A handful of bitty beasts

Tiny Tako

Bullets from Mario Kart

Tiny Toad

Super Turt

Itty bitty Kitty

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Why we procreate (or regret it)

 

 

Cheesy goodness

I am a man of my word.
I lost my Super Bowl wager to the crossing guard and had to wear the CheeseHead to my poker game. 

My poker buddies laughed at me and pictures were taken.

However, much to their dismay, the cheese proved lucky and I won half of my rent.
Go figure.

 

Super Bust

I just folded up my Terrible Towels, and the Steelers scarves that drape my couch, and the shirt I was wearing (along with several others) and I put them all neatly into a drawer, where they will stay, hibernating, until sometime in late October, when I try to remember where I put them. 

Life goes on.

 

Cheese On My Head

OK... so today I made a HUGE Super Bowl bet.

The crossing guard at the elementary school (Kamali'i) up the street is a big Packers fan.
She sometimes even wears a Packers shirt while crossing the kids (which seems distracting, and therefore unsafe, to me). She always sees me in my Steelers garb (shirt, hat) and usually has something smarmy to say.
(Actually, to be honest, our good-natured ribbing couldn't be any more good-natured... we're both just football fans who grew up in towns that are fervent about their team).  We can't help it, it's part of our character.

Now, years later, we have a Super Bowl.... for bragging rights... and hometown pride.

She suggested, when the Super Bowl teams were set that we bet five dollars... and I said that we could come up with something way better than that.  After much thinking...

Here's the bet:

If the Packers win (as if), I have to wear one of those ridiculous CheeseHeads to my poker game.
It will likely cause me to break out in a rash, give me explosive diarrhea, and will definitely bring humiliation and shame upon me (and my family name).  Hopefully, no pictures will be taken (certainly I won't be taking any).

When the Steelers emerge victorious, the poor lady will be crossing children more safely on Monday, with her little red stop sign in one hand and a Terrible Towel in her other hand.  Upon request, she may need to give it a good wave, making for nice photo ops. Her husband may disown her, and her kids may wear paper bags on their heads for months. So be it.

Go Steelers (better win now).

Super Bowl Poster

The Bridges of Pittsburgh

Got this e-mail from my brother today:

Hello Lee, Hello Jeff, Hello Susie:

   Judy scanned all of her parents old slides (721!) as a gift
for her mother.
 
   (We bought a little contraption made for that purpose,
essentially a mini viewer with a digital camera built in.)

   When we were reviewing the photos with Judy's mom,
one of the photos puzzled me because it appeared to
be the Point at Pittsburgh but the bridges were wrong.
(scanned slide is attached).

   When I got to work (of course!) I did a few seconds of
Google image searching and found the following.
   ...I thought it was interesting enough to share with my
fellow ex-Pittsburghers.

---Barry

This was my response:

Barry:

Hmmm, of 721 pictures, I found it perplexing that you found this one (of the Point) most exciting?
Yet, after looking at it... it is kinda interesting.  
I searched my memory of there ever being four bridges coming into the Point, and I came up blank.
I googled it and looked at current views of the Point to jog my memory (since you failed to include those).

Here they are:

Then, having way too much time on my hands... I went to www.pghbridges.com , as per your links below, to find out more.

I found this interesting:

After the land was cleared of the tangle of commercial installations and decaying buildings, the park work was carried out between 1963 and 1968. Also planned was a great new highway that bisected the park, and to provide the necessary traffic interchanges, the bridges at the Point had to be removed and new ones built 900 feet upstream. The chief reason for this change was an aesthetic one, a "monumental" treatment of the Point itself which was to include a great fountain jet at the confluence of the rivers.
The Fort Pitt Bridge across the Monongahela was opened on 19 June, 1959 and accordingly the Point Bridge was closed on 21 June of the same year. (63) The Fort Duquesne Bridge over the Allegheny was completed not long afterward, but it could not be used for some years because it could not be connected with the ramps of the uncompleted highway system on the North Side. It was referred to locally as the "Bridge to Nowhere". Consequently the Manchester Bridge remained open until 1969.

No wonder I didn't remember anything, since it mostly all happened before we were born.
I do remember the phrase "Bridge to Nowhere" being used, in reference to the Fort Duquesne Bridge.

