 After close to three quarters of a century of movie-going ― emphasize close to but not quite: my mom took me to my first movie when I was two years old. It was "Hans Christian Anderson" starring Danny Kaye.   And though, according to my mom's account, I didn't think much of the movie at two years old, I have since evolved into a huge Danny Kaye fan and "Hans Christian Anderson" ranks to this day among my Danny Kaye favorites. But anyway, as I was about to say, after many years of movie-going, I've come to the conclusion that one can tell how good a movie is by the number of people in the theater audience: the fewer people in the audience, the better the movie is likely to be. I find this deduction supported time and again. There was "Chevalier," which I saw in June of last year,  ...an enthralling, enlightening, wonderful film about the life of one of the great 18th Century classical composers, Joseph Bologne, also known as Chevalier de Saint-Georges, who was as famous as Mozart during his time. And who happened to be Black.  But along with being an acclaimed composer and conductor,  ...Saint-Georges was also a hero of the French Revolution.  And yet after his death in 1799 his name was plunged into anonymity because it did not suit the purposes of the time, when black slavery was still in its ascendance in the British and French colonies and the young United States, to immortalize the genius and accomplishments of a man of color.  "Chevalier" was a visual treat of beautiful period scenes and costumes, and told a compelling story set to the sublime music of Chevalier de Saint-George. I saw it when it showed up in Columbus in a five-dollar Friday night special showing at the local AMC and played to a mostly empty theater, though the half-dozen or so audience members besides myself did enjoy it. Then there was "The Persian Version,"  ...which I saw last November at the same AMC that showed "Chevalier," which leads me to reckon that the manager of that particular AMC must have a liking for showing the occasional cinematic hidden gem. Because "The Persian Version" was an absolute gem of a movie: funny, heart-tugging, enlightening, thought-provoking, thoroughly engaging and entertaining. Written and directed by award-winning screen writer Maryam Keshavarz,  ..."The Persian Version" is the writer's mostly autobiographical story; that is to say, the most amazing parts are autobiographical; I know because after seeing the movie I went online to look up the story behind the story. Ms. Keshavarz tells her story through the character of Layla Mohammadi, an Iranian-American woman from New Jersey trying to deal with her up-in-your-business immigrant family,  ...along with other cultural, relationship and life issues. The timeline of the story is non-linear, moving between the past and present, from growing up a child of of immigrant parents in the 1980's in a small apartment with eight older brothers and one bathroom,  ...to her young adulthood in the early 2000's.  Since her childhood Layla has always felt caught between two cultures without fitting in either: too Iranian to be American and too American to be Iranian. And then there are her issues with her perennially disapproving and disappointed mother,  ...with whom she struggles to come to terms. I loved, loved, loved, "The Persian Version," it made me feel like I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony, buy it a Coke (or some other quintessential American product) and be friends with everybody everywhere around the globe. I can say in truth that "The Persian Version" was the best movie I'd seen in a theater since "Chevalier." In fact, "The Persian Version" was probably better than "Chevalier" since besides my husband Tom and me there was only one other person in the theater. But the three of us agreed that it was a great movie. And then there's "American Fiction," which I saw this past Friday night.  This dramatic comedy tells the story of an erudite Black university professor named Thelonius "Monk" Ellison,  ...who writes quality literary novels that no one reads and publishers aren't interested in because, according to his agent, his writing isn't "Black" enough.  Meanwhile, a novel called "We's Lives In Da Ghetto" written by a Black woman,  ...is a best seller and its author is praised for writing a realistic story of Black life told in authentic - that is to say, ungrammatical - Black voices.  Monk finds himself frustrated, discouraged, and disgusted not only that his books are ignored, but that in that in popular culture, films, and books Black life is reduced for entertainment to stories of poverty, drugs, violence, and tropes about the ghetto. As a joke he cynically pens a phony, trashy, poorly-written autobiography of an escaped Black convict under the pseudonym Stagg R. Leigh. To Monk's complete shock and dismay, his awful book becomes a runaway best seller, and he now finds himself inadvertently promoting the Black cultural stereotype that he abhors.  "American Fiction" is satire at its best and laugh-out-loud funny in parts. In fact, one scene had me laughing so loud and long that after the movie Tom told me that he was embarrassed in the moment that I might be offending the rest of the theater audience.
Alas, mayhaps I did offend some in the audience with my horse-laughing. But even if I offended every single person in the audience, at least I didn't offend many: I only counted twelve of us in the whole theater.
