actually worn a party dress. Or any dress. Really.]
Except here, I was one of two people wearing the same t-shirt at a Radio Shack.
Continuing the all-Irish theme, I caught The Wind That Shakes the Barley after the Bloomsday festivities on Saturday. The film stars Cillian Murphy and Pádraic Delaney as brothers who fought together in the Irish War of Independence only to find themselves on different sides of the civil war that followed.
Obviously, it’s an absolutely serious film, with grim subject matter, and a real sense of foreboding immediately confronts the viewer. Indeed, as soon as you (quickly) start caring about the characters, and you do, you realize that they can’t all survive, either physically or morally. Understandably, and probably justifiably, the British come across in all this as grotesque, evil stereotypes. Still, despite (or perhaps even because of) that, the most effective parts of the film are the earliest scenes documenting the brothers’ involvement in the horrific, violent guerrilla-style effort against the British. Director Ken Loach well tells the story of British oppression and the dangerous, desperate fight undertaken by the Irish in reaction.
Where the film falters is in showing how and why the brothers ultimately end up on different sides of the political spectrum. After the Anglo-Irish Treaty was signed in 1921, the peaceful brother, a physician played by Murphy, becomes the more radical of the two. He had been the reluctant fighter, dragged into the guerrilla fight only because British violence absolutely surrounded him. His continuing trajectory into greater radicalism sort of makes sense. The political path taken by the other brother, played by Delaney, is completely baffling, however. Having been the original firebrand, he somehow becomes the pragmatist—desperate to make the post-Treaty Irish Free State work as a British(!) dominion. For that matter, the entire post-Treaty political situation is so poorly explained by The Wind That Shakes the Barley that I needed to brush up on my Irish history after the film. (And I probably know more about Irish history than the typical non-Irish viewer.)
Still, I’d recommend The Wind That Shakes the Barley. It’s beautifully filmed and well-acted, and I can see how it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. That said, I don’t think it deserves some of the rave reviews, including this one from one of my favorite reviewers, that it has received. It’s a good film, but it’s not the great, definitive film about the Irish struggle.
On a four-star scale, I’d give The Wind That Shakes the Barley two-and-a-half or maybe three stars.
Rivers Are Damp 
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