2013 Oscar Picks

Sunday night is the biggest night of the awards season, which means it's time for my annual Oscar picks.  Not my predictions, but the pick of my personal favorites for each of the major voting categories.  (ie. I'll only mention the categories I actually care about.  Sorry, no technical award picks!)

Here we go:

Best Animated Feature: (contenders: Brave, Frankenweenie, ParaNorman, The Pirates! Band of Misfits, Wreck-it Ralph.)  Now, to be honest, I've only seen two of these nominees.  But, lets break this down logically.  Frankenweenie is a Tim Burton remake of a Tim Burton film, which no one seems to recall its existence in its original form.  Remakes don't fair well at awards time, or usually even get recognized as nominees.  But, again, since I didn't see it... I'm crossing it off of my list. Same goes for The Pirates! and ParaNorman.  Brave and Wreck-It Ralph were both enjoyable films, full of laughs and heart.  It's a close race for me but, being a sucker for all things Disney, I'll have to give my winner by a nudge to Brave.

Best Makeup and Hairstyling: (contenders: Hitchcock, Les Miserables, The Hobbit.) I'm not voting in this category because Lincoln wasn't nominated.  I can't believe the academy thinks that Daniel Day-Lewis is such an incredible actor that he physically willed himself into looking like a five dollar bill.  Marvelous acting, yes.  But, why not a shout out to the hair and makeup team for their bit of the credit?  No vote here. Well, fine... one vote for Les Mis.  Especially for Hugh Jackson's practically unrecognizable opening look.

Best Costume Design: (contenders: Anna Karenina, Les Miserables, Lincoln, Mirror Mirror, Snow White and the Huntsman.)  The two Snow White movies negate each other, so that narrows things down.  Yes, Mirror Mirror was colorful and memorably costumed, but I can't give any vote in any category for a film that was such a stinker.  (Except, for maybe "Least Believable Action Sequence".)  Period pieces always bode well in this category, which means good news for the other contenders.  I personally feel an extra edge should always go to anyone who gets to dress Helena Bonham Carter.  So, my pick, again, goes to Les Mis.

Best Supporting Actress: (contenders: Amy Adams, The Master; Sally Field, Lincoln; Anne Hathaway, Les Miserables; Helen Hunt, The Sessions; Jacki Weaver, Silver Linings Playbook.)  I swear, this isn't leading into a total Les Miserables sweep.  Amy Adams should, no questions asked, win an Oscar one day.  Just not this Sunday.  Jacki Weaver's nomination made me nostalgic for Melissa Leo's win for The Fighter. (There's just something about the family dynamic that David O. Russell films have the magic of creating. Sidenote: There needs to be an award for best casting.)  Nudity never seems to hurt a nominee.  Heck, it won Halle Berry an Academy Award! But, it's not Helen Hunt's year either.  Sally Field... ugh, I'm about to say something totally controversial here... but Sally Field, in every film I see her in, is just Sally Field in costume. There are certain actresses that have such a distinguishable speaking voice, that it's impossible for the audience to completely buy them as immersed into a character. No matter what period their character, no matter what accent they try coat over that voice, it's always just, "Oh, it's Sally Field on a surf board. Oh, it's Sally Field down South. Oh, it's Sally Field standing next to Spiderman. Oh, it's Sally Field in a very large dress in the 1860's."  Sorry, Sally Field!  (And, Winona Ryder, who also falls under this curse.) Which means, the Oscar goes to... Anne Hathaway in Les Mis! Anne risks the curse of being the obvious vote, causing voters to cast seemingly safe ballots for the underdogs, giving her an American Idol-style accidental upheaval.  But, c'mon... Have you seen her Fantine?  What a great example of a Disney kid gone right.

Best Supporting Actor: (contenders: Alan Arkin, Argo; Robert DeNiro, Silver Linings Playbook; Phillip Seymour Hoffman, The Master; Tommy Lee Jones, Lincoln; Christoph Walz, Django Unchained.)  Alan Arkin is one of the greatest living actors.  I haven't seen Argo yet, though, so I'm not going to throw him any freebies.  Phillip Seymour Hoffman is your go-to indie guy, but he always seems to creep me out a little.  Acting, or just a natural trait fortunate for his craft? Christoph Walz is our latest imported award season darling, but he had his moment with Inglourious Basterds (my spell check hates that movie title!)... and I haven't caught Django yet, either. No freebies! I'll admit, Tommy Lee Jones had my vote locked after watching him Tommy-Lee-Jones all over the movie Lincoln. But, then I saw Silver Linings Playbook.  It's been so long since I've seen DeNiro play vulnerable, play tearful, play hysterical, play neurotic yet totally unaware of it.  Play real. This may be my vote for favorite DeNiro performance of all time.  In which, he also plays a thief... because he totally stole my vote from Tommy Lee Jones.

Best Actress: (contenders: Jessica Chastain, Zero Dark Thirty; Jennifer Lawrence, Silver Linings Playbook; Emmanuelle Riva, Amour; Quvenzhane' Wallis, Beasts of the Southern Wild; Naomi Watts, The Impossible.) Jessica Chastain is a great actress, but her acting in The Help was superior to what she did with her role in Zero Dark Thirty. If she couldn't pull off the gold for her superior supporting role, I don't think she should get the booby prize in a higher category.  Like, Amy Adams, I really believe Jessica will have her day. Again, just not this Sunday. I didn't see Amour, and sometimes age gets rewarded in itself.  That said, I honestly have a hunch that at least 50% of the Academy voters didn't actually watch every film sent to them.  If my hunch is correct, Ms. Riva (and her film) is out of the running.  It'd be fun to see little Quvenzhane' win, for novelty alone.  Maybe they can dig up a miniature Shirley Temple statuette to, at least, reward her yipping skills. ("BEAST it, Hushpuppy!" "Yip! Yip!") I've been yearning to see The Impossible all award season, but haven't had the chance yet due to its limited release in the Detroit area.  I won't be mad if Naomi wins, because the trailer alone sent my skin to goose-pimpling.  But, my official vote goes to Jennifer Lawrence.  Her "He's harassing me! He's harassing me!" scene alone is sure to be her official Oscar clip.  And, how many people can go toe-to-toe with DeNiro and make it look effortless?

