The Hollow Men

There are certain films that gain resonance beyond their initial birth. Films that seem more relevant in a contemporary frame than when they were originally presented to the world.
Apocalypse Now is one of those films.
Seen in the light of the current fiasco in Iraq, the film contains thoughts and ideas that have more bite than they did in the relatively calm times of 1979.
A French soldier tells Martin Sheen's American soldier, "We fight because this is our land. You fight . . . for nothing."
The Heart of Darkness tale orginally seemed to be Francis Ford Coppola's folly when it was released in 1979. He had the time, the money, and coming off the double header of Godfather 1 and 2, artistic respect. He could really make any film he wanted.
An initial viewing of the film about the border between good and evil, sanity and insanity, compells the viewer to believe that Coppola was indeed insane, or at the very least drowning in hubris.
One scene in particular is almost unfathomable in it's enormous scale and purpose. Older folks must remind themselves (and the jaded younger folks in tow) that the sequence was done BEFORE computer graphics. It's all real. Robert Duvall's surfing obsessed general launches over a dozen helicopters to destroy an entire village while blasting Wagner from loud speakers. Standing on the beach, oblivious to the fireworks and bombs exploding behind his back, Duvall marvels at the breaking waves and orders his men out to surf. When I first saw the sequence, my jaw was on the floor. Then a trio of jets napalmed the vast landscape of palm trees and village. It might be the largest explosive destruction I have ever seen on film. Good God, Coppola was insane! He blew up an entire island . . .
When The Beatles released Rubber Soul, they realized they were famous enough to not include their band name on the cover. Some thought it was arrogant, but it made some sense. There are no opening credits to Apocaplyse Now; a mark of vanity or a statement about the purity of film? The opening sequence is pure film to the soundtrack of The Doors' The End. An epic montage where art house film meets massive studio production. Who needs a title?
Sadly, this film marked the beginning of mockery towards Marlon Brando as a fat, crazed actor. However, contemporary viewing (and in light of his films that came later), he is in good health; striking a classic presence. His monologue is no longer a "kooky" performance, but a landmark of his brilliance as an actor. He calmly relates the irony of America's brutality in war while proclaiming superior morality. His calm reading of the classic Joseph Conrad line, "The horror. The horror," originally seemed uninspired. It now makes perfect sense. There is no need to scream the line in hyper theatrics. Simply, the horror. What other actor could have such control to refrain from overstatement?
Brando's performance, which anchors the climax and point of the film, can now be viewed as perfection. His character realizes it is yet another war born of choice where the enemy is willing to resort to extreme evils to win. Brando's character believes that the only way to overcome this evil is to embrace darkness and become more evil than the enemy. Is this a madman or a realist? Brando's calm performance places doubt in the viewer and Martin Sheen's character. A crazed performance would have negated the complexity of the film and given the viewer a simple answer.
This is a film about the heart of darkness found in a war that has no purpose. The ironic sting of sending our own men to kill an American because he might be talking sense. Then knowing the bitter realization that the only sense is madness.
Just as anyone who has fully appreciated the film Jaws knows it is not about a shark killing people on the beach but about three guys becoming friends on a boat - this film is, at it's heart, the story of five soldiers becoming friends on a boat. The viewer is given both the heart and the darkness of war. Coppola's mission was, after further review, completely accomplished. Apocalypse Now has more value today, in our insane climate with yet another war of choice and the dark heart of our intentions and of our enemy, than it did when it first made it's first bow in cinematic culture. Take the time to watch it again with fresh eyes. You will be rewarded.

