Today on our morning walk, Spriggy and I saw a pickup truck parked on Mack Avenue. As we passed, I noticed an antler tip showing. I came closer to find an unlucky buck’s head awaiting mounting, and a nice one, too — a 10-pointer. I expect the next stop was the taxidermist. I held the dog up to take a look and get a few whiffs, which I couldn’t detect, although I’m sure he could.
Deer season in Michigan. I guess it’s as close to a state religion as we have.
Work has pretty much ground to a halt — everyone’s off, it seems, except for Alan, who’s working like a field hand — so I’m starting to prepare for the feast. I’m always interested in how different cultures make Thanksgiving their own; remember Paulie Walnuts’ great speech in that “Sopranos” episode? “First, the antipasto, then the manicotti, and then the bird.” Most of these accounts are interesting but don’t tempt me to change my own traditions. That is, until today:
There’s one thing that you’ll never see on my Thanksgiving table. In fact, it’s never even been on my mother’s table or part of my grandmother’s Thanksgiving fare.
I’m not sure how it clinched the title of the darling of the harvest sweets, but as far as I’m concerned, pumpkin pie is the low-test, gelatinous twin of the more full-bodied and aromatic sweet potato pie.
Mmm, you got that right. Maybe I’ll make one. After Thanksgiving, though — I eat with traditionalists.
“Rooooome” wrapped up this week, with the events of the Ides of March. Amusingly, the episode was called “The Kalends of February.” Even more amusingly, the writers managed to weave the fictional characters’ narratives deeply into the events of history; next time someone asks who killed Julius Caesar, say, “a conspiracy of senators, with the coup de grace delivered by Brutus, but ultimately it was all Lucius Vorenus’ fault, because he was supposed to be Caesar’s muscle that day, and he ran off to deal with his wife.”
I hope we see this show again, one of these days. HBO makes the best shows on TV, but it takes for-freakin’-ever for them to roll around again. I honestly cannot believe we’ll be seeing a Soprano again before 2006 is out, can you?
Finally, there’s a meme going around — name 10 movies you hate. OK. I saw one just the other night — “Spanglish.” It was strange, hating it, because while I was hating it I was recognizing how good many of the performances were, especially Tea Leoni, but that’s what moviegoing is like for me — all ambivalence. Hate is such a strong word, anyway; how about “terribly disappointed by.” I dislike “American Beauty” more with every screening, although I still think it was an OK movie. Or how about “the first movie I saw that everyone else loved, but I hated?” OK, that’s easy: “E.T.” Also, “Ghostbusters.” “Scarface” was atrocious, but in a funny way; “JFK,” ditto. “Jerry Maguire” was a bunch of OK scenes in search of a story.
When Alan and I walked out of “Dead Ringers” we gave our opinions simultaneously: “That was…” and I said, “great” and he said, “god-awful.”
What do you think?