Unieuph

Monday I'll be attending the funeral of a friend from high school. This is the third funeral I've gone to in the past year.

I had the awful choice of what to write about first: my VISA experience, or SNAKES ON A PLANE!!! So you can guess which one will be tonight's topic.

I recall watching "The High and the Mighty" (w/ John Wayne!) during this past school year, and having a keen understanding about why airplane horror didn't last. Although we have a preternatural fear of being stuck in horrific situations (such as being in a plane when it experiences engine trouble and a passenger shoots a gun; or being on a plane full of poisonous snakes), the seeming inaction we may experience is translated well onto film. "Translated well" meaning, the cast and crew have little to do, and little devices to work with. Thus the "Plane Horror" genre is really an intellectual critique of crisis management: when you can't do anything, what do you do?

Of course, this analysis allows the inevitable conclusion that Plane Horror wouldn't fare as well on film as it may, say, in the theatre. Everyone that's seen "Snakes on a Plane", I call on you to answer: wouldn't you like to see this translated for the stage? Wouldn't it be perfect?

In any event, I must confess that I have a fetish for painfully bad movies. PAINFULLY BAD. And, although "Snakes on a Plane" didn't make the top of that list (much to the credit of the visual effects - screenwriting and music could easily go toe-to-toe with "Monkey Shines"), it certainly satisfied all expectations for the Bad Film Junkie. I'm still scratching my head how the Flint Journal could give it 2 stars.

In closing I want to reiterate the review from the top, delivered to me from someone who was exciting the theatre before my entrance: Every Generation has their movie. To add to this, I'll say every generation has their plane horror movie. The previous generation got "Apollo 13" (it does fit the genre), we got "Snakes on a Plane"

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Actually, the post isn't that drastic.

If anyone can find any writings of Carl von Ossietzky, the 1935 Nobel Peace Prize writer. I just want to satisfy a personal interest.

Also, I have my VISA interview on Friday. Wish me luck!

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I've made the sad promise not to write much until every (or most) details pertaining to this upcoming year are in place. This may take a week or two, so I'll try and throw a bone in couple times before that.

My cheeks are back to normal, although my euphonium playing still needs another week or so to get back to par. I received a lot of music a couple weeks ago, so I have plenty of material on which to work.

Finally, I've come to the conclusion that one of my ancestors was a member of the "Independent Order of Odd Fellows". This explains so much, I can't comprehend it. My friends, now you understand.

Not much to report today - just a bath for my horn, harder food for me, a little bit of singing, and some writing.

An observation, though: I was sitting in my house, looking at outside as the heat slowly tortured my grass, leaving it destitute and possibly dead. I felt removed from the scene; I could watch but not touch (for those who remember my Rochester Winters, think about how I act in the summer). Perhaps the landscape created a mythical atmosphere as I sat in the prison of my house.

Until the evening; with the cooling air, I made the trip into the yard, so I could enjoy a natural breeze and look at the flowers in the garden. The mythic fog, evaporated by the procession into and of the cool, helped regain my sense of place. I was freed, although I didn't venture far, as the night guard, looming over the horizon, came to replace the heat. I returned inside.

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