Live - and vote - deliberately

Odds and Bookends
Published by the North Kitsap Herald
Photo Credit

The dark blue sign read "Bush" in bold white letters, and under it "Cheney" in a finer print. It had the usual array of red stars and stripes, and probably an elephant on it somewhere; I can't quite remember. But I do recall where it hung: above the door of my Warren Hall dorm room, at Whitworth University, circa 2004.
My newly minted roommate and I had gone so far as to join the student Republican chapter on campus. The sign was swag, offered in exchange for convincing our friends to vote, like us, for the GOP incumbent. (In a recent Google search to find an image of the sign, I only ran across spoofs bearing impeachment jokes and slogans like "Commander 'n thief.")
That was the first presidential election during which I was old enough to vote; the race between Barack Obama and John McCain will be my second.
In fact, I've already voted, and placed a big, bold mark next to the Obama-Biden box. But I'm not here to tell you who to vote for.
I'm writing this to tell you about four teens I met Monday while waiting to talk with gubernatorial incumbent Christine Gregoire outside Poulsbo's city hall. These students were in search of extra credit via a signature from the governor. When I asked who they would vote for were they of age, I got smiles and shrugs. Three guessed they might cast ballots for Dino Rossi, one said he'd pull for Gregoire because his parents are doing the same.
It's likely in the next four years those teens, like I eventually did, will come to form individual opinions on the vast, hurling vortex of politics. College does, after all, make you prone to new ideas and an invaluable education. (OK, my student loan statements put a very clear value on my education. You catch my drift.)
But here is my hope for these teens. When they turn 18, when they graduate from college at 22, when they find themselves choosing between candidates be it for president or the city council, I hope this: that they can turn to their parents and discuss. And I hope their parents, in return, can hold their end of the conversation.
You see, my mom is a very smart person. She's raised three kids, works in the medical field and is arguably the best friend I've ever had.
And she's voting for McCain.
I won't tell you our family doesn't debate it. I won't say we don't hash out the pro life vs. pro choice stance or it's place in the election. I won't lie and say we haven't discussed the idea of health care and the rights of any sick person to be taken care of, despite their financial situation. I won't even say we haven't breached the notion of Obama's perceived dilemmatic religious background, Palin's questionable geographical knowhow or McCain's age.
Because we have. We've debated, discussed, gotten heated, raised our voices and shouted about it all. But here's the thing: My mom may be voting for a party with which I no longer identify, but that doesn't matter as much as the fact that she's voting. So is my dad.
And while we may disagree, my parents are still setting an incredible example. Luckier even than I are my younger brothers, who will remember these knowledgeable family discussions when they're old enough to have political say.
So my point in this narrative is this: No matter who you vote for, no matter your stance on saving the environment, US dependency on oil, the job market or the war in Iraq, please vote. Do it deliberately, and with thought. Because, as they say, your vote is your voice. And it's your tax dollar. And it's your future. Not just yours, but a whole generation to come. And they're looking to you to learn how to do it.

You say 'Saw,' I say seen it

The Screening Room
Published by What's Up Arts and Entertainment

It’s a mine field of bad films out there troops, and we at What's Up certainly don't want you wasting your Halloween night on the likes of "Man-Thing." So we've put together a small and by no means comprehensive guide to get the cinematically inclined through the spooky season. Here’s what’s what:

The Motion Ickness Factor



If you're looking to hit the theaters this weekend for a fright, your best bet is going to be "Quarantine," a rocky, hand-held camera version of what happens when inhabitants of a barricaded apartment building one by one turn rabid.
The movie itself is a spawn of the "Blair Witch" era (of which there are many; really now, if you haven't seen it or a sequel or spoof, it's time to put down the can of beans and step away from the bunker.) A news crew follows its fire fighter subjects into what should have been a standard assistance call, but finds instead humans with a quickly advancing strain of I'm-going-to-eat-you-alive disease. "Quarantine" pulls off a decent approach and execution, though at times it dabbles too heavily with out-of-focus shots, but the real tragedy is its plot-line limitations. You know what a movie called "Quarantine" will be about before it begins, and only the first few raging, beady-eyed neighbors popping out of nowhere get the starts. The movie ends quickly — and mercifully it waits to go to night vision mode until roughly 80 minutes in — but for your theater fun it's worth the short expenditure of time.