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 Last Tuesday night when the news came in that Nikki Haley had lost the New Hampshire Republican primary election to Donald Trump, I was hit with a considerable case of the blues.  True, the polls had predicted that Haley was going to be trounced royally by Trump in New Hampshire:  Still, as I listened to the election returns on Tuesday night hope, that thing with feathers, was singing its tune in my soul where it stayed perched right up until 15% of the vote was in and Trump was already so far ahead of Haley that the election was called for him on the spot.  I had really been wishing, hoping, praying and rooting for Nikki Haley to win the New Hampshire primary and was mighty down when she didn't. And I don't even like Nikki Haley. I don't like her policies on climate change, education, health care, immigration, you name it, I probably don't like it. And her promise if elected to pardon Donald Trump of his numerous federal charges makes me want to lose my oatmeal.  And even though I'm a Biden supporter (yeah, yeah, he's 81 years old, I know already) and even though I believe that if Nikki Haley became the Republican Presidential candidate she'd have the chops to beat Biden in the election, I still hope she becomes the Republican candidate Because I don't believe there's any danger that President Nikki Haley would destroy our democracy and turn it into her own personal dictatorship. But because there's every danger that President Donald Trump will do just that - he's all but promised to - I, for one, don't want him anywhere near a Presidential race. He could beat Biden. But even if he were to lose to Biden it's a given that, once again, he'll declare the election stolen and have his followers spring into action in an attempt to overturn the election results just as he had them do after the last election. Who's to say this time they wouldn't succeed? So I'm hoping against hope, and against the polls, that somehow Nikki Haley will hang on, come racing up from behind at the next turn, beat Donald Trump at the finish line and become the Republican Presidential candidate. Even if it means sacrificing Joe Biden and putting up with Nikki Haley for the next four or even eight years. Because at the end of those eight years we'll still live in a democracy ruled by law where our votes count and our elections are secure. You understand, don't you, Joe?     Available on Amazon: "Equal And Opposite Reactions" http://amzn.to/2xvcgRa "Hail Mary" https://www.amzn.com/1684334888 "Tropical Depression" https://www.amzn.com/B0BTPN7NYY If What I Did That Day At The San Diego Train Station Was A Dumb Thing To Do, Then What Was The Right Thing To Do? ...Continued from yesterday:
The incident at the San Diego train station that I shared in the previous post left me with a troubled conscience while I turned over and over in my mind whether I was right or wrong in trying to stop what appeared to be an attempted robbery of a young Black woman dozing on a bench. My actions amounted to an accusation of theft against a young Black man who angrily claimed that he was not intending to rob the woman, but was in fact trying to help her. (See previous post, https://www.ailantha.com/blog/occurrence-at-the-san-diego-train-station-or-i-super-hero-super-ignoramus-or-just-super-dumb). I have no way of knowing whether the young man - who was in an obvious state of derangement, whether from mental illness or drugs - was intending to steal the iPad of the sleeping woman - who, it would become clear, was herself in a drug-induced state - or tuck the iPad safely out of sight into the woman's bag for her. In any case, after I confronted the young man and he cursed me out, he did put the iPad into the unconscious woman's bag. Now, in sharing the details of this incident with others, I expected that I would be judged by them as either doing the right thing in trying to stop a vulnerable woman from being robbed, or doing the wrong thing by participating in the perennial injustice against Black men in this country when I, a white woman of privilege, acted on an assumption of wrong-doing by a possibly innocent young man. But as it turned out, the initial reaction of one hundred percent of the people I've shared this story with has been to judge my actions not as right or wrong, but as just plain dumb. The discussion hasn't centered around whether or not the young man - who had a teardrop tattoo below the corner of his eye - might have stolen the woman's iPad, but whether or not he might have done me some serious physical damage when I confronted him. "You're lucky he didn't hurt you." "I'm glad you're safe." "You need to be careful." I've heard these reproofs and a few more. I've taken them as kind ways of saying, "Boy, were you dumb!" And everyone is right. I am lucky. I could have been hurt by this man, who might not have been the deranged Good Samaritan that he presented himself to be. But that's the thing: I have no way of knowing if he was, in fact, a Good Samaritan or an opportunistic thief. One person I told the story to, after they said the "I'm glad you're safe" part did point out that, while I felt bad for accusing the kid of theft, if I'd have watched and done nothing and he did in fact steal the iPad and neither I nor anyone else did anything, then I probably would have felt even worse. This is true. Which brings me to my central question: If jumping into action to try and stop this young man from stealing an unconscious woman's iPad was a dumb thing to do (and I'm not disputing that it was a dumb thing to do) then what, on that train platform full of either unaware or unwilling-to-get-involved people, would have been the right thing to do? Any ideas? Occurrence At The San Diego Train Station, Or: I, Super Hero, Super Ignoramus, Or Just Super Dumb?1/20/2024   Available on Amazon: "Equal And Opposite Reactions" http://amzn.to/2xvcgRa "Hail Mary" https://www.amzn.com/1684334888 "Tropical Depression" https://www.amzn.com/B0BTPN7NYY Occurrence At The San Diego Train Station, Or: I, Super Hero, Super Ignoramus, Or Just Super Dumb?...Continued from previous post: It was at the Old Town San Diego station train station that I unintentionally did the wrong thing. Unless what I did was the right thing. I'm still not sure. Here's what happened: My sister, my mate Tom, and I spent a fine day strolling around Old Town San Diego (see previous post, https://www.ailantha.com/blog/old-town-san-diego), after which we made our way to the nearby commuter train station,  ...and joined the crowd of passengers waiting for the outbound train to the San Diego suburbs and exurbs.  While Tom preferred to check out the far reaches of the platform from one end to the other, my sister and I took a seat on a bench.
