The Necessary Facade

While visiting in Winnipeg, I took my wife to see one of the libraries I grew up in. It was late at night and we'd just finished a long, private dinner. We talked about the future, tried to figure out what choices we were facing and what plans we should make. Our daughters are edging into adolescence while my wife and I are sliding into middle-age, so these discussions can get a bit intense. Large emotions and expectations are compressed into a relatively short discussion, and a bit of breathing space and perspective is needed as a nightcap. My old neighborhood seemed like a good evening destination.

The library hadn't changed a bit. There it stood, next to the arena: one little box sharing a parking lot with a much larger box. I felt compelled to at least try to take some comfort in this — if the exterior was any indication, the interior might be unaltered as well. I remembered the bright florescent lights, the stacks devoted to 70s pop culture, vinyl cushioned chairs that made a kid so comfortable he lost track of time and had to be gently informed by the librarian that his mother had called to say supper was ready.

Of course, the interior has changed; so has the content and technology (card file and microfiche, say hello to the Internet). I knew this. It is a very different library from the one I spent my days in, so it peeved me to face an exterior that was unchanged. I didn't want to feel nostalgic toward this building. I wanted to see progress — add content, open up the space a bit, make it more inviting to the public. I wanted to face an aesthetic smirk, something that in effect said, “We've moved on, you geezer. What about you?” But I was facing a smirk of a different order.

The nearly immaculate preservation of an old library strikes me as a strange thing for me to get tetchy about, but there it is. Coincidentally, I've been playing a bit with my own appearance. When I finally recovered enough from my pneumonia to walk around town and visit with people, I received numerous compliments about how young I was looking. Losing 15 pounds will do that, but I'd also let my hair grow: my traditional buzz-cut was shaggy and some of my curl was back. At first, when told I looked “10 years younger,” I was tempted to reach for the clippers and combs, following a cussed impulse to look my age, dammit. I asked my wife for some insight, and she agreed that I didn't look as gray with longer hair, but more to the point, I also didn't look as severe (or probably grumpy, mopey and obsessed with mid-lifey things) as I do with a buzz.

The barber's chair still beckons, and I'm still tempted — especially when some photos look suspiciously like a guy who's trying to camouflage his receding hairline (one of my grandfathers had a notorious comb-over). But I've got enough hair to play with, so why not play? It's not about “looking younger,” it's about exploring possibilities and potential that in fact are there.

Next: a few Winnipeg photos.

RATATOUILLE

A rat with baby-blue fur scampers from the sewer to the shadows and crevices of Paris, France, and the camera follows him from behind. Once inside the walls of Parisian row housing, the rat sprints from house to house, room to room. He is on a quest for food, and we are seeing not just the exotic details of his world (the interior of these walls is surprisingly charming, for all its squalor), but telling details of the human world, too. Most of the latter are shop-worn caricatures of the French, but in Ratatouille they get a laugh because the perspective is fresh and unexpected.

Suddenly the rat stops, the camera sweeps over his shoulder and takes in everything he sees. He has arrived at the kitchen of a once-famous restaurant. It is immediately apparent that this rat is becoming aware of his deepest aspirations. He wants desperately to leave the Rat World and join The Real World. And so, alas, does this movie.

A city, a kitchen, a cook from humble origins who wants to be a star. The previously unseen is abandoned for the familiar. The viewer's heart sinks.

And just how is a movie-lovin' guy supposed to approach a Pixar product? This is the group of people responsible for some of the most spectacular and emotionally resonant American films of the last two decades. Monsters, Inc. is dazzlingly unique and one of my top-ten cinematic faves. Toy Story 1 & 2 were arguably the best original and sequel to hit the silver screens since The Godfather 1 & 2. To watch a Pixar film was to enter a vigorously imagined Other world, populated by recognizably Real people. So the last two Pixar productions fell considerably short of this standard — is that such a crime? They're still more compelling entertainment than, say, Happily N'ever After.