Still looking for an excuse to take that Dramamine? Probably the highest budget motion sickness production out there is "Cloverfield," J.J. Abrams' disaster flick about a deep-sea something-or-other that destroys New York City. There is blood. There is gore. There are weird, spidery creatures that attack socialites in the dark, and it's all captured by Joe Videocam, who happens to offer a rather funny monologic narrative. This one's already on Blockbuster's shelves, but if you haven't seen it, give it a go.

Sick in the head


Sometimes there's just nothing better (or more disturbing?) than watching the mental breakdown of characters on screen. A standard favorite: "Se7en," a ruse from the brain of David Fincher ("Fight Club") that's all about trickery, sin and crime-solving. "Se7en" follows cops David Mills (Brad Pitt) and William Somerson (Morgan Freeman) as they search out a surprise-identity serial killer. After Mills' wife (Gwyneth Paltrow) is put, er... in jeopardy, the audience watches Mills make a choice that will change the rest of his life, and possibly prove the killer's agenda. Be prepared to mimic Pitt's "What's in the box?" line long after the movie is over.
Others in this category deserving of note: classics "The Shining" and "Silence of the Lambs," and while we're going old school, check out oldies but goodies "Rosemary's Baby" and "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?"

I’ll haunt you for that


They're here. OK, it's also slightly ancient by now, by there may not be anything lie Spielberg's 1982 "Poltergeist" ... except "Poltergiest II" and "Poltergeist III." But the original that spawned even a TV series is still topnotch. The movie depicts a suburban family living in a ghost-infested house. What first appears to be a visit from friendly Casper soon turns ugly, leading to the kidnapping of the family's youngest member and totally ruining its lawn. "Poltergeist" made TV screen static scary long before "The Ring." Other good hauntings include "The Changeling" (1980) and either version of "The Amityville Horror."

Jeepers Creatures

No creepy compilation would be complete without word from Stephen King, who makes it on the list with 2007's "The Mist." Better than you'd think, this movie shows a group of townsfolk trying to survive an enigmatic mist that envelopes their homes and brings with it giant insects which are really, really gross. The giant insects are just the start of large-scale creatures that are nearly as frightening as the global warming crisis, and the shockingly dramatic ending of this film will stick with you for a while. (I mean it. Color me traumatized.) Other creature creations include "The Thing" and "The Brood."

Low voltage, please


Thanks to the brilliantly zany mind of Tim Burton, there are plenty of Halloweenish movies that don't rely on your gag reflex to make a point. A personal, family-friendly fave: "Beetlejuice," a 1988 movie about two ghosts trying to rid their home of live humans. Nothing's as priceless as the moment a noosed Geena Davis pulls the flesh right off her face, eyes popping comically out in an attempt to be scary. This Burton-meets-claymation adventure stars Michael Keaton in the wacky, electrified role of Betelgeuse, but most of Burton's All Hallow's Eve best feature Johnny Depp (see: "Sleepy Hollow," "Edward Scissorhands" and "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street," all excellent seasonal choices for an enjoyably tame evening.)

The blog on Bones: The He in the She (S4, Ep6)

Photo Credit
Written specially for Prime Time Pulse.

It isn’t often a television show creates for itself the opportunity to offend both the transsexual community and the Pope, all in one episode.

But Bones did just that, dabbling in topics widely considered touchy without skipping a beat. Not to worry, the show’s take on gender issues sent a positive message, despite the Tevye-style penchant of its leading man to partake in pro-traditional stumping. How the Pope would feel about it, I wouldn’t presume to know. (see line: “One pastor gets her teeth whitened and the other drinks wine on Sunday mornings and tells everyone that it’s been miraculously transformed into blood. Which of those is more outlandish?”)