Best Actor: (contenders: Bradley Cooper, Silver Linings Playbook; Daniel Day-Lewis, Lincoln; Hugh Jackman, Les Miserables; Joaquin Phoenix, The Master; Denzel Washington, Flight.)  This category is tearing me up inside!  I'll have to navigate this category by process of elimination.  Flight was released too early for award season, so it's the forgotten choice in all of its categories.  Sorry Denzel!  Joaquin is one of the greatest actors of my generation, but his disdain for awards shows likely causes disdain for the voters who want to reward someone who would actually appreciate a win.  Plus, his small film is likely one of the ones that those 50% of Academy voters didn't bother checking out. Leaving me with the trifecta that is currently giving me new stress lines on my brow.  Ugh!  My three favorite movies of the season and their lead actors that all impressed me with their new levels of talents revealed in 2012.  If I vote with my head, I'd go for Daniel Day-Lewis for doing something that no actor has ever been able to do, and what may never be able to be equally done again.  If I vote with my gut, I'd have to go with Hugh Jackman, who tore my innards to shreds with his portrayal of Jean Valjean.  Every beat, every syllable of his performance, flawless and drenched in raw emotion.  If I vote with my heart, come on...  Bradley Cooper as the emotionally unstable Pat Solitano.  I was left stunned by this, previously untapped, expression of his talent.  Raw, hilarious, emotionally bare... the most unstable character you'll ever find yourself rooting for.  Unhinged, pathetic and, yet at the same time, laser-sharp focused.  (Yes, we know you're contractually obligated to The Hangover III.  But after that, Bradley Cooper, we're now officially expecting more!) Ugh!  My head!  If they were all nominated in separate years, all three performances would be taking home the top prize.  But, since I'm not going with predictions, but my personal choices... I guess I'd have to vote with my heart on this one and go with the underdog.  Go Pat!  Er, uh.. Bradley!  I love that he made me leave the theater thinking, "I didn't know he could do that!"

Best Director: (contenders: Michael Heneke, Amour; Benh Zeitlin, Beasts of the Southern Wild; Ang Lee, Life of Pi; Steven Spielberg, Lincoln; David O. Russell, Silver Linings Playbook.)  Beasts of the Southern Wild was an interesting film full or great imagery and art.  But, way too many up-the-nose shots, which immediately took Benh Zeitlin out of my Best Director running.  (Oh, the little things that turn off a voter!)  I've already expressed my indifference towards Amour. A great film, I gather, but too depressing a subject matter for me to bear watching.  The remaining three all well-deserving in three different ways.  Ang Lee has found so many different ways define his role as film director.  You can't look at The Ice Storm, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Brokeback Mountain and Life of Pi and say, "Oh, that's stylistically so Ang Lee."  In fact, I'll bet many didn't realize that all four of those films even had the same director!  There's something to be said about pushing the limits of what can be done on film.  And so, there's got to be at least a mention for what was cinematically pulled off with this film. (Oops. Did I mention that, after The Impossible, Pi was my second biggest regret for not having seen it in time for awards season.  But, I've seen enough clips to know that there's no way this movie could have been pulled off in lesser hands.)  David O. Russell has certainly proved to have a way with family-strong dramedy that is becoming its own niche in his own rite, finding perfect balance in his ever-careful and tender hands. And, then we have Spielberg.  It's hard for me to go with the obvious choice in this category, but Spielberg is the king of creating Celluloid Wonderland. Largeness and intimacy somehow married together with perfect light.  Perfect color.  Perfect framing.  When Lincoln dons a blanket on his shoulders, I get cold.  When he crawls to the ground to scoop his son up, my knees creak.  On the battlefield I fear the saber, the rifle, the bowie knife.  I cringe in the theater (not this theater, that theater.)  I feel I too have a vote to cast in Congress.  How does he do this?  I don't know and neither do you.  So, we shower him with trophies.

Best Picture: (contenders: Amour, Argo, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, Les Miserables, Life of Pi, Lincoln, Silver Linings Playbook, Zero Dark Thirty.) It's another toss up for my top three here. Les Miserable, Lincoln and Silver Linings Playbook.  I'll be equally satisfied if any of these win.  I'm just glad that 2012 had such high caliber films made that I've actually seen five of the top nominees and ran out of time to try and cram in the rest.  (Usually, I'm not even interested in five nominated titles!) It's nice to enjoy this awards season by having actual favorites to root for. What a great year for movies!  That said, I won't reiterate my praise that's already been mentioned in the categories above. I'll just blurt out the title of the movie I most enjoyed this year and that I'm most anticipating its arrival on DVD, so I can watch it over and over again.  My winner is...  Silver Linings Playbook. 

See you on the couch Sunday!

Fifteen Below

When I woke up this morning, the temperature with wind chill was fifteen degrees below zero.  This would cause most people to shudder and shrill with fear.  But, us Michiganders just head to the closet, pick out the extra layers, and resign to the fact that there will be a larger load of laundry this week.

There are some advantages to below freezing temps, however:

• You can grocery shop on your lunch break and not worry about leaving the frozen foods in the car.
• The dinner rolls you left in the car may be feesibly used as weapons if you're mugged in the parking lot later that night.
• You can seem really tough to your friends in warm climates when they complain about their 50 degrees on Facebook.
• You can finally take a short-cut across that pesky lake/pond/stream.
• The extra support from wearing two pairs of pants seems to relieve arthritis.
• You don't mind going upstairs at work for---otherwise pointless---corporate meetings. (Heat rises!)  I had one today.  Can't tell you what was on the agenda, but the second pair of pants were less of a necessity up there. Ahhhh...
• If you cross paths outdoors with a guy in a ski mask, you can jokingly say, "Don't rob me!" (mock-throwing up you hands, with a smile on your face.) This will catch him off guard just in case he was really going to.  If it turns out he's just cold, he'll simply think you're hilarious. Win, win!
• The outdoor crime rate drops tremendously.  Even gang-bangers would rather be indoors watching cable in this weather.
• If someone were to shoot at you, the gale force winds would probably redirect the bullets.
• Last but not least... the weather announcement the local news channel coined, "Cuddle Alert!"  (You're kids too old to snuggle these days?  Bet they're not too old to combat hypothermia!)

