the Cars liveblog

"It's fun. Fun, fun, fun. It's triple fun." --Older sister, ostensibly referring to the Pixar film Cars.

On a sunny Monday evening, I'm being politely coerced to watch Cars, which, along with Monsters, Inc., I have not yet seen in its entirety.

Because the film is fresh to me, and because the experience of watching a film with family members is usually more entertaining than the film itself, I'm going to liveblog it. If you are still reading, remember: no one has politely coerced you.

6:48 p.m.
The downstairs den is meditatively quiet. Dad and I are the only ones in the den, waiting, with the DVD paused at the outset, waiting for the rest of the gang to tromp downstairs, presumably with Nanaimo bars and coffee.

6:51
Bro-in-law arrives with the Nanaimo bars. Womenfolk still upstairs.

6:55
"Here's your coffee cup, You Are Very Special To Me."

6:57
Why does Mom like the movie? "It's a clean cut movie and it's cute. There's nothing bad in it."

6:59
When I think anthropomorphic cars, I think Chevron. Is this because Chevron coopted the concept from this film, or vice versa?

7:01
Which one will take the Piston Cup? "It's like the LeBron James free agency."

"I love that his grill looks like a mustache."

7:03
Car-on-car violence is still violence.

7:09
Other NASCAR-themed films I haven't yet seen: Talladega Nights, Days of Thunder, and Oh my goodness, I think those cars just flashed Lightning.

7:10
Mom, these adult jokes aren't exactly subtle. Sorry to burst your bubble.

7:14
Rascal Flatts makes roadkill of "Life is a Highway."

7:20
Now I know why we're watching this: because stereotypes are funny when they have radiators.

7:34
"Luigi follow only the Ferraris." I rest my case.

7:42
John Donne meets the Tortoise and the Hare. That's the movie.

7:47
I will say this: the choice of Owen Wilson to play the Supreme Jerkface lead was... inspired. No one else is as easily loathed.

7:50
Sally Carrera, it is revealed, has a lower back tattoo. (I'd use the vernacular, but this is a family blog.)

7:55
"Who knew that cars had so much heart? We've got to name Mom and Dad's Grand Marquis. We could call it Marky Mark... or.... Keister."

8:04

"He won three Piston Cups!"
"He did what in his cup?"

"Mom must've been asleep last time she watched this."

8:11
Interstates are evil.

8:13
"He's drifting. Like Tokyo Drift!"

8:16
Cool Hand Luke, salad dressing, and this.

8:21
It took us an hour and 23 minutes, but we finally got it: a montage, a real live montage, to Chuck Berry's version of "Route 66."

8:25
The cynic in me wants to explain McQueen's love for Radiator Springs as a form of Stockholm Syndrome. And, to go meta, if I'm enjoying the film...

8:38
One lap left. I have a feeling we're going to learn a valuable lesson about reckless individualism.

8:40
"I have actual tears."

8:50
The credits roll. In the end, it's another Pixar win, which means I've sold my soul to the devil. Also, I promise--I really do--that I will never place my desires above the needs of the many.

8:55
Postscript. The sister: "I've seen this movie so many times... and I just got the 'Tow Mater.'" Awkward pause. "I shouldn't have said that out loud."

I used to like having my picture taken

Mom sends along some photos taken by a friend of the family, a long, long time ago, back when we lived in Gimli, Manitoba (named after the scrappiest member of the world famous dance troupe Lord of the Rings).

I had a stage in my life where I absolutely hated being photographed--well after these were taken, it appears.


I was pretty fashionable for a toddler; Dad was pretty fashionable for a dad.


From left to right: brother Matt; Dad; me, rockin' the vest; Mom; sister Cathy. Not pictured: slacker sister Caroline, who waited years to be born.

hooperhacking

Last weekend, Melissa and I helped Mom and Dad move to Newcastle, Wyoming. On a Saturday evening, after we tired of unpacking, the folks suggested that we take a drive through the area. (We brought our cameras along.) Mom says that when she was a teenager, she and her friends would similarly roam about the countryside, a practice she calls "hooperhacking."