On the morning of September 11th, I headed to school, in a sleepy daze I had become accustomed to.
First period, I had a student aid, a blonde cheerleader I had known since she was a freshmen, who went to work in my stock room. I had a little black and white TV that she would tune into Good Morning America while she cut paper or organized the glue.
I worked with my freshmen in the room, struggling with them to understand not all art "looks real."
My cheerleader came out of the back room to tell me a plane had hit a building. I went back with her and watched the footage. It was terrible. We looked at each other with a heavy sigh, and I returned to teaching art.
A few minutes later, my cheerleader came out to tell me that ANOTHER plane had hit a building.
I smiled kindly at her, and I told her it was just a replay of the first plane. Cheerleaders, they are cute, but sometimes a bit slow.
She looked at me, as only women can look at a man fully consumed with his own idiocy, and told me once again another plane had hit a building.
I told her, "silly girl," that it is impossible that two planes could possibly hit two buildings in the same day. I walked back to the store room and watched the footage. The cheerleader was correct. I was nervous.
I returned to my freshmen art students and smiled. Everything was OK. Everything was normal with world. Smile.
My cheerleader returned again from the backroom, in hushed tones she told me to come and watch the TV again. The Pentagon had been hit. I was now in a panic mode. I returned to my classroom, 39 faces looking at me with confusion.
I told them in the most basic and harmless way I could that several planes had crashed all at once. They looked at me with confusion and terror. I told them everything would be just fine. Smile. We went on with drawing and our schedule.
The day went on, with questions and worries of over a hundred students. I kept my smile solid on my face. Nothing to worry about.
I raced home as soon as the last bell rang. I arrived home before Becky and the children. I made myself a large martini, sat on the couch and turned on CNN.
I remember a CNN anchor announcing, with a choked voice, just how many firefighters were feared lost. For the first time that day, without my children, wife or students around, I began to cry. They began showing people jumping to their deaths from the higher floors before the towers collapsed.
I was free, for the first time that day, to let the fake smile go. The tears poured down my face freely and soaked my shirt. I watched the replay of the towers tumble, knowing just what had been lost.
I cried more that day than I had in a long time. Real tears of pain. Uncontrollable.
My children returned home, concerned about the vague news they had heard. I wiped my face dry and smiled again. The world is fine. Nothing to worry about.
I look back on the day where I was afraid anything else could happen. Who knew?

Accordians are Heavy

I played some songs tonight that I haven't played in 10 years.

That's a medal waiting to be awarded.
I hualed my 100 pound accordian over to Brian's birthday party. Brian is the guitar player from my old band, Tippy Elvis. Brian has been a bit down lately. I should have stayed home with the wife and kids, or gone to another party I was invited to, but I knew I had to be there for an old bandmate.
It's a band thing. Most folks don't understand. Watch The Blues Brothers, or Spinal Tap. Somehow, despite their silliness, those films managed to catch the strange family link of bandmates.
Early in the day, Brian and I fiddled around for a bit. Faked our way through some generic songs. It was amusing, but lacking.
The fabulous Lenadams was there, the "manager" of Tippy Elvis. While playing, I walked with the heavy weight of my accordian into the living room and thought he was sleeping on the couch. I looked down and saw his eyes wide open with the most fabulous grin on his face. He knew something was coming.
Then Ginger, the tuba player goddess from Tippy Elvis, showed up. She pulled out her glorious brass magic.
Suddenly the clouds parted, the sun shined down in the dark hours of night, and a 10 year old vaccuum of neglect vanished. It all clicked again. We played the old songs. We looked at each other and remembered why we did it all in the first place. For some unknown reason, we fit each other. Tuba, guitar and accordian. Two geeks and a chick.
Nobody would pick us in a lineup and decide we would somehow be the perfect match, but we are. Where one player is lacking, the other picks up. It was the sudden resurrection of vital organs of a long dead being, under a patio cover with cold beer. Imagine something you once thought permanently dead and gone, and it briefly comes to life.
We could have used Dayv singing, there was much "blah blah blah" going on. Joe's masterful drumming would have been sweet to keep us on track.
Still, for an hour or so, there was a heartbeat. Any parent can tell you how precious that heartbeat is. It is a relief, it is a joy. It is alive. The head might not be awake, and the feet may not be walking, but the vitals are good.
When I began the lead to "Cigarette," and Ginger's tuba fell in with Brian's guitar, even the people who had heard Brian and I noodling around earlier in the day suddenly sat up straight and had a look of appreciation on their face. Most of them have no idea who Tippy Elvis is, but they could tell that a miracle awakening had just happened.
I don't know if that moment could possibly heal the hurt that Brian has been feeling with his relationships. I can only hope that it was as wonderful a moment for him, at his birthday bash, as it was for me.
Brian said something between songs that resonated with me. He said he was tired of living in the past, and he wanted to start making it the now.
I'm with Brian. We had an opportunity in the past. We had a huge following. We all blew it because of egos and laziness. I'm tired of explaining to people what we "were." Before age makes us a passing joke, I'd like to make us what we are.

