Lehigh Valley Scene

A thumb goes up, a car goes by…..won’t somebody stop to help a guy….

The lyrics to that 70s favorite, “Hitchin’ a Ride,” ran through my head as I started my 5-mile walk — in 3″ heels — from Lehigh Valley Hospital toward home.

The unplanned hike occurred after calling several family members and friends for a lift.  My car was in the shop, and my ride to the hospital, with whom I’d had lunch, had to get back to the office for a 3 p.m. conference call.

“Not a problem!”  I had told him with confidence as he drove away.  I was only at the hospital for a brief photo shoot, and I imagined it would be fairly easy to find a ride home from….somebody.

Yeah, right.

My husband, home with an ear infection from wallowing in a charity dunk tank a week earlier, was asleep.  He never heard the phone ring, all seven times.  My daughter had our second car — I had forgotten I’d told her it was OK to go to the movies.

And I had given her all my cash.

Now, I’ve never been someone to turn down a challenge, and one of my many personality disorders (according to some former partners, that is), is an undying compulsion to see ‘what happens next’ when the unexpected arises.

So, completely in character, I exited the sprawling hospital, hefted my camera bag over one shoulder, threw my purse over the top, and draped my raincoat (yes, it looked like rain) over the other, and hit the road.

Another unflagging personal flaw is an ability to get lost, sometimes in my own neighborhood, if distracted.

My keen sense of misdirection was right on cue.  I was walking in the complete opposite direction of home.

Thinking back, perhaps the fact I was on EAST Texas Road should have given me a clue.  Though, frankly, I couldn’t tell you now if I should have gone North, South or West instead.

I decided to use one of my phone calls.

“Hi. It’s me.  So.  I think I’m lost.  Are you at your computer?  Yes?  Can you check Mapquest for me?”

And so it went.  My editor, painfully slowly, found the crossroads, but still couldn’t tell me how to get home.  I realized I should have called one of the kids, as I now understand you must be under age 25 to navigate Mapquest for someone who’s lost.

I was still standing at the corner of Fish Hatchery and East Texas Roads as it started to rain.

Her SUV was not white, but when I heard the words “Do you need a ride?” it took me fewer than three seconds to decide the tanned, 30-something brunette behind the wheel was not an axe murderer.

“YES!”

I ran to the other side of the car and climbed in.

“You looked so dressed up, I figured something had happened.”

I explained (lamely) about the hospital photo shoot, my sick husband, car in shop, Mapquest-illiterate friend.

“I’m Laura,” she said.  “Sorry, my car’s loaded — I was just at BJ’s.  We’re having a soccer party at my house tonight.  “Where are you headed?”

“Center City Allentown — near West Park.”

Laura turned the SUV around.

“Wow, if you had kept going that way, you would have ended up in Wescosville!”

I apologized for taking time out of her day.  She insisted on driving me home. We chatted.  She is a mother of four boys, the first one a freshman in college.  All of them play sports.  I imagined her car’s mileage was already close to seven figures.

“I’m a big believer in Karma,” she said.  “We’ve all been in ‘those places’ before, and if it were me, I would have hoped someone would stop to ask me if I needed help.”

Laura dropped me off in the alley behind my house, as my house keys….oh, just forget it, that’s another whole story.

I watched her drive away, then pushed the garage door opener’s code.  It rumbled open, and I stepped in out of the light rain.

A philosopher once suggested we’re all connected, on a certain level of consciousness.   Some people ‘tap into’ this collective consciousness, others can’t, or won’t.  I am sure the ones who do, understand Karma.

Like Laura.  And me.

A Warning to Wine Lovers.

DO NOT attempt to enjoy a glass of La Terre (a middling Chardonnay) at the Marriott near Times Square.  You will part with the better part of $20.  Bizarrely, much of it is a gratuity the bartenders give themselves.

I’d tell you what I think they can give themselves instead, but this is a family friendly column today.

A second iffy experience during my most recent trip was navigating Times Square, now closed to traffic.  I am not certain if it was the best decision.

Reason  One:  Instead of moving along, hundreds of unattractive tourists now sit like over-photographed logs in the square for hours, staring at the gigantic advertisements blazing from the buildings surrounding the Square.

Reason Two:  Tourists eat while they sit.

Reason Three:  After sitting too long, many tourists forget the concept of Garbage Cans.

