The Wrestler

We just rented and watched the film The Wrestler, the 2008 movie starring Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei, for which they received Academy Award nominations for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actress, respectively. If you're looking for a movie that's uplifting, inspiring, and celebrates triumph this ain't it! But as art, as a brutally honest sampling of the grime real lives are too often covered in, it is masterful. It is a story about people whose self-worth, whose identity, whose reason for being alive is tied to what they do, and the punch-in-the-gut, crushing of the soul when success flees or eludes, and there is nothing else. Whether an over-the-hill professional wrestler, a failing salesperson, an assembly line worker whose job is eliminated, or a business owner whose enterprise fails, without the foundation of family and faith they are left with nothing. It is simultaneously a story of abandoning dignity or sense of personal honor in order to make a living, and deluding ourselves that there is a wall of separation between our real lives and our money-earning life, like the film's stripper who clings to the rationalization that she's not a stripper, she's a mother. There is also the subtle message of how the personally disastrous choices we make can affect others-our children particularly. The stripper must each night leave her young son with a sitter so she can go dance, and we are allowed to infer how that reality will wound the child. Does he know? Or does she lie to him? How will their relationship and his self image "adjust" to the truth? Mickey Rourke's character has a grown daughter that he abandoned early to pursue his stardom. We witness her intense bitterness and hatred toward her father. She is living as a lesbian now, and we can infer her father's abandonment as underlying her rejection of men. There are cinematically clever parallels and juxtapositions as well. Compare, for example, the crowd's jubilant adulation of Rourke's character-The Ram-when he enters the arena to the disinterested, even insulting reception the stripper receives from her audience. Notice the parallels between The Rams "backstage" preparation for his supermarket deli-counter day job, and the prep, then walk through the curtain at a show. Notice the juxtaposition when The Ram again surrenders to the draw of the ring, just as Pam, the stripper known as Cassidy, can no longer suppress her shame and loathing for what she does. The Wrestler is depressing, and excruciatingly realistic. It raises some questions it doesn't answer, because, I suppose, some questions have no answer. But it should be seen!

jls

Cavendish, Big Mike, and the Panama Blight

While the title may cause readers to infer this is a post about a new reggae band, that would be incorrect. It is, in fact, a post about bananas. (Feel free to use your browser's backpage button at this point.) The inspiration for the post began a recent early morning, minutes after becoming vertical, still in that semi-comatose brain state when there is no coherent, linear thought-just random, spontaneous firings of phrases and pictures as the mind "reboots" for the day. I was waiting for the coffee to drip enough to steal a cup, and staring at a lovely, yellow, bruise-free banana that I would consume as soon as my brain got the help files open to the "Bananas-Peeling and Eating" tab. One of those random thought firings was that the folks who claim eggs are nature's perfect food are misguided. Bananas are, in fact, the perfect food. I have heard over the past few years of the threat to the banana industry from a disease, the Panama blight, that was destroying vast acreages of bananas and threating to ultimately wipe out the entire world crop. I was wondering what, if any, progress had been made in fighting this threat, and formed the hypothesis that American ingenuity driven by strong capitalist motivation would solve the problem. I resolved to find out. Thanks to Google, I now have read more and learned more about bananas than it is rational to do. I learned the curvaceous beauty pictured above is the Cavendish species, one of about 300 species of bananas and plantains, but accounting for nearly 100% of North American consumption. It is not, however, your Grampa's banana. Prior to 1960, American breakfast tables were adorned by the Gros Michel, or Big Mike, species. Those were attacked by Panama blight in the '50's and are now extinct. They were softer, creamier in texture, and sweeter than the Cavendish. Both species are seedless clones-genetically identical "monoculture" plants that produce fruit consistent with the traits necessary for success in the American marketplace. They have the color, taste, resistance to bruising, and shelf life consumers demand, but that identical nature makes them all equally vulnerable to a specific disease. If one plant lacks resistance to some microbe, they all do. It is hard to gauge, from my reading, how imminent the threat of extinction is for the Cavendish. There has, apparently, been more destruction of crops in China and Southeast Asia than in Central America, but it is definitely there. I was reading in the online Panama News about strategies to slow the spread, and the impact of affected crops on the already impoverished farm workers who cultivate and harvest bananas. That article had a sort of assumptive confidence that all the efforts to produce a new more resistant species would bear fruit. (sorry-I've tried, until this point successfully, to avoid the words "bunch" or "slice" or "split" or "yes, we'll have no bananas". That one slipped through.) Besides the 2 blights, there is a whole other dark underside and backstory to the cheery looking banana in our lunchboxes. In the late 1800's, Americans were first introduced to this exotic fruit by a Boston area importer, who found them a big hit. He and investors formed Boston Fruit Company, which evolved into Chiquita. Together with United Fruit Company, now Del Monte, and others, they set about turning Central America and the Carribean into their plantation, exploiting the land, the laborers, and the governments. They cleared vast acres of jungle and built railroads to get their product out to market. They propped up governments sympathetic and cooperative to their industry and financed the overthrow of those that were not, giving rise to the phrase "banana republic" to describe these puppets (coined by O. Henry in the 1904 book "Cabbages and Kings".) As recently as 1974, an investigation following the suicide of Chiquita C.E.O. Eli Black revealed a scheme to pay $2.5 million in bribes to Honduran officials to keep export taxes favorable. So, the next time there's banana on a co-workers desk resist the temptation to pick it up and pretend it's a telephone, or the other silly (or obscene) things bananas seem to tempt people to do, and consider the story of violence, political and corporate corruption, exploited workers, genetic engineering and possible extinction it represents. But they sure are good!