At this point on the World Wide Web, this very blog is the only reference to such a cultural phenomenon, so I cannot say with any authority that the term "hooperhacking" belongs anywhere but in her crazy imagination.

Fourth at the Fort

I spent this year's Fourth of July with some of my favorite people at one of my favorite places, Oregon's Fort Rock. From our campsite at La Pine State Park, in two cars, eight family members rode roughly fifty miles in late morning sunshine, ready for a hike in the heat at the geological oddity that rises out of the desert like a... fort. As you can see.



While I was scouting a route up the right side--and not finding one amenable to the less daring / foolish members of the group--others hiked around the base.



A pocket gopher makes a rare appearance atop the formation.



The lizard asked if I was going to blog the photo, and I said not if he didn't want to, and he shrugged and said no biggie.



Triumph.



If you're into the easy way, when you start up the trail to the interior, head left toward the path you can see snaking up the side. If you're into the hard way, good on you. You're gonna love Fort Rock.

Saturday with the Mariners and Mom

Top of the sixth. Dave Sims announces, "This inning it'll be Gutierrez, Ichiro, and Chavez." Gutierrez stands in. In the Anderson household, the following conversation occurs.

Mom: Is that Ichiro?
Dad: No, it's Gutierrez.
[Gutierrez hits the ball down the third base line and bolts to first. San Fran's third baseman Uribe makes the play, but it's a foul ball. Gutierrez heads back to the plate.]
Mom: Is he out?
Me: No. It was a foul ball.
Mom: Then they should punish him.
Dad: Why would they punish him?
Mom: Because he did something he isn't supposed to do.
Dad, amused: Then they should punish Uribe for throwing it.
Mom: He shouldn't do things that are confusing.
Dad: It's not confusing. Everyone knows what's going on.
Mom: Baseball is ridiculous.

A minute or two later:

Dad, teasing: Here's ol' what's his name.
Mom: Who?
Dad: Ichiro.
Mom: I can't see his face. All I can see is the top of his head. It could be anybody.... He does a dance at the plate. Doesn't he? He does. He was shaking his hips and everything... [Ichiro singles.] Come on, Ichiro. You need to get home or you're no good.

When Dave Niehaus retires, I know who should replace him.

Chris's vengeance is complete

Our "woeful husk of a team" ended up losing 101 games. The resurgent White Sox, though, are headed to the playoffs thanks to a masterful pitching performance by John Danks and a solo shot by future HOF-er Jim Thome. Jr. Griffey even got in on the action, making a great throw to nail Michael Cuddyer in the fifth inning.

Ultimately, Griffey was smart to stay miles away from the radioactive Mariners, even though a lot of fans wanted him back in a bad way. Now we're on the outside looking down. In? That's months, if not years, away.

Chris, congratulations. Enjoy the good times. I'm rooting for your guys now.

49th Parallel

If, like me, you're an ex-Canadian who loves all things Canada, you're bound to love 49th Parallel, a propaganda film from World War II that, although hokey and full of stereotypes, presents the Nazi menace with urgency, charm, and sometimes shocking brutality.

Whenever my brother and I see our friend Ryan--a current Canadian--we joke about the general mightlessness of our northern neighbor's military forces. This movie, produced by Brits to educate Brits about their Canadian cousins, won't dispel any rumors of dogsled battalions hidden in igloo bunkers, and in the end, it takes Americans to round up the last fleeing Nazi. (I won't share my multitudinous quips; watch the film, and savor your own. There are plentiful opportunities.)

49th Parallel is a historical curiosity, more travelogue / tourism film than anything. Meet Eskimos, Quebecois, Hutterites, Indigenous Canadians, in-the-closet writers, and repentant pacificists as you jaunt across the unfrozen wasteland to the north, following a rag-tag band of Nazi submariners. If you don't love Canada by the time the movie's done, you're a hoser.

a Nigerian luau

Notes from a Weekend of Chaos, With Assorted Photos


Travels and Travails
I have been to Quilcene, and back, and back again. I am no longer fond of Quilcene. However, my car survived its mountain trek, a $275 tow (insurance paid, after much wrangling), $84 worth of brake repairs, and that was it. I still own the champagne chariot, but I'm not sure for how long.