Best Kept Secret

Heard of The Artisan? I might be the last person in Vegas to hear of the place, but if you haven't . . .
First, I'll talk about my dad.
My father is not rich. Some believe he is wealthy. I would classify him as "well off." One thing I have had the opportunity to ascertain and appreciate growing up is that my father prefers to be seen as middle class. A blue collar Democrat. He doesn't like rising above the radar of society. He would rather have a beer with a truckdriver than be at a cocktail party with celebrities.
There are only three areas where he doesn't mind indulging a bit; going to the opera, nice hotels and eating at fancy resaurants.
So, when my father asked to go to lunch today while the ladies were at a baby shower, I imagined some sort of new fancy dining hangout like the Triple George. Then my father told me we were going to The Artisan. I asked him to repeat that. The Artisan?
For those of you new to town (or out of town), The Artisan is a crappy looking white building of a hotel located just east of the I-15 off of Sahara (you can spit on it from the North bound lanes). It's sandwiched between strip clubs and dirty industrial buildings. It use to be a cheap Ramada Inn Hotel. They painted it white and slapped a new sign on it.
The Artisan? Really? For food?
My dad kept smiling and saying, "You'll see." I dreaded that he had finally gone senile.
We valeted under a small retro awning and opened a large, church like door that brought us into darkness.
I am not sure if I can do the place justice with my humble description. The ceiling is painted black. The walls and floors are covered with dark, stone tiles. Everywhere, EVERYWHERE - including the ceiling, there are massive art reproductions hanging. Beautiful reproductions of all the masters (classic, modern, all of them). The lobby has a dark roman fountain in the middle surrounded by antique tables, chairs and chaise lounges with red velvet. Antique furniture (beautiful carved wood) is abundant. There is a staircase that leads only to a balcony with a chaise lounge and sitting chairs. There are small rooms off of the lobby that look like victorian sitting rooms. Everywhere, EVERYWHERE - including the floor, there are burning votive candles.
I stood flabbergasted for a minute. Completing the bad math in my head, I told my father the hundreds of artwork reproductions and the elaborate frames they were in cost at least half a million dollars. This has to be one of the coolest lobbies I have ever seen, not just in Vegas but in 10 states and England.
The bar is the same, comfy leather chairs with antique tables. Art, candles.
The restaurant was fabulous. Same decor (with a fauxed dome ceiling). Fresh cut tulips on every table. Amazing food.
After we ate, my father and I decided to be curious. We took an elevator up to one of the floors. We believed they couldn't possibly keep up this decor beyond the main floor. We were wrong. On the randomly selected 4th floor, the hallway was stuffed with massive, elaborately framed art reproductions (my father guessed that every major painting in art history is displayed in the building). The doors to each room have a gold frame, and each room is named after an artist; the Andy Warhol room, the Frida Kahlo room.
I told my father I wouldn't want to stay in the Francis Bacon room.
A maid was cleaning the Seurat room, so we peaked in. It was a nice, well furnished room (not dark like the hallways and lobby) with large prints of Seurat everywhere.
We returned to the lobby and decided to check out the pool area. It is a vision of white. It is a modest, rectangle pool. Very plush lounge chairs are evenly lined on both sides, each with it's own small table and ashtray. Completing the perfect symmetry at the end of the pool is an arched wall with a grotto fountain on it. Private cabanas surround the place. It was a perfect old Hollywood postcard. I could SEE Marilyn Monroe lounging on a chair and flirting with Errol Flynn smoking in one of the cabanas.
I just couldn't fathom the existence of this place in Las Vegas. My father and I only saw about 10 guests the entire time we were there. Curious, we asked the lady at the check in desk if they are ever busy. She said Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays (when they have a $20 jazz breakfast - with live jazz). My father and I snooped around a bit more. As we were leaving, a business man was at the counter was speaking to the same lady my father and I had interogated. He had the same dazed expression on his face as he told her, "This is the best kept secret in Vegas! How come nobody knows about this?"
Back at the baby shower, I heard some theories about the place. Some think it is a "hooker hotel." I didnt' get that from the clients we saw there, but it is very close to the strip places. Some think it is a "gay hotel." If that is the case, great. My own theory is that there is some eccentric millionaire who just decided to make a quiet, cool place for people to stay at and doesn't really care if it makes a lot of money.
If you live here in Vegas, go there soon. Lunch isn't too pricey. If you are from out of town, I suggest you stay there next time (the highest room rate is $129).

