Finally, back to the blog. I thought I was lax in not posting for a few days earlier this month. And now here it's been two weeks. But I shall plead having good reasons, namely in the form of socialization and particularly wedding planning, that have kept me running on the scheduled-to-the-hilt treadmill. This isn't just an ordinary treadmill, but a turbo powered model. And it's sitting on the edge of Palisade Head. (For the untraveled, this is a 300-foot sheer cliff towering above the icy waters of Lake Superior. If the fall doesn't kill you, the frigid lake surely will.) So this is how it's been for the last couple of weeks: Run on the treadmill of work and commitments, and don't stop, or it's over the edge you go. There, certain death waits, because your wife-to-be won't stand for you falling behind on your Important Pre-Wedding To Do list.
It doesn't help when it's irritably boiling hot outdoors. Seems like it was near 90 degrees for a week straight. We were saved by a cold front that rippled through on Tuesday. The wind picked up out of the northwest and swept the heat and humidity back to the south. The last two mornings I have awoken to a chilly room and the sound of rustling leaves outside. Almost like early fall. Fantastic. The Canadian cold front and the cool "exhaust" that follows it after a summer heat wave are one of the best experiences of summer.
Anyway, here's rundown update:
Thursday, June 14 - Standard Heating and Air Conditioning sent an air conditioner life-support technician out to the house. I expected to come home from work, let him in, and watch him work his magic in short order. Oh, but the news wasn't good. He explained most expertly that the system had a coolant leak - one so severe that there was hardly any freon left in the system. Freon, of course, is what gives the air conditioner its coldness...so no R-22, no cold air. This explains why I'd run the system for 24 hours to find that the house had actually gotten warmer. And the news got worse: A freon leak is the equivalent of advanced, malignant cancer that has spread to the brain, heart, lungs and extremities: We're talking weeks, not months. Leaks are usually in a worst-case-scenario location - although it would cost nearly $300 to locate and even then, probably wouldn't be a simple fix. The technician was able to perform a tune-up to get the AC running temporarily, but the end diagnosis was grim: Given the age of the system, and the likelihood that other components would fail in the next five years, replacement was undoubtedly the best option. Today's systems are built to be replaced, not repaired. With these glad tidings, thus began my three-day weekend.
Friday-Sunday, June 15-17 - Took work off on Friday. Just for fun. Jenni and I went to St. Cloud to house-sit for my dad and Jamie, who were in Wyoming. The house-sitting gig is a good one; hang out at home, water the grass and mow the lawn, and enjoy the surrounding woods and big-screen TV. We also ventured out for a 30-mile bike ride on the Lake Wobegon Trail, riding from Avon to Albany to Holdingford and back. My friend Kristen used to work across the street from Albany's landmark Kraft cheese plant, so I related to Jenni Kristen's experiences of coming out to her car after work to fine small bits of cheese dust coating her car, not unlike a light coating of orange snow. One memorable day the plant suffered a malfunction and large chunks of cheese went blowing out of its stacks, causing the Kraft folks to send a clean-up crew out to Railroad Avenue and sweep/shovel/wipe of the clods of cheddar that had decorated downtown. A good episode for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon, if anything. Leaving the cheese factory behind, we pedaled past picturesque farmland, shady forests, and fragrant meadows underneath the expansive prairie sky. (We also biked past a flock of sheep; Jenni baaa-ed. My response: "No pets!")
Monday, June 18 - New fish came home! My aquarium hit the up-and-running-for-a-month mark, so I brought a sample of water to PetCo and got the green light on water quality. Time to add a few residents to the tank! I brought home two albino corydora catfish and three vibrant neon tetras.The corys are a type of catfish; by scouring the bottom, rocks, and plants looking for food, they keep the tank clean. The neons are pure eye candy. Their iridescence, flashing electric blue and red, makes me smile every time I enter the dining room.