My most lucid memory of Point State Park was probably the last time we were there as a family (I think it was the 4th of July).  There were a lot of Black people and I remember feeling uncomfortable walking around with Archie Bunker (Dad).  Then, for some reason, some wacko shvartzies started throwing lit sparklers in the air, into the crowd. This angered Dad and Jerry Sokolow (his friend), and I remember fearing for our lives, thinking a confrontation was inevitable. Nothing happened, we left.

It's been a long time since I've been to Pittsburgh... and it might be a while until I get back.

Yet, much of my leisure time is spent watching the sports teams of my youth.  
As I sit here, I'm watching a Pitt Basketball game (my Alma Mater).  
Last night, at the poker game, I wore a Steelers shirt and hat, taking shit from all the other losers (they hate us because we win).  They see me as a Steelers fan, before anything else.
I'm a big Penguins fan, and I often wear my Stanley Cup sweatshirt with pride.  
Come Stanley Cup playoff time, I have something important to do every other day.
I even have a Pirates hat that I wear on occasion. It mostly gets laughs.
Sports seems to be the only link I have left with Pittsburgh (besides for our parents).
What is most strange is that Barry has no sports ties (except vicariously through his wife Judy)... and I was thinking that if I was like Barry (not a sports fan), I'd have very little Pittsburgh left in me (except for my accent, which most people claim is still noticeable).




If I ever have a kid, you can be rest assured that he/she will be dressed up in a little Steelers outfit, even though they may never set foot in the 'Burgh... or be able to pick it out on a map.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner (except this kid's parents)

 

I have plans for my wife, too...

Somewhere, an old man is snoring

Every now and then, something spectacular happens in South Maui.
It rains.


Earlier today, around noon, I went to play tennis with a few friends.  Normally, the sun would be oppressively strong at that time of day, making outdoor sports/exercise better in or near the ocean.  Playing tennis in the noonday Maui sun usually feels like you're playing on the surface of the sun.
However, today was different.  It was cool when we got to the tennis courts, with a crisp southerly breeze, and the sun was obscured through a high layer of billowy clouds. 
The beach behind the courts were filled with kite surfers, who were taking advantage of the abnormal conditions, attacking the winds which were blowing from the opposite direction.

As we played tennis, it seemed like someone had put the air-conditioning on, and it was a strangely  comfortable couple of hours.  We got a set of doubles in, then we split up and played singles. We hit around for a while afterward, in no hurry, enjoying the coolness of the day.
As we were leaving the courts and heading to our cars, it began to drizzle.

"Nice timing," I said to my friend, as he said the same thing to me, at the same time.
I looked out at the ocean and noticed how dark the clouds had become on the horizon.
The wind had also picked up as the palms trees swayed and shook in unison.

 

By the time I got home, the rain had begun to fall steadily, but gently. 
I parked my car, then moved my scooter under the eaves of my cottage roof so it wouldn't get a soaking.
Even though it was only around 4:00, it was already starting to get dark and you could tell the real storm was about to come.  The rain continued to fall, getting stronger, and the wind became persistent and swirling .
Off in the distance, I heard the rumble of thunder.

A half of an hour later the rain really started to come down. 
The street was already filled with water, and small rivers formed and ran next to the curbs.  Lightning came unexpectedly, filling the darkened sky with a flash, quickly followed by a boom of thunder that shook my cottage.
It rained with gusto as the sky opened up in full force, unleashing a tropical deluge so thick that I could no longer see the house across the street.  The air was cool and dense, and as I stood in my doorway watching the show, I breathed deeply, gulping lungfuls that seemed clean and refreshing, so different from our everyday dust-filled, hot air.
It rained so hard that the street rivers joined and were becoming a lake.

Lightning and thunder continued for the next ten minutes, tapering off slowly as the rain began to subside.  The drizzle lasted for another ten minutes.
Then, it stopped... and it was quiet, except for the sounds of dripping.
The ground was soaked, and the wind was gone.




Tomorrow, the sun will shine as it does every day, and the tourists will go to the beach and wonder why the ocean is brown.
My cactus garden will have a group therapy meeting to work through their trauma.
My plumeria tree will be smiling, looking forward to the next rain, hoping not to have to wait another eight months.