Other than that, New York — particularly Manhattan — continues to be the most magical place in the world for me.  The heat, the smell, the color, ALIVENESS, excitement, crowding, and in winter, that nasty snow.  Woah.  Unforgettable.

The rest of my recent trip thru NJ and into NYC will be dealt with in a separate post.  I just had to get these things off my chest.  The other 400 items will have to wait.

Happy Sunday : )

In addition to crustaceans and extra-large mosquitoes, Maine is known for the iconic accent (Ayuh!) and pithy sayings (You Cahn’t Get They-ah From He-yeah) of its residents.

When I moved to Pennsylvania, I discovered Maine potato “fahmahs” and “lobstah-men” have a distant cousin here:  The Pennsylvania Dutch.  The Pennsylvania Dutch are as distinctive as “Maine-iacs” for their culture and cooking, but until I lived here, I knew little about the PA Dutch language.

Since becoming familiar with terms like “eat yourself full” and “ain’t not,” however, I discovered something about myself.

I am a closet Dutchie.

Though I’ve never said “Outten the light,” it seems I have a few Pennsylvania Dutch sayings of my own.  The first was recently identified.

Over the past few months, a wonderful friend in Huff’s Church, PA has been teaching my daughter, Devan, how to blacksmith.  When I offered to pay for some materials, Ed and his wife thanked me kindly, and refused.

Relating this kindness later to an acquaintance, I remarked “I’ll have to take them up a gift!”

“WHAT?  What did you say?”  He retorted. ” That’s about as Dutchie as you can get!”

His comment gave me pause.

Growing up on a river-front farm, our closest neighbors were other distant farms.  The closest belonged to Mrs. Hoppe.  I recalled her heavy accent, penchant for “tobogganing” (i.e. sledding) and field of Lupines (which she called Bluebonnets, also known as Quaker’s Bonnets), and realized I had grown up neighboring the Maine version of Pennsylvania Dutch culture.

This Maine/PA connection could explain why both states lay claim to inventing the delicious confection of chocolate cake with cream filling known as the Whoopie Pie.  Recently, I was surprised to see Chow-Chow, a mix of chopped, pickled goodies, available for sale at the Allentown Farmer’s Market.  My mother used to make that every year, and my grandfather used to layer it on that Morse family staple, hash (ugh), with abandon.

Forget the French Connection.  I want to learn more about the Maine/Pennsylvania German connection.  Though German blood is lacking in my veins, the culture is alive in my history, and my heart.  It may explain why I’ve never felt homesick here.

Last weekend I enjoyed a leisurely drive to Slatington, where I was to review a new musical at a small local theater.

After missing the turn to the theater (the road sign was twisted), I found myself in the middle of what appeared to be a very pious town.  Indeed, there seemed to be more churches than houses.  The fact I was driving on Church Road said it all.  Large pick-up trucks dominated the streetscape, many boasting “America:  Love it or Leave it” stickers and the mandatory (I’m-a-true-patriot-you-can-tell-by-my) yellow-ribbon magnet.

This was probably a town where Mr. Obama did not fare well in the election, I mused.

The plastic sided homes near the road were filthy from dirt and dust in that graying, fading way grime attaches itself to siding.  Behind them, crops of second-tier McMansions rose in the distance, where cornfields once grew.  Otherwise, the town was neat and quiet.

Too quiet.

Slowly I turned and made my way back to where I suspected I had missed the turn, and then I saw it.

A very quaint firehouse, Friedens Fire Company.  The commercial sign on the street advertised the usual events — Spaghetti Dinner Saturday, Blood Drive Sunday…..and then….at the bottom, in equally large letters,

“ADULT TOY BINGO”

I practically gave myself whiplash.

Adult toy Bingo?  My mind reeled.  Perhaps a naive citizen was raffling off an ATV or golf clubs.  Both could be considered toys for adults.  Right?

No matter how I tried to rationalize, I suspected they weren’t talking jet-powered gas grills here. The theme to The Deliverance popped into my head, and I hit the gas.  I still got lost two more times before finding the theater, and I believe it was because of the shock of stumbling across a sign in Slatington that belonged in Vegas — or at least Atlantic City.

Several days later:  Adult Toy Bingo.  Adult Toy Bingo.  I still can’t get it out of my head.