Tuesday, June 19 - Had another wedding meeting this day. We sat down with our church's musical director to figure out songs for the ceremony. I thought this was going to be long and difficult and almost didn't go. But Jenni prodded gently, so along I went. Actually, it was enjoyable. The musical director had good suggestions, and I rescued our opening hymn from a somber-sounding "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee" (sung to "Ode to Joy") to something more contemporary and cheery ("Gather Us In," a song I'm sure Catholic readers know well). Marriage is about compromise, but sometimes you have to stick to your guns. (Jenni still got her "Ode to Joy" music in a delightful arrangement that will be our processional.)
The rest of the week - It flew by. Jenni's friends Kay and Jake joined us for dinner on Wednesday. We've entered that stage of grown-up-ness where we often hang with couples, and more and more of them are married. Not that I mind, because Jake and Kay are loads of fun. They returned the favor by having us over on Saturday evening for steaks. And mutual friends Amy and Brodie joined us. Our group of six then romped around the yard until dark playing bocce ball. The women won; luck was on their side.
Also brought more new fish home on Saturday. Two gold dust mollies - small fish aptly named for their color - are adding another burst of color to the tank. And two more neons joined the mix. The neons are a shoaling fish, meaning they are happiest in a school, and preferably at least five, thank you. The new neons immediately joined up with the fledgling school, and the new group seems happier now that they are a more legitimate size.
This week's free time has been devoted largely to wedding prep, getting invitations ready to go out the door. I used Adobe InDesign - purchased for our computer with Jenni's educational discount at Minnesota State University Mankato - to design a whiz-bang invitation insert with a top-notch map. Finally, I am contributing. I was most pleased with the result.
Now, as this week is drawing to a close, I have to get install crew from Standard Heating scheduled. A superbly knowledgeable and helpful guy name Zack came out to to the homestead last Friday to give me the official estimate on a new air conditioning system. Ouch. These things aren't cheap. So ironic that a week after I get a raise, I learn that it will be all spent - and then some - on keeping the house cool. But the upside is that we will have a brand-new system, expertly installed, that is more energy efficient and comes with a five-year warranty.
My only consolation is that the current system is old enough and cheap enough that we would likely have to replace it anyway before we sell the house. So there it is. Some things you just don't wait on.
More fish coming home tomorrow!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wherefore art thou air conditioning?
Please accept my apologies for not posting in nearly a week. I have been having an indoor climate emergency at the homestead. Since I am dashing off a quick update from the office this morning, I must be brief. These stolen moments we have together! How they make my heart pound with anticipation! And what if we're caught?! Oh, the intensity of it all.
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
Friday, June 8, 2007
Cold, moist carrots
Went to the doctor's office this sunny mid-day. Can't get enough of these half-day Fridays. Is there anything more glorious than breaking free of the working world at noon on a Friday when it is 73 degrees and there's not a cloud in the blue, blue sky? I was living in the moment, until some pungent bubble of sewer gas belched its way up to the street on the corner below the curved monolith of 225 South Sixth. The rank stench of wet, slimy decay has a way of snapping you back to reality.
Nostrils tingling, it was on across the government center plaza, toward the Metrodome, to my ramp and into the car, escaping the city for the weekend. As expected, traffic was heavy. Heavier than this morning's rush hour, in fact. I'm glad I only had to go to Maple Grove, and not points west. Lots of campers and trailers and big trucks. And a giant oversized load rig with a backhoe that seemed uncomfortably close as I passed. Then exit, wind through the construction obstacle course that is northwest Maple Grove, and to the doctor's office. Easy to find, and just a mile from home.
My childhood memories of the doctor's office go something like this: Show up for your appointment and wait. Kids cough. And wait. Babies scream. Then wait some more. About the time you're sure you're going to die of germ exposure, starvation, or boredom, the nurse calls you back. You end up in a room, sitting on that bed-like thing, nearly naked and freezing. And you're lucky if 45 minutes later, just before hypothermia sets in, the doctor arrives for a three-minute look-over. He looks, he listens, he pokes, he prods, and then sends you on your way with a Tootsie Pop. (Because, note, he is not the dentist.)