Cash reward, divided by three... carry the one, equals...

Alright, I do have one one last bonus bulletpoint:  Brought to you by my six-year-old nephew who simutaneously spotted an ice-fisherman and an Ice Rescue Station this weekend.  As I used the fisherman as an example to explain what each tool in the station was for, his major concern---were we to save the guy's life---was "What do we get?"  "You get to have saved a human life!"  "No, Kimmy... What will they GIVE us?"

Keep your eyes open.  There may be gold in them there fishin' holes for yer!  Stay cool.  Keep warm.  Bring your dogs inside.

Zero Dark Thirty

Ticked another Best Picture nominee off my list today.  Kathryn Bigelow's, long-awaited by me, Zero Dark Thirty.

Before I get to my review, however, here's a play-by-play of the equally entertaining pre-show.

(Scroll past asterisks if you just can't wait for it.)

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

I, par for my reputation, stood in the shortest but slowest line for my ticket and popcorn.  Salted my purchase, hoarded a  sapling's worth of napkins and entered Theater Two, only to discover I had my pick of the completely uninhabited seats.  I chose a non-sticky one on the aisle about mid-deep and settled in.  

Shortly after, I hear two or three younger male voices settle in towards the back.  Five minutes later, hear an usher's voice asking to review ticket stubs.

He peruses the first stub, "Are you at least seventeen?"  I hear a, "No," answered back.  (Since when did teenagers lose their ability to lie?)  "You can't be in here without an adult if you're under the age of seventeen."  This conversation repeats itself twice more and I find myself alone again.  (Strangely enough, I had pulled my ticket as well, but nobody bothered checking it.  Or, my age for that matter.  Hmph!) 

Well, the act of pulling out my stub out led me to realize that the movie was to start at 2:40, not 2:20.  Geezo Petes!  I ventured to the lobby restroom to kill a little time and empty up for the 2.5 hour trip that has now become a 2.83 hour one.  Reentered Theater Two to discover the company of about eight or nine more patrons.

The most vocal of which had parked themselves across the aisle from where I'd left my coat.  A duo of eighty-ish white haired birdies, LOUDLY conversing about who has the better ear doctor.  "No, Gladys.  I go to the one on Inskster and Northwestern.  Don't you know EVERYBODY goes to that one!"  

Gladys: "Well, I have an appointment Wednesday at Dr. Shaeffer's."  

Gladys's friend:  "Everybody goes to my doctor.  My daughter had the Meniere's Disease. She's deaf now in one ear. Completely deaf!  And, Bob wears a hearing aid.  My mother did too.  Not that it runs in the family..."

Gladys: "Well, it DOES run in your family.  You don't hear well either!  So, what does your daughter do with her ear.  Wear a hearing aid?"

Gladys's friend: "No, Gladys!  She is completely deaf!  A hearing aid won't fix that.  You can't fix deaf.  And, YOU have hearing problems too!"

Gladys: "Well, we'll see about that on Wednesday."  (I then silently awarded the prize for Best Ear Doctor to neither's.)

Through the previews Gladys's friend delighted in the appearance of Robert Downey Jr., "Ooh. The Iron Man!"  As the feature begins, "Now, here we go!  This is history, Gladys!  You pay good attention!"  When the film snapped five minutes into it, Gladys got anxious. "What do we do?"  Her friend assured her, "Just sit here.  We'll let the people who got up figure it out.  The worst that will happen is they refund our money."  A mere 60 seconds passed before the movie was up and running again. 

I quickly absorbed into the story and nearly forgot Gladys's presence... but, was reminded once again during a water-boarding scene. "This is true, Gladys!  This really happened! This is what that Dick Cheney was all into..."  Sigh.

Now, onto what you all clicked this link to really read:  My review.

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

I had read Mark Owen's No Easy Day last year immediately following its release.  This left me with an insatiable appetite to see the story set to film.

"Mark Owen" being the alias of one of the Seal Team Six members who penned the account of his early military life, leading into his career as a Navy Seal and ultimately into a play-by-play of the Bin Laden assassination. His rigorous training, camaraderie with military brothers, and the gut-wrenching danger of his many famous missions, controversially, all laid out to bare in this unique and riveting memoir.

I couldn't wait to see what Hollywood would do with an action-packed Seal-perspective version of the mission.  

But, in Owen's story there is a female CIA officer.  The one whose tireless work unearthed Public Enemy #1's location.  The one whose entire career was focused solely on this mission.  As I read, I thought to myself, "If they ever make No Easy Day into a movie, boy are they going to glam up this role and give it the Angelina Jolie treatment!"

But, they didn't make the No Easy Day movie.  Enter Kathryn Bigleow, Jessica Chastain and Zero Dark Thirty.  

There's nothing modern Hollywood loves more than a tough-as-nails heroine with a potty mouth that holds its own against any barking man in uniform. They took this character and ran with it.  But, this character isn't necessarily the one whose day-to-day work life you're dying to be a fly on the wall of.

The film wades through two full hours of CIA investigating and red tape before the final half hour of the actual mission.  Yes, this is the female lead's story.  She's not the one climbing mountains, offing bad guys in their sleep and zip-lining out of helicopters day into night, night into day.  She sits at a computer.  She has conference meetings.  She makes phone calls and performs interviews.  As far as what her story has to offer, Bigelow did it well.

By the time fictionalized Seals finally grace the screen, maybe thirty minutes before the movie's end, they come off almost puppy-like.  One Golden Retriever, one Shepherd, one Pit Bull, you name it.  All breeds represented.  Nothing but muscle and machine.  Big, brawny dummies.  Thick as boards, cocky and  licensed to kill.