Much praise for Craig of Northwest Towing and Satch of Satchworks, both in Port Hadlock.


Balderdash and Beyond
Mom and Cathy may not always score the most points when playing Beyond Balderdash, the best party game ever invented, but they always win when it comes to the crazy.

Movie Title: Let's Go Places.
Cathy's synopsis: "A Hell's Angel follows a leprechaun to a pot of gold."

Movie Title: The Trouble With Dick.
Cathy's synopsis: "A peanut farmer is forced to sell his farm when he goes bananas."
Mom's synopsis: "Mine worker by day, sleuth by night, Dick Harris finds himself at odds with his family and community."

Movie Title: Every Home Should Have One
Cathy's synopsis: "A refrigerator falls in love with the dishwasher and teaches the homeowners about true love."

Word: Mohoohoo.
Mom's definition: "A Nigerian luau."

Better than a thousand hours of psychotherapy.


They Bring the Funk... Inc.
Lacey is host to the best-named corporation in the world: an AllState Insurance outlet called Zuckerman Funk Agency. What a great name for a band.


Seen on a Flower Shop Sign Near Monroe, Washington
"Celebrate Hawaiian Days Here. Come Get Laid."


Serenity Now
Lake Serene, along Highway 2, is a stiff hike up a rather unforgiving trail. Steep stairs--500 by Cathy's count--lead to slippery rocks. Slow going, especially down, and treacherous for the unlucky. Count my sister Caroline among that number. She lost her footing, slamming her tailbone on a sharp rock while spraining an ankle. She tried, heroically, to hike back down the mountain, but eventually had to be carried by Snohomish County's search and rescue squad, a volunteer force that seemed to relish an adventure in the woods. Friendly, fast-moving folks who made her trip down the mountain a lot less painful.

Hope you're feeling better, sis.









Bonus Cathyism
My new specs sport an eagle logo that looks vaguely like a W. Upon first seeing them, Cathy, without a shred of irony, asked, "Are those Wienerschnitzel glasses?"

photos of Mount Ellinor

Three years ago, the last time I ascended Mount Ellinor, the clouds and goats were out. No such weather--or fauna--today. Dad and I took a trip to the summit, and were treated to utterly spectacular views. Photos follow. I'll add captions if I get the urge, or if requested.

one fewer Anderson to worry about

1. Caroline is now a Hoffman, enjoying her first days sans the Swedish appellation that has served all of us so well.

2. While the hitching went swimmingly, everything else was full of hitches. Sample exchange, from the day trip taken with our relatives on the mom's side:

Mom, driving backseat: We need to make sure Susan is still following us.
Gary, driving: They're going to be fine.
Melissa, taking sides: They're behind a long line of trucks. They can't see us. We need to pull over.
Mom: Pull over!
Gary: Okay, okay. I'm pulling over now. Everyone calm down.
(pause)
Jim, riding shotgun: I seem to recall someone a while ago saying we were fine, no worries, we have a cell phone in every car. And it came from the back.
(pause)
Mom: Sounds like someone has to be Last Word Larry.
(pause)
Jim: You mean, you?
Mom, laughing: I guess so.
Cousin Tawnya, befuddled: Who's Larry?
Mom: I don't know, it just rhymes with L.

I am home. Photos may arrive soon.

greetings from Portland

The occasion: the last Anderson sibling, Caroline, is getting hitched to a fine young fella named Isaac. Hordes of family and friends have descended, or will soon descend, upon the greater Portland (Oregon) metroplex. Thus, for the next few days, light blogging, if at all. I may have photos to share in a while.

Need something to do? Go outside. Incapable or lazy? Browse the archives, or check the links at right.

P.S. No, I'm not a doctor. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night. So, you can't sue me for malpractice, because, as I mentioned previously--now where did that scalpel go?

immortal, immemorable

As I was blogging, Dad spooned sugar on his midnight-Eastern snack--Frosted Mini-Wheats--and Mom and Melissa tied ribbons on wedding favors for sister Caroline's upcoming nuptials.

"Mom, you're immortalized on the blog, you know," I mused aloud.