Truth in Advertising. . .

I belatedly woke up Saturday morning. 3/5th's of the family headed to Henderson to visit and shop. This left Drew and I on our own to tackle our personal agenda.
Drew and I had an itching desire to see the new film Snakes On a Plane. The movie became a cult hit before it even opened. It's funny, you know. The movie is about snakes on a plane, and it's CALLED Snakes On a Plane. That alone is funny. It has Samuel L. Jackson in it. He was a Jedi Knight, Shaft and in Pulp Fiction. That is the definition of cool. We had to witness this strange cultural phenomena.
Drew and I ran over to The Cannery theaters and purchased our tickets for the 11:30 am show, in DIGITAL PROJECTION!!, and then purchased an overpriced small soda. The realization that the film is rated R, and perhaps not appropriate for my 11 year old son, crossed my moral synapses briefly. The goofy father portion of my head thought, "Snakes on a PLANE! That is FUNNY!"

We were the only people in the theater. One lady showed up during the movie, but she was a ninja in her quiet stealth presence. Drew and I plopped ourselves in the best, middle view seats. I'm sure there will be a plethora of folks writing about this film, just as they did prior to it's release. I'll save you a fully extended appreciation of the film.

The movie began, much like other excessive cop movies do. A large set up to create a reasonable reason to actually get the snakes on the plane. Some of this is funny, some of it silly or violent, and some moments are boyish fun. The airport scenes were similar to the Airport films, or even the Airport spoof, Airplane. The cliche passengers were set up. The plane took off.

OK, it sounds funny; snakes on a plane. But, when this actually becomes a reality, it's terrifying. Snakes of all kinds, in close quarters, biting and jumping. People swelling up from venom, drooling blood. Nowhere to hide.

Oh shit, they really meant it; there are SNAKES on a PLANE. Not as funny as you would think.

Drew and I, mostly alone in the theater, had the freedom to crawl or crouch in our chairs. We covered our faces and looked away. It was not a manly facade Drew and I were presenting.

When Samuel L. Jackson finally said THE line, the line that internet folks demanded the filmmakers include in the film and was surprisingly added by them, "That's it! I've had it with these motherf***king snakes on this motherf***king plane!!!" I was right there with Mr. Jackson. Drew and I cheered alone in the empty theater (the ninja lady was retaining her silence). We had been shocked, grossed out, and terrified enough.

It is a cult classic. Just be warned; there ARE snakes ON a plane. OK?

The Agony of the Outcast . . .

Just returned from yet another sojourn in Cali. That would be "hip hop" for California. In case you didn't know.
This time it was not Disneyland, but Laguna. Land of great beaches, sweet restaurants and fine galleries of art.

I have an anxiety about the open beach. Not out of concern for myself, but of the sight of my children against the backdrop of God's massive power. My own children fully trust God's protective powers and fully disregard the enormous monster of the ocean. Here is where my anxiety begins. My sad, Las Vegas cure is the consumption of a beverage or two before heading to the beach. A prayer or two to Jesus. Wag a finger at me, but it works.
Laguna has become a yearly trip for us, thanks to the my mother in law. Like Christmas, Laguna comes once a year. Drew was born for the ocean. You have to pull him away from it. Kathryn enjoys it just as much. Dylan has found it incompatible with his dress and general teenage vision of superiority.

