CARTOONS TO CAR DOORS TO CARTOONS

Wednesday looms. I just finished watching Samurai 7, an anime series based on Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai. It’s easily the best anime I’ve seen in a while, with solid characters, decent animation and action, though more reassuringly consistent than surprisingly awesome. I watched the original Heavy Metal last night, and I laughed and laughed. I don’t know what it is about animation that always has me expecting greatness. It’s not like the medium is predisposed toward quality or anything. Quite the opposite, given the sheer difficulty involved in animation versus live filming. Ratatouille looks promising. I was hoping Brad Bird’s next Pixar effort would be further along the adult side of the all-ages spectrum than The Incredibles, but I’ll take what I can get.

I ran my bike into a suddenly opened car door last week. That’s called “getting doored.” I know this because when I tell my more cycle-savvy associates, they exclaim, “You got doored?” Then their brows seize and air hisses back through teeth born wide in abject sympathy. A universal response, I assure you. Among cyclists. Of course, I wasn’t seriously injured. Just a scraped knee and a pair of temporarily vacated lungs. I remember coasting slowly, seeing the door, thinking, “Ok,” flying very briefly, landing very suddenly, and doubling over attempting to breathe. The door-er claimed I executed a nice roll. It’s comforting to know my body is capable of more practical emergency responses than simply thinking, “Ok.” Brain, you disappointed me that day. If you can’t think something useful in the face of calamity, don’t think anything at all.

When I brought the bike in to the bike shop to repair what I thought were merely brakes thrown askew, they found a score of parts, pieces, and cogs in need of replacement. As I gawked and sputtered at the cumulative price for mysterious components like “derailers” and “chainwheels,” their faces fell limp in the manner of those forced to roll their eyes inwardly. Ultimately, I ended up paying much more than they quoted me, even after giving me a bit of a break due to sulking. I figure it’s an investment in two years of daily bike commutes, but I still feel duped.

I bought a maidenhair fern this weekend. In the store, the woman in front of me actually took it upon herself to warn me of its frailty. “If it looks like it needs water, water it! Those thing shrivel up like that!” I don’t recall her gesticulating, pointing, dancing, or in any way indicating how hasty a shriveling “that” might be, but I assume it is very. And so I have been diligently watering it every day. A disturbing amount drains out the drainage hole. Like watching Skeletor drink soup. You remember that episode of He-Man? When Skeletor kept trying to drink soup? Like Skeletor, I doubt my fern could ever defeat He-Man. You know, now that I am consulting Wikipedia on the biography of Skeletor, I realize his torso seems rather fleshy. It is (or was), in fact, a much more fully formed torso than my own. Since my unremarkable torso can hold soup without difficulty, perhaps Skeletor and my fern have less in common than I had presumed. Ah, bite my tongue. The article has a whole subsection devoted to “The Question of Skeletor’s Head,” with a picture clearly depicting it as wholly separate from his bulging torso. Clearly, not a drinker of soup.

Also, were you aware that skeletor trained under the great Etherian warlord Hordak? I was not. Let Wikiality reign.