jls

So long, Chief

So GM's planning to dump Pontiac from its family of brands as part of its "restructuring" plan. Sort of sad. Perhaps it's a function of age, but Pontiac seems, to me, interwoven with the fabric of American culture-like Leave It To Beaver and I Love Lucy. I guess, though, in this multi-cultural, shrunken globe, MP-3 era, black and white TV shows and Detroit iron are both irrelevant, sadly, like many other familiar American icons. Pontiac gave us the Star Chief, the Catalina, and the Tempest-one of the first of the "compacts". They built Safari wagons, Bonnevilles, and the first "muscle car" the GTO. That particular car, immortalized by Ronny and the Daytonas' hit song "Little GTO", brought to market in 1964, was conceived by a team that included one John Z. DeLorean who would become Pontiac's general manager that same year. (before scoring the ultimate GM position, then, of head of the Chevrolet division

where his rising star would be tarnished by his advocacy of the Vega-possibly the shoddiest, most unreliable car ever produced. His fame would turn to infamy with the financial slight-of hand that defrauded investors in his DeLorean Motor Company and his later "entrapment" in a federal drug trafficking charge.) Pontiac also gave us the Firebird, and it's "Cars-Gone-Wild" sister, the Trans Am, and the affordable, sporty, Fiero. (What will the freshly face-relifted Burt Reynolds drive if Hollywood does another "Smokey and The Bandit" movie? A Prius?) Of course, they are also responsible for, arguably, the ugliest vehicle ever-the Aztec. Of late, however, their lineup has been about as sexy as a row of beige four drawer filing cabinets. They lost their mojo somewhere along the way, and apparently the current brass at GM thinks it can't be found. I understand ditching Hummer-obnoxious, faddish, behemoths that celebrate excess and extravagance. I don't understand the decision to cut bait with Saturn. Their quality rep has been steadily rising, and it seems to me the GM brand least tainted by the I-hate-American-cars-because-they're- unreliable stigma. Probably, successful models currently badged as Saturns will ultimately become Buicks, or Chevrolets-but not Pontiacs. Like with the demise of Oldsmobile a few years ago, there's a group of people, me included, who hate to see it go. We, I suppose, unrealistically but nostalgically focus on their glory days, not their dismal current state. But I also miss black, 20 pound, rotary dial phones with a curly wire attaching the receiver; the romantic hiss and pop and sizzle of a phonograph needle dragging through a groove to play music; leaky British motorcycles that would shed parts from vibration as you rode them; those days when you could say "repairman", or "garbageman", or "fireman" instead of "...person" without offending someone; and when Miss Texas would have been cheered for advocating "opposite sex" only marriage. Like the LeMans, those days are history!

jls

baby girl

This one is tough to write. Last Saturday evening, the 18th, our dog Maddie got hit by a car and was killed. Now, a little over a week out, I can think rationally about this loss, and sort out the thoughts and intense emotions. Firstly, she was a great dog. She was big enough to be an outdoorsy, running, romping, chasing, fetching wild wolf of a dog. She loved the woods, and swimming, and protecting us from squirrels and groundhogs and meter readers. She had a fiercesome sounding bark, especially from the safety of the backseat car window when we passed other dogs, or horses, or statues of deer. When her coat was long, she looked liked a timberwolf, her hair and tail blowing behind her as she chased a squirrel through the trees at Rocky Ridge (her favorite place on Earth). When her hair was short-her summer doo-she looked like a baby goat. Yet for all her wolven ways, she was a shy, spoiled, needy baby who demanded constant touching and attention, and generally received it. She had a good vocabulary, listened fairly well, but would argue if she didn't want to do what we demanded. The hardest part of the last week, has been the many, many times I expect Maddie to be there, and she is not. When I came home in the evenings, she would start to bark as soon as my car door closed. When I opened the house door she would burst out to greet me, so excited she couldn't contain it. She would whimper, and squeal, and wriggle in enthusiasm, overjoyed that I was scratching her belly, or rubbing her head, or patting her rump and telling her over and over, "your such a good baby, your my baby girl, such a good dog." She was with us, near us, all the time. When I sat in my living room chair, she positioned herself so my right arm would reach her head or rump. If I failed to touch her, or stopped touching her she would use her nose to move my arm where she wanted it to be. If we laid in bed reading she was between us, or on the floor nearby. She went downstairs with me in the mornings when it was time to start the coffee and make breakfast. Now, I expect to see her laying on the rug at the kitchen door, waiting for some toast crust, or uneaten eggs. But she's not there. So many times, so many places, there is a conspicuous silence, and absence. I guess in time that goes away. Maybe it never does. But she was so much a part of our family it's impossible to not, at this point, expect her to be there, and miss her deeply. Secondly, there are some truths that surface in coming to terms with the lost of so close a friend. For instance, the eternal pursuit of meaning and significance in one's life can be achieved by just loving, and being loved. As I work through a book that examines Christ's sermon on the mount and the forgiving love He demands of those who would be His followers, that attitude seems so difficult to achieve. But in the simple mind of a dog, loving us unconditionally was all she knew! She made no judgement at all whether we were fat or thin, attractive or repulsive, wealthy or homeless, employed in a prestigious job or menial labor, stylishly groomed and dressed or filthy and smelly. She loved us simply because we loved her. The cynics, of course, say a dog doesn't love, that it's just some survival instinct. But those cynics are wrong. Our dog's love was real, and pure. There is no doubt about that. Another truth is the very fragile, temporary nature of our ordered lives, and the silliness, no the tragedy, of not cherishing and savoring the time we have with those we love. In our superior human minds, we have learned to build grudges and estrangement, to file away "slights" and keep score, to punish people with disdain and contempt. But in the blink of an eye, the score keeping ends, and the opportunity for healing passes. So, the lesson? The summary? Love your dog, hug your kids, kiss your wife, forgive your neighbors, savor your days, spend them like they're your last. Love and be loved.
jls