Here are Doug Savchenko and Cindy Bredy (Cindy's on the right.) We were friends back in our high school days — those ended in 1975, and I not only haven't seen them since, I haven't heard a peep from them until last week. But Doug and Cindy, and Brenda, from the same time and place (and unlike these two, from my high school) have been back in touch for some time, and have even gotten together at times.

Cindy and I weren't close friends back then, and one of the amazing things of the past week, as we really get to know each other for the first time, is how badly we misunderstood each other then. Because we never sat down and talked, I never knew what she thought of me, and I never got to ask her: "Why are you mad at me all the time?" Because, of course, she wasn't. But teenagers tend not to stop and think things through from other perspectives, and I certainly didn't.

Saturday night, and another truly boring evening at home. Ok, I wasn't bored, but I sure looked boring: sitting at my computer, the Oregon Ducks game over my shoulder, working on websites and generally being alone and not the least bit exciting. This is how my life goes; it's my normal state of affairs most evenings. I'm cool with it. Now and then, however, something happens to stir it up a bit.

I got an email from Cindy Bredy. Cindy is one of my old high school era friends from back in Billings. She went to West and I went to Senior; we knew each other through church, the youth group and choir. We were friends but not that close; in a big group you don't get close to everyone. But it turns out she's been living in Seattle for the past 20 years, which would include, of course, 1995, when I lived there for most of the year. If I had the web presence that I now have, we might have gotten together then. But thanks to Google and all the different things I do online, I have now popped up on her radar.

I have finally caught up with Season 6 of "Gilmore girls" (thank you, bittorrent), and if I could ask Amy Sheridan-Palladino one question, it would be: What the fuck is wrong with you?

A theme of the show from the beginning, the predominant theme after the mother-daughter relationship, is that Lorelai must suffer. On the one hand, she has her daughter, her friends, her home, the inn; but the relationship she has looked for since leaving Christopher to raise Rory on her own — that is forever denied her. She meets Max, almost falls in love, doesn't. She meets pretty Alex, but that's never going to happen. Christopher finally becomes enough of a grown-up to marry, but he's taken away from her. And then finally, the love of her life — Luke — declares himself and they become the couple everyone around them knew they would always be.

Only they aren't. Luke finds reasons to avoid a final commitment; his love for Lorelai is not enough to overcome his fear, or his selfishness, or his stupidity, or whatever it is that makes him invent reasons to keep her away. And Lorelai can never find the right words at the right time; someone else always has that last work. She's forever crushed into some corner, unable to escape until just a bit too late. Finally, as Season 6, she makes what may be a fatal mistake, and we're supposed to believe that Amy cares about Lorelai?

First, I am really tired of excellent movies, intelligent movies, starring people too beautiful for words. Super-ultra famous beautiful people as well. It does not help when the incredibly talented super-ultra famous beautiful people, not only make a shitload of money making these excellent movies, they are goddamned good as well.

Fine. Got that off my chest. "Closer" is not a movie for hopeless romantics, although they can take masochistic pleasure in the stories. "Closer" is not for the people who've had their hearts broken, who regret their mistakes, who long for that one person they just know is out there. Only 25% of the people in "Closer" get a happy ending, and he knows it's a compromise. "Closer" is for people who are hopeless romantics, who've had their hearts broken, who regret their mistakes, who long for that one person they just know is out there, and who finally — finally — held that perfect love in their hands for one brief, glorious moment — and then had it taken away forever. "Closer" is for the people, broken hearts and broken dreams, who had love and lost love and not find closure.

Billy Preston died Tuesday.  He had been ill for a long time, renal problems due to drug use.  What a tragedy; he was a brilliant musician.  There are lots of terrific pop and rock star who make enjoyable music; Billy was one of the few who had more than that.  An energy of his own that makes a song like "Nothing from nothing" a part of my musicial memories.  He had beautiful skills, and I'm sorry I never got to see him live.

The and what he meant to rock history.

"Your dedication scares me."

"Oh, it's easy to be dedicated when you care about something."

"Nurse Betty" is the kind of movie, and the kind of role, that would be easy to get completely wrong. The character is half-a-step from slapstick, slipping into an amnesiac delusion after watching her husband's brutal murder. Driving from Kansas to Los Angeles to re-unite with her "ex-fiance" — an actor on her favorite soap opera — Betty cold have been played as lunatic, or pathetic, or just weird. Once Betty crosses over, however, she's fully believable as that person.

Renee Zellweger cares about Betty. That allows her to avoid dehumanizing her with overacting. Instead, she plays her with the dedication to make her honest and painfully human. Betty is a controlled person in her small little life, accepting how pitiful and squalid life with her nasty husband has become. When he is killed, her need to maintain that equilibrium has only one outlet: delusion, an alternate reality with which she can cope. But even then, out of desperation falling into a fictional life, Renee never overplays, never overdoes. Her panic, her desperation, her need for real love is quiet. But dedicated.

