Wanderlust Revisited

Have you ever felt so restless that you literally have to rest to keep yourself from breaking through the walls. I do...all the time. That's not hyperbole either. I oogle National Geographic dream trips like 13-year-old males oogle contraband "Playboys."

Of course, it's unlikely that I would pay for one of NG's tours, even if I had 10 grand in rainy-day cash. Sure, each trip is replete with experts, avid seekers of adventure and decadent landscapes, but for 10k I would go for three months by myself. I guess I'm a loner that way...and looking to get the most bang for my buck.

Unfortunately, I'm also nomadic, which means that to truly elevate my happiness baseline I would need to be like one of the characters in one of my favorite "X-Files" episodes. In the episode, a family has a rare condition that requires them to constantly travel west (the faster the better) forever or they die. I don't want to acquire that condition, but I would love to continue moving for the rest of my life, packing all of my necessities into a napsack and traversing the country, continent, globe.

It's now, when I'm in the limbo of early adulthood, that I realize how much of what I expose myself to in terms of television, movies, books, etc, involves travel and newness. Half of the books on my shelves are memoirs of famous travelers, old NG issues and stories about imaginary characters that are just as addicted to exploration and movement as I am.

Right now, it's Bhutan that has captured my imagination. That high, only-until-recently-inaccessible kingdom that holds the title of last country in the world to get television. The mist-shrouded Buddhist stronghold. The place where temples are built like swallow nests on sheer brown cliffs. I imagine the air smells crisp, cold and like wildflowers. I imagine entire neighborhoods paying homage to monks on pilgrimage. I imagine stories and camp fires and so many stars that you may just think you've 'slipped the surly bonds of earth.'

Of course, happiness is a perspective and really depends on me being happy with what I have right now...in the present moment. My problem, though, is that I am happy, perhaps excessively so almost all the time. I'm so grateful for what I have that I look forward to what could be if I continue to seek happiness through travel. But that thought process is circular, since you're never really traveling...you're always somewhere experiencing something that can only chronologically and geographically be identified as 'travel.' The rest is just...life.

So how do I maintain my Oneness with the Present and still desire travel?


Crocodile Jumping near our boat, Daintree Rainforest, Australia


Great Barrier Reef


Greek Orthodox Monastery, Greece


Acid Lake in Crete

Movie Review: Fright Night

Once, not too long ago, vampires existed in fairy tales. They were nocturnal parasites preying on distressed damsels who really deep down just wanted to be loved. They turned into bats, avoided crucifixes and burst into flames when touched by the rays of the sun. Then, “Twilight” and “True Blood,” which are essentially PG and R versions of each other (at least in the beginning), gave us a Mormon bloodsucker and the vampire-love-heroine that is Anna Paquin, respectively. Sure, there were vampire stories before these (who could forget Nosferatu?), but these are the tales that transitioned us into what I unpleasantly call the Era of the Vampire, when you can’t go three months without another story about another fanged something eating people.

“Fright Night” is a drop in the bucket that is this era – a fun, hefty drop. It’s a remake of the 1985 version with the same name and essentially the same plot, but with the visual effects buffed up 2011-style. It doesn’t invent any new bloodsucker lore, but instead ops for showing off why old-school vamps still have it going on. And I loved it. I don’t want to watch a band of sparkly vegetarian vampires. I want a fanged menace to make fun of them and then rip a neighborhood to shreds.

The vamps in “Fright Night” are not the brooding, misunderstood, just-trying-to-blend-in variety. Colin Farrell drives a giant black pick up and hits on anything within fifty yards even though no woman I’ve ever met would date a guy with fingernails as long and dirty as his are, no matter how hot he is. And I should admit, not without a bit of awe, that I think Colin Farrell may be the best vampire ever. He’s dripping sex and has a coy, predatory smile – and that’s before the prosthetic fangs go in. He has the gravelly voice and strut of something that’s been doing women since time immemorial. There are few men who can successfully pull that persona off, but he does so with flying colors – as long as those colors are blood. But I guess I could say I was smitten with this vamp version when Farrell’s character silently critiques “Twilight” by rolling an apple off the kitchen table and gnawing on it, a twinkle in his eye. No wholesome “virginity protecting” here, folks.