Who would attend such an event?  Blushing older ladies?  Brazen fans of “Desperate Housewives?” The local knitting club?  Farmgirls who had seen one too many geldings? People like my mother, maybe? (Shudder!)  Regardless, who would attend an event like that after it was advertised right on the side of the road, where your grandkids could see?!?  Was it a fundraiser?  If so, what for?

I don’t consider myself a prude, but I am a private person.  I would probably never attend an adult toy anything, let alone a party.  I thought about calling the Fire Company’s number to inquire about the Bingo tourney, but just couldn’t get up the nerve.

I think I may have misjudged the good folks of Slatington.  Perhaps there were closet Obama voters there.  Not that you have to be a dem to use a…..oh, man I can’t even think about it.  Would a Republican….?  Not the ones I know, at least I think…..

Naaaaah.

Sometimes, what happens in Slatington should stay in Slatington.

The 22nd annual Cystic Fibrosis Foundation Beach Bash took place last night at the Holiday Inn, Fogelsville.

There had to be around 800 people there — the ballroom and dance floor were unbelievably packed.  Usually, in crowds like this I like to get my photos and get out.  The band, Philly-based rockers The Flamin’ Caucasians, was fun but loud, and the crowd was, well, equally fun and loud.  The food was plentiful, drinks flowed, and inflatable palm trees lit up the night, as did an outdoor fire pit that beckoned the bikini-clad to venture outside to toast marshmallows (as well as other things, I imagine!)

One of my photographed “victims” was John Temple of Olympus and his wife, Lisa.  They were great sports, and I ran into them again just as Michael and I were planning to leave.

John and Lisa’s oldest child has Cystic Fibrosis.  Another is a carrier.  Instead of worrying, however, John and Lisa live.

Happily.  Honestly.

John’s main concern is not when the cure for CF will emerge.  He and Lisa excude a warm confidence that all will be taken care of in good time, as long as we do our part.  Instead, he thinks about the dumbing down of our emotional selves.  The loss, to Blackberries and texting and email, of the natural part that makes us…human.  The part that cares.  The part that helps a neighbor because it’s the right thing to do, and climbs a mountain just because it’s there.

The part that chooses to live consciously and takes chances and walks the road less traveled.

Last week, during an ugly storm, I walked the seven blocks to Hava Java on 19th Street to meet a friend.  (I’m bringin’ back the Gum Boots, baby!)  It seemed like a good idea, until the soft snowflakes turned into icy flecks, stinging my face.  A Lanta bus zoomed by, sending a backwash of spray that nearly turned me into a gasping and freezing version of Sarah Jessica Parker on the theme of Sex and the City.  Sans cute skirt.

I had a great time at the warm coffee shop brainstorming ideas columns and websites with a friend, then met another girlfriend at Boutique to Go, three doors down.  We had a glass of wine with the owner, and browsed her gorgeous (sale!) items.

By the time I left, the ice had turned into a downpour of freezing cold, soaking rain.  I slogged through the Allentown Fair parking lot, avoiding the spray flying from the tires of passing cars.

I breathed in, and tasted the sharp, biting cold.  My boots splashed, rhythmically sinking into slush.

It was a moment of absolute grace.  At that moment, I knew someday, somewhere — from a hospital bed?  Hospice?  Beach front? I would look back and remember the gray afternoon I walked, wet jeans pasted to numb legs, water, like saltless tears streaming down my face, through the crystal quiet of an empty parking lot in a small Pennsylvania city.  I memorized the sensation, because I wanted someday to relive it, or even tell the story to my great grandchildren.

These are the moments I knew John was talking about.  When I shared the story with him, his eyes softened.

Because that’s what happens when you meet a kindred spirit.

Wend home from the hospital mere days after meeting our friend from the Eagles.

You go, Zach.

A couple years ago, I attended a gala in Fogelsville held to celebrate and kick off the opening of Miracle Field, a Lehigh Valley-region baseball diamond built so kids with disabilities could safely enjoy some sport and fresh air.

Kostas Kalogeropoulos, hotelier, philanthropist and founder, Camelot for Kids, was keynote speaker.

“I could tell you all about the beautiful field, its scoreboard that puts the kids names in lights, the accessible dugouts and more.  But why listen to me, when the kids themselves can tell you.”

Two young men, both wheelchair users, took the stage.  One was 12 year-old Zach K.

