Merry Christmas Eve-Eve!
That’s holiday of the future, ya know … Hallmark is just waiting for the right time to spring this on you. Possibly the next time the economy ticks. There will be cards, new presents you must get — if you love your children — and an all new backstory. What did those wise men do before they made it to the stable? Why isn’t a tacky restaurant riffing on that idea for their commercials already?
Every so often I get on a John Wayne kick. I prefer Clint Eastwood, I think because that’s what my grandfather preferred. And there was something creepy about Wayne as an oil fire fighter. There was something creaky about him as an old fighter pilot. But, then, to me John Wayne had always been old.
Rio Bravo is probably my favorite, just because Dean Martin was trying so hard not to be Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson was trying so hard to not be cool while simultaneously being the unhip kid, generationally speaking. It is a bizarre dynamic, but I like that story for the most part.
I’d never cared for Wayne in The Longest Day, he just seemed to … sit there. Those regrettable Turner color crossovers put a bad taste in the mouth of anyone watching basic cable at that point in the 1980s. But that wasn’t the Duke’s fault. In the last few years I got around, in one of these kicks, to seeing his last film, The Shootist, which was really stirring. For the most part though, I can take him or leave him. If nothing else he’s good to have in the background.
I had AMC’s John Wayne marathon on last night and part of today, just playing quietly as I read and did other things. He’s good for this. You can tune him out as I did in The Horse Soldiers — apparently John Ford’s only Civil War film — and just pay attention when he’s speechifying.
And, also, when he punches someone. The man could throw a film punch like no one else. Here’s a good one from McLintock!, which was also on today.
He’s punching out Leo Gordon, who was one of the big screen’s perennial baddies. He worked until 1994 and died a decade ago. Only because G.W. McLintock let him live that long. He was married to a woman named Cartwright, which just seems appropriate, given the times and prevelance of westerns. She was also in showbiz. Her last role was in A League of Their Own.
If you want to amaze your friends, put in A League of Their Own, turn on the subtitles and learn how to say “There’s no crying in baseball!” in French. Call your friends out of the blue with this expression. Repeat it two or three times and then just hang up.
Someone did that to me a few years ago, because they felt the need to learn, and to share, the phrase. And I was amazed. So give that a try.
Anyway.
Rambo came back today. We have a Rambo in our lives. He is an appliance repairman and, as such, we are none too thrilled about having a Rambo in our lives, because his existence is predetermined by a failure of some mechanical apparatus, the absence of which we have deemed less than optimal and, thus, begun the process of bringing Rambo into our home.
It would be perfect if the guy talked like Stallone, or even a shade tree mechanic, but he knows his business and seems to be a thoroughly decent, happy and well-spoken fellow. How he got the name Rambo will forever be a mystery. It isn’t a written rule, but you just don’t ask people named Rambo about their origins. You can pretty much guess anyway, and you can also be sure he’s not pleased with the whole situation. It only gets worse if you think about what his name could have been if he’d been born a few years earlier, or a few years later. Hollywood does no favors to men who want to name their kids after action stars. And the kids know it.
Right now some guy in his mid-late-30s named John Shaft Kurzweil is in complete agreement with me.
Rambo is here today to replace the pumperator on the dishwasher. He has brought a colleague. When you are in a different room and listen to them speak intelligently about the issue in a soft, un-intrusive tone they sound like Boomhauer.
I asked about the proximate cause of the problem, which, I’m told, could be hoses, seals, pumps, motors, engines or the motors on the seals that pump the hoses into the engine. Either way, the water wasn’t escaping into the drainage system in a pleasing manner, but was taking the gravity assist and going everywhere. Ultimately, Rambo’s colleague said “If it is man-made it will eventually break.”
Not to get geological here, buddy, but other stuff breaks too. Mountains, for instance, are susceptible to change and diamonds aren’t exactly forever, never mind the marketing. Now back to the problem at hand.
I was doing laundry while they worked. When the spin cycle turned on Rambo must have seen dollar signs. My washer sounds like a bronco with ADD and self-control problems. But the clothes come out smelling nice, so there’s that.
I asked Rambo what else was going to break — this was his fourth visit to our house, which still sits firmly on an ancient and sacred burial ground, I’m sure of it — and he was afraid to commit to anything. He bade me Merry Christmas and then said the best thing possible.
“Don’t take this personally, but I don’t want to see you again for a while.”
That’s my joke. And unless you’re rigging something else to go out on a time delay basis, or if you have trained the cat where we have failed, I’m hoping to not have to call your fine establishment anytime soon. On their invoices they do the company initials on a clothesline graphic. It is cute, but nothing I need to see again for a while.
More working and getting ready for the holidays. Amazon failed me. Not that it matters, but they promised delivery on Christmas Eve in the spam and on the website. The followup Email says December 27. I wrote a note, accusing them of treachery of the most grievous kind. Someone sent back a nice copy and paste Email which suggested they did not read my note. Where’s that John Wayne punch now? I canceled the order, which is a delightfully efficient process. I think they’ve done this before.
Meanwhile, on Overstock they were also promising Christmas Eve delivery. I bought the last of something there. How thrilling! The very last thing and I didn’t have to pinch other fingers or box out or throw elbows like a rebounding forward. Their followup Email assured me the Christmas Eve delivery date would be met. As of this writing the item has gone from Maine to New Hampshire and Louisville and is projected to be on time.
What a world we live in. Let’s compare and contrast.
On Monday I watched total strangers clap and cheer for soldiers returning home to their families at the airport. Oh that was just a special joy to see. It was even an honor to say welcome home to a bright eyed young lady from the Army who already had tears in her eyes as big as the pack on her back.
Later that night I couldn’t get a stranger to help give my car a boost.
Today I ordered something, shipped from Maine, and be placed in my hands tomorrow. That thing is coming in with Santa.
It took more than two weeks to get the dishwasher’s new pumperator for today’s install.
For symmetry’s sake I’m looking for a fitting John Wayne quote, but the man never talked about dishwashers or the vagaries of our national supply and distribution lines. We are the lesser for it.
Merry Christmas Eve-Eve!