On the bench next to ours sat a young Black woman who appeared to be in her twenties. She was sleeping and, as the temperature was probably in the upper fifties, I wondered how she wasn't cold dressed as she was in a camisole top, leggings, and slide sandals with socks. On the bench next to her were a couple of full shopping bags. In her hand, which rested in her lap, she held her cell phone. On the ground close behind her feet was a sleek, expensive-looking iPad. My sister said to me, "Do you think we should wake her up and tell her that her iPad is on the ground?" "Nah," I said, "let's let her nap. It would be pretty hard for somebody to grab that iPad without waking her up. Besides, we can just keep an eye on it." Now, in retrospect, what really was I thinking when I said that we'd keep an eye on the girl's iPad? That if someone tried to steal it we would spring into action? Well, no. What I was thinking was along the lines of what I'd said to my sister: that surely nobody would try to steal the iPad because it would be too hard to reach it, positioned as it was under the girl's legs, close behind her feet and between her legs and the bench. In fact, it occurred to me that, as the girl was sleeping, the iPad was probably safer sitting where it was on the ground than it would be in her shopping bags, which someone could grab and take off with while she slept. Or if the iPad were resting on her lap it might not even be too hard to swipe it and run before she opened her eyes. Under the circumstances, I figured that maybe she figured that under her legs and behind her feet might just be the safest spot for her iPad while she napped. Or so I figured. Still, it was kind of a weird scenario, this girl sleeping on a train station bench with her iPad on the ground. But in truth, for me at least, the girl and the iPad were only of momentary consideration, as there was greater drama happening on this railway platform. A young Black man, who likewise appeared to be in his twenties, was in the grip of bizarre behavior. He appeared well-dressed, in the style of youngsters his age, in a hoodie and jacket, knit cap, sweats and high-top sneakers, a backpack on his back. He wore earbuds attached to a cell phone into which he ranted loudly, angrily, incessantly and unintelligibly, and it was impossible to make out who - if anybody - he might be ranting to. He waved his arms while he railed and he paced to and fro, often propelling himself beyond the yellow safety line and dancing along the edge of the platform. He looked as if he could fall over onto the tracks. Against one of the station structures he had parked a bike which he reached for now and then, and sometimes he would straddle the bike and walk its front wheel over the edge of the platform above the tracks. Then he would park the bike and continue storming about on foot. I imagine my sister and I weren't the only ones worried that this kid was going to fall off the edge of the platform onto the tracks. How would we save him? Could we save him? Would he be electrocuted by the third rail? Would anyone who tried to save him be electrocuted? Fortunately, or so I thought, he moved away from the platform edge and began perambulating the length of the platform. Next thing I knew he was low on the ground at the bench next to ours, slithering towards the feet of the sleeping girl, his hand deftly reaching for her iPad. Now, if you ask me what in the world was going through my mind the moment I sprang into action, I now can recall only two thoughts that must have flashed through my mind for a fraction of a second: the first of these nanothoughts was that this girl was being robbed and somebody needed to do something; the second was that I'd said I would keep an eye on her. Or maybe I really wasn't thinking at all before I acted. I expect many people would concur that I really wasn't thinking at all. Or at least not sensibly. Anyway, as I recall, I jumped up from my bench, ran towards what I thought was the crime scene and yelled, "Hey, hey, hey, stop, that's hers!" I touched the girl's arm lightly to wake her. "Wake up," I shouted. Then I was down on the ground yelling at the guy and reaching under the girl's legs for the iPad. But he got it. (My sister later told me that what she saw was me leaping up and, faster than a speeding bullet, diving to the ground under the girl. "I don't know how you moved so fast or how you were so flexible," she said. "You looked like a super hero."). A half-moment later the boy and I were standing across from each other on either side of the girl who was still sleeping, or otherwise out of it. My sister was now standing next to me. Being this close to the kid, a tattoo of a tear drop was visible beneath the corner of his eye. Now it was he who shouted at me: "I was putting it in her bag, you a**hole!" He called me a few obscenities while I stood, drop-jawed, trying to work up an apology. The