The details of the military side of the mission and its preparations were just breezed past without care or explanation.  I wanted to start shouting out extra information I learned from the book to help the audience better understand.  "They built an entire replica of the compound for training! Complete with doors that swung in or out the right way", "That's just the perimeter gate they're at!  There's more door explosions to come", "That team was supposed to enter from the roof!",  "That was the courier they just shot!", "They thought the women would be wearing suicide vests. That's why they said that!",  "Nope!  That's just the brother!  Just you wait!", "They pulled DNA from the body too, you know.  Not just digital pics!", etc., etc., etc.

But, alas, Hollywood never did cherish its military as much as it did its spies.

I still think No Easy Day would have been the more interesting take on the assassination.  But, now that this version is out---and has even stolen bits of the book's dialogue---I doubt we'll see that day come.

Kathryn Bigelow is a wonderful director. The film is well-acted (at times, over-acted.)  And, the cinematography brilliantly finds beauty in otherwise unbeautiful locations.  

Is it worthy of its nominations?  Sure.  But, if you're anything like me, you may want to see Zero Dark Thirty first and then read Mark Owen's story to fill in the missing pieces.  You'll save yourself some frustration that way.

As for Gladys and her friend?  I can't tell you what they thought.  The ladies were finally stone silent by the time the credits rolled.  This could be a sign of awe.  Or, confusion.  Or, simply the midst of an elderly person's afternoon nap.

2013: Resolute

New Year's resolutions... Who's made them this year?

I don't make a habit of the annual tradition.  Every now and then I'll take the oath.  Life was in a bit of a tailspin last year, so I did it.

This year is starting much more on track, however.  So, rather than vowing any vows myself, I thought I'd assign a few resolutions to others instead.

Facebook friends:  I resolve, on your behalf, to give me one day's newsfeed free of gun control debate.  Pro, con... doesn't matter.  I'm simply asking for one day that my newsfeed remains entirely amusement only. 

Rihanna: Disable your Twitter account.  There's this thing called "oversharing" and it will haunt you twenty years from now.

Lindsay Lohan: Take what's left of your money and go to college.  Night school, not university.  No dorms, no parties.  Surround yourself with books and learning.  Converse only with the sober.  Avoid the camera lens with the determination of the Amish and the strength of an aborigine.  Shun your family.  Take one year to look at others without forcing them to look at you.

Psy:  Remember William Hung?  Us neither.  Count your money while following his footsteps.

Young Hollywood:  Film-makers and stars: You're funny without the "shock".  You can be provacative without the vulgar.  And, newsflash!  The f-word is not an adjective, it is a verb.  Using it 50 times per film in its unintended tense does not a comic make.  Be smart.  On your behalf, I resolve one PG film from Judd Apatow, Seth MacFarlane, Paul Rudd, Jonah Hill and Seth Rogan apiece.  Consider yourself challenged.  It will be the best work of your life!

Claire Danes: Just for kicks... a comedy.  I dare you!

Boo Boo Family (That's Honey's last name, right?): She's getting taller, older, less cute-little-princessy... Come up with a game plan. Stat!

Taylor Swift: For you, I resolve a one year dating fast.  There's a world of music beyond break-up songs.  And, I'm beginning to think a secret society's been created by the young men who've served as muse.  (Joe Jonas to Jon Mayer, "Only one song, John! Pfft.  I was inspiration enough for three!")  You're young,  talented, rich and beautiful. Best yet... for a star of your age, your reputation is still pretty much intact.  (For now.)  Be free!  Be otherwise inspired!

Glee: Spin off the New York storyline as was originally intended.  It's good, but it's different and needs its own vehicle.  The college scenes are draining the color, vibrancy and spunk out of the high school ones.  And, when did Glee suddenly become a small screen version of Center Stage?  More singing less dance class, please!

Bakers:  Find a new trend.  We already had cake, cupcakes, mini cupcakes, ice cream cake, cake with fruit, cake with filling and cakes unnaturally shellacked in fondant.  There was never really a need for cake pops, was there?

Zombies:  Die already!  Again.

.

Mother Nature: A little tenderness this year?

Les Miserables

I had the pleasure of enjoying the new film version of Les Miserables this evening.  I first fell in love with its music during preparations for a high school Broadway-themed choir concert.  After years of dormancy, that stirring of amore visited my heart this evening, once more, and continued to stir... up through the chest, squeezing the larynx, all the way into my skull.  With nowhere left to journey, all of that deep affection proceeded to pour out of my eyeballs.  For hours.  In public!  

I'm not sure how I maintained hydration during this multiple-hour sobbing jag.  Maybe the extra salty popcorn played its part somehow.  Other characters in my lovefest were my fellow theater patrons, sobbing and nose-honking right along side of me.  In front and behind.  (This excludes the man in the Adidas track pants sitting closest to my left; apparently dragged there by his wife and whom disturbingly escaped to the bathroom multiple times. I won't judge though.  Maybe he just needed to cry in private?)

If the audience were my fellow characters, this leaves the stars of my lovefest to be the stars of the amazing film.  Hugh Jackman (Talent and voice beyond unreal!)  Anne Hathaway (Broke my heart!)  Russell Crowe (Hate that character, so you're doing your job!)  Samantha Barks (Every girl's been an Eponine at least once in her life. Thanks for the memories!)  Eddie Redmayne as Marius (So noble and sweet.)  Amanda Seyfried (Who knew Karen from Mean Girls was a flawless soprano?)  Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter as the nasty Master and Madame of the House (Mary and Joseph won't be staying at your inn!)  And, Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche (Breaking whatever puny parts of my heart were left after Annie Hathaway got through with it!)

All my praise and all of the film and its makers' Oscar-worthiness aside, this would not be a proper blog post if I didn't mention of few slight observations.