My how things have changed. I filled out a form and was whisked back into the bowels of Park Nicollet Clinic by a friendly woman in colorful scrubs. She directed me to the insurance desk where another woman in a purple fleece vest had to look over all of my insurance stuff. Apparently the clinic has to process your insurance to see if it will be paid before you get to see the doctor. She didn't say much, just sat typing and not looking at me. So I looked around. A long hallway traversed the center of the building; we were in a bright atrium of sorts. There were numerous signs with arrows hanging above hallways: "A" "B" "C" "F" and so on. What is it about the interior of a clinic that screams "clinic"? You could look at one corner, one reception area, one piece of art, or some chairs, and you recognize immediately where you are: A Building of Healthcare. Is it subliminal messages in the wallpaper? Subtle color combinations? Practically, the interior decor in most non-healthcare offices and clinics or hospitals is similar. But you'd never confuse the two.
Eventually, the she gave me a piece of paper with "A 101" written on it. Hooray! My insurance is approved! Now walk to the "A" hallway, turn left, go to the end, and find Room 101.
My physical was so slick. Almost no waiting. Nice, friendly nurse (again, colorful scrubs). Slick flat-screen computer monitor over the doctor's desk area. When it came time to undress, they had a gown for me. Not some papery thing, either...real fabric. The doctor was prompt, talkatively friendly, and informative, too. And the room wasn't too cold. Everything checked out; I am healthy. All-in-all, it wasn't a bad hour. Even when I had a tetanus booster. (Speaking of which, arm soreness is setting in. Hadn't noticed that until now. Oooh.)
Now it's back home to pack for...drumroll...a pre-wedding retreat! This begins in Eagan or somewhere over that way this evening. The retreat comes highly recommended, and if you go, the state knocks $50 of the cost of your marriage license. We will be a captive audience from 7 o'clock this evening until 9:30 Saturday evening. Yes, 9:30 p.m. I have no idea. I hope it is fun.
But first Jenni and I are going to Richfield, where Jenni's dad Dan, a detective with the Richfield PD, is "camping" out atop a Rainbow Foods. He's helping raise money for Special Olympics Minnesota by taking part in Cop on Top. Rumor has it we're going to get dinner and bring it to him up on the roof. I am skeptical: Is Rainbow going to let a whole passel of people, including a two-year-old, wander around on a store roof? I smell a 10-mile long list of liability issues. I suppose we'll find out. I'm going to bring my camera just in case.
Speaking of photos and grocery stores: It appears the Cub Foods is moving toward some kind of genetically engineered carrot-potato hybrid. I plucked this out of a bag of baby carrots yesterday:
Here's a closer look. See what I mean? Potato skin. Clearly.
Cub carries two brands of baby carrots: Bolthouse Farms and Farm Fresh. The Bolthouse Farms carrots are always just the right amount of moistness. Perfect carrots, really. Farm Fresh, naturally the cheaper brand, has more questionable-looking carrots (as it turns out, Farm Fresh one of Supervalu "Signature Brands," meaning these are the "Cub brand" carrots) . Sometimes they are funny shapes. And the bags are always very wet inside. I leave mine open in the fridge to dry it out, and even that doesn't work. I know I shouldn't whine, because it is my choice to buy them. And buy them I do, because they are cheap. But when I saw the carrot above I was a bit alarmed. Are our friends at Supervalu, er, Farm Fresh trying to slip these new cotatos past us unawares?
Not this sharp-eyed masticator. But in the end, I suppose I'll eat it anyway. Off to the Richfield Rainbow, then on to learn how to be an obedient husband.
Nostrils tingling, it was on across the government center plaza, toward the Metrodome, to my ramp and into the car, escaping the city for the weekend. As expected, traffic was heavy. Heavier than this morning's rush hour, in fact. I'm glad I only had to go to Maple Grove, and not points west. Lots of campers and trailers and big trucks. And a giant oversized load rig with a backhoe that seemed uncomfortably close as I passed. Then exit, wind through the construction obstacle course that is northwest Maple Grove, and to the doctor's office. Easy to find, and just a mile from home.