I am more like Dylan than he would be willing to admit. My joy of Laguna is in haunting the downtown area of art and food. Looking at the art is free, the food becomes more complicated in it's expense. I find myself similar to a bum, looking in at the fancy restaurants but not able to attend. We eat at Jack in the Box or KFC. This should be an environmental crime. There should not be a Jack in the Box or KFC on the Pacific Coast Highway. Yes, that is where we can afford to eat, but I'd rather sacrifice my mortgage for a sublime appetizer than submit to a plastic bench at a fastfood joint that has a view of the ocean. Despite my agony, I am vetoed on the culinary experience by the financial advisor I love more than anything.

My financial advisor, Beck, did allow me one night out to eat. We ended up at the first restaurant we came to, the Boom Club, which turned out to be the gay spot in Laguna. We actually enjoyed the atmosphere of "ladies night." Madonna videos on the screens. Nice couples snuggling like ourselves.
Beck and I had a fantastic dinner at the Boom club. Along with an amazing menu, they also had an ashtray at the entrance, where I was actually SMILED at by lesbians and certain men while I performed my forbidden act. Outcasts tend to find sympathy for other outcasts. The Boom club is destined to be torn down in September, despite the fact that it has been the gay club in Laguna since the 1930's. Becky and I signed the petition to save the place, though the waiter told us it was futile.

For this vacation, we didn't stay at our normal hotel, the more humble Laguna Riviera. We ended up at the "Sea Cliff Inn," whose master of cermonies was very similar to the Prawn from the Muppets, Okaaay?
While I was indulged in my desire to smoke on the patios of the Riviera, I was forbidden from smoking anywhere near the Sea Cliff Inn. Not even in the parking lot. I had to walk to the street to smoke.

Now this might be alien to some of you, but I will hopefully educate you about the true pain of this problem. When you begin, you choose to smoke. After the honeymoon, you are forced into the act. I do not like smoking. I do not like smoking around people. I go out of my way, respectful of the laws, to not smoke around others. Yet, I am forced by an addiction to perform the act.

I have indulged in a majority of the major drugs known to man. I've managed to quit them all, but tobacco is the holdout. It is truly the most evil substance I've been exposed to. I am not happy I have to smoke. I am ashamed. I know it is killing me. Duh. It's written very clearly on the packs I buy and the hard science of society. Thank you very much. I really have no need to hear another person who feels the compassion to tell me that it is "not good for you." Again, DUH. You don't think some smokers stay awake at night thinking about it? You don't think some of the addicted do not pray for salvation?

I cannot count on my hands, toes or penis how many times I received dirty looks, yelps of outrage and extreme discrimination while I was walking out of my way to attend to my addiction in Laguna. Let me give you a scenario that is like-minded to my experience. It would be similar to a person walking up to an overweight individual and demanding, "Why can't you lose that weight?" "You fat people go outside." It is even close to a person giving nasty looks to an individual with palsy. "Stop that shaking!" "You can only shake on the sidewalk." Thank you very much. Not that we are already embarrassed to be overweight, palsy or, God forbid, smokers.

Listen. . . Society, introduced me to this plague. I have cried, prayed and suffered to simply attempt to quit this drug that is more addictive than heroin. I've tried the gum, the patch, Jesus, and cold turkey. I do not want to submit others to my smoke. I go out of my way to accomodate everyone. I really do not need another jogging, health-conscious Laguna amazon with cancer-potential wrinkled skin jabbing me with an attack of condemnation. Maybe, just maybe, if I lived in the hills overlooking a fabulous beach, with access to great doctors and had some free time for the pains of withdrawals, I would not have to sneak to some obscure corner to attend to my pain.

Oh yeah, I need just one more self righteous fool to point out to me that I am an idiot. Thank you very much. Maybe, if I didn't have my addiction, I could also afford to eat at your nice establishments.

Yes, I know it is hard to ingest for some, but a smoker does not always feel pride in the catagory they find themselves in. I know some who brag about smoking. It seems as similar to me as the proud "plus" models who are offended by those who are concerned about their weight. They appear to gain some sympathy from the Oprah set, despite the risks to their own health. I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm not asking to be allowed to smoke while someone is enjoying dinner. I'm not asking for the right to smoke in a public building. I'm asking for a small bit of compassion. I'm asking not to be reminded, in addition to my own nightmares, of what I am doing. I know. Most of US smokers know. The evil glares, the educated diatribes and the sighs of destain are excessive daggers in the hearts of the afflicted.