thing is, though he was cursing at me, I thought he looked kind of, I don't know, hurt. "Step back, a**hole, step back, motherf*****!" he shouted at me, still looking hurt. Or, I later wondered, might he have actually been...scared? In any case I turned and walked - make that slunk - back to my bench, my sister close behind me, protecting my back. However, it turned out that I didn't need protection. The kid rambled by us as if he didn't see me, and continued railing into his phone, I suppose to whomever he was railing to before our run-in. Neither my sister nor I saw him drop the iPad into the unconscious girl's bag, but after he passed us by I tried to strain and see if I could see into her bags, and I thought I saw part of a shiny black screen. So I assume he did put the iPad into her bag, as he stated was his original intention. As for me, I felt ashamed of myself, a white woman of privilege, for accusing a young African American man of a committing a crime when he was, in fact, trying to be a Good Samaritan, albeit a deranged or drugged out Good Samaritan with a tear drop tattooed on his cheek bone. "Don't worry, I think he probably was going to steal her iPad," said my sister, trying to make me feel better, though she was feeling plenty rattled herself, for which I also felt badly. And though she gently impressed upon me the danger of accosting this disordered young man, and how lucky I was to have escaped unharmed, she did admit that she never before saw me as somebody who'd do what I did at that train station. In truth I never saw myself as somebody who'd do what I did at that train station. I guess we never really know what we'll do in any situation. As for the young woman, who in her obviously drugged stated had no idea of the drama that had swirled around her and her iPad, at the sound of the horn as our train approached she started regaining consciousness. In trying to wake herself up she rocked back and forth with such great effort that I feared she would fall forward off the bench. At that point I hoped that if she did someone else would rush to her aid. However she and her bags managed to make it onto the train without incident. As for the young guy, he, too, managed to make it on board the train with his bike. Unfortunately, he chose to enter the same car as we did. Fortunately, he didn't bother me, though he must have been able to see me as clearly as I could see him. However he did accost another passenger, a big, strong looking young man. He told the young man several times over before, thankfully, moving to another car, that he didn't like his attitude. I wondered if maybe he thought he was talking to me.    Available on Amazon: "Equal And Opposite Reactions" http://amzn.to/2xvcgRa "Hail Mary" https://www.amzn.com/1684334888 "Tropical Depression" https://www.amzn.com/B0BTPN7NYY Old Town San Diego…Continued from yesterday: On Tuesday, January 9. we drove half an hour from Fallbrook to the city of Oceanside, where we boarded the COASTER commuter train to San Diego,   ...and alighted at the Old Town San Diego stop.  Old Town is the site of the first European settlement in California, which dates back to the mid-1700's. Today Old Town San Diego is a historic site,  ...and popular destination of visitors, judging from the number of us here the on this Tuesday morning in January.    We started out with a once around the town,        ...including visits to some of the shops and outdoor vendors.        We visited some of the historical sites, including the town's first hotel,  ...the headquarters of a Mormon battalion,  ...with colorful tilework on floors and the steps,      ..and the beautiful landmark Catholic Immaculate Conception Church.     We stopped for lunch at an enchanting restaurant we came upon called Casa De Reyes,       ...where the friendly waitresses dressed Frida Khalo-style,  ...and the food was terrific. We started off with a yummy guacamole to share made with tomatoes and topped with cotija cheese.  Tom and I split an enormous plate of delicious super-tender beef fajitas (see that little triangle to left stuck in the sour cream that kind of looks like a watermelon? That's a radish),  ...while Romaine had chicken in mole sauce, which she likewise proclaimed delicious, and which was also garnished with watermelon radishes.  After lunch we visited some of the artisanal shops lining the perimeter of the restaurant.       I proposed that we stop for a churro, a Mexican fried pastry covered with sugar and cinnamon and sometimes filled with custard or jelly, or possibly ice cream.  And so we stopped at a promising-looking churro place,  ...where I snagged myself a jelly-filled and a custard-filled.  They were delish.  After our churros we visited a few more of the town's oldest structures,  ...among them the homestead of a family of early settlers.     