• The French, in musical form, sound a heck of alot like Cockney Brits.
• Love-at-first-sight seems somehow believable when pronounced in song.  (Silly, but more believable in Les Mis, than in, say... West Side Story. Gag, Maria.  You hussy!)
• After witnessing Sasha Baron Cohen's brilliant performance as Thenardiers, I will be deeply disappointed if he ever goes back to playing any of his guerrilla comedy characters.  I don't care if you're offered one billion dollars for a Borat sequel, Mr. Cohen!  We've now seen what you can do.  Take that offer and squash it in your meat grinder!  If not, I vow a plague on both you houses.  (Yes, both.  Helena, that means you, too.  I now appoint you Sasha's keeper!)
• Speaking of Helena... I applaud her subtle staccato pronouncing of the lyric, "sh*t."  In every other performance I'd ever heard of "Master of the House", the Madame Thenardiers always over-emphasises the "sh*t".  As if to say, "SH*T!  Do you hear me in the back row?  I said sh*t and I said it loud.  I sang it even!  How often do you get to sing 'sh*t' on stage? ♫SH*T♫!!!"  Thanks for your restraint Ms. Carter.
• Speaking once again of Helena Bonham Carter... talk about perfect casting!  If anyone else had been chosen for the role, I would have thrown pie at the screen.
• Hugh Jackman's tongue looks to be especially slippery.  Seriously!  With all of those tight shots and wide-mouthed singing I observed not one taste bud.  I knew he couldn't possibly be human!
• SPOILER ALERT: Was that sound effect really necessary in Russell Crowe's final scene?  Those who've already seen it... you know what I'm talking about.
• Dear Fantine, who knew a bad last haircut in life would be deemed permanent for all of eternity.  Here's to hoping hair grows much faster in the afterlife!
• My next charitable donation will be floss and Whitestrips to the nation of France.
• I feel I've learned more about French history in this three-hour period of fiction than in years of schooling.  Boy, I hope this knowledge is historically accurate or I'm gonna look like an absolute dummy next round of Trivial Pursuit.
• I've never in my life used more restraint to not burst out singing in song.  Maybe in twenty years there will be "bouncing ball" sing-along midnight showings of the flick.  Then again, these brilliant performances do not need an untrained audience drowning them out. 

On this page I will now write my last confession:  My tear ducts are officially in working order.  But, I guess you've probably gathered that by now. 

(P.S. If you're looking for me this Oscar night, I'll be in front of the tube---extra-salty popcorn in bowl---cheering on the stars of my lovefest.)

Lincoln

I just returned from seeing the critically lauded new biopic about our sweet sixteenth (president, that is) and am riding the goose-pimply emotional swell of seeing and hearing a good story told well.

This is not a movie review, however... although the pic is sure to see Academy nominations for Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Actor (Daniel Day-Lewis), Actress (Sally Field), Supporting Actor (Tommy Lee Jones) and maybe even a long shot Supporting Actor nom for the very entertaining James Spader.  Not to mention, Best Costuming and a slew of technical nods, as well.  But, this is not a review!  (Although, I must also note: At 180 minutes, empty your bladders before or during the previews, because there are no boring lulls in the film to designate as a potty break.)

No, this blog entry is designated to that 10-15 minute adjustment it took for me to adapt to the fact that Abraham Lincoln was appearing before me in motion and speaking.

You'll hear Daniel Day-Lewis's voice speaking as Lincoln moments before the camera pans to his wonderful and accurately made-up face.  And, it's quite the unexpected jolt!  I don't know how the actor chose the voice he decided to use to represent our 16th president, but it's definitely not as booming and authoritative as I obviously must have expected.

Then he moved.  Which is also quite a startle.  For all of our lives, we've seen Abraham Lincoln as still life.  Faded and photographed, sketched, oil-painted, crumpled up on our five dollar bills and frozen in marble for all of eternity at the foot of our capital's reflecting pool.

But, for the first time in our lifetime, he moves.  He ambles rigidly, clumsily, oddly moose-like.  He folds his stature practically in half and creakily crawls across the floor.

I watched, amazed.  I'm not sure what I had expected to see.  I'm not sure if Day-Lewis's choices in tone and cadence were artistic choices or historical fact.

Then it dawned on me!  My generation's ideals of this president's motion, voice and natural demeanor weren't based on film or recordings... the technology didn't exist in his time.  We're familiar with his face and stature from the aforementioned photographs and artwork we've familiarized ourselves with over time.  We're comfortable and confident in the depiction of his looks.

But, the only reference we've had to his speech and his movement, up until the release of this marvelous film came in the form of a Disney animatronic.

Ha, yes!  Mystery solved!  Hopefully, you may now spare yourselves the jolt at the theater.  Besides, it only took about 15 minutes for the unfamiliarity to pass.  Go see Lincoln, cheer on the 13th Amendment and enjoy!

Shopping While Hungry

If there's one thing I'll never learn my lesson about, it's going grocery shopping while hungry. 

I usually stick to the micro "grocery store" located in my local Target for weekly trips.  Once a month I'll drag my feet to an actual grocery chain to stock up on the remainders on my list that Target doesn't carry (Whole Grain Pringles, meat... fresh fruit if I'm feeling health-conscious.)  Every now and again I'll stumble into the super-mega-gigantico store located seconds from my office and get lost for days among the abundant selection of pasta, Pop-Tarts and frozen meals.  And, I usually tend to do this around dinner time when everything looks especially delicious and as absolute necessities to be added to my fridge.

I actually landed home in my kitchen with three different varieties of granola bars last night!  Sorry, make that six varieties, three different brands.  I don't even think Target carries six different granola types, so I have no choice but to experiment when given the fleeting chance.  Right?

Well, when finding yourself not quite lost but wandering though the fluorescent lit aisles of a super-mega-gigantico chain, you're all but forced to people-watch as well as make obscene purchases.  Like it or not, in order to get to the granola aisle you must first wade through a sea of super-mega-gigantico shoppers.

My first memorable encounter cut me off in the dishware aisle.  (Hey, I needed a cup!)  It was a teenage daughter whining at breakneck speeds to her mother about her best goodest friend that had the nerve to not confide in her about some issue I couldn't catch before they rounded the next corner.  My wish was not granted as I crossed them again, "She couldn't tell me this, but she could tell the lunch lady?!?"  And, again, "The lunch lady is more important confidante than ME?!?"  And, again, "THE LUNCHLADY, Mom???!!!" for the next four aisles.