“I always have to go see my brother and sister when they have sporting events,” he said into the mike as his mom, Tamara, looked on, smiling.  “Now, I like that they’re going to have to come see me play.”

He got a very hearty round of applause.

On opening day and throughout the field’s first and second season, Zach did play.  Sometimes he was strong enough to make the bases on his crutches, other times he got some assistance from an “Angel in the Outfield” as he rounded the bases in a wheelchair.

I lost track of Zach and his family following a trip to see the first 3-D animated movie at Rave.  My editor, who was covering the film, was able to get a couple extra tickets for the screening.  I’ve even lost track of the photo I took of Zach and his mom at the Miracle Field gala with Representative Charlie Dent.

Zach often crossed my mind, though.  I wondered how he was doing, but then life would get in the way, and I’d forget.

Just before the holidays, I found Zach.  A Facebook friend posted a connection to what I expected to be his personal blog.

As I read recent posts, my heart sank.  While Miracle Field sits idle in winter, Zach, now 14, is also idle, waiting for a miracle himself at St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children near Philly.

Two spinal taps in three days.  Trips to the ICU.  The SCU.  Lots of procedures I’ve never heard of, and none of them sounded very pleasant.  Measurements of white cells, blood counts, lung issues.  I rarely understand much of Tamara’s posts.

Zach clearly has lots of fans, however.  Posts from as far away as Kansas and Texas poured in after each new entry.  “You’re the strongest fighter we know, Zach!”  “We’re thinking of you” and “Sending prayers to heaven, this many can’t be ignored” are common themes.

This week, that changed.

After I “found” Zach, I called my friend Billy Staples, author of Before the Glory, a book about the rise of America’s great baseball players that has done very well, at least according to the New York Times bestseller list.

Billy had met Zach at Miracle Field.  Or maybe at a gala.  Honestly, I just can’t remember.

It took about 20 minutes for Billy, who a mutual friend describes as having “more energy than a case of Red Bull” to spring to action.

A couple days later, I got a call.  Billy was cruising back to the ‘Valley with none other than Matt McBride of the Cleveland Indians fame.  They had been to visit Zach.

“He was doing OK until we were about to leave,” said Billy, who had promised Zach some real excitement this spring, once he got better.  “Then tears streamed from his eyes.  But it’s OK.  I have another surprise planned for him.”

The next day, Tamara’s post was frightening.  Zach had some bad test results, and he was going to have to be vented.  Whatever that meant.

I called Billy in a panic.  “You know, nobody knows what could happen tomorrow.  Zach could get out of bed and walk out the door in perfect health.  I’m just sayin.’ If you had another surprise, maybe you should do it now.”

“OK,” he said, crunching the phone to his ear using his shoulder as he packed for another road trip, another speaking engagement.

“I’m going to give you the cell and home numbers for Jon Runyan.  I’m going to call him, and so are you.”

Call an Eagles player?  To visit a sick fan?  During PLAYOFFS?

Why not.

I dialed the cell, with no little guilt.  I’m not a real sports person, and worried it would show through.

Thank goodness, it went straight to voice mail.  I left a halting message, trying to sound both really sincere and honest and really convincing and yet strong, like Zach.

Billy did the same, though I’m sure with more panache.

We heard nothing.

“I suspect he’s not even getting messages,” Billy said.  I agreed.  “It’s a huge game this weekend.  Well, we did what we could.”

This morning, here’s what was posted on Zach’s CarePage:

ZACH and JON RUNYAN.  http://www.carepages.com/carepages/ZachSK.

The messages from Zach’s fans became much more exciting.

“I’m jealous!” “I hope you shared your strategies with Big Jon!”  “Soooooo cool…!” and, my favorite, “Ain’t God good!”

I can’t stop thinking about that one.

Following Jon’s visit, Zach’s numbers improved.  Was it God?  Jon Runyan? Or just me & Billy.

I’m not a religious person, but when things like this happen, I always wonder how those great connections are made.  Billy Staples — where in the cosmos did he come from, and how did he get Jon Runyan’s cell number….?  I don’t know Jon Runyan, but I now love the man.  Like Billy and his mentors, Big Jon knows what true power is.  It’s not smashing an opponent into the astroturf (though that’s always fun to watch).  It’s the awesome power that builds when the strong help the weak.  It seems when the powerful take a moment to acknowledge and lift up another, something important seems to happen.  Respect grows.  Bridges are built.  Healing begins.  Even during The Playoffs.