We could easily have spent much more time, even another day, seeing the many sights of Old Town San Diego. But by late afternoon we needed to get back to the train station to catch our train home. And so we did.   We arrived in Los Angeles on Friday January 5, and on Sunday, January 7 we left L.A. and headed south,   ...to the town of Fallbrook, located in the dry, mountainous region 50 miles north of San Diego.  We were visiting my sister, Romaine, who now lives in Fallbrook,  ...in a bright, airy house,   The guest room   ...with a lovely backyard.    Romaine lives is a small, quiet community surrounded by breath-taking vistas, such as these views from her front patio:    Soon after we arrived Romaine took us for a stroll around her scenic, hilly neighborhood.                       We walked down to the community club house, which looked like an old Spanish mission,   ...and past a little church.  We concluded that one could definitely keep in shape just walking around the block every day a time or two. When dinnertime rolled around Romaine took us to the nearby town of Bonsall to a delightful spot called Z Cafe,  ...where the ambiance was cozy,  ...the service friendly and fast, and the food great. We started with an appetizer of roasted balsamic brussels sprouts, which were delicious (and which I now have a hankering to try and replicate at home).  Romaine and I had the veggie sandwich with crispy, tasty fries,  ...and Tom had the Hawaiian Salmon Bowl, which he proclaimed delicious.  For dessert Tom had a yummy chocolate concoction called a Mud Pie, while I had this heavenly slice of carrot cake with ice cream.  After dinner we returned to Fallbrook and took another brief walk. And as we strode the rugged terrain, taking in the sight of mountains and palm trees, I compared this to the landscape of the Midwest where I live and pondered the wonderful geographic - as well as human - diversity of this country.  On Friday we returned our granddaughters to the balmy blue skies and palm trees of Los Angeles.  On Saturday evening, by popular request, I fixed a batch of spaghetti and meatballs,  ...pizza,  ...and my famous chocolate brownies,   ...which we served for some friends to nosh on when they came over that night for a card night.  The following morning, after I fixed a breakfast buffet for the family and a few of the girls' friends who spent the night,   ...Tom and I headed out from Los Angeles,  ...south towards San Diego then east, to our next destination...   On New Year’s Eve we rang out 2023 at Tommy's and Emily’s house with a few of their friends. Some of the group rustled up a card game, a fast-moving and entertaining game called Spoons,  …which actually involved using spoons.  Meanwhile others of us were happy to chat,  ...or to play with Ronan.  And we all enjoyed the yummy snacks that Emily fixed for us:  A choice of cider- or champagne-soaked grapes Cream cheese and chocolate bars  Tasty Impossible Meat meat balls Apple, basil, and brie skewers  ...and "2024"mozzarella-stuffed pull-apart rolls.  The following day was the beginning not only of the new year but of a new adventure of sorts for my mate, Tom, and me, as well as for our grandchildren: Their parents returned to Los Angeles and, for the first time, left them here in Ohio with Tom and me. Though their visit was to last only four days, still I stressed over whether we'd succeed in keeping them entertained and happy enough to avoid boredom and homesickness. We needn't have worried. These California girls reveled in the novelty of being outside in the Ohio winter on “Grandpa’s Farm,” as they call our suburban Columbus backyard, and being put to work on some outdoor chores, such as raking leaves,  ...spreading manure around the blueberry plants,  ...taking down the Christmas lights,  ...and, of course, occasionally taking a break to play,  ...or to come inside to warm up by the fire.  They also helped with taking down the indoor decorations,   ...and with the shopping.  Not that it was all work for the girls.  We took trips to the mall,  ...where one day we saw the movie "Migration," a hilarious flick about a cute but hapless family of ducks braving their first flight south for the winter.  And there was plenty of time for biking,  ...artwork,  ...as well as playing "Exploding Kittens" and other games with their Aunt Theresa, who, like her nieces, is also a an afficionado of card games.  And then, too quickly, the days were up, our adventure, such as it was, was over, and we were at the Columbus airport,  ...and soon onboard our flight,  ...to deliver the girls back to their home.   Books by Patti Liszkay |
"Tropical Depression"
by Patti Liszkay Buy it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTPN7NYY 
"Equal And Opposite Reactions"
by Patti Liszkay Buy it on Amazon: http://amzn.to/2xvcgRa or from The Book Loft of German Village, Columbus, Ohio 
Or check it out at the Columbus Metropolitan Library
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