I’ve been thinking lately about water bottles (who isn’t?) and it led me to thinking about shampoo bottles. The average American surely goes through much fewer in a year than the evil store-bought water bottle, but we still must go through quite a few. So I got an idea. There could be a little return receptacle at the grocery store/pharmacy where consumers can place their empties while picking up their new bottle. When the distributor comes to refill the shelf, they take the empties back to the distribution center, and then they make their way back in bulk to the manufacturer. There they get washed and stuff, and then refilled. If the bottles now are not in a reusable state, they may need a redesign, or maybe they just need to be melted and reformed, I don’t know.

I’d like to start a pilot program with a smaller company - I was thinking Giovanni since I use their product - and see how it goes. It may be an idea that fails miserably, but it may be the start of something much bigger.

It seems that I may have been given an opportunity to redeem myself for not helping out a stranger the other day. This is what I’m thinking this morning, after I hand over the wad of cash to my neighbor. Wednesday morning, my elderly next door neighbor knocks on my front door to ask me for a couple postage stamps. I usually have a stash, but had recently run out, so I could not help her. But I stood at the door and listened to her for a few moments, as she was clearly distressed. She is frail and sad and on her own since her husband died last year. She tells me that she is not in good health and she just wants to die. I’m in my bathrobe with a towel on my wet head, otherwise I might have stepped outside to give her a hug. Instead, I take her hand in mine while she whimpers a bit more (I hope I don’t sound sarcastic, because I don’t mean to be) and I go inside to get dressed and go to work. This morning, at a little after 7am, she comes to my door again, and this time she’s even more distressed. She hands me a hundred dollar bill and asks me for change so she can take a cab to the hospital. I don’t have the change, but I tell her I’ll go to QFC and get some. I throw on yesterday’s clothes and my shoes, forget my glasses, and rush over to the supermarket, preparing my speech to convince the cashier to give me change without making a purchase. When I get there, no explanation is necessary and I head back home with a bunch of bills folded inside my fist. I decide then that supermarkets are banks for people without bank accounts, and I’m happy they exist. I hand over the cash and continue with my day. I didn’t hear her leave, but I’m pretty sure she must have.

This is when I think that this was my opportunity to make up for a couple weeks ago, and I’m comforted by that thought. And then I think, on a different tack, maybe it’s been her anxiety I’ve been feeling for the last few months. I’m not a stranger to mild anxiety, but for several weeks it’s been quite agonizing for me. I’ve often felt I have some sort of psychic connection with others at various times, and I think I vacillate on whether I’m a sender or a receiver. Today I think maybe I’m both, but I’m a one-way transmitter. In other words, if I’m in a mode of receiving, such as maybe I’ve been for my neighbor recently, I can’t also send anything out to anyone. And maybe it’s to do with biorhythms, if those actually exist. It’s all just crazy talk, I’m sure, brought on by being startled awake by a scared woman nearing the end of her life.

You have to also understand that I’m not really good with people. I generally don’t like touching people, even people I like, and I have a horrible bedside manner. But I felt for this woman I’ve lived beside for the last five years, and thought I really need to do something to comfort her. Standing at the door with my neighbor, I thought to myself, “how would Meg handle this situation?” I could never emote the way she can, but I tried to channel Meg as best I could to allow some intimacy. I held her hand, I stroked her arm, I offered some, hopefully, encouraging words. I suppose I did OK. When I gave her the money I had changed at QFC, she told me, “I will never forget you. You are all I have.” Which is, of course, not true - she has family nearby who come by fairly often. But it made an impact, and hopefully I did on her.