This does not simply pertain to the addicted. This need to acknowledge a known evil befalls the innocent loved ones of the afflicted. Everyone seems inclined to ask the kin of the smoker why they can not stop them. It is not their problem! It pains the smoker more than anything to know they are somehow hurting their family. It is even more painful to know that their loved ones are included in the damnation. Both the family and the addicted really do not need a reminder of the situation. The addicted individual and the family would like nothing more than to solve the addiction. Constant reminders are not benificial but extremely painful to a family. DUH. They know.

Perhaps you should worry about George Bush, a real idiot, being our president. Maybe you should be concerned about a needless war in Iraq. Perhaps you should be worried about the oil companies blocking the progress of new fuel potentials in science. Is it beyond you to worry that extremist politics have destroyed the potential for research in stem cells to find cures for disease? Who is willing to admit that it is not a war on terror but a religious battle?

Maybe a single individual's difficulty with a common addiction is not really worth a nasty look or exclusion from society. There are bigger fish to fry than a man with a cigarette. Screw you Laguna. Jog all you want, but I will blow my smoke into your self pretentious ass.

Self-Described

I just returned from several days in Disneyland.
I do not habitually attend Disneyland in the month of July (heat, crowds, heat), but it happened to be the chosen place and dates of the Jones Family Reunion (ironically, I had no input on the choice of Disneyland, as I could not attend the last bi-annual reunion).
If you read my previous blog, you know I wrote a response to the Entertainment Weekly review of the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel (If you haven't read it, you can find it somewhere on this page, somewhere).
It was an aggravated response written for friends, but one that found itself emailed to Entertainment Weekly. To my astonishment, EW actually wrote me back, requesting my permission to be "Obsessed Fan of the Week." This amused me. I counted on the extreme possibility that they would make a sad caricature of me, as I am accustomed to such abuse. I told them OK, and emailed a picture of myself.
Irony reared it's goofy head again.
I was walking to Disneyland with my daughter and middle son (the oldest has grown weary of the place and stayed in the hotel, the wife was busy helping with reunion things). We passed a newstand in Downtown Disney, and I saw the face of Samuel L. Jackson glaring at me on the August 4th cover of Entertainment Weekly. This was Wednesday, July 26th. It annoyed me; I knew we would not receive our EW until Sunday or Monday - a five day delay in reception of their rich banquet of pop knowledge. I haulted the children and whipped open the rag. There it was, on page 4 . . .












Bad scan, sorry. If you can't read the picture, here is what it says:
Self-described "art educator" S.C. Jones of
North Las Vegas, Nev., takes his knowledge of
Disneyland seriously. "Pirates of the Carib-
bean is not an 'amusement' ride," he complains,
but a "themed attraction," which he sees an an
art form comparable to cinema. He suggests
that our unwillingness to perceive such a dis-
tinction is "a clever but patronizing mockery . . .
fashionable among elitists." Us . . . elitists?

Pretty much what I expected. Nice abbreviation of my long winded letter. It shows my intent much better than I did. But. . . I read it again.
"Self-described" art educator? What the hell does that mean? Most of my emails have a signature attached to them; "s.c.jones, Artist, Art Educator." I mean, it IS what I do. Here in the great State of Nevada, hundreds of Art "Teachers" decided to begin referring to ourselves as Art "Educators." We thought it had a more pleasant ring to it.
But . . . "self-described?"
Do they actually assume I have not toiled the last 10 years in the service of thousands of children, paid and endorsed by the state, as an art teacher? Do they really presume that I simply "refer" to myself as such? I expected to be exposed as a Disneyland geek, but I never expected my livelihood to become fodder of their derision. I am not paid very much. It is hard work. This is not upright. Becky wants to email them my teaching license. Still, it is fun to be found in a national magazine.
I had several days of Disneyland and family ahead of me to ease the pain. The trip was great. Knowing that my brother's daughter would be a new addition next year to the Disneyland clan brightened every moment. It was also a great pleasure to have our "extended" family of Rob, Patti and the girls hanging out, finally, with all of ours.
Disneyland heals all my pains.