Pancakes

My Dad is making pancakes this morning.

I love my family.

I don’t readily align myself with people who flounder in the choppy waters of gender-stereotyping . . . usually because they’re wrong. What does this have to do with pancakes and family? Let me explain.

Right now I’m sitting in the basement of my parents house typing this blog. My parent’s home is made out of paper, so I can easily hear my father in the kitchen making pancakes. But he’s not alone. My mother and my sisters are also in there. But they’re not talking about superficial dates or freckle-deep anecdotes. They’re talking pure philosophy. They’re debating theology. They’re hashing out ethical dilemmas over a smoking pan of Dad’s Special Pancakes.

People say that women communicate “face to face” with questions and conversation. They also say that men communicate “side by side,” sharing common tasks and projects in an attempt to bond. Though stereotypes are generally true, I seem to know all the exceptions, and I think you know a bunch of them too. My dad doesn’t have to be flipping pancakes to debate my sisters about movies themes. He and I don’t have to be fishing to delve into taboo topics like relationships.

All of my male friends can sit around for hours just discussing. Learning. Growing.

But right now it’s my family. In fact, they’re so involved in their topic they can’t hear the phone ringing. One second please.

**************

Well, it wasn’t that important. My cousin called to tell us he’s coming over.

But I promise you this, when he comes over he’ll slip seamlessly into the ongoing debate and flaunt his opinions and theories without missing a beat.

That’s my family: Stereotype-breaking, constantly-communicating, pancake-flipping, wonderful people!

I love them.

Christmas Eve!

I couldn’t possibly scrawl my feelings for Christmas in a single weblog. Even though there are no pages, just endless streams of digital parchment, I don’t think my mind could interpret into words the billions of emotions and abstract webs of fascination and delight I experience at this time of year.

So here’s one little anecdote to leave you with this beautiful Christmas Eve.

I’m with family right now. My sister and I, though professional and reserved in our respective corners, are like match to fuel when we’re together. The fireworks of raucous laughter and incessant playing are contagious, nigh intoxicating. Now I just need to figure out who the match is.

The extended branches of my family get together on this most glorious Eve to celebrate the birth of our Savior. The sweet fellowship, food, and festivities will extend deep into the latest ebony, littered with rainbow lights and a deep, pale moon.

By the time the masses (approximately 30 some people) fade into the cracks and crevices from which the appeared, the remnant that’s left will try to find a relatively comfortable place to crash while we await Christ’s Day. All the beds will be packed and sleeping forms will invade the most unlikely places, including the bath tub. This reminds me of one particular prank I played on a sleeping cousin, cuddled dryly in the basin of my parent’s tub. Sigh.

My place of honor, reserved for the eldest boy, was wherever I chose. My choice? Push out the chairs and throw down a sleeping blanket . . . I’m sleeping under the dining room table. Why there? Don’t be silly, everyone knows the answer to that question.

So there we are. A house full of family, every nook and cranny nooked and crannied, me in my kerchief under the table . . . and Christmas waiting on the door step.

My narrative could continue long into the New Year, but I only wanted to share with you some of the sweet eccentricities of my family. I know most of you share in my unique love of quirky family traditions, and I’d love to hear about them. Tell me what crazy things your family does for the holidays.

Until then, this is Kevin Olsen signing off from under the dining room table. Merry Christmas and God bless.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

I need your help understanding something. Normally I can “wrap my brain” around very complex ideas, I’ve developed my own existential philosophies, and I consider my emotional levels to be nigh unfathomable.  Still, nighttime TV renders me completely flummoxed.

When “Who Wants to Be A Millionaire” first aired, it was the first of its kind to offer contestants a shot at one million dollars. But nowadays I can go on TV, sing 10 songs, and win a million dollars. I can answer 10 questions (pulled from grades 1-5) and win a million dollars. I can even open up 26 random briefcases for a chance to win a million dollars. Better yet, if I try to guess how Americans feel about poll questions I might win $10,000,000! Each of these game shows requires nothing more of me than basic elementary knowledge, memorized song lyrics, or pure dumb luck.

But if you want to showcase your own unique style of prestidigitation (an art that takes years of intense labor to refine and hone) Phenomenon will let you compete for $250,000. If you want to revolutionize your 350 lb. life by dropping that killer fat and entering into a totally healthy and life-extending existence, The Biggest Loser will let you compete for a quarter of a million dollars. Once you’ve dropped that weight you could strut your stuff on America’s Next Top Model and walk away with contracts totaling less than half a million. Better yet, if you want to parade your knowledge (amassed over years of intense scholastic endeavor by the attaining of advanced degrees) Jeopardy will let you compete for less than $100,000 a run.

