It's been one year today since my slip on the ice skating rink road in front of my house. Getting in my car, coffee in hand, I went down hard and fast, arm outstretched above my head flat, coffee unspilled, still in my hand resting on the ice. I didn't think I'd broken anything, no horrifying "crunch" noises accompanied my hit, but I was wrong. My first broken bone. After lying on the street for a few moments in pain, I collected myself and crawled in to my car and continued to work. I refused to pay for an Emergency Room visit over the weekend, but on Monday went to the work sponsored clinic and got a referral for an x-ray.
Yes, fractured, in several places, the nonchalant Orthopod declared. He was distracted, and unhelpful, but did advise I come back in a week for a follow up x-ray to make sure the bones hadn't shifted. He wrote me a scrip for 10 sessions of physical therapy, to start way sooner than I thought practical, and a nurse fitted me with a sling. Weeks later when my bill arrived showing more than $600 in "aftercare" along with the office visit and x-ray charges, I had to go through three levels of office staff to get them to agree to wipe it off my account. Standard practice to heap on some future charges they told me, even if those were not anticipated, as in my case since I did not need surgery. Ah, the joys of American health care.
First and foremost, I must declare how thankful I was that it was my arm, and not my leg that I broke. At the initial appointment for an x-ray, I saw two hobblers with broken legs/ankles. It appeared our Helena lack of road plowing, coupled with thaws turning roads in to puddles of frozen water, had disrupted many a life that week.
As a runner, a broken leg/ankle would have landed me on the sidelines for many weeks if not months. Since my running start, on April 23, 1990, I have rarely had to take an injury break from running. A true blessing. The arm put me out of commission for a week from any exercise and work. Desperation set in and I asked my daughter for Netflix recommendations for the down time. I happily took up her suggestion of Offspring, an Aussie production following family drama of one Nina Proudman, a ditzy, magnetic ob-gyn.
At the end of the week, I set my mind to undertake some kind of physical exertion and took to walking, arm in sling, a 3.5 mile loop by the hospital while listening to downloaded podcasts. These outings, although a different nature than my runs, satisfied my desire to stay active until I could resume running. After a few brisk walks, then a few half run half walk treks, I resumed running my regular schedule, three miles, four times a week.
Aspirin was my only pain killer, I've never been a druggie except for a few fun times as a teen/early 20-something with hallucinogens and such. Carefully moving my arm as I would a paralyzed small pet, I got as much sleep as I could and learned to use my left hand/arm for everyday chores. I chopped six inches off my hair for ease in brushing and learned to navigate the mouse with my left hand once back to work.
It took a full eight months to get back to 100%, although the few months prior hovered at 90-95%. Even now, when I shovel snow, it's been an exceptionally snowy winter, it still bothers me a bit. Of course I neglected the typical physical therapy routine; however, I did stretch and move it regularly to coax it back to normal.
It's ironic after almost 28 years of running that it was the walk out to my car that caused my first serious injury. Sure I've fallen running, usually a couple of times a year, more from not paying attention to the uneven sidewalks than ice, but it usually resulted in a skinned knee or the palm of my hand. Or, if I was really on top of it, I'd manage to aim into green grass, or grab a fence to keep from going down.
My goal is to run for a couple more years until retirement, then likely walk several times a week to keep the blood pumping and the heart strong. I figure an even 30 years is a good place to stop.
Past experience has taught me that there is usually one turd among the shining jewels, although not so this year, with one day to go. My least favorite, Sorry to Bother You, is a bizarre take on racism and our fucked up society and still has enough crazy, fresh scenes to keep it careening along. The twisted plot reflects a mad scientist at the helm, a correct assumption, as Boots Riley, the director, is quite a character. The portrayal of the always intrusive world of telemarketing hit some hilarious notes when showing the moments those annoying calls interrupt.
Lizzie, the story of Lizzie Borden of "killed her parents with 40 whacks" fame, stars Chloe Sevigny and Kristen Stewart (who I previously thought could not act, but I have since changed my mind). As a native New Englander, I was perhaps more familiar with the history of the murder, which occurred in Fall River, Massachusetts, although I did not recall that she was acquitted of the grizzly crime.