Controversies aside, two potheads discover the corps du jour, a legless skeleton washed up on the shores of Chesapeake Bay. Meet Patricia, a victim complete with serial numbered breast implants handy for posthumous identification. We learn Patricia is the pastor of Inclusion Church, an all-are-welcome worship group that meets on the isolated island Patricia calls home. Locals report she had gone out for a swim and never returned.

Funnily enough, records for Patricia only go back five years; FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth (David Boreanaz) tells Dr. Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel) he thinks the lady’s got a suspiciously unshady past.

But things really get interesting after the discovery of a set of skeletal gams thought to be Patricia‘s other half. The pelvis says male, but the vagina says, well, you get it. Records on Patricia only go back five years because six years ago she was a he. A male mega-church pastor, preaching against evils of the world and siphoning money from the wallets of devotees. His name was Patrick Stevenson, and he had a wife and son. Safe to say, the skeleton’s split-in-two state is a handy metaphor for the pastor herself.

Booth and Brennan get the gender bending phone call while searching the victim’s home, and immediately head back to FBI headquarters. (What’s the rush? The deceased is already a decomposed skeleton. I think the need for speed has lapsed.)

They begin to dissect a telling phone message left on Patricia’s machine from JP, one of her parishioners, a married man fresh out of jail. It’s beginning to look like the two had an affair, and it’s here that buttoned-down Booth starts to get uncomfortable.

“Look, there’s no way the guy on that answering machine knew that he-she-he knew that she-he was transgendered,” he says.

Holy personal pronouns, Batman!

When questioned, JP insists he did know of Patricia’s past, and it didn’t bother him. Cross Suspect One off the list.

Meanwhile, Cam (Tamara Taylor) is busy in the lab trying to identify the cause of death with the help of this week’s alternaZack (see definition: al-ter-na-Zack, noun - single-episode lab rat filling in for much beloved season one through three regular who is now behind bars for a murder he only kind of committed; it‘s complicated.) Vincent (Ryan Cartwright) is a British grad-student with a retentive mind, meaning the guy has an affinity for TMI moments. His knowledge repertoire includes such nuggets as:

- Women blink twice as often as men.
- Tongue prints are as distinct as fingerprints.
- Topless saleswomen are legal in Liverpool, but only in tropical fish stores.

Next!

As the search continues, Booth and Brennan track down Patricia’s unhappy ex-wife, and eventually her son, a young man who bucked the commercial religion life for one of down-and-dirty, honest servitude. Both were told Patrick had died; they believed him a man so devout he was a part of some Running Start Rapture. When he’s told of his father’s transformation, however, the son’s features take on a look of relief. He understands, he says, and only wishes he could have known his father after he became Patricia.

Cam nails down the murder weapon: a boat. After a survey of particulates and other cool, science-y stuff, the team heads to the docks where they locate JP’s vessel and determine it to be the one that twice ran over Patricia. JP denies involvement; his guilty looking wife standing in the background doesn’t. Gotcha.

In other developments, Angela and Hodgins are back to their awkward, post-breakup unfriendliness, despite last episode deciding they were no longer going to avoid one another. (The two did complete the night’s funniest two-parter. Vincent puts the moves on Angela, and Hodgins sets him straight: “That’s too much car for you,” he says. The clueless newcomer gives it another go, and Angela delivers a saucy, steeled rejection: “Vroom, vroom kid. You’re already in my rearview mirror.”)
But the best line of the night came from Booth - who throughout the episode referred to Patricia as “not a real woman” - while sitting in a service at Inclusion Church, where Patricia’s son begins preaching in his father’s footsteps.

“Redemption through transformation. I get it,” Booth says, and it seems he truly does. Turning to Brennan, he asks “What do you believe in Bones?”

“I believe in always swimming with a buddy.”

Yes. We. Can.

The blog on Bones: The Crank in the Shaft (S4, Ep5)

Photo Credit
Written specially for Prime Time Pulse.