Recently I met someone who made an impression on me. Something about him struck me, and I listened to his story, strange that it was. I wondered if what he was telling me was true, and at the same time also knew there were things he was keeping hidden. Eventually it came out that he needed a place to stay for the night, and I considered granting it. In the end, I guess you could say I chickened out (my mother is probably thankful for that) and sent him out into the night without anything to make his way any easier. What could I have given him? He didn’t even ask for anything. And I’m left wondering if I did the right thing, if he really just wanted a place to lay his head for the night, or if he may have had sinister intentions. Who knows, because when he left, he was gone. It brings to mind Jesus’ story about treating strangers nicely (”when I was hungry, you fed me, etc”). Maybe this guy, this fellow human being, was down on his luck but otherwise a decent person. Then again, maybe he was a thief and a liar. I feel like I should be able to connect with my fellow globules of atoms in a way that would help me know this. What have we become if we turn our backs on everyone solely on the basis that one of those people might be evil? I sincerely hope this man found a nice patch of grass to rest upon and that he made his way home after sunrise. And if there is any kind of karma, I hope it doesn’t bite me for turning away a stranger with an authentic need for shelter.

Pearl Vodka Caramel: decently sweet aperitif.

Pearl Vodka original: gross.

Sorry, Canada, but that stuff tastes nasty. Best to keep your grains for whiskey. I’ll stick with my Monopolowa.

Last night I had the opportunity to see Tabloid, which is currently in limited release in the US. Primarily an interview of Joyce McKinney after the fact, the film shows what can be accomplished if one completely disregards the thoughts and opinions of others and acts accordingly. Ms. McKinney almost literally goes by the beat of her own drummer and got into a bit of trouble because of that, back in the 1970s. She followed her one true love to England where she ultimately was to stand trial for kidnapping said true love. Much happened - or didn’t happen, depending on who’s telling - before and after the alleged kidnapping, which is revealed bit by bit as the film goes on. Delusional or completely truthful, McKinney is a unique individual who managed to give a small group of people quite a wild ride. A bit odd at times, there were moments which caused me to laugh out loud. The story is ridiculous in the best sense of the word.

A few weeks ago, I took a class called Writing Effective Paragraphs. It may seem obvious, but there are some things that you just don’t think about when writing, but when someone says it out loud it brings them to the forefront of your mind. It can be quite helpful, even if you think you know how to write, for someone to tell you how. I wrote the below paragraph for the class. I don’t make a claim to its effectiveness, but I felt compelled to share it. Though our instructor made suggestions for improvement, the paragraph is virtually unaltered from what was presented in class.

There is always something interesting happening on the block of Third Avenue between Pine and Pike Streets. As a bus stop for many of the routes passing through downtown, and as a sort of geographical center of the Ride Free Area, this block brings many different people to it, and at all hours of the day. Recently, I witnessed a game of Catch between two young men in the middle of the street. It was a Sunday night so there was very little vehicular traffic. On a previous occasion, I was waiting for a bus when a fight broke out, prompting a bus driver to call in a report which brought three sheriff cars and a police car to the block. A week ago, I read a newspaper article about a disgruntled man who went home to get a gun to settle an argument, and he brought it back to where? That’s right, he returned to the Third and Pine bus stop. Many of the less fortunate among us gather on this block whether waiting for a bus or not. If you use this stop, you will start to see the same people again and again. It brings to me a sense of belonging and community which suburbanites may not appreciate. This block could be considered an institution in Seattle, on a similar level of the Starbucks building or the Fremont Troll. At the very least, it is a part of the rich tapestry which is the Emerald City.

For all of my life, I’ve never really been a fan of roller coasters or other thrill rides. Especially if it has a loop in it, I can totally live without the experience, but there’s usually enough other attractions at amusement parks that I can still have a satisfying time. At some point in my childhood, I found myself at Six Flags Over Texas with my sister, stepmom, aunt, and older cousins. We were in line for the Spinnaker, a spinny thing on an arm which lifts to a vertical position, giving the riders a few moments of being upside down. I had no desire to ride it, so I said that I wouldn’t. This decision did not sit well with my stepmom, and so began a battle of wills. I eventually lost, influenced in part by my cousin Brian’s offer to let me ride with him in his pod (this same cousin Brian introduced me to peanut butter on pancakes, so I knew he could be trusted).  It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but I still didn’t like it, and never rode it again. I just didn’t see how taking a turn on an amusement park ride would bring the slightest amount of betterment to my life as a whole. It did, however, provide me with a lasting memory.