Admitting to viewer dissatisfaction with a Pixar film feels akin to treason — particularly after Ratatouille closes with a formerly-villainous critic lecturing his audience about what a bunch of self-satisfied parasites critics are (lazily feeding like vampires off the lifeblood of artistry, and all that). But here, too, I chafe. This is the second film written and directed by Brad Bird that trumpets the glories of exceptionalism, and while the A Star Is Born narrative has its appeal, it only needs to be repeated once before it wears out its welcome. If you're exceptional, you don't tell — you do.

Cars and Ratatouille both conclude with morals that sound a lot like corporate mission statements: character is more important than victory, and everyone could stand to work at being receptive to the exceptional coming from unexpected sources. Those are fine sentiments for an entertainment giant to ascribe to. I expect John Lasseter and Brad Bird really, truly believe in them. I'm also hoping Pixar takes them seriously enough to once again deliver the truly exceptional.

Post-script: here are some snarky thoughts I had after encountering some post-The Incredibles chatter. In hindsight I think I made a mountain out of a molehill — "too ordinary" "not ordinary enough." Looks like I have trouble making up my own mind. The Incredibles "twas" indeed a good movie: I enjoyed the Bond-villain lair, the camper/rocket-ride back to the city, the discovery of Jack-Jack's abilities. But I still think my response was in tune with what I was reading.

Signs of Life (elsewhere)

The voyage has concluded, and I'll be posting some thoughts and pictures in the next few days. While I collect and sort through all that, here are a few items that caught my eye:

Um ... fact checker? So many differing versions of what Kerouac did to get his unique style on the page. Most accounts say he was a speed freak and a drunk, who finally succumbed to being just plain drunk. Seems to me at least one girlfriend claimed to lay out his benzadrine-sweaty T-shirts on the apartment radiator while Jack typed out On The Road on his infamous scroll. But David Gates says not so: Jack simply drank a lot of coffee.

The bookstores explored on Maude Newton make me wish I'd taken my little camera into some of the shops I visited in Winnipeg. Even McNally Robinson (dubbed "McSurly Robbersons" by my wife) is feted. Mind you, we've yet to see the NYC store.

Original content coming soon.

Signs of Life (elsewhere)

The road trip proceeds apace while my rate of posting slows. I've had several readable items at my side; the best fodder for thought has been the August issue of The Believer. Andy Selsberg's The Official Handbook To The Official Handbook is online in its entirety and is worth a look.

Prairie Mary informs that Peter Butala (all-around mensch and husband to prairie writer Sharon has passed away.

DarkoV unpacks Cognitive Reserve for us (and Phil seems similarly in tune).

And getting back to field guides, Yahmdallah uncovered this beaut to tattoos. We all know what mine says about me. But one question remains: what are tattoos like these trying to communicate? (HT: Boing Boing)

Tia Maria Torte: The History

My first apartment was located in an appropriately bohemian quarter of Winnipeg (Osborne Village, circa 1987). My weekends were spent typically enough for a guy my age in that part of town, and it wasn't uncommon for me to conclude a late night with a short pit-stop at Baked Expectations for a slice of Tia Maria Torte to go. At the time, it was made with enormous chocolate chip cookies soaked in a Tia Maria solution, and held together with sweetened whipping cream. I may have eaten a portion of the enormous slice before cashing in for the night but most of it was reserved for breakfast, washed down with a pot of strong black coffee.

For my fortieth birthday, my friend hosted a breakfast and served ... Tia Maria Torte, and strong black coffee. To have been observed with such care and affection was incredible. I was, and remain, grateful.

Tia Maria Torte

Text to follow.

Alive amid the roiling prairie sea

We're here! We've already had Tia Maria Torte and black coffee for breakfast, shopped at the surly-staffed McNally-Robinson superstore (thanks to their remainder purchaser, my suitcase is half-full!), and had some mighty fine vittles both purchased and home-cooked. Details and pictures to follow.