My Default Affect

A Wretch Like Me (A Short Story)

          By the end of the Eighties, I was a bona fide Deadhead.  I went to forty-three East Coast Grateful Dead concerts by the spring of 1993, and when I moved to Northern California, I saw another forty-five shows on the West Coast. I enjoyed each and every concert and I acquired a large group of laid-back friends.  Every show was a unique musical, and sometimes spiritual, journey for me.  A few memorable expeditions were close to being, what I would consider life-changing events.  Somehow, the music spoke to my friends, and me and we often danced that reckless hippy hop with unbridled abandon, not really caring much about the world beyond the reach of the song.  The safe, accepting atmosphere at a Dead show was unlike anything else I had experienced.  It was like passing through an actual time warp, back to a kinder, gentler time, where just about everyone around you was affable.  Outside each show, the parking lots became Shakedown Streets where vendors and artists bought, sold and traded their wares.  You could buy t-shirts, grilled cheese sandwiches and original artwork.  I always felt safe, surrounded by the welcoming and peaceful community, despite the fact that half of them were tripping or shrooming.  There was always an underlying feeling of pure hedonistic revelry, and it appealed to me, and obviously, many others like me.  I made a connection with the whole scene, but deep down, I was drawn to the music.  Many came for the party, but most came for the music.  Specifically, for me, I came to hear Jerry Garcia.

            Like most bands, there are fans that favor certain musicians over others, while still maintaining a love for the cohesive unit.  Take the Beatles, for example.  It says a lot about a person if they prefer John Lennon over Paul McCartney, or vice versa.  It says something else entirely if they admit to being a Ringo or a George fan.  The Deadheads also predictably broke up into factions, and like Lennon-McCartney, the bulk were divided between Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir. Jerry had his songs and Bob had a repertoire of his own. There were always those deadheads that lived to hear the bassist Phil sing the odd song, and others who came for the duel drumming team of Bill and Mickey. Each show every band member would get his moment in the spotlight.  Although I appreciated all of it, I treasured hearing Jerry play his guitar, and singing in his raspy heartfelt vocals.  I was surely not the only one. Most likely, I was with the majority of Deadheads, as Jerry’s army was vast.  There were shows when I felt that Jerry was actually singing directly to me, and to me alone.  Again, I was probably not the only one (shrooming).  Jerry had a vibe that affected you, if you let it, and I couldn’t get enough of it.  When Jerry would go off on an extended guitar solo, you could feel this wave of musical nourishment and contentment sweep through the audience.  Fields of happy consumers danced away their troubles and reveled in the pureness of the moment, deftly aware of Jerry’s magical fingers.

            I was living in Pittsburgh, when I began to go to Grateful Dead shows.  I saw every show that came within striking distance, often traveling to Cleveland, Philly or Maryland for a weekend of revelry.  In 1993, I moved to the Mecca of the Dead, where I took up residence in Mill Valley in Marin County.  Unexpectedly, I ended up teaching in a preschool only blocks away from the homes of both Bob and Jerry.  A few times I even saw Bob in his powder blue BMW, and a couple of times I actually ran into Jerry.  Once, as I was waiting in line at the Paradise Liquor Store in Corte Madera, Jerry got in line behind me with a jar of Jiffy peanut butter and a loaf of Wonder bread.  I smiled at him and gave him a little head nod but didn’t have the courage, or the desire, to pester him.  A year later, on my lunch break from the preschool, as I was driving home on the 101 highway between Mill Valley and Corte Madera, I thought I saw Jerry again.  This time he was standing on the side of the freeway next to a dented BMW, looking confused.  I did a double take as I drove past him.  When I got back to work, I told my co-teacher that I thought I saw Jerry Garcia on the highway and she quickly dismissed it, suggesting that I was merely having a flashback.  The next day I read in the paper that Jerry had indeed driven his loaner BMW (from the BMW dealership where he was getting his BMW fixed) into the guardrail, and had ended up on the roadside, fazed but unhurt.  There were intimations about the dangers of mixing heroin and driving, and it saddened me to hear about it.  We all knew Jerry was in a bit of trouble and that his personal demons were gaining strength.

            Less than a year later, I was driving to work and I noticed, while sitting in slow moving traffic, that the lady in the car next to me was crying.  I didn’t think much of it until I noticed three more cars in the line-up with visibly sobbing drivers.  I stopped, as I usually did each morning, at the 7-11 to get a hot chocolate on my way to work.  The woman at the counter, whom I was friendly with, looked up at me and I could tell that she had been crying as well.  There was no one else in the store, so when I approached the counter I gave her a puzzled look and a shoulder shrug.

