Vertigo: The Circle Is Now Complete

Anyone who knows me, even on a casual basis, knows that my favorite movie of all time is Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.  I first saw it around the age of 15, when I ordered it sight unseen from the Columbia House Video Club to complete my subscription obligation.

The tape was pan-and-scanned and probably mono, and likely offered no benefit over a television airing except the lack of commercials (oh, and the ability to fast-forwarded, rewind, or just plain stop… an ancient precursor to the joys of Tivo). In short, it looked and sounded like shit.

However….

I was transfixed, utterly mesmerized by the convoluted (perhaps even fractured) narrative, the atmospheric blend of romance and dread, the tragic undoing of an innocent man. I doubt that I fully absorbed the various subtexts, and I certainly had no clue about the extreme level of soul-baring Hitchcock was hurling at the public in what amounted to his masterpiece.  But I didn't need to thoroughly understand the film to love it.    I think my favorite movie before it was the original Night of the Living Dead, so this was quite a step up.

Vertigo wasn't well received when it was originally released.  However, in the 50 years since, it has grown in stature, routinely making critics' top ten lists alongside venerable classics like Citizen Kane and Casablanca.  In fact, just the other day the AFI named it the number one mystery film of all time.

From left: VHS re-release (1997), first DVD release (1998), most recent DVD release (2005).

I've bought Vertigo on home video three more times since that first fateful VHS tape, and have seen it countless times. Every time I get a new TV, the first movie I watch on it is Vertigo. However, one experience has always eluded me: the pleasure of seeing it as originally intended, in a movie theater. When the film's 50th anniversary came around last month, I was disappointed that a theatrical re-release didn't happen. Several newspapers (including The New York Times and, locally, The Oregonian) ran stories on the film, its troubled history and its incalculable influence on the film industry, so why wasn't it back in theaters? Well, imagine my surprise when Portland's own Cinema 21 scheduled a week's worth of screenings, from May 30th through June 5th (better late than never, I always say). Finally, I'd see it on the big screen, closing a circle that first opened some 23 years ago. The ad in the paper even touted a "new, pristine 35mm print," so I was doubly excited.

Teresa and I made plans to see it on Saturday night (we'd already planned a date night, so this would be perfect). We dined at the Claim Jumper, which is always a treat, and then made our way to downtown Portland.  It took longer than expected to get there, since the fucking Rose Festival Parade just happened to be on the same night.   People everywhere, roads being blocked off all around, etc. We eventually made it, however.  Teresa parked the car while I stood outside the theater, gazing up at the marquee I'd waited so long to see:

Once inside, I actually went up and down the stairs two different times, scoping out the seating options, trying to determine the best viewing angle, and opted for the balcony.  We sat down.  The lights dimmed.  For the next two hours, I watched intently as my favorite movie of all time flickered before my eyes, bigger than ever, transfixing me just as it has every other time I've seen it.

However, I've gotta point something out: the print they screened was most certainly NOT "pristine." It popped, jumped, and crackled, and every so often a series of ugly horizontal scratch marks would appear (it looked like a cat had gotten ahold of it and sharpened its claws on it).  My DVD, by contrast, is practically flawless.  But was the experience diminished by this?  Not at all. What DID diminish it (at least a little) was some fucking idiot in a nearby section who gasped loudly, clearly for comedic effect, right at the climatic moment at the end. I feel sorry for anyone in that theater who'd never seen the film before.    I was THIS close to bitching her out, let me tell ya.

I briefly thought about going back for a second screening on Sunday, but I decided against it.  I'd had the experience.  The circle was now complete.

When we got home, I went downstairs to my office, and gazed for a moment at the Vertigo shrine on my wall:

The circle may be closed, but my love affair with Vertigo continues.  If you've never seen it…. Well honestly, what the hell are you waiting for?

Father's Day 2008

So last Sunday was Father's Day. And as expected, it was awesome. My wife and kids really spoiled me (once again). First off, I was the happy recipient of a tasty breakfast of bacon and eggs. Sierra made me a very good Bloody Mary (actually a whole carafe, which I thirstily devoured)....

And then it was time for gifts....

Yeah, it was basically an Anthony Bourdain Father's Day. Both No Reservations DVD sets, plus the eponymous book. Teresa even made me a custom Anthony Bourdain card, "signed" by Tony, wishing me a "Happy F@$%ing Father's Day" (in true Bourdain spirit). Kendyl also painted me a very cute picture, which is now hanging up in my cubicle at work…

Is it a frog? A lizard? A chameleon? All of the above, none of the above… who cares? It's cute, and the little goofus is a sweetie for painting it for me.

I crashed around 11:30 or so, thanks to a full belly and the sedative powers of Sierra's Bloody Mary. I slept for about an hour or so....

I'd love to say I the spent the afternoon in my hammock (which I got last year for Father's Day), but I didn't. I tried to, I really did. I've found that the best time of day for hammocking is between the hours of 11:00 and 2:00 (any later and the trees can't adequately block the sun). We took Bijou to the dog park in Tigard around 1:00, and by the time we got back… well, it was too late. I figured I'd go out later, after dinner maybe, when the sun might be low enough, but it just didn't happen. Life, man. Stuff comes up. In any case, no hammock time for Daddy this Father's Day. I did, however, spend about four hours in it the weekend before, and I'm planning on doing so again tomorrow (Saturday), so it's all good. No bitterness here.

