Canada Day. We caught up with him at a hot dog stand on a busy corner of Robson Street. Tim poked him on the shoulder and said, "Hi!”
Tim pointed to the kid's shirt. He said, "West Memphis Three" then pointed at me. I repeated the words and pointed at the kid. Then Tim asked if he was involved in the case. The boy looked confused.
I pointed to my shirt then back at his and told him we had the same shirt, the same message.
I could tell he was trying hard to comprehend. Then, slowly, he said, "Ahhh West Memphis Three...I do not know what it means."
"You don't know the story of the West Memphis Three?" I asked to make sure I got that right.
Then carefully, with a blank face he said, "No, I do not know West Memphis Three. I bought this shirt in Korea."
I laughed. Then he laughed. I asked if I could try to explain who the West Memphis Three are and he nodded. I began acting out the story with hand gestures and limited words.
My T-shirt is an older model. A row of mug shots printed across the chest in white on black jersey.
I pointed to the photos and said, "These three men are The West Memphis Three. They are in prison in the United States for murdering 3 children." I held up three fingers then lowered my hand to the height of a child.
He said, "Ohhhh."
I waved my hands and explain that there are a lot of people out there, around the world, who think they did not do it. I tell him, "There are a lot of people out there wearing these kinds of T-shirts. We think they should be free."
I point to the face in the middle of the row of mug shots. "This is Damien Echols. For this crime he is going to be executed," I hold my fingers like a gun because acting out lethal injection is too much of a task, "and a lot of people do not want to see that happen. He is in prison - on death row in a place called Arkansas."
"So, I wear this and it is good?" He asked.
"I think it is really good." I answered.
Then I took his picture.
]]>What have you been putting off all weekend?
Everything.
What is a childhood memory that still haunts you?
It's too hard to write about. I keep thinking I will paint it someday.
Trauma.
Share a recipe for your favorite summer drink.
It's called The Urine Sample. I can't tell you what's in it because it's a secret...
I'm not much of a movie reviewer, and this isn't really a review.
When I was a kid my favorite books were biographies. Biographies written for children are pretty useless because everyone is a hero even if in real life they were drug addicted pedophiles with tails because those things never get printed for the below grade 7 crowd. I grew up with a very skewed view on what accomplished people lived like, for the longest time it never dawned on me that Eleanor Roosevelt was probably a lesbian.
My interest in the lives of others does not stop at the printed page. I love the biopic. Mostly because I really do not want to read the life story of David Hasslehoff or Joan Van Arc, but I might watch 10 or 15 minutes of it while channel flipping.
First let's talk about Dewey Cox. Walk Hard is a very goofy take on the biopic. The brilliance of this film is simple: Take a formulaic genre (biopic) and follow the formula to a T - then throw in some close up full frontal male nudity - hilarious! The thing about Walk Hard is that once you see it you will compare every biopic you have seen (and will see) to it...and you will also realize that Ray wasn't all that great of a movie.
Here's where the needle skips across the record.
About 3 years later in a double wide trailer in the rural dispatches of Arkansas I too would be listening to David Bowie and Roxy Music and experimenting with make-up and writing sad poetry and having seizures. The major difference here is that my poetry was sad and HORRIBLE! Where Ian Curtis was a junior genius. And I never got into cigarettes.
When Ian lands in the hospital after a particularly violent convulsive episode he is diagnosed with epilepsy. He is given a myriad of pharmaceuticals in hopes that one or a combination will stop or at best reduce the frequency of the seizures. All the pills have British names so they were unrecognizable to me, but I imagine that one was Dilantin and another was Phenobarbital because a few scenes later Ian can hardly function and is caught napping at his job. The lesson here? Rock Star lifestyle a day job and epilepsy do not mix...
In my Phenobarbital days (ages 13 - 22) I was so cloudy. I did spend a lot of time zoning out. Phenobarbital did not control my seizures (because I would find out MUCH later that my seizures were not epileptic in nature). All it did was make me tired and cranky and I think is rewired my brain. I think that stuff effected my reasoning skills. I was angry that I had to take it. And I was depressed. I was just sad all of the time. Sad and mad. I believe the effects lasted for decades even after I stopped taking it.
If Ian truly was on the various amounts of pharmaceuticals as portrayed in this film - plus the exhaustion of a Rock Star lifestyle, not taking the drugs regularly, keeping up a wife/baby (although it doesn't look like he was trying too hard at that) and entertaining a girlfriend - it is no wonder he hanged himself. It is quite possible that the same drugs that were meant to keep him alive are what killed him. I wasn't doing anything but going to school and being a teenager/young adult and I could hardly function. This guy had real responsibility at a really young age.
Control is a very subtly played biopic in that some things are just not gone on and on about or pointed to with big flashing signs and ridiculous dialogue. Oh, it has it's moments - because it is a biopic - but much of this movie seems graceful and lazy - almost like it is on Phenobarbital. It does have a montage, a pretty accepted biopic maneuver - but how else are you going to tell the story? Ian had a very short life - he died at 23 - and yet even a short life is hard to pack into 100 or so minutes of film. I didn't learn anything of substance I didn't already know, which was pretty basic, about Joy Division or Ian Curtis. Maybe there isn't really that much more to know. But it was a nice reminder of how young he was, even though his voice seemed much more experienced in life.
Joy Division weren't around for all that long and Ian killed himself just as they were taking off. Even if there isn't that much more to know - there's so much left to wonder.
I can't think of a way to bring this back to Dewey Cox...
]]>What's your best quality?
I have no idea.
Oh, wait...I have ethics.
Show us something that's been on your mind a lot.
Believe me, you DON'T want to see that.
I would like to remind my friends of a fall I took a few years back. I
was dragging a suitcase through a Seattle parking garage when the heel
of my shoe got snagged on the bag. The husband says I looked like that
statue of Saddam Hussein toppling over...whahahahahaha, that is hella
funny. Jerk.
I fell flat. Miraculously, I didn't break my face or
arms or anything. Both knees took the shock of the fall. Mysteriously,
the doctor can find nothing wrong with my knees. A MRI - a horrible
experience I was not prepared to endure - did not find anything wonky
in my knees and yet they click, grind, ping and stick when I walk a
flight of stairs to this very day. Some days I get sharp pains running
up and behind the cap. Some days no pain. Sometimes they like to fool
me and hurt for a few steps then correct themselves for a few hours
then just as I am crossing a busy street - STABBY STABBY STAB!!!
I am not a runner or a mountain climber, just an ordinary gal trying to make it through the
day without saying, "Oh, my GOD!" or "Shit!" or the ever confusing,
"Oh, my SHIT!" when I take a wrong step.
On
top of everything I can not seem to stop whacking my knees into things.
Last week I hit my knee so hard into a side table it broke the skin and
still feels bruisey. Just this morning I was adjusting a curtain when a
wrought iron curtain rod propped against the wall toppled over and
cracked right into that same knee. WTH?
Recently I heard some blah blah about the wonders of TURMERIC. Since I am highly suggestible I decided to look into this magical spice mostly known for making my favorite* French's Yellow Mustard that glorious color and for staining the counter tops when you slosh the take out curry. Seems the spice has magical healing powers...and that is exactly what I need...some powerful healing magic.
Turmeric has anti-inflamatory properties - sort of like an aspirin.
According to the claims:
Perhaps it is coincidence. Perhaps it is mental. I don't care as long as my knees are trouble free and I can get out and walk!
* Truth is I LOVE most mustards (I absolutely HATE Dijon) from the French's Yellow to the grainy seedy stuff. Mmmmm mustard.
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