I don’t get it.

Maybe it’s because I’m not smart enough to play on Jeopardy . . . but I just don’t get it. The nice thing is, I bet you I’m Smarter than a Fifth Grader. So, being smarter than a 10 year old can win me more money than multiple years of extended education!

I’m not sure if it’s a problem of new concept vs. old-school gaming. Maybe people don’t care about the super-hard stuff. Maybe dropping those deadly pounds isn’t important enough to America to drop 1 million dollars on the winner. Maybe we just like to get rich quick without having to break a sweat.

Unfortunately, I can’t give you an answer. I wish I could. I wish it made sense. But I’ll tell you this much, The Biggest Loser is the biggest winner in my book . . . a million dollars or not.

Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix

I am a huge fan of Harry Potter. I don’t care how many foolish mistakes Rowling makes while platforming for her books and ideals, the story she’s created will be remembered as long as there are people who read.

So it follows that I’m a huge fan of anything Potter-related. I own both sets of books: the American and the British releases, and yes . . . there is a difference. I own all the movies. I even own a replica of Harry’s wand. But we’re not here to talk about wands, let’s get to the movie.

Since I am crazy about the story, that makes me a harsher critic. For example, I think Micahel Gambon’s portrayal of Dumbledore has been consistently dismal. If only poor Richard Harris was still with us; he truly understood the complexities of the magnificent character. I also think that certain of the directors (sorry Alfonso. And Mike, you’re almost on my list too) have tried to hard to realize their mundane visions and got in the way of Rowling’s spectacular dream.

But, with all of that said, I think Order of the Phoenixis one of my favorites. On the positive side, this is the best job Michael Gambon has done. He chiseled off that un-Dumbledore-like, roughshod facade and lightened up a bit. I actually enjoyed his performance.

As directing goes, David Yates did a phenomenal job himself. The scenes, acts, shots, and cinematography beautifully complimented the characters and plot-line of Harry Potter.

There were a number of story-changes though. In the past Steve Cloves and Rowling were very close as they crafted the screenplay. In Order, the newcomer Michael Goldenberg worked solo . . . and it shows. His adaptation showcased some important character developments, for example: Ginny’s continued admiration of Harry. Also, in the book Dobby helped Harry find the Room of Requirement. In the movie Neville discovers the room. That’s not a such a bad thing since Dobby’s character makes fewer and fewer appearances while Neville eventually comes into his own.

Still, there were important elements completely jettisoned. Dumbledore and Harry’s heart-to-heart at the end. The revelation that Voldemort is half-possessing Harry was so powerful in the book, but in the movie was thrown away by Severus. And why did Cho have to be the one to turn in Dumbledore’s Army? C’mon! Goldenberg wrote a completely sideline plot just to cater to this changes. Also, when the DA is discovered by Dolores Umbridge, she manages to break into it. Number 1: you can’t break into the Room of Requirement. Number 2: Harry tries to do it throughout the Half Blood Princeand is unsuccessful . . . because it can’t be done. Allowing Umbridge to explode her way in was a poor choice.

Like I said, I’m a detailed critic when it comes to Harry Potter, and there are a number of other things I could say on the subject, but I want to leave you with this.

 The Order of the Phoenixis one of the best Potter films to date. I bought it the day it came out and I don’t regret it. The confrontation between Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Harry is outstanding on every level, and the Triad of Potter (Harry, Ron, & Hermione) improve in their acting with every take.

Olsen’s Rating?

“A” for overall genius, acting, story, cinematography. They would have received an A+ if Goldenberg hadn’t gotten frisky with the script.

Childhood Playthings

I was recently inspired by Rhea (http://rhea7.wordpress.com/) to revist my childhood playthings. She has an amazing fascination with crayons, and though I cannot write as prolifically about my favorite addiction, it possess the same sway over my heart.

I love Play-Doh.

 

I’ve never considered myself a three-dimensional artist. I have a cousin who throws clay with the best of them, but I never quite got the hang of it. Play-Doh is no different. I couldn’t make a dog or a house. I got pretty good at snakes though! To be honest, I didn’t really want to make anything with the Play-Doh. I didn’t crack the air-tight seal of those yellow, plastic cans to form a work of art . . . I just wanted to play with the Doh! Another reason I never crafted sculptures is I’ve always hated mixing the colors. Over time you’re left with hues like “Sludge Brown” or “Insect’s Insides.” The primary colors of Play-Doh are so bright and appealing I couldn’t stand to adulterate them. So, I’d choose one shade at a time, spend hours squeezing and rolling it (making various species of snake), then carefully put it back, picking out- if necessary- any unwanted specks of different-colored Doh.