I began to share the same forward-glazed stare of her poor mother, quietly tolerate, but offering no insight to her daughter's woes as she pushed her cart solemnly up and down each aisle at a robotic death march pace.  The only difference was that, on my end, I could escape to the dairy aisle and poor mother could not.  In her shoes I might have piped in with the suggestion that maybe Best Goodest Friend was simply defining her right not to have her business broadcast across the local super-mega-gigantico store.  But, I think poor mother's only take on this was a deep-seated yen to trade places with the lunchlady, if only for the moment.

The dairy aisle alerted me to an egg thief on premises.  I had to open three cartons to find one with all egg slots full!  I only can hope the burgled eggs found their way to a hungry child's stomach and not to the windshield of my SUV parked out front.

It was around the breakfast aisle I came across the annoying sound of human whistling.  Bird whistling is fine in my book.  Even children's whistling I can live with.  But, the sound of a grown man forcing spittle through his lips and out into the inhaled oxygen of the general public is just a pet peeve I rank right up there with nails on a chalkboard.  Don't argue with me that it's a sound of jolliness.  Any jolly spirit-choosing-to-whistle's jolliness is negated by the robbery of the audience's jolly.  (Got that?!)

Even more annoying than the general whistling, was the chosen tune!  It was a repetitive loop of what started out to be the Jeopardy theme song and ended up segueing into the first two lines of "Deck the Halls."  He'd seemingly forget the next lines, pause for twenty seconds and then launch back into The Jeopardy theme... wait for it, wait for it... oops it's Deck the Halls again!

This went on through my insane granola purchase and then four subsequent aisles of frozen food.  By aisle three, the peeve-ranking got raised a notch when the small child in the seat of Whistler's cart started chanting "Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi!" into his face.  Whistler just kept on whistling as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had, at some point in his life, procreated.  'Tis the season to be jolly... "Hi. Hi. Hi! Hi!"  This may have been the only word the young one had learned so far in his short life. But, I'm pretty sure it could be interpreted as, "Hi Dad!  Remember me?  I'm that kid that loves you and I'm twenty-four inches from your face.  Do you see me down here?  Hi!  I think I've inhaled just about the right amount of your spittle for now.  Thanks for the jolly tune!  Hi."

By the time I exited the frozen section, I was pretty much done.  I had just the bread aisle to go as I gazed into the trappings of my cart.  Holy smokes!  This is just food for one?!  I had visions of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman taunting, "Big mistake!  HUGE!"  But, instead of holding Gucci bags up in the air, I had processed cheese, real cheese and cheese by-products (...if those exist.  Do they?  If they do, they were in my cart.  "HUGE!")  I even ended up with a frozen ham and cheese sandwich that comes with it own small vat of cheese dipping sauce.  Yes, I'd even selected cheese that you heat up and dip into more cheese!

This is the point where you're supposed to come to your senses and start dropping things in the candy and magazine racks that are conveniently located near the checkout for the purpose of discarding unnecessary items.  But, nope, I was still hungry, it all still looked delicious and every thing ended up on the conveyor belt.  Three brands of granola bars in six varieties, cheese sandwiches you dip in cheese and all!

I didn't let the cashier boy (who made very clear in body language and facial expression that I had ruined his day by choosing his register) ruin my food booty high.  I even helped him bag my purchase.  Then I drove right home, nuked a frozen mushroom burger (with Swiss!) and proceeded to have a slightly severe bout of indigestion for the next 24 hours.  That's where a trip to the super-mega-gigantico store will get you!

You'll find me at Target next week.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Here in Detroit, we are not watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this morning.  No, no.  Currently my television channel is set to the local NBC affiliate that is airing Detroit's own America's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Yes, as humble and decrepit as our city may seem to the rest of the country... back off!  Today is Thanksgiving and we have our own parade and our very own football game too.

Living in the metropolis surrounding a core city that's experienced such loss (money, leadership, neighborhoods, Boblo Island!) there's alot that economics can't take away from metro-Detroiters; our spirit, hometown loyalty and traditions.

The parade lives on and is my background commotion this morning as it has been every Thanksgiving in the past thirty-eight years.

In our childhood home the parade would be viewed in the living room.  A quartet of kids, cozy in pajamas, crunching on Cocoa Puffs and hearing the clank of preparations in the next room.  Mom would be rifling through pots and pans and going through her methodical preparations:  Crisco-ing the turkey, lining up the boxes and cans of sides, ironing the good tablecloth and waiting on the electric double oven to heat.  Meanwhile, we kids remained nearby but out of the way.  The Detroit parade, its marching bands and mega balloons being the perfect distraction.

One year, I distinctly recall a local reporter dropping an expletive during the live broadcast.  A giant balloon of an adorable puppy was being commandeered down the street by its bundled-up handlers.  The female reporter, who either was imbibing in holiday spirits a little too early in the day or simply didn't realize that her mic was still live, remarked to her co-host, "Could you imagine if that thing took a *bleep* on your carpet?!"  (only without the censoring bleep!) My eyes went large and my stomach went sour.  That was a word I knew we weren't allowed to use and I wasn't sure I was even supposed to know of its existence!  I peripherally checked my siblings and not a flicker, not a comment.  I don't know if the slip had missed them or if they too were sitting wide-eyed in disbelief.  The purity of my holiday was soured for a moment.  This was not a holiday memory I ever wanted to cherish... but, here I sit with that annual remembering creeping up as tradition.

Eventually Santa would end the local parade and we'd take turns cranking through the six local channels to find more Thanksgiving fun.  Usually another of the major networks would be airing a medley of parades from across the country. They would swap coverage from New York to Hawaii to L.A. to even brief footage from our own humble parade.  It was always odd to see sun and palm trees mixed with turkey celebrations.  We locals associate the November holiday with cold, sometimes wet, sometimes crisp and sometimes snow!  Coconut-shelled hula dancers were always an odd mix in the variety of footage seen that day, but it became tradition too.