It’s workplace romance and Cubicle Farm country taken on in this week’s Bones, as Special Agent Seeley Booth (David Boreanaz) and Dr. Temperence Brennan (Emily Deschanel) search out the killer of a beloved office manager from amongst her coworkers. The episode plays out like a game of Clue: Was it the slacker with the joint in the machine room? The ex-employee with the grudge on the 16th floor? The boss with the shady alibi in the copy room?
And as far as victim discoveries go, Bones often trolls down Icky Lane, but this one takes a turn straight onto the Oh-that’s-nasty Super Highway. The woman’s body (or what’s left of it) is found in, on and throughout an elevator shaft. It’s a multi-floor mess: after she was killed, she was dumped into the hoistway and gradually ground by the lift’s up-and-down trips until finally it threw the mechanism off kilter. On the Grossness Richter Scale, this one registers loud and clear (see: Dr. Camille Saroyan (Tamara Taylor) actually calling for a spatula. Blech.).
Speaking of dark and twisty images, meet this week’s Zack replacement (one in a string of single-episode characters filling in for the season one through three regular who now occupies a cell in a mental institution). His name is Fisher (Joel Moore), and he’s a None-of-us-are-getting-out-of-life-alive type fellow. Real cheery, that one.
He does, however, provide ample opportunity for Cam to deliver some good one-liners. If the show isn’t going to give her a storyline outside the lab, at least they’re filling her comedic quota. She deadpans with the best of them. (Cam had the best line of the night: “I don’t know how this happened, I run a safe building,” the property manager says. “Right,” she responds, tossing out the words as if flicking off a cigarette, “except for the mangled dead woman.”)
As it turns out, the victim wasn’t as beloved as some seemed to believe. In fact, she was a world-class tattletale. When she caught two coworkers in an R-rated rendezvous and threatened to turn them in, one lobbed a stapler at her head, which struck and in turn ruptured a dormant aneurysm, effectively rendering her murdered.
Like last week’s episode, this one continues to shine of Bones’ former, pre-writer’s strike glory. Buckle up, I do believe this show has shifted back into full gear.
And with that, Brennan’s socially inept worldview continues to charm: throughout episode five she comments on the drone-like state of mid-level workers in corporate America. Nearly as funny as her observations are Booth’s reactions to them. But the couple that really stole the show was, as they were once known, Hodgela. Dr. Jack Hodgins (TJ Thyne) and Angela Montenegro (Michaela Conlin) finally hold their post-breakup talk. As she tries to explain to Sweets (John Frances Daley) and he tries to explain to Cam, things between them have gone from intense to just plain tense, which doesn’t bode well in the workplace. But what starts as two former lovers facing off in a battle of stuttering takes a surprisingly pleasant turn.
“I’m not going to hide anymore and I’m not going to walk on eggshells,” Angela says to a happily relieved Hodgins. “I’m just going to accept that this whole damn mess happened, and pain or not, I’m glad it did.”
So are we, Angela, so are we.

Do the reinlender

Photo Credit
Written for and published by The North Kitsap Herald.