Keep fighting Zach.

Take math.

Please.

OK, enough lame jokes.  The truth is, when there’s a battle between me and the numbers, the numbers often win.  It’s why I rarely play the lottery, and why I suffered tiny panic attacks just before the market opened every day when I worked in stock brokerage.  Talk about a math-heavy career!

Thanks to a certain University of Maine professor, however, I coped, though a good calculator is still my best friend.

Twice a week, as an adult student in Professor Carolyn Foster’s Probability class, I would make my way to her office 40 minutes before class began to take advantage of office hours.  I wanted extra help, though I was fairly certain I was doing the problems correctly.  I was unsure of myself, but didn’t know why.  After several weeks of this, Professor Foster removed her glasses (more on those later) and looked me in the eye.

“Diana.  If you would just get over your math phobia, you would be fine.”

Phobia?  Me?

Could it be that I was afraid of math?  Afraid of failing to decode its secrets?   As the diagnosis sank in, however, it made sense.

I recalled one afternoon in seventh grade, when our teacher divided up the class into “A”, “B” and “C” levels for Algebra class.  When my name was called out for the “B” group, I was horrified.  Why hadn’t I been selected for the “A” group?  I was one of the best readers, and always, always did my homework in every class.  I had very good grades, I thought.

After the shock wore off, resignment set in.  “I just must not be as good as the “A’s,”‘ I rationalized, and at that moment my 12 year-old mind decried math as my weak suit.  After all, my teacher thought so, and he certainly knew better than I who belonged in “A”-group.  I condemned myself for not properly memorizing all the times tables through the twelves — it had just been so boring! My heart sank.  All was lost.

Even more humiliating, we were instructed to change desks to be with our assigned group.  I had to sit with the mediocre kids.  Mediocre!  Me!

I sat in the middle, close to the back.

The kids in the “B” group talked to each other when class was in progress.  Our teacher looked the other way, and I swear he paid more attention — and told jokes to — the “A” group kids.  In retaliation, one “B” boy entertained us by drawing rudimentary pictures of….well, I’m sure you can guess.  It was the first time I had been “bad,” but my heart was no longer in the class.  I believe I may have gotten a “C” in that class, which convinced my parents, like me,  that I was bad at math.

Enough.  Let’s just say it was all downhill from there, until, at age 30, I met Professor Foster, and she hit me with her best shot.

I got an “A” in Probability.  I also enjoyed Stats, and later received an “A” in Business Calculus.

Calculus!  Me!

I had to spread the word about math phobia.  It was obviously real.

I an sure Professor Foster didn’t know what to expect when she arrived at my 6 year-old daughter’s Brownie Troop meeting in Saco, Maine.  Awaiting her were nearly a dozen wide-eyed little girls, some wearing the traditional felt beanie, and most — including my daughter — wearing chocolate brown vests or sashes, heavy with badges.

After the requisite introductions, Professor Foster clasped her hands.

“How many of you like math?” she asked.  Might as well get that out of the way, I winced.

Neither of us were prepared for the response.

Every single girl immediately raised her hand.   Some supported their waving arm by grabbing it with their other hand for extra emphasis.

“Me!  I do!” They cried out, smiling.  Their eyes were bright, their faces innocent.

I can’t describe the shock on Carolyn Foster’s face.  Perhaps it mirrored mine.  After years of struggling with math — me on the receiving end, her on the end that tried to raise women like me up — Professor Foster saw a glimmer of hope.

They had never heard of math phobia.

Yet.

I don’t remember much about the rest of Professor Foster’s presentation.  My mind was swimming.  The educational community has wondered for years:  What happens in middle school that makes girls lose ground in math class?

I knew.  It’s the same thing that makes women lose ground in the workplace, and continue to earn less than a man in the same job.  It’s a lack of belief in ourselves, a lack of resiliency.  It has nothing to do with the brain.  It has to do with us.

So where do we go from here?  Fifteen years later, I still don’t know.

Yet.

Breaking into film acting over 40 is no easy task.  Job one is to have talent.  Equally important, however, is to have confidence.  This week, I feel like I’ve got both.

With a single Forensic Files episode and a Bollywood film on my very thin resume, it seems New York has decided I’m ready for a prime time (well, maybe later than prime time) debut.