A quick google search displays a crazed looking woman, leaving no doubt in my mind as to her guilt. Since there is no real reckoning of exactly what transpired during the murders, the director rightly took liberties filling in the time line and circumstances. Additionally, the cast and crew visited (and bravely slept in) the real house, now a functioning bed and breakfast, booked years in advance. They concluded, due to the small size of the home, (unlike the expansive Georgia house used for filming) there was no way house maid Maggie could have been oblivious to what was occurring during the murders, even if she was outdoors washing windows, as was determined via witnesses. Apparently the murders occurred 90 minutes apart, shedding doubt upon the claim of no complicity in the crime. Portraying the father as a domineering bully, who forced himself upon the maid, seems wholly plausible as a potential motive for murder by a woman who was veering on the edge of sanity to start with.
An interesting tidbit is Maggie the maid moved west to Montana post-trial and lived to 82, apparently choosing refuge in far away Montana after what must have been a traumatizing experience, whether or not she was involved in the crime itself.
My favorite, Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot, is the true story of cartoonist John Callahan, who landed in a wheelchair after a drunken night of partying and resultant car crash, starring Joaquin Phoenix and an unrecognizable Jonah Hill. You can't go wrong with Gus Van Sant in the director's chair weaving the story of Callahan's climb back to life after the devastating accident. Often funny and accompanied by the artist's cartoons, which he needed both hands to draw, it is a poignant story of reckoning and redemption. You'll cringe when you see Phoenix as Callahan racing around in his motorized wheelchair darting through traffic. A must see.
Another standout, The Rider, tells the heart-wrenching true (although fictionalized) story of bucking bronc rider Brady Jandreau, whose young career came to an abrupt end with a dire head injury. The cinematography captures the pain and struggle of Brady and the stark, expansive beauty of the Dakotas. He shares the screen with his real life father and autistic sister, reflecting their familial ties. The many scenes of Brady with the horses is reason enough to see the film, although it is evident the creatures were not fond of having cameras in their faces. This hindered displaying Brady's intimate connections with them, to the detriment of the film, since those bonds provide such a core element of his being. In the end though, it is a beautiful film.
I realized upon entering the state Capitol last week that I had never seen the rotunda filled with the majestic giant. We are lucky to have such a classy capitol. It's nearly empty this time of year, all the staff tucked away in their offices off the main hallways of each floor.
After endless weeks of smoke filled air due to record breaking Montana fires, we've taken a sharp turn into winter. No "Indian Summer" this year I'm afraid. Two days of snow mandated I shovel my corner lot sidewalk and methinks I'll get to break out the shovel again in the morning.
It feels as though the bad karma brought upon us all by the collective stupidity of a large enough number of dolts to elect Donald Trump is raining on us all. And we in Montana are the lucky ones, just smoke and early snowstorms, spared from the waist deep floodwaters and catastrophic hurricanes suffered by so many recently.
The bar of acceptable behavior is so low as to be buried deep underground near the core of the earth. While the #metoo rallying cries have caused some rotten fruit to be banished to the outer limits, the giant turd in the White House, the scummiest scumbag of them all, still reigns...for now.
Robert Mueller....help us Obi-Wan Kenobi...you're our only hope.
Words cannot describe the experience of viewing the full solar eclipse, and photos certainly do not do justice to witnessing the actual phenomenon. That being said, I shall post some of mine from today, in Idaho. Clear blue skies, mountain ranges on both sides of the rural two lane, and a few scattered revelers sharing the morning adventure with us. And then, since we were in the neighborhood, we were compelled to take a quick run through Craters of the Moon.
Hiking the high country. I'm afraid the word is out on Montana. Spectacular vistas, wide open expansive spaces not soiled by mankind's droppings. These things are becoming rarer and are in danger of becoming extinct. Best to get out there and enjoy it all while we still can. I love living in Montana.
