April 8, 2024: Shadows on the Petrifying Springs multi-use trail in Kenosha, Wisconsin during the 2024 solar eclipse.
Another Week: Number 68
The 2024 solar eclipse was the event that dominated the week.
It was both adorable and nuts the way cable news dispensed with all Trump and Gaza coverage (Ukraine is now a distant memory) from morning to mid-afternoon. Over and over again, the anchors became our surrogate idiots and addressed questions about the eclipse to their resident science brainiacs, who patiently explained in the simplest possible terms that the Moon’s shadow was crossing the Earth and that focusing your eyes on the sun can destroy your vision.
Locally, we got about 90 percent coverage, and I decided to spend that hour traipsing the multi-use trail at Petrifying Springs. First, it allowed me to walk in shirtsleeves on a beautiful day. Second, if I disregard the plastic playground equipment, the Biergarten, and the recently engineered riverbeds, it’s about as close to nature as I can get in a short drive. Third, during the cosmic miracle, I could nod or wave in communal affection at my fellow aging naturalists and their dogs.
Extending the shared experience via text messaging, my sister Karen checked in from the porch of our mom’s apartment in Pleasant Prairie, and my sister Maria joined us from Columbus, Ohio.
Because my cell coverage sometimes drops at Pets, I opted for my music library instead of cable news, choosing Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon in its 43-minute entirety.
Aside from being an astonishing album, it also stimulated my brain’s penchant for finding matches. You have probably heard about the synchronicity between The Dark Side of the Moon and The Wizard of Oz. Well, among numerous coincidences on Monday, at the exact time the eclipse peaked and Roger Waters sang “The lunatic is on the grass,” there indeed was a man ahead of me who had wandered off the paved path and onto the grass, pulled by his Golden Retriever toward a tree. As to his lunacy, I cannot judge.
Myself, I did not stare at the sun. I monitored the eclipse by making the “okay’ gesture with my hand to create a pinhole projection on the ground.
We did not get darkness, but things became somewhat dim — similar to wearing sunglasses. I already wear Transitions® lenses, so mostly, I enjoyed the shadows because each one was a feathery eclipse projection.
Tuesday would have been Amy’s 58th birthday. Instead, I drank her last Ensure Complete chocolate shake remaining in our fridge.
The most random things trigger grief. For example, I used to make delicious ground chicken burgers for both of us, arranging buns on paper plates, setting out ketchup and mustard, plus mayo and pickles for Amy, and awaiting her loving appreciation.
Now it’s just me and the fucking ketchup and mustard — and putting it away set off a flood of tears on Wednesday afternoon.
I walked 9.63 miles this week.
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The Blue Gardenia (1953)
Before spending Thursday night at my mom’s, I prepared a list of potential movies to watch with her. She quickly zeroed in on The Blue Gardenia because had not seen it, but she likes Richard Conte and Anne Baxter and Ann Sothern, so we streamed it on Prime.
The Blue Gardenia is a film noir specimen by Fritz Lang which also features Raymond Burr as a spidery sort of playboy who lures the broken-hearted Baxter up to his luxurious apartment after lubricating her with cocktails — gardenia-flavored Pearl Divers, in fact — at a fancy Polynesian restaurant called The Blue Gardenia.
Performing at The Blue Gardenia that night is Nat King Cole, who showcases a song called “The Blue Gardenia”.
It’s a feeble, forgettable song. Nevertheless, the movie reprises it via jukeboxes and phonograph recordings, using every possible opportunity to hit you over the head with its title. Mom and I cracked each other up by turning to each other and exclaiming, “The Blue Gardenia!”
The main thing I took away from the film was that there was a woman at a music store who was in charge of Raymond Burr’s account as a record-buying customer. Nowadays I click on a “buy” button — but back then, someone supervised your account.
Beyond that, we used the movie to identify typical film noir elements: the stylized, high-contrast shots, the crime and the investigation, the hardboiled dialogue, and so on.
It’s not a great movie, but it passed the time, and we entertained each other, and now we have both seen The Blue Gardenia.
Música (2024)
On Saturday night, Mom let me choose from my list, so we watched Música, a brand-new addition to Prime starring Rudy Mancuso, who also wrote and directed (his debut). I know nothing about Mancuso, but I figured my mom would enjoy a romantic comedy with music and dancing, and its Brazillian culture would be exotic, while most of the dialogue would be in English. Plus, J. B. Smoove co-stars.
One word I didn’t hear in the film was synesthesia — a phenomenon whereby perceptions from one sense, like sounds, can produce effects in another sense, such as visuals. Since watching Música, I have read that Mancuso has been diagnosed with synesthesia.
This movie is Rudy’s autobiographical depiction of his synesthesia — and how it causes him to be less than completely attentive to two separate female love interests. In his head, everyday ambient noises turn into looping rhythms and then full-on flash mob dancing while his girlfriend tries to make him focus on their future.
There are also the standard rom-com love triangulations, some puppets, J.B. Smoove’s paradoxical guidance, and Mancuso’s real-life Brazillian-born mother Maria.
Música may not get Oscar nominations, but it’s an interesting 91 minutes that combines an original perspective with standard motifs.
We enjoyed it.
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