3:37

 LE:E  I woke up briefly this morning during that spooky minute of the night when the digital display of my clock radio shows my name upside down. My lovely wife and I had seen March of the Penguins and I was dreaming that I was on the outside of the group and the howling Antarctic wind was freezing off my tailfeathers. I was awake only for the few seconds it took to glance at the clock and tug back my share of the covers from my wife who may have been having a dream similar to mine except for involving more success at keeping warm.

If you haven't seen March of the Penguins yet I can highly recommend it. If, like me, you tend to wait to catch nice-to-see films at the second-run theater the time has come. It's a wonderful film and quite an accomplishment given the conditions under which it had to be made (midwinter in Antarctica.) Morgan Freeman's reading of the narration is very fine and the writing is quite good. They managed to make an engaging narrative out of their footage without excessively anthromorphizing their subjects.

The photography is uneven but always acceptable given the circumstances under which it was shot. In the underwater scenes, for instance, one is aware of the limitations of the video camera used by the robot that shot them -- but, on the other hand how often do you get to see penguins feeding under the Antarctic ice shelf? In the footage of the southern lights it was also apparent that they were right on the edge of what their equipment could do. But these are minor things that remind you that you are, after all, watching a documentary. Over all the cinematography was excellent, and at its best it was amazing. Especially delightful is the closeup photography of the birds. Emperor Penguins are astonishingly beautiful animals close up. One sees lots of photos and video that show the appealingly clumsy way they walk but the iridescence of their feathers is a revelation.

So, as I said, go see it if you haven't yet. But put another blanket on the bed.

Veterans Day

Today is Veterans Day. When we hear the word veteran we tend to think of previous generations. But sometimes veterans are our kids.

Alien

I worry a bit
that we worry too much
that we might be showing prejudice
when we see a man in a robe
or a woman in a burqa
and we think to ourselves
"Now, there is someone
who is not like me -- someone
who makes me nervous
because I don't know
what he is thinking,
or what she is thinking of me."

There are other kinds of people
who make us just as nervous
but correctness does not require
that we worry that
our nervousness may be based
in prejudice.

I have had a beer
in a cowboy bar
where people wear boots
and Stetson hats
and nurse a private sadness
for the passing of a day
that never was.
I understand that sadness --
to a certain extent --
but it is not the same as mine.

I have eaten a burger
in a biker bar
where scary men
and substantial women
gather to worship their God:
Harley Davidson --
the American motorcycle.
Bikers have a bad reputation,
which they carefully nurture,
but do not deserve.

I have eaten tofu and sprouts
in a stylish semi-vegan place
near my daughter's college.
I chose my words with care
because I knew
if I said the name Jesse Helms
a bit too loud
in the wrong tone of voice
conversation would stop
and people would stare at me
until I went away.

I have slipped a dollar
under a garter
in a bar where women dance
nearly nude on a stage
while men gather in corners
watching football on TV --
rather confused about
what testosterone is for --
worshiping a diety
I will never understand.


This was originally posted as a comment on a posting on Sunbreak City. His posting -- As I Stepped Out One Evening -- is a stream-of-consciousness, blank-verse musing on multiculturalism and Islam in America.