I can see why Monet obsessed over water lilies. They are so strange with their long tentacles reaching beneath the surface, outstretched palms facing the sky, bobbing among the ripples. I had no idea they were bright red before they turned green, never having visited their habitat in early summer apparently. Such a surprising sight to see, hundreds of red and yellow circles spread out before us when we finally exited the canoe trail into the lake's main body.
The lush greenery was a sight to behold as well. After a very snowy winter and rainy spring, the florescent shades of greens seemed to glow along the path back to our vehicles. I'm not sure I recall a spring quite as green in Montana. Later, after the 90 degree days and perennial winds, the summer/fall fires will come; but for now, the pungent damp greenery fills the air.
This was my first sojourn with my brand new, economy model, kayak. The trek is 100 miles, quite a stretch for a two hour paddle. But it is a special place, complete with rusty headed merganser and five little ones trailing on the edge of the canal, the multitude of hidden chirpers within the willows lining the banks, and the giant, silent great blue heron flying overhead.
It rained steady as we neared the put in, some grumbling was heard of not paddling in the rain, but lo and behold, not a drop fell on our heads on our journey. In fact, we had a good solid 10 minutes of sunshine, which was no less than divine. My thanks to my good pals who carted my kayak, and me, for my maiden voyage, some great travel conversation, and the wrap up stop at our favorite Blackfoot Brewery upon our return to town. Good friends are priceless, and nature is mandatory to nourish the soul.
I have many passions; live theater is not, or at least up to this point, has not occupied my list. Live music, films, travel, fitness...these make up some of my vital passions. Small town, local theater is not known for its overflowing talent pools. This week, however, I have turned a corner on my stance, after witnessing two stellar performances of My Fair Lady at our local classic, historic Grand Street Theater. It is notorious for its sold out performances each season, and years ago when my school age daughter took part in two performances, of course I attended. Additionally, more recently, I attended a performance of Hitchcock's 39 Steps, which I enjoyed immensely, although it was not enough to tip my scale towards live theater.
The sets, costumes, and flawless execution of scene changes all combined into the supporting structure to launch a wealth of talent, riveting singing, smart, funny dialogue and a fascinating intuitive interaction between the players on stage.
Talent, even when not presented within one of your favorite genres, demands your undivided attention and appreciation. Seeing more live theater is now on my to-do list and I look forward to many more heartwarming, funny, poignant performances.
2017 has been a wild ride so far. Our crazed president pushes the boundaries of sanity on a daily basis, and still, there is no outrage calling for his immediate ouster.
How can this be 2017 America? The rich don't just keep getting richer, they hope to annihilate the poor and struggling masses by removing health care, scrapping any oversight of the financial giants providing them unfettered freedom from the government regulations enacted to keep them honest and ethical. Just this week the health secretary was replaced because he declared gun violence a threat to public safety, a stance not favored by the NRA and therefore our puppet president.
The swamp is quickly drowning out any trace that we are a nation guided by that esteemed document, the U.S. Constitution. Lies, corruption and outright evil have taken its place. No more is there a slight memory of the "do the right thing" mentality. Pollution controls, protections of public land and providing a safety net for the disadvantaged citizens in our society have all been replaced with conflicts of interest, enrichment of the richest and deportation of those individuals that are a symbol of the ideals this country was built on. Opportunity for all and a guarantee that with hard work and determination, a successful, happy, healthful life was within reach of all.
This is how a dictatorship begins. Squelching your critics, creating chaos on a daily basis, and recruiting your friends and business associates to surround you in your bubble. Any dissenting opinionator is promptly dumped out on his/her ass. Trump resembles Putin and Kim Jung Un infinitely more than any prior U.S. President. God help us all to survive his presidency without a world wide nuclear catastrophe.