Several friends from the acting class I took at ProModel in Bethlehem last spring stay in touch, and frequently share casting calls they find on the Web.  After passing along a Grant Wilfley casting call alert to jazz musician Eric Mintel last Thursday, I thought “why am I always passing on these jobs?”  I decided to throw my hat in the ring, and emailed my comp card and resume to the agency, Grant Wilfley.

Two and a half hours later, I got the call.  I was invited to work background on (reportedly to-be-cancelled) NBC drama Lipstick Jungle.

At 7:30 a.m. Tuesday, Nov. 18, I arrived at “holding,” the location where extras cool their heels while waiting for camera time.  To keep the location private, we were not notified of the location until after 9 p.m. the night before shooting.  Our holding place for the two day shoot was the somewhat unglamorous Manhattan Church of Christ.

After checking in, the more than 90 actors lined up for hair, makeup and costume check.  Four stylists worked to give everyone a trendy, chic look worthy of a party hosted by none other than Brooke Shields.

Now it must be said:  I have never watched this show.  I actually never watch TV.

It was no surprise, therefore, that I didn’t recognize Brooke Shields standing four feet away from me on the set.  I kind of thought it was her when she smiled, but still wasn’t sure.  She seemed my height, and I had expected her to be taller.  I asked another extra if “that was one of the stars.”  He was horrified.

Oops.

Was she beautiful?  Yes. I was proud as a fellow 40+ to see she seemed to have refrained from nips and tucks, though she admits the uses Botox.  She was also professional, poised and down-to-earth.  As were all the actors on the set, including Anthony…I mean Andrew (just checked the web) McCarthy and (checking web again) Kim Raver and Lindsay Price.  Oh, one more.  There was a gorgeous black man in a pinstriped suit.  I have no idea who he is or who he plays.  He’s not on the show’s website, but he was cool.

The girl playing Brooke’s daughter was also there for a couple scenes.  Did I mention Candace Bushnell showed up on the set at the wrap for day one?  Yup.  I walked right past her and would not have had a clue unless another extra told me who she was.

Maybe I am not the best person to be a society writer……

Day two had an 8 am call.  It was easier to prepare for because we all had to wear the same outfit.  Our hair needed minor tweaks (I slept very carefully) and the makeup….well….came out differently on me the second day, but nobody seemed to care.  Andrew McCarthy did stare at me a lot, however.  Maybe he thought I was a drag queen.  My eyes were pretty well done up, which really dried out the skin and accentuated my wrinkles.  Great.  I’m just thankful I didn’t call him “Joe” by mistake.

Still, I managed to get A LOT of camera time.  I think it’s because I was wearing plum, an accent color.  Most other actors brought either a black or a white outfit.  Those of us fitted with muted tones or metallics got lots of crossovers and features.

Even though I’m new to film work (oy, the jargon alone is mind-boggling!) I felt a sting of envy when a handful of extras were plucked from the crowd for small speaking parts (earning the coveted role of “under five” meaning actors with under five lines).

I also learned a lot about getting around in New York.  Squatting at Emmaus artist Barnaby Ruhe’s flat in the West Village, (THANKS, BARNABY!) I needed to use subway and cabs — and discovered that you can spend A LOT OF MONEY on them.  Thank you Thank you Thank you to Angel and Chas who rode with me and helped me figure out my way around.

It was easier to use public transport than to walk everywhere, which I cowardly did in September when I covered fashion week.

This morning I sent a very nice thank-you email to Allison, the agent who booked me.

I want more.

Dahlings:

By this time I’m hoping everyone in the Valley has seen Zeke Zelker’s latest film, “InSearchOf.”

If you missed the gala premier at Allentown Symphony Hall, get thee to Rave at the Promenade Shops at Saucon Valley!  The edgy saga of sexual choices is playing through this Thursday, Nov. 13.

No excuses!  The Allentown Art Museum “Art After Hours” and Zoellner Center’s Council of Friends crowds can easily make the 10:45 closing show.  Check listings first, of course.

I saw the film last Friday, and plan to see it again Thursday just to wrap my head around the many complex characters and situations.  Yep, this is a film you have to see with your brain turned on.  No sappy stuff!  Well, maybe a couple tender moments in the semi-denoument….

Comments about the film?  Feel free to post here.  No anons, please.  Cowardice doesn’t sit well with me, and such comments shall be deleted.

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