August 3: Movie Review of "Cowboys & Aliens," Cudighi

Cowboys & Aliens was a little cheesy, but entertaining.  I kind of wish it didn't take itself so seriously.  Harrison Ford isn't in it enough, and Daniel Craig is in it a little too much.  The aliens themselves are hybrids of the aliens from Alien and Predator and Total Recall.  Our friends from the university were sufficiently entertained, but we all agreed that it could have been so much better.  Too bad.  Jon Favreau did a great job with the original Iron Man.  I kind of expected a little better.  My prediction is that this movie is going to disappear fairly quickly from movie theaters.

On the bright side, we had some great food at the Jasper Ridge Brewery.  Cudighi sliders for me.  Still tasting them.  And it was good to be with our friends.

Overall. Saint Marty would give Cowboys & Aliens...

August 2: Bad Mood, "Cowboys & Aliens," More Bad Mood

When I originally started this blog, I meant to write about my attempt to become a better person.  A saint.  All the saints I read about as a child always seemed so calm and relaxed and happy, even as they were being burned alive, disemboweled, or fed to hungry bears.  Even the portraits of saints, with their other-worldly peace, made me want to take whatever they were on--the Holy Spirit or Valium or Xanax.  This blog was my attempt to reach toward heaven, in a way.

Well, after a little over a year-and-a-half, I'm just as screwed up, cranky, and petty as I was when I started.  Today proves that point.  I woke up in a terminally bad mood, and, for most of the day, I have stayed in a terminally bad mood.  This state has nothing to do with the fact that my friend and coworker got an iPad2 yesterday for her birthday.  (I'm happy for her.  Really, I am.  Dammit, I'm happy.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that I didn't win that chapbook contest a little while ago.  (My entry fee for the contest entitles me to a copy of the winning chapbook.  I can hardly wait to read what a piece of crap the winning book really is compared to my chapbook.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that my daughter is away at camp for a week.  (I'm sure she's absolutely miserable without me.)  In fact, I don't know why I'm in such a bad mood. 

I am sure that saints never allow themselves to wallow in self-pity, which has pretty much been my modus operandi all day long.  Actually, it started last night when my wife told me she was having car problems and I started imagining the cost of the impending repair.  I've been in a nose-dive ever since.

Tonight, my wife and I are meeting some friends for drinks and a movie.  We're going to see "Cowboys & Aliens" with Harrison Ford.  I persuaded my friend from the university to attend by telling him it was a postmodern, deconstructionist version of the American western.  He said he would go if Derrida got his ass kicked.  I told him Derrida might be disguised as a really ugly alien or Daniel Craig, but he would get a thorough ass-kicking.

I wish I could say that, after a year of trying to be more saint-like, I feel the presence of God more in my life.  I don't.  I wish I could say I can perform tiny miracles now (cure a hangnail or ingrown hair).  I can't.  I wish I could say my life is more manageable.  It isn't. 

What I have learned, over 259 posts, is that I'm not alone.  I have friends and family, people who care about me.  I have a love of poetry and writing, a passion.  And I know that prayers can be answered (my friend's biopsy result yesterday is proof of that).  Faith.

I may be in a terminally bad mood today.  I'm human.  Just like every other saint I've read about or written of.  Saints are flawed.  They're crabby.  They're self-centered.  Sad.  Angry.  Happy.  Joyful.  Jealous.  They're everything I am.  They're everything I can become.

Saint Marty isn't giving up hope.