POULSBO — “Down up, down up, down up, down up,” instructor Fred Aalto says, leading into a heel-toe jaunt.
Aaand we’re off.
This is the the newest addition to the Poulsbo Sons of Norway class lineup, a novice folk dancing class aimed at the inexperienced. It’s an autumnal Monday evening, and eagerness is in the air.
Aalto has turned our dance floor into an imaginary solar system: in the center sits the sun — don’t want to get too close — and so round and round it we orbit, first stepping to a rhythm, then switching to a shuffle with the same rounded motion.
There are seven of us to start with, though stragglers nearly double that number by class’ end.
It’s like walking on a mattress, or a spongy forest floor, Aalto described. Soon, we incorporate turns, visualizing ourselves as light bulbs being turned into socket.
(Needless to note, these metaphors are each sold separately. Picturing yourself as a light bulb doing circles on a mossy mattress probably won’t work well out of context.)
But like building blocks, the images Aalto demonstrates begin to flow together, and before we realize it, we’re doing the reinlender, a folkish jig of Scandinavian descent.
Aalto and his wife and teaching partner Linda hover gracefully over the dance floor, the bounce in their step belying age, as if the two danced here straight from Brigadoon. Aalto began dancing when in college in the Boston area; he’s now in his 60s. They instruct the lodge’s continuing dance class at 7 p.m. each Monday night, and recently added one for beginners which meets beforehand from 6-7 p.m. They lay waste to the “those who can’t do, teach” phrase.
“With this sort of thing, some people will take a very long time and some people will pick things up quickly,” Aalto said. “This gives the beginners a fighting chance to pick up things they’ve never done before.”
Never having done a polka myself, I called Aalto earlier in the day to pose a few questions about the class:
Cost? I asked him. Two dollars. That’s less damage than a latte, and it covers the entire night, so for those who want to stick around for the continuing dancers’ class, they may.
Dress code? Standard issue comfort, he said. Clothing easy to move in paired with clean, preferably smooth-soled shoes fit the bill. High heels or tennis shoes heavy in traction can make things more difficult. One of my dance partners said his soft-soled, leather loafers suited the occasion well.
Speaking of partners, I asked Aalto if coming solo really is OK, as the class advertises. Normally, you’d think showing up for dance lessons sans partner is a like having Huey Lewis without the News. But in this case, it pans out perfectly. Nearly half a dozen others came alone or with friends of the same sex. Every few minutes or so Fred calls for a partner switch, so that each student learns to dance without depending on another. It also allowed us to experience dancing with all different skill levels and body types.
“It gives you a sense of what you have to do to dance with anybody,” he said. “It really is a question of learning how to move and doing a number of really basic dances. It’s very, very simple and very, very basic.”
My first partner was a 77-year-old gentleman named Dick Berg from Bainbridge Island. Newcomers the both of us, we managed to find the correct foot placement before swapping for a new accomplice.
Next up, it was around the dance floor with 66-year-old Kingstonite Gary Henry, who joked he was “influenced severely” by his wife Linda to attend. But Henry made a good sport of it. The class was his third; he first attended the regular lessons, but hadn’t been able to quite catch on.
“It was too advanced for me,” he said. “I am the dancing equivalent of a sub-prime mortgage.”
Though he said folk dancing isn’t quite his usual style, he’s considering sticking with it.
“The jury’s still out,” he said.
But the verdict seemed to be in for my third partner, Silverdale’s Mark Reece, who came with his wife Peggy while their teenaged daughter danced with the youth upstairs.
“It was pretty cool!” Reece said post-jive, adding they plan to attend again. Still far from perfect, he and I had nearly mastered the turn — it may as well have been the Tour de France we were spinning so rightly. Rightly enough, wouldn’t you know, to earn accolades from Aalto.
“Very good, very good,” he had said. Forget the sun at the center of our solar system; see me beam with the simple accomplishment.
But the idea the Reeces seemed to have in mind is just what Aalto is hoping for.
“We believe strongly that dancing should be a family activity,” he said. “So often we see the situation where parents encourage their children to dance and they don’t dance themselves.”
That’s been the case for Kim Barker, a 48-year-old father of three who decided enough was enough. All of his kids and his wife dance.
“I’ve held out a long time,” he said. This was his second beginner’s lesson. “I don’t dance, so it was a challenging concept.”
But by the end of class, it seemed all had caught on, despite a little dizziness and what at times could be likened to “bumper-dancing.”
“This adult class is a confidence building class, that’s really what it comes down to,” Aalto said. He added it works well for the elderly, as teaching goes at a slow speed and movements aren’t jarring.
“The idea is this is going to be quite different from our normal Monday nights.”
And like any good mission to the cosmos, Henry and I noted this one deposits its students home in plenty of time to watch another spacey spectacle: Dancing with the Stars.