Another Sundance under my belt, and this time it was a shared affair with a long time gal pal, and fellow film enthusiast. Truncated to a four day weekend, including two days consumed by the 465 mile drive from Helena, we nonetheless squeezed in Wilson on Friday night after collecting our festival passes and film tickets. The 80 mph speed limit and bare roads enabled efficient travel, complemented by good conversation and a batch of newly downloaded podcasts. Aided by carefully chosen snacks, we reduced our stops to the bare minimum of required rest areas. We spent Saturday and Sunday focused on our films, three each day, but managed to intersperse a quick shopping excursion for undergarments, and stops at a pair of local microbreweries sampling the smartly named, hop heavy, craft brews and companion grub. A total of seven films in all, we easily could have taken in more of the many buzz-worthy flicks, had time and money allowed a more extensive trip.
Mostly strong, we viewed some very memorable films among our choreographed weekend selections, which we deemed a success by the time we wrapped and headed home. The standouts included the often funny and entertaining Wilson, with Woody Harrelson and Laura Dern; 78/52 the Hitchcock Psycho shower scene documentary; and Call Me By Your Name, the tale of a moderately heartwrenching Italian summer romance with Armie Hammer. Shirley MacLaine as a cantakerous "difficult woman" directing the final edit on her own obituary in The Last Word and The New Radicals which begs the question at what point does a personal rights/freedom/privacy advocate cross the line and morph into a terrorist, both stood on their own merit as well.
Sadly, Where Is Kyra fell on its face due to a heavy handed treatment of the homeless epidemic in America. The film managed to portray an unsympathetic character as the poster girl for a very serious issue in America, and failed to either provoke a deeper understanding of, or provide any viable solution to the problem. An overwrought sound track, similar to fingernails scratching a blackboard each time our main character waded into questionable moral territory, made it close to unwatchable. Treating audience members as idiots, who need to be clubbed over the head to see a point, casts a dark shadow onto the director, those watching, and the subject matter in general. Michelle Pfeiffer and Kiefer Sutherland are wasted in this film.
Of course in the midst of this movielicious weekend occurred the epic Australian Open final between Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer, meeting for the first time in a grand slam final since 2011. Long time rivals and great friends, it was a match for the ages which no one in the world of tennis, neither talking heads nor hard core fans, ever anticipated. Another mind-blowing 5-setter, naturally, Roger prevailed in the end, but both played their hearts out with peak performances of exquisite proportions.
I thank the tennis gods for bestowing the fans with one last (??) monumental match between these two greats. Alas, even as I continue to root, as always, for Rafa, it was clearly a win-win for both of them, replicating the skills evident at the height of their careers. No sane person thought such a match possible as Rafa and Roger edge near the sunset of their professional careers. Bravo...and on to the next tournament!
It's finally here. A fresh new year. A clean slate. So full of promise, yet still dragging all the oversized baggage of 2016 like a ball and chain. A ginormous ball, with a massive chain. No matter, we can still face the new year with bright eyes and an optimistic attitude. It's our survivalist, buoyant nature to expect great things along with our never ending faith in the innate goodness of humankind. A true testament, yet against all obvious evidence to the contrary.
Still, we soldier on. See the goodness in every day and each, or nearly each, person we encounter. Never before has a year shoved the fact of our mortality so vividly in our faces. Yet with that realization comes understanding and wisdom. And acceptance. In the end, we can only love each other and express that love, openly and without boundaries. A life without regrets for the things left unsaid is a life well lived. A life lived honestly and as true to ourselves and others as possible, along with self-reflection of the motives for each action we take, deliberate or otherwise, culminates into a fulfilling life filled with calm confidence.
My wish for 2017 is to continue to thrive and learn and elevate my thoughts and actions and be a positive force in the lives of those I come in contact with each day, however briefly. For the world at large, I wish for knowledge, truth, wisdom, understanding and acceptance. And a generous supply of joy. Happy New Year.
There is an upside to all this mayhem named Trump. It starts with each American digging deep down in their psyche and questioning how they live their life and whether it's time for a change. All the protesting and whining in the world will not overcome the fact that enough registered voters made the effort to vote for Trump to make him president. Popular vote be damned, it's Déjà Vu all over again and we didn't even require a supreme court debacle this time around. And to the grand masses, the 47% of registered voters who didn't bother to show up, or those who made their little squeak of protest by voting for a third party candidate, I say, you get what you deserve.