My childhood memories of the doctor's office go something like this: Show up for your appointment and wait. Kids cough. And wait. Babies scream. Then wait some more. About the time you're sure you're going to die of germ exposure, starvation, or boredom, the nurse calls you back. You end up in a room, sitting on that bed-like thing, nearly naked and freezing. And you're lucky if 45 minutes later, just before hypothermia sets in, the doctor arrives for a three-minute look-over. He looks, he listens, he pokes, he prods, and then sends you on your way with a Tootsie Pop. (Because, note, he is not the dentist.)
My how things have changed. I filled out a form and was whisked back into the bowels of Park Nicollet Clinic by a friendly woman in colorful scrubs. She directed me to the insurance desk where another woman in a purple fleece vest had to look over all of my insurance stuff. Apparently the clinic has to process your insurance to see if it will be paid before you get to see the doctor. She didn't say much, just sat typing and not looking at me. So I looked around. A long hallway traversed the center of the building; we were in a bright atrium of sorts. There were numerous signs with arrows hanging above hallways: "A" "B" "C" "F" and so on. What is it about the interior of a clinic that screams "clinic"? You could look at one corner, one reception area, one piece of art, or some chairs, and you recognize immediately where you are: A Building of Healthcare. Is it subliminal messages in the wallpaper? Subtle color combinations? Practically, the interior decor in most non-healthcare offices and clinics or hospitals is similar. But you'd never confuse the two.
Eventually, the she gave me a piece of paper with "A 101" written on it. Hooray! My insurance is approved! Now walk to the "A" hallway, turn left, go to the end, and find Room 101.
My physical was so slick. Almost no waiting. Nice, friendly nurse (again, colorful scrubs). Slick flat-screen computer monitor over the doctor's desk area. When it came time to undress, they had a gown for me. Not some papery thing, either...real fabric. The doctor was prompt, talkatively friendly, and informative, too. And the room wasn't too cold. Everything checked out; I am healthy. All-in-all, it wasn't a bad hour. Even when I had a tetanus booster. (Speaking of which, arm soreness is setting in. Hadn't noticed that until now. Oooh.)
Now it's back home to pack for...drumroll...a pre-wedding retreat! This begins in Eagan or somewhere over that way this evening. The retreat comes highly recommended, and if you go, the state knocks $50 of the cost of your marriage license. We will be a captive audience from 7 o'clock this evening until 9:30 Saturday evening. Yes, 9:30 p.m. I have no idea. I hope it is fun.
But first Jenni and I are going to Richfield, where Jenni's dad Dan, a detective with the Richfield PD, is "camping" out atop a Rainbow Foods. He's helping raise money for Special Olympics Minnesota by taking part in Cop on Top. Rumor has it we're going to get dinner and bring it to him up on the roof. I am skeptical: Is Rainbow going to let a whole passel of people, including a two-year-old, wander around on a store roof? I smell a 10-mile long list of liability issues. I suppose we'll find out. I'm going to bring my camera just in case.
Speaking of photos and grocery stores: It appears the Cub Foods is moving toward some kind of genetically engineered carrot-potato hybrid. I plucked this out of a bag of baby carrots yesterday:
Here's a closer look. See what I mean? Potato skin. Clearly.
Cub carries two brands of baby carrots: Bolthouse Farms and Farm Fresh. The Bolthouse Farms carrots are always just the right amount of moistness. Perfect carrots, really. Farm Fresh, naturally the cheaper brand, has more questionable-looking carrots (as it turns out, Farm Fresh one of Supervalu "Signature Brands," meaning these are the "Cub brand" carrots) . Sometimes they are funny shapes. And the bags are always very wet inside. I leave mine open in the fridge to dry it out, and even that doesn't work. I know I shouldn't whine, because it is my choice to buy them. And buy them I do, because they are cheap. But when I saw the carrot above I was a bit alarmed. Are our friends at Supervalu, er, Farm Fresh trying to slip these new cotatos past us unawares?