Which is why, sitting at the bar of Oddfellows last night with Maryam, I felt compelled to drink a cocktail named Spinnaker. From what I can tell, it is a house creation, and its ingredients are bourbon, Bonal, Cointreau, and bitters, served with zest of orange. It was not nearly as scary to me as the amusement park ride, so it was not difficult to convince myself to get it. I had no previous knowledge of Bonal, but it is apparently harmless (as much as a 16% alcohol beverage can be), and actually quite tasty in the Spinnaker. I may have to check out this aperitif next time I’m at the ol’ liquor store. I can be quite adventurous in aspects of life that don’t involve mechanical arms and such throwing one’s body into the air.

My final day at SIFF was one of annoyance and melancholy.
After a morning of Vampire Diaries on DVD, I headed over to SIFF Cinema (conveniently located!) for Holy Rollers: The True Story of Card Counting Christians. I watched this film mainly because a friend of mine would be referenced in it. As it turns out, Benjamin had quite a bit more screen time than I had anticipated, and I was surprised and delighted to see his wife, also my friend, Megan on-screen as well. (It really should not be a surprise to see Megan on the silver screen, and if you have spent ten minutes with her, you’d know why.) It is really difficult for me to write objectively about this film for the very fact that it’s about self-proclaimed Christians. The film follows a team of blackjack players made up of primarily pastors and other “devout” Christians. I use the capital C to emphasize that the appellate is more name than description. The only player that seemed a true christian to me was Mark, the pastor who quit because he could no longer correlate his spiritual life with his casino life. The filmmaker of Holy Rollers was on hand for a Q&A but I felt my mind would burst if I had to listen to more of the claptrap. So I left during the credits and headed to Pacific Place for my final film.
The evening ended with a sorrowful Belgium film called Illégal. A single mother of one has made her way in Belgium as a cleaner for nearly ten years when she is randomly spotted by police and detained for lack of papers. Not wanting to be deported back to Russia, she hides her identity from authorities while waiting out her time at a detention center. She suffers while also bonding with fellow detainees. A guard at the center empathizes with the foreigners although she needs the job to support her own family. Events reach a cresendo at the center, bringing the guard to a turning point and bringing a sincere tear to my eye. Illégal is available on DVD and will be on Netflix Instant Watching in July.

Friday night found me again at the Harvard Exit for All Your Dead Ones (Todos Tus Muertos), a sort of social commentary out of Colombia. A farmer finds a pile of dead bodies in his corn field on election day. The tempo was a little off in my opinion (surprising, then, that action junkie Toni liked it), but there were some nice, comic moments. I expected more activity from the dead - I know, that’s a peculiar thing to say, but I think you’ll get what I’m saying if you read any reviews. One of the actors was in the house for the screening and was able to shed some light on the political landscape of Colombia which made the film, for me, much more understandable and enjoyable. (I was also impressed with myself for how much of his spoken Spanish I was able to understand.) I didn’t really understand the reason for bookending the film with scenes of the farmer having sex with his wife, but I suppose in retrospect it was a way of “grounding” the story in the reality of the day which was, in it’s own weird way, supernatural. I don’t expect All Your Dead Ones to have a US theatrical release, so look for it on DVD.

One of the highlights of this festival for me was seeing Sound of Noise, a Swedish film about music appreciation, if you will. Written around a group of renegade musicians, it is a presentation of a work for “one city and six drummers” in four movements. The musicians’ comic foil is a tone-deaf policeman from a family of accomplished musicians. There was very little in the way of plot, but who cares when you can watch the masterpiece unfold in Malmö? Instruments were front-end loaders, jack hammers, electrical cables, respirators, and even a human body. For someone like me who responds to percussion, it is a sonic delight. Hopefully Sound of Noise will see at least a limited run in theatres outside the festival circuit. If not, look out for it on Netflix.