At some point we'd be urged out of our flannels and into our clothing.  And, about the time the scent of turkey would start to waft it would be time for the kids in the living room to turn the channel to Charlie Brown. 

Now, for some reason in the mid-eighties, they didn't air the Peanuts Thanksgiving special on Thanksgiving Day.  In the era before 24-hour holiday viewing on cable networks, you could only catch these specials once a year.  Charlie's holiday of popcorn, lawn chairs and toast would be aired an evening or two before the holiday itself.  On Thanksgiving Day, for some reason, the chosen mid-afternoon programming became Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown!  Yep, the special where Charlie, Linus, Peppermint Patty and crew somehow got involved in a water rapids race while away at summer camp.  The Peanuts had to battle the typical camp trials including the navigation of confusing military time, missed buses, nature's elements, Charlie Brown's ineptness and a gaggle of bullies which, of course, included an evil brown cat.  It was never my favorite Peanuts special, but with only six channels to contend with and most other p.m. coverage designated to the NFL, Race for Your Life became a part of our tradition as well.

Around the time the scent of turkey was joined by the additional aromas of rolls and pie, was the time we started crayoning out place settings and watching out the family room picture window for the arrival of grandparents and cousins.  Most major holidays were celebrated with my mom's side of the family.  Thanksgiving would include Lion's football on the tube for the men, a (weather-permitting) half-hazard round of touch football in the yard for the kids and who-knows-what for the ladies because we ran off and left them trickling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room.

Dinner always (and pretty much still) consisted of turkey (which my older cousin would always try to convince me was chicken, so I'd stop making gag-faces and try it), gravy, Stove Top stuffing, Hungry Jack's mashed potatoes, corn, canned cranberry sauce ("the red stuff"), some kind of pistachio dish my grandma would always make ("the green stuff"), sweet potatoes ("the stuff with the marshmallows in it") and heaping piles of split-top rolls.  Dessert was always an assortment of pies, pumpkin always present, and us kids trying to swipe mouthfuls of whipped cream, sans pie.  There is also a birthday cake for my grandmother who's birthday falls on the 25th.

After the carb-load someone would always fall asleep (one or two of the men), the women would sit chattering at the table and us kids would run off and play and/or try to spy on what the women were talking about (and maybe still be trying to swipe the whipped cream.)

Thanksgiving now rotates between venues with basically the same crowd; only now with the addition of spouses and new cousins/great-grandchildren/nieces and nephews (titles dependant on which branch of the family tree you reside.)  We thankfully still celebrate Grandma's special day along with the holiday (Her 93rd, this year!)  The company of my last-living grandparent I still cherish along with the fact that the rest of the family still shares love and company with one another after all these years.  God and is as good to us and he was decades ago, despite lifes ups and downs.  And, the comfort of the parade currently broadcasting in the background is one more way that I'm assured that home is home.

Election 2012

Only eighty hours until "No More Political Ads" Day!  For this, I am grateful.

 

The last presidential election nearly gave me a stroke.  They say there is no physical indicator of an increase in blood pressure, but I'm sure the months-long burning in my ears could refute that claim soundly.  This combined with the emitted steam and their blinking red hue, well... let's just say I spent the Fall of 2008 resembling a Donald Duck cartoon from the neck up.  The tips of my ears managed to develop a pulse of their own separate from the rest of my body and I could evaporate falling snow just by walking through it.

 

Thankfully, I've either matured or gotten lazy in the following years and the only body part that's developed its own pulse this election season is the pimple that claimed squatter's rights on my right temple a week ago and refuses to evict.  Even this, due more to dairy than political furor.

 

I'm the kind of voter every election campaign loathes.  I'm a devoted American, but mistrustful of government.  I'm an active citizen who hates politics.  I'm a moral person who realizes that I can still be the same, no matter who is in office and what becomes law.  The reason campaigners hesitate at my kinds' doors is because people like me don't see the world in black or white (or red and blue, I should say.)

 

My kind isn't swayed by attack ads.  We don't stress over which hospital on which continent people were born.  We're not impressed that we've received robo-calls from both Bill Clinton and Clint Eastwood (though, we might be mildly amused.) We don't think either candidate is pure good or full-on evil.  We won't hand someone a career of national control because we happen to agree upon one social issue.  We don't judge a whole being based on one thing that fell through the cracks during their career, the joint they smoked in high school, the domestic skills of their spouses or who their daughters might be sleeping with.  And, we certainly don't want to be constantly told why we shouldn't be voting for the other guy.  Why should we vote for you?

 

There's a certain type of person that chooses politics as their career and those are the people we must elect from.  Mother Theresa never ran for government.  We won't see "Jesus Christ" printed on the ballot.  So there you go.  Deal.  Perfection is not an option, so quit expecting people to vote based of that specification or implying that it's even a possibility.

That said, it's time to get a few things straight:

Contrary to your Facebook posts; I am not an idiot, racist, war-monger, disillusioned pacifist, moron or R-word-that-we-don't-use-in-our-house if I don't punch the same chad as you on Tuesday.  You calling me those names will not shame me into changing my vote. (Because, that's your intention, right?)

I am not prejudice if I choose red and I am not sinful if I choose blue.  My vote does not count any less because there are no signs in my front yard.  (Lawn signs don't sway voters, by the way... they're just calling cards so teenagers know which houses to egg and neighbors know who they might want at their next barbecue.)  I'm not uninvolved because I'm not shouting my vote from rooftops and I'm not staying quiet out of shame either.  I have my convictions, you have yours.  My opinion shouldn't be regarded any higher or lower than yours; or yours than mine.

Contrary to the television and radio ads, when I vote on the local proposals I'm not choosing between children and bureaucrats (as one ad suggests.)  I'm not voting for things in opposition to particular vocations or lifestyles.  I'm not voting against ideas that  can't be further tweaked, improved upon and voted on again.  The people making these ads are doing so because they're paid to.  Not, because they understand the issues inside and out from both sides.

Contrary to the weight we like to put on the position of the presidency, I'm responsible for researching my local congress and senate candidates as well. When people get mad at the president, it's usually over something that's being bickered about in one of those other large white buildings in Washington.