Oh, and I got a tasty dinner too. Steak (topped with grilled mushrooms and gorgonzola cheese), grilled asparagus, baked potato, croissants. Yum.

(Wow, that's a lot of sour cream on that potato. No wonder I'm so chubocious!)

All in all, a pretty fucking fine Father's Day. My family rocks.

Fucking Punks.

Fucking punks. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. FUCKING PUNKS.

We woke up this morning to a nasty surprise on our front window. Yeah, that's right.... paintballed!

Who did it? I dunno. I suppose it could've been worse... much worse. Still, it sucks. Not a fan of vandals. Is this even technically vandalism? Nothing was damaged. I dunno. Still pisses me off. Teresa took the garden hose to it, which got rid of it... mostly. There's still a trace outline on the glass. A reminder, I suppose, that we don't live in a bubble.

Stupid punks.

Father & Daughter

I suck. Oh, it's true. I do indeed. I've been extremely lax in my writing. Significant things have happened, events have flown by at faster-than-light speeds, and I haven't even attempted to document them, much less explore their impact on me. The most important of which is as follows….

My daughter, my firstborn, the adorable and wicked Sierra Joy, turned 16 on May 24th. She had what amounted to a three-straight-weekend party, culminating with a full-on tea party at the Sherwood Tea House on May 31^st with her closest friends.

(that's her on the far left)

After the festivities, I unveiled my final gift to her: a video compilation of footage and still pictures of her entire life. Let's just say everyone who saw it thought it was amazing. I had originally planned to upload it on YouTube so distant family members could see it, but it ended up being nearly an hour long! I'll likely upload at least the Father & Daughter section, set to the Paul Simon song of the same name (which is kinda our song), to bring tears to the eyes of viewers everywhere.

Speaking of tears, anyone who knows me (well enough) knows that I am an absolute crybaby. Jesus, even those damned Goodwill commercials make me tear up. And don't even get me started on Armageddon, which is a movie that I loathe (as any serious film fan would), but am nonetheless choked up by its overwrought ending. But nothing in the world even comes close to the effect Sierra has on me. Seriously, I can make myself cry at the drop of a hat just by thinking about her. I am unspeakably proud of her, and I've been at her mercy since the day she was born. Two years ago, on Christmas morning, she presented me with a handmade scrapbook detailing our relationship (which, naturally, was the inspiration for the video discussed above), and I cried like a fucking baby (which was, of course, captured on video by Teresa for future blackmailing).

The scrapbook.

I've often tried to figure out why I'm so quick to shed tears when it comes to her…. Nothing hits me so immediately, so viscerally, so deep in the gut. Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? The shadow of a slow-blooming mental illness?

Nah. I just adore my little girl. Inside every father's heart lives a treasured little girl. I'll bet I'm not the only daddy who is moved to tears by the overpowering magic of the father-daughter bond. But if I am… then I'm the luckiest man alive, and the rest of you guys don't know what you're missing.

(Sierra, probably about six months old or so, 1992)

Hey, come to think of it…. Armageddon's weepy ending centers around a daughter losing her father. Damn it, no wonder it makes me cry! See, maybe I'm not such a woman after all.

(Sierra and I on her birthday, May 24, 2008)

The Hammerhead Diaries, Chapter 4

The Hammerhead Diaries
07 June 2008 6:33 p.m.
McMenamins John Barleycorn (Tigard, OR)

Where to begin? First of all, they’re fucking OUT of Workingman’s Red. My favorite seasonal beer of all time and they’re…. uh, just plain out. Funny, the little printed list at my table lists it proudly at the top, so my natural presumption is that they HAVE it. They don’t, it seems. Nor do they have any Purple Haze, but since it’s made with boysenberries, I’m okay with it. I wonder if anybody, even girls in pink skirts, would want it. Are they out, or are they just too ashamed to serve it?

So… first beer, the ol’ standby: Hammerhead Ale. There is none finer.

The list (which I’m loathe to look at again) looks the same as last time. It’s been… what, three months since my last entry? One of the benefits of only coming here every few months is the ever-changing list, which provides me with new beers to critique right here, in this very column. If the list is the same as last time… well shit, I’ve got nothin’.

I’ll still drink. I’ll still write. But it won’t be the same. Damn you, McMenamins!

No Sunflower IPA either. WTF, mate? While they do carry it in bottled form (as the mini-fridge in my home office will attest), it seems they don’t generally offer it on tap, since it’s brewed at their Edgefield establishment and not there. They’re currently offering a Spring Trainer IPA, which is on its way courtesy of the somewhat-frumpy waitress assigned to my mini-table (is it too much to ask for the hottie with the slammin’ hips and the bubble butt? Oh hell, one beer and the pig comes out!).

