Request for some Movie Info

Just testing out the power of the web . . . I'm looking for the name of a movie I saw more than twenty years ago on the late late show. It was an action movie that featured two men, one black and one white, who were part of a UN task force? in Africa. They discovered a cache of gems in a town that was about to be attacked by rebels.

The men managed to escape with the gems, but the last car of the train they used broke off and was captured. Both the gems and a good deal of civilians were lost. The black man smuggled his buddy back into the town as a 'prisoner' and grabbed the gems - leaving many of their own men behind to die.

Eventually the black man is murdered and his friend chases the killer and gets his revenge. Totally out of character, he turns himself in for a court-martial.

I was about eight when I saw this movie, so don't hold me to the storyline. Anyone who can help me out wins my gratitude and a shout out here on the site.

The Post about Amber Frey January 7th

Ninety miles to the south of me in Mrs. O'Leary's Chicago, Oprah Winfrey is kicking herself.

When the queen of daytime landed the first interview with Amber Frey, the mistress of convicted killer Scott Peterson and author of a new book on their affair, it seemed like a genuine media coup. The Peterson case is this decade's answer to OJ and Oprah wisely decided to shore up a week of reruns by stretching the Frey interview to two days. Like most of America, I'm guessing she was expecting two shows of shocking revelations and fascinating memories.

Oops.

Here are my initial impressions of Amber Frey: she is quite beautiful, and she is about as articulate as a coffee table.

To be fair, it's a painful and embarrassing subject and she's discussing it for the first time in front of America's largest daytime audience. If John Travolta could bawl like a baby promoting his movie on today's show, then Ms. Frey is certainly entitled to her own set of butterflies.

But let me tell you, after watching the gruesome first half I have new respect for two people. Oprah, for using all her considerable skill to salvage a few minutes of TV from Frey's deer-in-the- headlights answers; and Frey's ghostwriter for managing to sew together 200 pages of text out of that woman's thoughts.

You know, I don't think Frey read her own book. Oprah quoted a passage that described the 'exact' moment Amber fell in love with Scott. Care to respond Amber, you know, tell us in detail how you felt at that moment? Nope. Frey contradicted the passage by saying she couldn’t remember the first tine she knew she loved him.

Oookaaay, shall we move on? Oprah asks a question. Frey looks confused (gasp!), and Oprah fills in the answer herself. Repeat endlessly.

"I know this story better than you do," an exasperated Oprah said.

Heck, I know the book better than Amber, and I haven't seen a copy.

Now to be fair, I think the woman's gotten a bum rap. First, about how she had Scott pick up her daughter from school after 'only' three dates. Sure it sounds crazy, but is it the action that bothers us or the fact that in retrospect we know the man was a killer? Scott was a well -mannered businessman who was introduced to her by a friend and had already met her child. While I may not agree with her, the decision needs to be viewed in context.

Second, the speculation that Amber is lying - like maybe at some point she figured out he was married and was 'okay' with the fact.

Who cares? She didn't know when they began dating, and she loved him. If at some point she caught on and tolerated it, she at least has more credibility than the legion of hypocrites who willingly start affairs everyday.

(While we're on the subject, justly crucify Peterson for many things, but enough with the wide-eyed horror about how he lied. The man was having an affair and trying to hide the fact from two women. What was he supposed to do, email each of them an accurate itinerary? Lying is a prerequisite for an affair, and it's certainly not the most original - or abhorrent - sin on his conscience.)

Lousy interview or not, I'm going to tune in tomorrow. Partly out of interest in the case, but yeah, I want to see if Amber can suck it up and come out swinging.

If she doesn't, Oprah may just take a few swings at her.

UPDATE: I think O took Amber aside and told her to shape up, because Friday's interview was more articulate . . . that still isn't saying a lot, but it was better.

.

The Post about Big Grandpa Jan 5th

On this day eighteen years ago, my paternal Grandfather passed away of lung cancer. He was seventy-three.

In the grand course of things, I failed him.

It’s not something I regret - I’ve come to accept that life works out the way it should most of the time, and I would imagine our relationship falls into that axiom - but I would do things differently.

In the thirteen years we coexisted on this planet we never lived more than a half mile apart, but we might as well have been strangers. He was my Grandfather, and I could not tell you the color of his eyes, where he went to school, or which party earned his vote. I couldn’t even remember the year of his birth, relying on my father for that most basic of biographical facts.

I’ll tell you what I do remember.