Not this sharp-eyed masticator. But in the end, I suppose I'll eat it anyway. Off to the Richfield Rainbow, then on to learn how to be an obedient husband.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Blathering about films: Pirates of the Caribbean
Sorry I haven't posted in a few days. Busy busy busy. You know the drill - phalanxes of schedules march on across the weeks, laying waste to the paradise known as free time.
Actually, part of it has to do with summer hours. My office has a sweet little deal where we work an extra hour Monday through Thursday. Fridays, "the man" frees us at noon, and we scatter like schoolchildren who have just discovered the courage to cut classes for an early start on the weekend. It is wonderful, but it means I am getting to clobber the snooze button on my alarm a good 45 minutes earlier now. Five-thirty a.m. It's the new Waking Hour. ("Spoiled brat," you parents with young children are thinking.) Even the sun wasn't up when I lurched out of bed this morning. Or it was still crouching behind one of the neighboring homes. Early, in any case.
Funny how 5:30 when you are camping doesn't seem all that unreasonable. The sky is bright. The birds are wide awake and greeting the new day with morning song. The dew-soaked grass is calling you to play, to explore, to call in sick and have an adventure. Even at the cabin 5:30 is a most agreeable time. Perfect for padding down to the dock and watching the mist burn off the lake.
Not here. No, I must dash off to the bus, where I slouch, close my eyes, and pretend I'm back in bed for the half hour trip into downtown Minneapolis. I shouldn't complain. I don't have to touch my car most days; it stays safe at home in the garage and I get in and out of downtown round trip for what it would cost me to park at the cheapest, farthest-from-the-office parking ramp.
Summer hours mean my efforts at getting to bed "early" go from pathetic and worthless to half-hearted. Mountains of laundry are beckoning even now...
But oh - the reason I decided to post this evening in the first place. This weekend Jenni and the parents and I went to the latest incarnation of Pirates of the Caribbean, number three, subtitled "At World's End." Since they never let me be a film critic at the college newspaper, now I get to unload on all of you faithful blog readers (all three of you?). This movie was pretty good. It certainly was not bad. Well. Actually I don't know what it was. I had fun, I can tell you that. But I feel like I saw this huge movie, yet I can't relate much of it. I have read that you have to see it twice to fully appreciate it. That's probably true, because the beginning was a minefield of subplots. For the first half hour, I had no idea what the hell was going on, and I read a synopsis of the Pirates II plot before I went so that I would be up to speed. Eventually it settles into place. And even then, there's still a lot going on. One thing I did miss was the rollicking good time that permeated the first two movies. There's still a tone of that in III, but things are a lot more serious this time around. That's not without reason - the whole world as our yo-ho-hoing friends know it is at stake. I did miss the unexpected plot twists common in previous movies that were inevitably followed by some character scowling "Pirates!" (much like Jerry Seinfeld says "Newman!") or Johnny Depp saying "Pir-ate!" in his oops-I-got-'ya-again tone. I do have to give two bumbling East India Trading Company guards some credit (you'll remember them from the first movie where Jack Sparrow steals a ship from right under their noses) for a great scene in which they completely distract themselves from their guard duty by arguing about whether the crew of "fish people" aboard a ship has lead to a lapse in standards.
If for not the reason that I am, by film snob standards, extremely unqualified, you may also want to take this review with a grain of salt because of the teeny boppers that sat behind us. They were prone to fits of whispering and giggling, particular during some of the intense scenes. I nearly turned around and threatened to skin their gullets, savvy, but ask yourself...would that have accomplished anything? Probably not. Really, though. Some people's kids.