            “Didn’t you hear?” she asked.

            “Hear what?” I asked back.

            “Jerry died last night,” she said, looking as if she was going to start weeping again at any moment.

            I felt like someone punched me in the stomach.

            “He was just in here last week and he signed a magazine for me,” she claimed, pointing to the magazine rack, one of which having a smiling Jerry on the cover.

 “I just can’t believe it,” she added with a sob.

            When I got to the preschool, as the parents arrived to drop off their kids, there was a melancholy sadness in the air and we all spoke in quiet tones.  Some of the parents were more affected than others, some clearly shaken.  A few stayed in the playground for a while, comforting and hugging each other.  It was a long day for me, and I remember it sadly.  Soon after, there were vigils held in Golden Gate Park, a memorial service and concert, and a rather publicized funeral in Tiburon, attended by many.  Deadheads mourned the world over, and most considered it the end of the Grateful Dead.

            Time passed, and I went on with my life.

            One particular night, some time later, I had this extraordinary dream.  One of my preschool students had given me a “Dream Pillow” as a gift, and because of it, I had been having the most lucid dreams of my adult life.  Filled with Native American herbs and spices, it smelled a little funky, but I kept it under, or near my pillow as I slept.  This strange dream started as I was cresting a grassy hill, in what seemed like a schoolyard.  I noticed a band playing to a small crowd and I headed toward the music to check it out.

As I got closer, I could hear and see that it was unmistakably the Grateful Dead.  I stood there confused for a bit, listening to the music as I examined the band more closely.  Jerry was playing his signature Rose guitar, yet he seemed somehow different from the rest of the musicians.  There was an aura about him, like he was standing in a colored spotlight.  I noticed a few folks off to my left on the grass, dancing and spinning away in the afternoon sun.  I went over to them and one of the girls stopped dancing to look up at me.

            “Ummm... how is Jerry playing?” I asked softly.  “Isn’t he dead?”

            “Yeah, but it is not really Jerry, it is just a holographic image of him” she answered with a smile.

            She went back to dancing, and I could smell the patchouli cloud she left behind.  I looked around trying to get my bearings, and I felt pretty sure that I was somewhere in San Rafael, from my angled view of Mt. Tamalpias in the background.  There were no more than twenty or thirty people dancing, and just before I decided to join them, the band went gradually quiet into a break between songs.  As they tuned up, I sat down on the warm grass and tried to listen attentively and take it all in.  Occasionally, during Dead shows, from the tuning alone, you could recognize enough to make out the song they were about to play.  I watched as Holo-Jerry began to play, and right away, surprisingly, I made out the song.  It was not, however, a Dead song.  It was a gospel song, and as Jerry started to sing Amazing Grace, I got goose bumps on my arms and I felt an overwhelming sadness begin to build deep inside.  I had always liked the song, but it held no specific religious or spiritual meaning for me.  Yet, as it played, it affected me with startling power, as it had never done before.  Jerry sang with calmness and clarity.  I choked back tears, eventually succumbing to a calm, controlled weeping as I took deep breaths and listened to his voice cut through the air.  I noticed the Deadheads around me also looking mournful and somber, and I realized what a cathartic moment we were experiencing together.  Then, Jerry looked right at me and smiled, causing me to sob harder and inflicting what felt like an actual pain in my chest.  A snot bubble burst from my nose, and as I was clutching my self, gasping for a bigger breath... I heard my phone ring.

            Abruptly, I awoke from the dream.  Tears were rolling down my cheeks, and my nose left a puddle on the pillow.  My stomach felt tight, and I was sweating as I reached for the phone.

            “Hello?” I answered in a cracked voice.

            “Hey, it’s Karen.  Were you sleeping?” asked my friend Karen, who obviously knew I was sleeping.

            Karen was one of my Deadhead friends and I had gone to many shows with her.  As I began to wake up and recall my dream, she said something peculiar to me.  Before I even had a chance to say anything to her at all, she said, “Lee, today is a very sad day.”

            “Sad?” was all that I could muster in response.

            “Didn’t you know?  Today is the one year anniversary of Jerry’s passing,” she said.  “Yes, it is sad,” she added.