I called him Big Grandpa, because at 6’2” and 220 pounds he seemed an intimidating giant to a shy, awkward boy. What I remember most about him was his handshake, a painfully firm grip that reinforced his image. The kindest word from his mouth came gift-wrapped with these pre-conceptions. He once asked me to straighten a rug in his kitchen and I ran off in tears.

The irony? In a few more years I would have dwarfed him and erased that self-imposed gulf. That I never had the chance is more proof that things happen as they should.

It didn’t really matter. Whether he knew it or not Big Grandpa lived in the shadow of my maternal Grandfather. To his oldest grandchild he seemed warm and gregarious, gentle and all-knowing. I wrote a book to honor his memory; this post is the greatest memorial I have offered the father of my father.

To be sure, the responsibility for this chasm also rests squarely on his shoulders. To my recollection, he made no great effort to understand his grandson. Whether he made the same mistake with his son is only conjecture, but to this day I rarely hear him mentioned by my father.

It was only at the end that I formed a bond with him.

Twenty-six days before his death, he moved in with us. There were annoyances - his obsession with Wheel of Fortune, which seems amusing now, drove me crazy. But that was only half the story.

I remember how stoically he took the news of his impeding death, never blinking when the visiting nurse broke the news. I don’t remember a complaint as his body collapsed with stunning swiftness, reducing the giant of my youth to someone that fit into my pajamas.

And I remember the last day of his life. He was bedridden and mute but in his eyes I saw a silent  plea for a drink of water to quench his thirst. No longer able to swallow properly, I fed him a teaspoon of water at a time. The thanks in his eyes was one of the deepest emotional connections we ever shared.

He died the first day I returned to school from Christmas break.

In death I came to know him better. I value size now - adore it really - and I’m proud he left me his genes. I respect that he spent his life as a welder for Milwaukee Road, that he was confident enough to let his wife rise to the title of company President in an age of sexism, and enjoy the fact that we seem to share a strong affinity for the opposite sex.

Eighteen years after the fact, I miss the man more than I ever thought I could.

Parker Banner

Days Remaining unitl the Mrs. gives birth to Parker

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The Post about Feeling Old January 4th

I'm feeling old lately. I know I say that all the time, but this time I mean it.

I am feeling very old.

It's not my age (thirty), my once-glorious now por-ious hairline, my spare tire, or my rotten teeth.

It's all of the above.

The origin of the current episode can be traced back to my dear wife, who pointed to a photo of us on the refrigerator. The picture in question was taken circa 1996 and shows a cleanly shaven man with his bride (also, thankfully, absent facial hair).

"Can you believe how much older you look since that was taken?" she said.

Well, no, actually I couldn't. I thought I looked more or less the same, other than the goatee. It's not like there's some dramatic drop-off in photogenic quality; pretty much any pic of me taken from 1992 to the present looks just like any other. Or so I thought.

[Let me point out that I could have mentioned that any change in me pales in comparison to the difference between a 19 year-old collegiate and a 28 year-old mother of three. But that would be mean and I won't do it]

But then I started noticing the fading hairline, and the lines around my eyes, and the way elderly women are looking more and more attractive by the day. And so I began to take stock of just how much I have changed over the years.

Physically I'm sure I have a few more wrinkles, nicely offset by the reduction in hair follicles. But I really don't feel older. (this may have something to do with the fact that I am healthier now than I was in college; pretty miraculous given I'm a 300 pound smoker. Of course dropping a hundred pounds and laying off the pound of bacon each morning 'll do that.)

Emotionally? Well, sure, I guess I'm more mature now than I was in, say, 1994. Not by much, but enough to make the point. I'm a husband of long standing and a father of two with another on the way. Kind of hard to keep Voltron as the center of your universe with those titles resting on your shoulders.

No, I think the whole age thing for me is mental. Not that that makes it hurt any less, but at least I can cling to the belief that I'd drop a few years if I took up meditation.

And truthfully, most of the time I don't think I'm that old. Unless someone mentions certain trivia:

Like the fact that Eddie Vedder, the one true rock idol of my youth, turned forty last year.

Or that people who turn twenty-one this year were born the year Reagan was re-elected.

But the one that hits me the hardest: most incoming college freshmen this fall were born in 1987, the very same year I started enrolling in high school and took an alarming interest in a Debbie Gibson photo-spread from Teen Beat.

In other words, three-fifths of the women in television and every - count 'em every - adult movie star and stripper currently employed - was in diapers when I was old enough to think happy thoughts about their profession.

Enough to make you want to tour rest homes, isn't it?

I have no doubt this will all get worse in the coming years. Someday my bones will creak when it rains, I'll read the obituaries instead of the comics, and Depends will stop being a punchline to my jokes and start being a fashion accessory.