And since you’ve probably seen the trailers for this movie, no, it isn’t entirely about Farrell’s vampire. The actual story follows a nerd-turned-Casanova (Anton Yelchin) who discovers that his neighbor is a bloodsucker when all of the friends he gave up for his girlfriend start disappearing. David Tennant, who has played BBC’s Doctor Who for the past six years, shows up as a boozy Vegas stage magician a la Criss Angel, complete with appliqué tattoos, goatee and eyebrow ring. Imogen Poots, who you might recognize if you saw “28 Weeks Later,” plays the hot girlfriend who is really, really willing to have sex with Yelchin’s character but will have to wait, damn it, because there’s a vampire next door. And Toni Collette is rather wasted as Yelchin’s oblivious mom. But the best secondary character is Christopher Mintz-Plasse, who played McLovin in “Superbad.” His high-pitched geekiness is a great addition to the story line; though, I can’t tell you too much about him or I’ll spoil a lot of the third act.

Aside from some really mediocre dialog, this is a great undead flick to watch with friends. And although the 3D version does give you a close-and-personal view of stakes to the heart, ashes, blood, etc, you could save yourself the three bucks and just watch “Fright Night” in 2D.

Age is just a number and IDs are just for show

I walk into the bar wearing khaki shorts and a butterfly t-shirt, jeans and a flirty top, a dress and high heels. The bartender (male, female, young, old, jaded or not) gives me a one-over with unimpressed, diplomatic eyes. He can't just throw me out, but I know he would if he could. I'm walking a thin line, his look says. I'm testing his patience; children aren't allowed in here. But he also doesn't want to lose a tip, so he stares at me and waits. He won't ask for ID unless I don't offer it.

I take a seat (pushing up with my arm and lifting onto tiptoe to climb onto the stool) and sheepishly reach in my pocket. The only things it contains are money and my driver's license; I hate purses. I fumble to keep the money in while pulling out proof of myself. The unrehearsed feel of the movement makes me blush, which makes him believe I'm about to lie. Possibly without speaking. I try using my "grown-up" words anyway and fail:

"Here you go..." It's high and babyish. I can't deepen it even if I try.

His bored eyes shift to the plastic card. And despite having to reveal myself in every bar, restaurant or outdoor barbeque since the day I turned 21, my stomach drops as I wonder whether my birthday really is printed on there, whether he'll see it, whether he'll kick me out anyway. In middle-of-the-road countries such as Australia, where the drinking age is 18 and they actually check ID, I still get a once-over from the bouncers who seem impressed at my non-aging. Some are even brave enough to mention something.

"You look so young!" they say. Their eyes widen, their mouths contort into disbelieving, exaggerated grins -- the looks of the people who present Publisher's Clearing House prizes. Those looks say I'm not winning this money, but I'm supposed to act happy that you get it. Woohoo!! "You'll love it when you're forty." I actually love it now, all except for the suspicion of it all.

My ID is returned. The bartender's duty is done. It no longer matters if I am a 40 year old with a baby face or a 12 year old with a fake license. He gives my chest a gander, now that he knows he can, now that he knows I'm legal, then gets my drink.

The plastic card that I carry with me, that lets me drive a car or order a drink or bet in Vegas (Sometimes getting carded at each machine and by individual guards who watch me long after I've ponied up the thing that identifies me, as if I'll reveal my true age by smearing candy on the machines or wiping a booger under the seat) is like a secret handshake between strangers. We both know the dance by heart, but still don't trust the person doing it with us.

And when I begin to sway and babble, as I always do after downing only one cocktail, the bartender watches me like an adult letting a kid touch a hot stove just so she'll never do it again. He smirks and offers me a stronger drink, then balks when I accept his offer.

I'm having an Affair...

...with movie scores. I guess it isn't so surprising -- I love everything about movies and I really do mean everything. I love the neat, the weird and the disturbing -- from the fact that the set for the main room in The Shining, where Jack Nicholson's character writes his infamous "novel," caught fire because they used 700,000 watts per window per day to make it look wintery outside and then subsequently rebuilt the set and later used it in Indiana Jones, to the fact that Alfred Hitchcock used to torture the actresses who were cast in his films. Oh, and in the black-and-white days they used to use chocolate syrup in place of blood because it had the right texture and they put milk into the rain so it was visible on camera -- so it was really Singing in the Milk. And Gene Kelly was so mean to Debbie Reynolds in that movie that Fred Astair agreed to teach her to dance and berated Kelly for treating Reynolds so poorly. Neat, huh?