The colors are great, but I especially love the feel. I love to squish it between my fingers and mash it in my fist. If preserved properly that stuff can last for YEARS. It’s the perfect mixture of mailable-suppleness I’ve ever encountered. Well, there’re a couple things that are softer and more tender than Play-Doh . . . but this is neither the time nor the place.

Still, the most addictive thing about Play-Doh is the smell. It sounds sick, but I love to sniff Play-Doh! I’ve been known to pop open a can just to take a second’s whiff. It’s almost like a drug that calms my spirit and floods my mind with ancient moments of childish joy. I’m an extremely olfactory-focused person. I love smells, and Play-Doh is so vital. Did you know they actually made a Play-Doh cologne to celebrate it’s 50th anniversary? I haven’t been able to find a bottle to buy, but you’d better believe I will when I get my hands on one!

Play-Doh is by far one of my weaknesses. I love playing with it. I love being around people that are playing with it. I wish they made a shampoo that smelled like Play-Doh.

Call me strange. Call me childish. Call me a Play-Doh addict. That’s fine. Rhea and I will just take our crayons and Play-Doh and go home!

The Biggest Screen

Alright, I have to know . . . what is your absolutely favorite movie?

First Snow

Last night a silent army of snow parachuted into my front yard. By 2:00 am their platoons had covered the southern front. By 7:00am my car was ambushed. My apartment was surrounded. I smiled.

I love the snow. I hope this band of frozen infantry brings billions more troops my way. I’d gladly desert the armies of summer to frolic with Jack Frost and his soldiers. Christmas should be white. Winter is for snowmen, sledding, and snowballs.

I’ve mentioned before that I spent a transient span of my life in the Carolinas. While there, living as a nomad, I was consistently amazed at there attitude toward snow and ice. Their mentality is “if you can’t beat them . . . hide.” Within moments of a snow-advisory every Wal-Mart is stripped of its bread and water. Gas seemingly evaporates. Canned food joins the ranks of the White Eagle as an endangered species.

Next thing you know the storm hits. But we’re not talking about a “Rudolf get your nose fired up” kind of snow, I mean a light flurry of snowy dust drifting over the abandoned street. Where are the Southeners? In their homes surrounded by eggs, toilet paper, and candles . . . just in case. And since they don’t own snow plows, most poor souls wait indoors until the “white” disapears. Only the truly adventerous risk the harsh conditions of the southern winter. Unfortunately, about 75% of those who take to the roads end up in a ditch somewhere. Only the most successful manage to get back home, where they quickly pour sand all over their porch to keep from slipping.

But here in Chicago, by 7 pm last night the trucks were out casting their salt like seeds in spring. By midnight the roads were clear and the backup units kept them that way throughout the evening. By morning the landscape looked like a white checkerboard criss-crossed by asphalt lines. The commute ran as smoothly as usual, and a casual perusal of school closings told you that they hadn’t.

I love snow. I might sound crazy, but I think it has something to do with my inability to grow up. That’s why I live in the North. I love Chicago!

A Less than Heroic Ending

The second season of Heroes came to a close on Monday, 12/3/2007. And if they’re not careful it may stay closed.

I think Heroes is outstanding, I always have. I’m sad the season is over. I fell in love with the characters, the writing, the shooting, everything. The story became one of my all time favorites. Yet, despite all of that I have to admit the second season left me a little wanting. Though the story had some wonderful elements, it lacked the suspenseful moments the first season thrived on. Sure, I wanted to throw my TV off my 3rd story balcony when I saw Noah Bennet get shot, but the prestige was given away too quickly and the effect was ruined. I do give them credit for final moments of the finale. No one saw that coming. And thankfully they didn’t give it away two seconds later. What am I talking about? I’m not telling.

I was also unsure about bringing Sylar back. I know he did a great job. His character was phenomenal! But, do you “kill” a character in the first season., drag his impotent-self by the lapels through the second season, just to say “guess what! He’ll be back in the third!” What new material can Sylar bring to the table? And speaking of over-worked plot lines . . . how much of Mom Petrelli can we really stomach? What varying degrees of world-wide calamity can she cause before we say ”honestly, give us a break”? I wish Adam had knocked her off.

All in all, I will add Heroesto my DVD collection. The overall concept and delivery is fantastic. I was just really bummed by the last half of the second season, and not overly impressed by the finale. Hopefully the producers and writers can collect their thoughts, summon the muse they let get away, and craft a show that will continue to deliver amazing actors handeling stellar lines, and doing heroic acts in an suspenseful and captivating story for all time.