So Pirates is plenty of bang for your buck. Just don't be surprised if you find yourself a bit confused. Don't worry. The plot pulls together enough for plenty of naval battle ship carnage and swashbuckling at the end. I'm sure it's easier to appreciate everything the second time around.
Ask.com's Ninja was much less kind (but I think his review is better).
Now I must go make a sacrifice to Whirlapoola, the great god of agitation and the spin cycle.
Actually, part of it has to do with summer hours. My office has a sweet little deal where we work an extra hour Monday through Thursday. Fridays, "the man" frees us at noon, and we scatter like schoolchildren who have just discovered the courage to cut classes for an early start on the weekend. It is wonderful, but it means I am getting to clobber the snooze button on my alarm a good 45 minutes earlier now. Five-thirty a.m. It's the new Waking Hour. ("Spoiled brat," you parents with young children are thinking.) Even the sun wasn't up when I lurched out of bed this morning. Or it was still crouching behind one of the neighboring homes. Early, in any case.
Funny how 5:30 when you are camping doesn't seem all that unreasonable. The sky is bright. The birds are wide awake and greeting the new day with morning song. The dew-soaked grass is calling you to play, to explore, to call in sick and have an adventure. Even at the cabin 5:30 is a most agreeable time. Perfect for padding down to the dock and watching the mist burn off the lake.
Not here. No, I must dash off to the bus, where I slouch, close my eyes, and pretend I'm back in bed for the half hour trip into downtown Minneapolis. I shouldn't complain. I don't have to touch my car most days; it stays safe at home in the garage and I get in and out of downtown round trip for what it would cost me to park at the cheapest, farthest-from-the-office parking ramp.
Summer hours mean my efforts at getting to bed "early" go from pathetic and worthless to half-hearted. Mountains of laundry are beckoning even now...
But oh - the reason I decided to post this evening in the first place. This weekend Jenni and the parents and I went to the latest incarnation of Pirates of the Caribbean, number three, subtitled "At World's End." Since they never let me be a film critic at the college newspaper, now I get to unload on all of you faithful blog readers (all three of you?). This movie was pretty good. It certainly was not bad. Well. Actually I don't know what it was. I had fun, I can tell you that. But I feel like I saw this huge movie, yet I can't relate much of it. I have read that you have to see it twice to fully appreciate it. That's probably true, because the beginning was a minefield of subplots. For the first half hour, I had no idea what the hell was going on, and I read a synopsis of the Pirates II plot before I went so that I would be up to speed. Eventually it settles into place. And even then, there's still a lot going on. One thing I did miss was the rollicking good time that permeated the first two movies. There's still a tone of that in III, but things are a lot more serious this time around. That's not without reason - the whole world as our yo-ho-hoing friends know it is at stake. I did miss the unexpected plot twists common in previous movies that were inevitably followed by some character scowling "Pirates!" (much like Jerry Seinfeld says "Newman!") or Johnny Depp saying "Pir-ate!" in his oops-I-got-'ya-again tone. I do have to give two bumbling East India Trading Company guards some credit (you'll remember them from the first movie where Jack Sparrow steals a ship from right under their noses) for a great scene in which they completely distract themselves from their guard duty by arguing about whether the crew of "fish people" aboard a ship has lead to a lapse in standards.
If for not the reason that I am, by film snob standards, extremely unqualified, you may also want to take this review with a grain of salt because of the teeny boppers that sat behind us. They were prone to fits of whispering and giggling, particular during some of the intense scenes. I nearly turned around and threatened to skin their gullets, savvy, but ask yourself...would that have accomplished anything? Probably not. Really, though. Some people's kids.
So Pirates is plenty of bang for your buck. Just don't be surprised if you find yourself a bit confused. Don't worry. The plot pulls together enough for plenty of naval battle ship carnage and swashbuckling at the end. I'm sure it's easier to appreciate everything the second time around.
Ask.com's Ninja was much less kind (but I think his review is better).
Now I must go make a sacrifice to Whirlapoola, the great god of agitation and the spin cycle.
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