But that's not what has me hooked right now, no. It's the music, man -- the sound. You see, I am not fortunate enough to have completely perfect senses, so instead I have a hierarchy. From strongest to weakest it goes: smell, taste, sound, sight, touch. Strange considering how much I love my sight, but based on capability it's true. And since you can't smell or taste movies (yet!), I let the sounds keep me riveted. From the instrumental background notes during a movie that make those not-so-seamless transitions from scene to scene seem nonexistent to the Foley sounds that get recombined and distorted and shattered to create sounds out of my nightmares and visions -- I'm in love with all of it. Perhaps that's why I fell for a musician last time around :) .

I just finished watching How to Train Your Dragon and for the majority of you who didn't read my entirely unbiased movie review, I'll just say this: Watch that freaking movie! You won't regret it! I'm begging and pleading with you to be a kid again for less than two hours and rent this FANTASTIC flick NOW. Don't wait! I'm writing in freaking Italics -- so you know I'm serious...dragon serious. :-|

All right, now that I've done that, I can say that the music for this breathtaking ride of a movie has lulled me into a completely content, almost Zen-like version of myself that needs nothing in the world except these sweet, sweet notes. On a side note, though, I just learned that the main dragon's sounds were created by combining the voice of the Supervising Sound Designer Randy Thom, with those of elephants, horses, tigers, and even domestic cats. Amazing, no?

I expect only one person of the presumed many who will read this to care, but here's a list of beautiful little diddies available through that impulsive-buying trigger of triggers, iTunes:

Forbidden Friendship - John Powell
Test Drive - John Powell
Romantic Flight - John Powell
Sticks & Stone - Jonsi

In addition I'm also listening to these:
Main Title: Nemo Egg - Thomas Newton
The Gravel Road - James Newton Howard

As the Sage of Potato Hill, Edgar Watson Howe, once said, good music makes people homesick for things they've never had and never will have. And as I say, music also has the awesome and terrible ability to eat at us after we've finished listening to it, like reading good literature does. I hope some of this gets stuck in your mind like it is in mine, so you feel the little nibbles in the homesick part of your brain tonight.

Sadistic Dental Hygienist

The other day I met with the Sadistic Dental Hygienist. I don't know her name, so that is her identifier. A sign in her office reads, "I'm not rough, I'm just thorough." It's only really readable from the chair, in a position of submission to her gloved hands and waxed thread of torture. She digs into the gum with the floss, deeper and deeper until I'm sure the tooth will abandon my mouth. Then she does it again with the next. When she pulls her hands away they're covered in blood. She tells me in a frantic whisper that I have to, have to floss. I tell her I do. She tells me to go deeper, that my gums can handle it. I wonder if her husband likes this part of her personality.

I fear going to that dentist's office. The second I enter the brown carpeted office with the broken door jamb, the stink of mouthwash and raspberry cleaning paste turns my stomach. I spin the Russian roulette wheel and fervently pray for the mousy blonde cleaner. It's her or the Sadistic Dental Hygienist.

When she pulls out the scraping needles of corporal mortification, I imagine myself on trial during the Spanish Inquisition. I am about to be purged of my sins and whatever they are, they must be tooth related. One scraper rounds my left canine and I feel pain I haven't felt since I realized the constant throbbing in my jaw was caused by wisdom teeth and not a chronic nerve problem.

My feet curl inward and I clench my fists. BUT, I refuse to let her see my pain, because I think, and I'm just guessing here, that she thrives on it. That light that she shines in my eyes to distract me is really zapping all the anguish out of her victims -- the 6 to 98-year-old cavity-ridden walking mouth-holes -- while they try to stifle their tears by staring into that blinding light.

It's a failproof system -- EXCEPT when her victims are strong enough to bottle it up, suppress their terror and pain until the exact moment when they're cut off in traffic or their dog vomits on the floor. I prevailed that day. I kept quiet. I survived and lived to tell my tale...at least for the next six months.