But I betcha I'll still take a pretty picture.

Quote of the Day January 2nd

My three-year old ran an errand to the doctor with my wife. When she returned she was ecstatic because the receptionist had called her beautiful - which she is.

My wife decided to fish for a compliment. "I wish someone would call me beautiful," she said.

My daughter paused a moment, then said stone-faced . . .

"But . . . you're not beautiful momma."

 

The Post about Artie Shaw January 2nd

The first time I was introduced to Artie Shaw's music was courtesy of an old cassette on the Laserlight label that I bought on a whim. I was instantly hooked. Dark and mysterious one minute, light and romantic the next, there's no better music for a dark and rainy summer night than jazz, - and few better practitioners of the art than Artie Shaw.

Shaw died last week at his home in Thousand Oaks, California. He was 94.

Even if you've never heard his music, you have to stand in awe of his life.

Born in 1910 to immigrant parents, by his early twenties Shaw was a well paid musician for CBS. Following his 'retirement' - the first of many - he formed his own orchestra. A cut of Cole Porter's "Begin the Beguinne" spent six weeks on the charts in 1938, jumpstarting a career that would see him making a weekly five figure income in the 1940's.

In the next decades Shaw would record many hits: "Fresnesi", "Traffic Jam", "Back Bay Shuffle", "Moonglow", "Accent-tchu-ate the Positive", and his theme song, the brooding "Nightmare". Ranking with Goodman and Miller as leaders of the Big Band era, Shaw was one of the most popular entertainers of the time.

Too bad he hated the attention.

Shaw was an early version of the 'bad boys' of music, mourning the loss of his privacy and shunning autographs. At one point he labeled his jitterbug-happy fans "morons", which didn't go over to well with the people who bought his records.

"I could never understand why people wanted to dance to my music," he said. "I made it good enough to listen to."

Apparently he had just as volatile a relationship with his wives - all eight of them. The musician included in this harem beauties like Lana Turner and Ava Gardner, And while it never led to marriage he once romanced Judy Garland (when he left her, she allegedly had her first mental breakdown).

In 1953 the avowed liberal was pulled before the House Un-American Activities Committee and questioned about communist ties. While he admitted attending several meetings, the WWII Navy veteran told the committee that he had never joined the party or donated money; he had simply gone out of curiosity and an interest in social justice.

Later that decade he left music for good. With a solid career and forty years of life behind him he embarked on yet another artistic venture: writing. In addition to an autobiography (albeit an autobiography that barely touches on his marriages) he wrote two short story collections, "I Love You, I Hate You, Drop Dead!" and "The Best of Intentions." Both were well received.

Yet his music remains his calling card. There are better known Big Band artists - how great would his reputation be if he hadn't pulled the plug himself! - but few were better. One of the most gifted clarinetists of all time, Shaw had started out playing the saxophone and only switched to the instrument in his late teens. With the clarinet, like everything in his life, success seemed to follow Artie Shaw around like one of his devoted fans.

But Shaw spent his life, in one way or another, running away from success. He formed bands, struck it rich, disbanded them and did it all again. He walked away from the business that made his fortune, and he failed to form a lifelong commitment to any woman he loved.

Perhaps that's the way it should be. Even with his flaws Shaw attained near perfection; anything more would‘ve been too much to believe.

Comments - Finally???

I may actually have figured out a way to work comments into this site. Thanks go out to Random, who unwittingly gave me the solution. Please, leave a comment (see the sidebar) so I know whether or not it really works.

Follow this Post

As long as I'm on AOL Journals, I'll try to improve the comments situation. Meantime, as promised I'll reprint any emails here. I received this one about the Tsunami post:

Subj:  I blogged your post... it was REALLY good
Date: 12/30/04 6:48:20 PM Central Standard Time
From@yahoo.com
To: SlapInions@aol.com

I couldn't find how to make a comment on your blog but
wanted you to know I blogged your post.

Linda :)
http://bunik.blogspot.com

I encourage you to visit her site and take a look around (and be sure to tell her Slapinons sent you). She seems to post quite a bit, so you may have to hunt for my post.

About a week from now I'll spend a day reprinting each comment from BE and email I've received about the site...and I'll post a roll call of blogs that I've had contact with. Meantime, if you're on BE and like this site, leave a comment and rate me.

Later

Quote of the Day - New Years Day

"That's not going to work with her. Go in there, be nice,be gentle,and ask her how she is. Then smell her butt.'
- My Wife, guiding me through my 18 month-old's tantrum