Melissa adopted her mimicking-Mom-falsetto. (It sounds remarkably like mine.) "You be nice on your blog."

"I never said that," Mom said.

"Yes you did," I said. "Those are your exact words." Melissa agreed.

"Did I really?" Mom confessed. "Well, I am turning 55."

"Not till next May," Melissa said.

vengeance is Chris's

The most beleaguered of all White Sox fans used to be Chris, pictured here.

Last summer, Melissa and I visited Cellular Field when the Sox were in last place, hosting a hopeful Mariner squad. We rooted for the M's amid a sea of depressed Chrises. Seattle won.

This year, Chris enjoys a White Sox team in first place, a joy mitigated only slightly by the Cubs' resurgence. (Last rivalry match went to the Sox.)

We, on the other hand, are cursed with a woeful husk of a team, nearly 20 games out of first, with at least four or five players on the trading or chopping block, all hope abandoned.

Chris has his vengeance. He is not smiling, though. He knows his dark days will come again. Such is the way of baseball.

big man, little man

Circa Halloween, I'm guessing 1988. (Mom can correct me if I'm wrong; she sent me the photo.) Near the outskirts of White Sulphur Springs, just another ranching town in the middle of Big Sky Country.

My grandpa stands at left. Khakis, denim, and a sweater, with white tennis shoes: his classic outfit. His genial squint was worn just about as often.

I'm the Wyatt Earp wannabe beside him. As you can see, my amazing facial hair was already well in place at age 9.

eminently quotable

"I haven't thought about the California Raisins for a long time."

--Mom

a portrait of the blogger as a young boy

From left to right:

1. The blogger
2. The father
3. The sprite
4. The mother
5. The brother
6. The sister

Taken in Hanna, Alberta, a long time ago. Guess who did all the family haircuts.

Happy Thanksgiving

My wife and I are spending Thursday with my side of the family, and then hosting her side on Saturday. Big hugs, big meals, big laughs so far, and plenty more to come. (Heard from the bro, too. Always a good thing.) Today, when I'm not sneaking glances at the football game on the TV, or looking up electric razors, or gnawing on turkey bones, I'm writing up National Board analyses and letters of recommendation.

With a belly full of pie and a heart full of love, I pause to thank you, gentle reader, for reading, lurking, or, better yet, sharing your insights and criticism. I'm a wiser man because of it.

Pie is calling again. Later when I'm fatter.

non-upset special

Bro-in-law Jon, reeling from a Cleveland loss to the Red Sox, can at least take comfort in a Buckeye win over upset-hungry Michigan State.

a little sepsis in the evening

As I write, a friend of the family, along for our Chicago adventure, lies doped up on antibiotics in South Suburban Hospital, fending off sepsis. She was peremptorily admitted last night, released, and then admitted again as a precaution, since she's flying home today. A lesson for you, no matter what your age: don't swim in Lake Michigan after popping a blister. And don't ignore your swelling ankles and the nasty red streak on your leg. And don't wait 'til it starts to hurt. And don't say "I'll have it checked tomorrow after we get home."

Meanwhile, just in time for a drive to see friends in Champaign, my head cold is dissipating like a tornado.

a tossing fad

Yesterday I got to meet the 163,000 members of Melissa's side of the family at the annual lakeside reunion. Photos, with requisite explanations, below. (If only 3 appear, click the timestamp or the title to see them all.)


Each year all 163,000 family members line up on the dock for the photo, as depicted here. Anyone absent is photoshopped in later.


If you feel inclined to ride the wake, Uncle David is the good captain. Uncle Fred, on the other hand... but this is Uncle David driving, and everyone comes back whole.


No bubbles were harmed in the making of this photograph.


The dragonfly molted.


The title refers to this horseshoe-esque game, called "Bags," or "Cornhole" or "Corn Toss." You toss a beanbag toward the opposite board, hoping to either land it on the playing surface (1 point), or make it through the hole (3 points). Equal tosses offset, zero points. Apparently a huge fad in Midwest, it's relatively unknown everywhere else. Time for a revolution.


In which I catch Jeff admiring his toss--frozen just above the board. Look closely.


With fans like these...