"Do you want to hear my theory?"
"Of course."
"You and I have a special talent, and I saw it immediately."
"Tell me."
"We're the substitute people."
"Substitute people?"
"I've been a substitute person my whole life. I'm not an Ellen; I never wanted to be an Ellen. And I'm not a Cindy either, although Chucks loves me."
"I'm sure they do."
"I like being alone too much. I mean, I'm with a guy who's married to his academic career; I rarely see him. And I'm the substitute person there. I like it that way. It's a lot less pressure."

I don't know when Cameron Crowe came up with this dialog, between Claire (it's her theory) and Drew, but for me, I became The Substitute Boy in 1996. Or, rather, that's when I realized my status and nature as The Substitute Boy. I have always been one of Claire's substitute people; I've been substituting my entire life. (And there's the flip side of her theory, the part not explicated in Crowe's dialog: Substitute People not only sub for others, they substitute into their life false things, things and people and circumstances that are not real. They substitute bad stuff for their own lives.)

Some movies are a lot tougher to watch than others.  "Bridget Jones 2" was tough to watch because it was so bad; I gave up after ten minutes.  I could tell it was not going to be worth sitting through.  I loved the first movie, and I really enjoyed listening to the novel (book on cd, very well done version).  And I love love love Renee Zellweger, but BJ2 was just too much.  So was "Affliction," although for different reasons.  Just too painful, and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

"The Squid and the Whale" was brutal.  I almost gave up, and I did fast forward through a few scenes.  I cannot watch humiliation, especially teenage boys (I cannot watch many sitcoms because they rely so heavily on humiliation "humor").  A boy dealing with divorce and trying to figure out what it means to have a girlfriend is hard enough; as soon as he tried to pass off the Pink Floyd song as his own, I was cringing, waiting for him to be shattered by the revealing of this lie.  I kept waiting for terrible things to happen to Walt, and I had to force myself to keep watching ("it's a good movie," I said, "it's worth watching.  it's got Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney.  don't give up.")

I love Joss Whedon's writing. I didn't start watching "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" until mid-way through season 4. I had heard the writing was good; my brother, Aaron Barnhart, the tv writer for the Kansas City Star, regularly noted the quality of Whedon's work (and annually bemoaned the lack of Emmy recognition for same). When I did get around to watching Buffy, I was as thrilled and impressed as other viewers. His writing is so good that actors of moderate skills – and let's be honest, that's what the cast of Buffy was – were able to give performances they're never likely to match. Whedon the writer accomplishes what so many in Hollywood fail to do. I have been disappointed by so many movies and tv shows that should have been good – the premise, the actors, even the director – and instead stank. And why? Crappy writing. Writing is at the heart and foundation of every television show and movie, and few do that kind of writing better than Whedon.

So when "Firefly" was originally announced, I was thrilled. Television is bereft of quality science fiction. The first adult fiction I read was science fiction. I moved out of adolescent reading with Robert Heinlein, and I discovered great literature in the short stories of Harlan Ellison. For a large chunk of my life, I did not read much of the genre, but it seemed that all that was being produced were variations on Anne McCaffrey's dragon stories or bad takeoffs on "The Lord of the Rings" (which I read for the first time, out of about thirty or more readings, in 6th grade). I lost my taste for science fiction, but a few years ago began to try and discover if it was worth reading today. I soon learned that Ursula LeGuin has only improved with age, and that Kim Stanley Robinson is a genius ("The Days of Salt and Rice"; wow), and that along with the dungeons-and-dragons crowd are still creative and innovative writers of the stuff I grew up on.

Joss Whedon, however, ain't one of them.

i am perplexed at how i'm feeling right now. i'm at a loss to understand, unless i'm forced to accept something i seem determined never to accept.

i have spent most of my life alone. this includes a good chunk of my childhood, from the age of ten or so. i have not had many close friends, i had a wife who didn't really want me in her life, and i have had a couple of other serious relationships, but never the right person or the right time. so for one reason and another, i have been alone and lonely, i have hated being alone, and i have only wanted it to end. i have spent most of my life waiting for that special woman who would make sure i was never alone again.

and i'm still alone, but it's no longer important. if i met that special woman tomorrow, that would be wonderful, of course. but if i don't meet her, if i remain as i am right now, that's ok. for now, and for some time to come. i don't need that right now. i've tried to shape my life so that i'm not desperate in that way, and it's finally happened, and it's so strange. especially given how i am feeling right now.