            I bolted upright in bed and told her, in explicit detail, about the dream.  I had not talked to her, or anybody, in the days or weeks proceeding, about the anniversary of Jerry’s death.  It was not on my mind, nor had I recently even thought much about it.  We talked about the strangeness in the timing of the dream, and what it could all possibly mean. We talked for an hour and it seemed odd, but it would only get stranger yet.

            Two years later, I went to a Further Festival at Shoreline Amphitheater to see the new incarnation of The Dead (no pun intended).  During intermission, I was sitting on a blanket on the grass talking to my friend Alex as he enjoyed a veggie burrito.  His girlfriend, Mary Jo, was in front of us talking with a girl in a glittery dress.  I overheard a part of Mary Jo’s conversation and I interrupted Alex to listen in.  I heard the words “holographic image” and I perked up and eavesdropped even more.  Mary Jo was describing a dream she had about a band that she thought was the Dead. 

            “Mary Jo!!!  I think I had that dream, too!!” I yelled.  “Were you in a schoolyard?”

            “Yeah, I think so”, she answered.

            “Do you remember anything they played?” I stammered.

            “No, not really... I just remember being surprised that Jerry was a holographic image.  I don’t remember much else.  It was a weird dream”, she said.

            “Maybe you were one of the other people I saw on the hill,” I offered.

            “Wow... that’s creepy”, she said.
            The girl in the dress just looked at me and said "Dude".

            For the rest of that day, we contrasted and compared the memories and recollections of our shared dream.  To my surprise, it would get stranger even yet.

            A couple more years later, I was babysitting for David “Dawg” Grisman, a mandolin player that had often played with Jerry, and had become his close friend.  I had met Grisman’s wife and son in a local toy store in Mill Valley, where I worked part time for one of my student’s moms.  Dawg was friendly with me, and I often bumped into him at his house after school.  Sam, David’s nine year-old son, would take me on a tour of the home studio, which was in their basement.  There was a wall that had been signed by all the visiting musicians who had jammed with Grisman, and I spent a long time, with Sam’s help, trying to decipher the names.  Jerry had signed it a few times and had doodled some pictures here and there.  Framed Jerry drawings hung in Sam’s room above his bed.  One day, Dawg came over to me and handed me a CD.  He asked me what I thought of the cover picture and the insert art.  The CD looked like a pizza box, and when the disc (which itself looked like a veggie pizza) was removed, it showed a greasy cardboard bottom with a few crusts underneath.  The picture on the back of the insert was of David and Jerry with Tony Rice, another incredible musician, between them.  Jerry had a big smile on his red face, and he was wearing his trademark plain black t-shirt.  I asked David more about the music on the CD, which was called the Pizza Tapes.  He told me that he had jammed with Jerry and Tony in his studio a while ago and that they had recorded it.  He told of me of a story that had recently emerged about a pizza delivery boy who had, allegedly, swiped a cassette tape from Jerry’s kitchen counter while waiting to be paid.  The “Pizza Tapes”, as it had become known, was one of the most sought after bootlegs around, so David decided to release it officially with excellent audio quality.  I opened the liner notes and read down the set list.  When I saw the title of song number fourteen, I froze.  It was Amazing Grace. 

            It mentions in the liner notes that Tony’s wife Pam had asked Jerry if he’d sing Amazing Grace, and that he’d obliged.  It also tells that it was the only time they had ever heard Jerry sing the song.  David let me keep the CD and I when I got in my car to go home, immediately, I forwarded to track fourteen.  I turned out of the driveway as I heard the first few bars, but soon after, I had to pull to the side of the road and listen intently.  Every hair on my body stood upright and I quivered with a downhearted ache.  Jerry’s voice was stark and honest and the effect was numbing, and deeply heartfelt.  
            In that moment, Jerry was singing to me. 
            Only to me.

How sweet the sound. 

Listen in the post below

Amazing Grace - Jerry Garcia

Gif gifts

 Gifs are fun!!! Enjoy!!!

Jail Break!

Run Forrest Run

Keep your eye on the dog

Attack!!

quit pushing!

What came first?