So…. Spring Trainer IPA. Mmm, very clean finish. Almost sharp, like a drop-off, leaving only a subtle bitterness behind. I say “subtle” because when it comes to IPAs, I’m all about the bitter, baby, and this one packs a bite, but it’s a pretty small one. Teresa may be able to drink this. The Sunflower Ale has a fairly strong bitter profile, so I’ve kinda come to expect it in an IPA. This particular McMenamins also offers a Nebraska Bitter, which I’ll be trying next.

Side note: as long as we’re discoursing on bitterness, I’ve gotta throw in a mad shout-out to my daughter Sierra, who recently turned 16, who is the reigning Bitter Bitch in my crib. She accompanied Teresa and I to a beer-and-cheese tasting last summer, and one of the microbreweries represented (Astoria Brewing Co.) was selling T-shirts advertising their Bitter Bitch IPA. Naturally, she just HAD to have one. I bought her one. I haven’t seen her wear it lately, but rest assured, she remains one seriously bitter bitch. Happy birthday, sweetie!

So what else is new? Well, I got my hair cut short today. REALLY short. Like, shorter than I’ve worn it in a few years. I’ve been growing it out for a while now, and it was starting to get (un)respectably long, but… well, summer’s fast approaching. Daddy don’t want no sweaty head. Thus, the hair had to go. And go it did. My hairdresser, Angie, seemed happy with my decision (and since she’s the one with the sharp objects, I’m inclined to go along with whatever she says). Speaking of Angie, she’s getting married two weeks from today, just a short walk from the spot where Teresa and I took the plunge almost three years ago (Canon Beach). Here’s hoping she gets decent weather. We certainly did… in fact, I got fucking barbecued on my wedding day, and spent the honeymoon beet-red and glistening (not as kinky as it sounds).

Other new stuff: finally pulled the trigger on an HD camcorder (the Canon HF-10, in case you were curious). This marks the first meaningful step towards a dream of mine becoming a reality: making an independent film. Screenplay’s already written… now I’ve got a camera good enough to shoot it. I still need a decent boom mike, some lights… oh, and some actors willing to work for free.

Speaking of which, I may have found my female lead. I was at CostCo today, buying a package of pre-cooked bacon (yeah, I’m that lame), and the boxgirl (or whatever the hell they’re called) caught my eye. Young, brunette, very animated. Her name was Mary (if her nametag was being honest). I overheard her talking to the customer in front of me about wines, so I assume she’s at least 21. She looks a bit young, but I could totally see her as Chloe (the main female character in my screenplay). I may have to hit CostCo again real soon and ask her if she’s done any acting. With my luck she’ll expect to get paid or something, especially when she hears that she’ll have to do sex scenes with two different guys (and maybe a girl too, if I ever add that extra scene that I’ve been thinking about).

Okay, beer #3: Nebraska Bitter. I’ve had this before. Have I written about it before? I dunno. A quick scan through my three previous Hammerhead Diaries entries says no (Christ, I started this endeavor 14 months ago, and I’m only one my FOURTH entry? I should get some kind of award for procrastination). Um… it’s pretty bland. There’s almost a citrusy quality, which IMHO shouldn’t exist in a bitter. And it’s not bitter at all. Jesus, I shouldn’t have to turn to an IPA for my bitter fix when there’s an actual BITTER beer on the menu. McMenamins, you’re starting to piss me off.

Stevie Nicks is sitting at the bar. Okay, not the current incarnation, but the chunky drug-addled version from the early 90’s. She’s talking to the bartender and nodding a lot. Maybe he’s telling her to go back to Fleetwood Mac before it’s too late. Oh shit, she just caught me looking at her. Heh, she sucked in her gut. I love that.

Speaking of guts…. Yeah, I’ve got one. I’ve gotta do something about that. It would be nice to hit 40 and not be a fatty. I’ve got a year and a half to lose the gut. Will he do it? Will this unfortunate sad sack drop the pounds in time for the big 4-0? Stay tuned!

Up next: the Royce Porter, apparently named after an employee here. This better be fucking awesome, otherwise I’m tracking this Royce character down and stepping on his throat.

Wouldn’t that be cool, having a beer named after yourself? I wonder what type of beer I’d want named after me… and what would it be called? Craig’s IPA? Bitter Beam? Mack Dizzle Ale? One of these days I’m gonna get one of those home-brewing kits and make my own, just you watch. The beer obsession grows with age.

A beer I’d buy: Alec Baldwin’s Schwetty Balls Ale. Just to display the bottle in my office. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you haven’t watched enough Saturday Night Live. If that’s the case, shame on you.

Okay, the Royce Porter: looks like iced coffee, tastes like iced coffee. Sierra would like this. Honestly, I’m expecting to find grounds at the bottom of the glass. Not loving this… but hell, it’s beer, so I’m gonna drink it. If there’s air, you breathe it. If there’s chips, you eat them. So it is with beer. Christ, I’m the guy who actually bought that hideous Budweiser and Clamato atrocity, if for no other reason than the fact that it contained alcohol.

Does that make me a drunk? Inquiring minds want to know!