The system is broken, but it has been for a very long time. Trump is a symptom, not the cause. So many factors accumulated into this perfect storm and each and every individual contributed. The spineless women who kept quiet when Trump groped them in hopes of furthering their careers, or were just not brave enough to stand up for what is right. The democratic party machine that derailed Bernie in favor of greasing the skids for Hillary, when it seemed apparent to me, he was on track to bump Trump out of the ring on the final showdown. To the GOP who looked like the Keystone Cops playing both sides of the fence who opened up a clear path for Trump to march right down. If Cruz and Rubio and a third rate Bush were all you could come up with, it's no wonder Americans backed a bloviating, egomaniac who vocalized their pain and frustration.
To the Hillary camp, who it turns out ignored Bill Clinton's advice to pay heed to the suffering blue collar rust belt states, that may have been your one fatal move which could have changed the outcome. Instead, her camp simply conceded defeat in those areas by ignoring them. It is a well known fact that Bill Clinton knows how to energize the masses and get elected to the highest office in the land, twice. By choosing to do it "her way" Hillary sealed her own fate. She made no effort to inspire or ignite a spark during her appearances and set her campaign on cruise control, choosing to believe there was no way the majority of voters would choose a clown with no political experience as our president.
I was looking forward to the team of two Clintons in the white house; they are both super smart and experienced. But the baggage broke their backs, and it turns out while his appeal remains in the stratosphere, hers is mired in muck.
The upside, for those who choose some introspection, is to mobilize for your beliefs. Act locally and reach beyond your own interests investing time and effort in the betterment of your community. Protesting the outcome of the election is a futile waste of time, just as spending $5 million on an obscenely decadent ring instead of donating to worthy causes which benefit humanity is a crime of ego. We are a nation of spoiled brats, blaming others for our misfortune, lying and failing to do the right thing in favor of our own personal gain. And now, we have elevated a crazed psychopath to lead our nation. Is it really any wonder?
Many Americans are so blinded by their hate for Hillary Clinton, they are willing to choose as their president a man who has no regard for anyone, man or especially woman, beyond his own demented interests. He has been gaming the system his whole life, including bankruptcies and subsequent bailouts for failed ventures, screwing contractors out of payments and escaping the average soul's due of paying taxes. In his spare time he bulldozed his way "Bill Cosby" style through myriad of women he came in contact with, often by specific design such as Master of the Miss Universe Pageant. Throwing his weight around, he boldly felt his way around as many as he could get his hands on. And just like Bill Cosby's victims, he knew with his status, none would utter a word, publicly at least, lest they subject themselves to the usual name calling and blame the victim accusations.
The party of "family values" would apparently look the other way if their wives or daughters were manhandled by someone of high status for fear of falling out of favor or missing out on a plum business deal.
Many of these women were groped, and worse, in a time when women were still putting up with much, much more than they, hopefully, would today. If a man put his hand up my skirt in a bar or on a plane, my first reaction would be to slap or punch him, then declare it to those around me rather than shamefully recede into the background or run away. I know people are sheep and hate to "get involved" but I have enough faith in humanity to think that if the man in the first class cabin who witnessed Trump's disgusting, brazen behavior saw the same thing nowadays, he'd say "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Those
still backing Trump for president are in dire need of an antidote to
wake them from their stupor. He appeals to the lowest possible
denominator of his supporters, the racist, misogynistic, narcissistic
traits they now feel fully comfortable wearing as a badge of honor and patriotism. Today they are wallowing in
the glory of their most uneducated, hateful, ignorant selves.
The mob
mentality of "Hillary for Prison" simply because they can't stand the
thought of a woman as president is a frightful commentary of just how
far we've progressed as a society. Your true colors are showing folks,
and they're not pretty.
My underlying hope is that every woman who's ever been objectified, violated, groped, patronized, or much worse, which by the way includes each and every one of us, will rise up in full force and shout, in no uncertain terms, this man is unfit to serve our country and declare an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution. The hate and insanity may be contagious, but they are also personal choices.