The Black Hole

This is what it feels like to Scuba dive

A book, a movie and a sunset

I just got home from seeing the movie Never Let Me Go.
I read the book a while ago, and I remembered writing a review of it on my visual bookshelf (on Facebook, of course). So, I went to reread my review and I couldn't help but notice that it was written almost two years ago to the day.  It was one of those movies that got you to thinking about your own life... and now I am left thinking about how different my life was only two years ago, and getting all introspective and junk.

My book review:

Never Let Me Go  by Kazuo Ishiguro  

I agree that Ishiguro's writing is a bit like eating a mango. At first, it's tough to get used to the texture and flavor (being a bit exotic)... but by the end, you're licking your lips and looking for more.
Spoiler alert: As for the clones themselves, I was a bit surprised that they were all so obedient and docile. I kept expecting one of them to suggest escaping from their doomed lifepath by finding and killing a "possible". Or just alluding to any kind of rebellion (other tha... (show more)

I agree that Ishiguro's writing is a bit like eating a mango. At first, it's tough to get used to the texture and flavor (being a bit exotic)... but by the end, you're licking your lips and looking for more.In other words, the prose grows on you.
Spoiler alert: As for the clones themselves, I was a bit surprised and disappointed that they were all so obedient and docile. I kept expecting one of them to suggest escaping from their doomed life path by finding and killing a "possible". Or just alluding to any kind of rebellion (other than showing creativity to prove true love). The fact that they never even responded harshly to Madame and Miss Emily disappointed me, and it seemed to show that the cruel ladies were right, in a way, that the kids were less than human (or more than human, depending on how you look at it).
All in all, I did enjoy the book, finding it just a bit disturbing... yet I'm not sure that I would recommend it to most readers.
Most readers prefer apples to mangoes.



The movie was compelling, but I wonder how lost I'd been in the theater, if I had not read the book.  Movies made from elaborately detailed, well-crafted stories tend to suffer in editing, when pivotal poignant moments are left out to pare down the movie to a watchable time.   There were a few missing pieces that bothered me... and if you read the book, then saw the movie; I urge you to contact me for some healthy banter. (I'm not holding my breath, since nobody reads my blog anyway, and I'm just writing to myself... and perhaps Julie, who reads Vampire stories, Chris Moore and young adult fiction). Nuff said.

Strangely, this scene from the poster never made it into the film

After the movie ended, I left the theater and got on my scooter to head home.  It was just before sunset, and I was in a pensive mood, so I decided to stop by the park, to watch the sunset over the ocean.  Kamaole Park has a vast grassy area above the beach and I can pull my scooter right up off the road.  I propped up my bike and sat facing the ocean, noticing as usual that the tourist migration thickens right before sunset, as the masses head towards the beach.  There were several clusters of people strewn about the grass, celebrating in their own ways.  Some had bottles of wine, others were playing music and one strange group had a few dozen pinwheels stuck in the grass surrounding them.  The wind was steady and the pinwheels glistened in the setting sun creating a strobe-like effect almost effective enough to send me into a seizure.  I leaned back against my basket, which is behind my seat, covered in bungee cords.  As I got comfortable, I dropped deeper into thought, assessing my life and reflecting upon my current state of affairs.
The movie dealt with death, in a way that made the lead characters feel like they never had enough time to live.  Conversely, I feel like I have ample time, yet I somehow forget to make the effort to live "fully", content to cruise by, floating downstream with the current.

This is what the sunset looks like from the top of the park

From out of the setting sun, across the grass,  four older ladies appeared, all dressed in colorful Hawaiian sarongs.  They walked, two by two, jabbering away, right toward me.  A few feet in front of me, between the gravel of the roadside and the grass of the park, sits a long low wooden fence.  The ladies decided, for some reason, to sit right in front of me, even though the whole fence was open and ran the entire length of the park.  Never once did they even look at me, or notice how comfortable I was watching the sunset, kicked back on my bike.  They sat on the fence and took their slippers off and began to rub their feet with Kleenex, all the while talking about someone's niece. I felt invisible, and I suddenly noticed an overwhelming smell of Vicks Vaporub.
I started my scooter up and drove away, deciding to forgo sharing the sunset with the quintet.  As I made the turn on Keonikai, heading up the hill into my neighborhood, I watched the sun set in my mirror.  By the time I made it to my street, there was already a pink glow in the sky.  I parked the scooter and let myself into my cottage, where the smell of yesterday's microwave popcorn hit me as I walked through the door, reminding me, once again of the movie.