Most importantly, this is not the Super Bowl.  No matter what the outcome on Tuesday, promise me this: Don't cry.  Don't brag.  Don't taunt.  Don't loot.  Don't crumble into a heaping mess.  Don't move to Canada (because that's just the dumbest threat ever... unless you actually have family there.  Then you can go.)  Don't kick your neighbor's dog.  Don't relieve yourself on passing cars.  Don't call people names.  Don't type your Facebook posts in all caps.  And, please, no fanny-wagging!

Believe it or not, whatever happens on Tuesday is not the end or salvation of the world.  Move yourself forward.  Propel and be the president of your own life.  No one in Washington is in charge of who you can be.  Continue to be a good citizen, neighbor, family member and friend.  We're just hiring someone for a temp job, for goodness sakes.  Get a grip!  Slap on that blood pressure cuff, vote and then breeaaaattthhe...  We'll have to do it all again in four more years.

Silence Isn't Golden

 

The rear speakers in my car blew out a few weeks ago. I came to this conclusion when instead of hearing the classic rock stylings of Detroit's WCSX on my ride home from work, "psst-psst-psst- SQQQQQQQUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ooooooooohhh-sssQQQQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooohh-SQQQQQQUUUEEEEEE...ffffft-ffffft-fffffft... POP!" was heard in its place.

You know? That high-pitched bad frequency feedback you hear at every amateur rock show each time the novice guitar player wanders out in front of his amp, "SSQQQQQUUUEEE-OOOHH!", then looks around confusedly like, "Dude, what was that noise? Where is it coming from?"

Well, that was my ride home the other week. For twenty minutes straight. With the radio turned OFF. My ears rang for days. DAYS, I tell you!

I had to beg my father to drop his fork full of dinner, calling from my cell phone in the driveway, "Please come out and disconnect this thing! I can't take it! The noise!" He came outside and we went through the same, "What noise?" conversation that takes place every time he's called out to my car. (Too many amateur rock shows in his day?)

There were some perks to losing the rear speakers though. When toting a carload of kids around town the following weekend and having a song arise that's totally their jam; their "Turn it up! Turn it up!" pleas were easily squashed by my, "Oh, so sorry, Karlie Rae Jepsen. The rear speakers are blown. This is as loud as it goes." (Volume turned down to three.)

But, then madness happened on today's morning drive. I usually have the Christian radio station on in the mornings, setting my mind and spirit in place for the coming day. When I started off my drive they were taking calls from listeners, "My life... ppppfffftttt...that bridge...p-ppt-pfftt-ppt...my family is in... Ptt-[silence]-pttp...sooo low...ptt..." "Wow! What a sto...ptt-[silence] Let's lift up... pfftt... in prayer.. Ptt-[silence]-[silence]-[silence]..."   Augh!

Now the front speakers! In my mind there was some depressed soul out there dangling from the side of the Ambassador Bridge and my curiosity couldn't be any further fed. I convinced myself the word "bridge" I'd heard was just part of some analogy I'd missed in between the sputters and silence, but said a "Please help whoever that was with whatever that was all about..." prayer (almost verbatim) just in case.

By lunch, the front speakers were useless and the radio could only be heard from the radio itself. This reminded me of the transistor hand radio I had in the early eighties.  A vintage sound.  Better than nothing!

By the five o'clock rush hour commute, even that had evolved into "Here I am... [silence]... again. ♫ Here I... [silence]... the stage. ♫ [silence]" That's it! I threw in the towel and the radio went off. Twenty minutes of silence can't be that bad. Stereos aren't a necessity. It could have been the engine to die. It could have been the transmission.

Silence isn't so quiet though. The first thing I noticed, without having music to distract me, was the squeaking of my seat every time stopping and going caused the slightest shift in my body. Red light. Squeak. Green light. Squeak. Right turn. Squeak squeak. I spent the next quarter-hour wondering if I had recently gained weight.

I briefly tried to make my own music. For some reason a medley from Les Miserables was all that came to mind and mouth. It took very few stanzas to realize that my own voice wasn't something worth listening without a full set of speakers and a pro on the cd player to drown me out.

The squeaking of the driver's seat then met the harmony of the pinging of invisible debris being flung at my windshield. I didn't see a thing, but every few feet was met with, ping! Ping. Ping! Ping. Dust particles? Microscopic insects? Gravel shavings? Is it possible to hear glass settle?

The "quiet" of the red light of my final left turn caused me to notice dozens of birds up on a wire.  I'd never noticed them up there before, but they are likely to be sitting there every evening like thirty little dots all in a row. I'd never noticed them chirping before. I'd never noticed them actually interacting either. One bird kicking the other to his left like a bratty little brother. This made me laugh and almost hear the next sound of my drive. I preempted the honk that was sure to be coming my way as the light turned green and I was still gazing skyward.

The last sound of my evening was the pop of my speakers' last dying gasps. "Remember us! *pop* Make sure our story lives on... *pfft!*" And so, it has.

I may never adjust to the sound of silence before my budget affords a new sound system for the car. But, at least I managed to honor a deathbed promise. *pop!* [silence]

Search Me

 

Visiting my blog stats page can be amusing from time to time.  Especially when perusing the search key words people have used to find (unwittingly or not) An Aunt's Life.

Here's some very true examples:

• "coldplay glow in the dark"
• "coldplay glowing in the dark"
• "cartoon candy shop"
• "the glee project down syndrome boy"
• "melchior de hondecoeter"
• "la zoo carousel figure chart" (huh?)
• "mob wife aunt"
• "jack the pumpkin king standing in front..."
• "casey mr dressup"
• "gabby douglas's hair"
• "is santa bad?"
• "hilary duff horse teeth"

and my personal favorite

• "peeing underwater"

However, you found me---accidentally or on purpose---you've helped An Aunt's Life reach over three thousand hits this past month.

Thanks for coming!  (Psst... And, next time auntslife.blogspot.com will get you here just as efficiently.)

Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!