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This picture joins together the two places that always come to mind whenever I think about ice hockey--Los Angeles and Japan.
It also allows even those of us with less wit than the typical hockey fan to enjoy imagining the crowd chants at every away game (and probably most home games) of the Los Angeles Kings (the team's name is itself mostly honored in the breach, nowhere but Los Angeles are they known as the KINGS).
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
I Could Describe It Too
Leatherette stools and banquettes. Espn or VH-1 on the TV. A couple Greek language pop cd's the only thing on the jukebox you haven't heard a million times. Buffalo wings on the menu. An average of three silent drunks and two loud ones in attendance any time of the day or night. Beer clocks and neon beer signs at intervals throughout. Some old, buzzed dame everyone knows. At least one guy named Mike:
(AFP) All 153 passengers killed in a Colombian jetliner crash in Venezuela were French citizens returning to their homes on the Caribbean island of Martinique after a week-long vacation, officials at France's civil aviation authority and their tour company said.
...The Martinique tour company which had chartered the MD-82 aircraft, Globe Trotters, said the passengers had been returning after spending a week vacationing in Panama.
Five Weeks In August
I smiled back in the spring when my brother told me my 12-year-old niece had ordered Salt: A World History from Amazon. The girl does love her salt, and is a scattershot reader in the great Bender family trad. I just sent her my old copy of The Wind in the Willows. I would recommend that to our president as well:
...According to the White House, one of three books Bush chose to read on his five-week vacation is "Salt: A World History" by Mark Kurlansky, who chronicled the rise and fall of what once was considered the world's most strategic commodity. 4:10 PM
Sunday, August 14, 2005
The Sunday Book Section
I would class Richard House's 1997 novelBruiser as true. It is the story of a 42-year-old expatriate Englishman with a past living in a Chicago hotel and of the 18-or-so-year-old expatriate suburban-American boy with even more of a past that he meets. They go about falling in love and then go about the USA in long road trips west and south. These road trips are intersected by serial killers and shadowed by HIV, and so perhaps are too much in the style of too many contemporary highwayman sagas. But since the irony level here is well below the modern standard, I ignored the sameness and accepted the tabloid settings and coincidences.
The author pays special attention to the shapes cut by sunlight streaming through windows onto the floors, tabletops and beds of hotels/motels, restaurants/diners and hospital rooms.
The book is as movie-ready as any I've ever read. Double-spaced on 8x11 sheets it could easily serve as the shooting script. I see myself taking the lead as the Englishman and, in a virtuoso turn, as the American boy too.
With it's rampant sunlight and somberly amusing mood it could be the first of a new genre, film soleil.
I will repay Mr. House for making my night with his novel by making his day. Certainly someone reading this will snap up the movie rights when I mention in closing that the book also features Christmas lights, amateur boxing and a puppy--and ends happily on blinding salt flats in Mexico.