Still livin' and dyin' in Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time

Last night after work the wifey and I met at Downtown Grill and Brewery for dinner. I was in South Knox for a late afternoon meeting, so I thought it would be a good excuse to eat downtown.

It was a nasty night, rainy and dreary, the kind of thing fall and winter usually bring with them. And, yet, it seemed to fit.

We sat by the front windows. I watched business types hurrying home in their three-piece suits, glad I could sit and enjoy myself during rush hour.

Bo Pierce, on Facebook, told us to pretend we were looking over the Pacific. As much as I still have Hawaii flowing through my veins, what I actually thought of was Manhattan. We were in such a spot where the buildings could have been skyscrapers and the hustle and bustle could have been ripped right out of Gotham. The rain added to the effect.

It put me in mind of that early February day we ate lunch at just such a brewery at the Empire State Building.

I want to go back to New York when we have more time to stay. Up and back was OK, but not enough.

After spending 10 days in paradise, though, I can tell you I'm still livin' and dyin' in Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. A New York state of mind will have to wait.

I do have one question, though. Why does the Downtown Grill NEVER have the State Street Stout in stock?

Hemingway, Hotchner and haunting, sad eyes

Lindsey has a beguiling quality and haunting, sad eyes.

But early this afternoon at the Downtown Grill, it's readily apparent she's only interested in taking my order. So, I forget about flirting and ask for Mountain Eggs with brunch potatoes and bacon. It's a good meal for a lazy Sunday.

Afterward, I forget about Lindsey, and we walk south on Gay Street, looking at the classic cars that have made their way here for the special screening of "Thunder Road." But I'm not much into Robert Mitchum and bootleggers, so I head west on Kingston Pike to McKay's.

The pickings are slim, but I unearth a couple of books on Hemingway and a military history of the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu. Driving home, I get stuck on Cunningham Road behind a car with Loudon County tags that doesn't appear to know where it is headed.

Heavy afternoon thunderstorms negate the idea of watching TV, so I crank the air conditioning down and curl up in the recliner to read.

A.E. Hotchner was one of Papa Hemingway's best friends the last 15 or so years of his life. "Part Boswell, part Euripides," as the Times Book Review once called him, Hotchner observed, remembered, put down a few stories.

Mary Hemingway didn't like the fact that he wrote openly about Papa's 1961 suicide, but Hotchner said Ernie would have wanted it that way.

"He said that for him there was only one way to account for things -- to tell the whole truth about them, holding back nothing." And, if we know anything about Hemingway, surely that statement must be true.

I napped in between claps of thunder, still thinking about Lindsey's sad eyes, and wishing I could have bombed around with Papa and Hotchner on long ago adventures in Key West and Havana.

Oh, well. In some ways it's better reading about it from the comfort of your easy chair on a rainy Sunday.

The simple joys of the season

This time of year is like one big Technicolor motion picture come to life.

No, really. The grass is greener, the sky is a deeper hue of blue, everything is alive and I just get to feeling good despite myself.

Even if the Tigers can’t figure out how to win a darn ball game. But that’s another post for another day.

Yesterday, we took in Sunday brunch at the Downtown Grill. Quite nice, I must say. Dean ordered steak and eggs; Allison enjoyed the French toast. I branched out and tried something called Mountain Eggs -- cooked in a muffin pan. Good stuff.

We walked down Gay Street as the sun began to peek through the clouds. Ducking into the Mast General Store, we spotted Halls guy David Wayland downstairs in the outdoor gear. David works downtown on Sunday afternoons after church. He was the longtime guidance counselor at Halls High and says he is enjoying retirement.

From there, we headed south to the Bijou for the KSO Chamber Classics’ "All Mozart" concert. Maestro Lucas Richman took to the piano for the first selection, "Quartet in G Minor for Piano and Strings, K. 478." After intermission, the chamber orchestra performed Mozart’s final symphony, "No. 41 in C Major, K. 551," also known as the "Jupiter" symphony.

We walked out of the grand old Bijou into the golden sunlight of a spring afternoon. I didn’t want to sit at home on such a pretty day, and the UT baseball team had already concluded their abbreviated game with Florida, so I drove out to West Knox and took in a Chinese dinner with friends.

My former boss and good friend "The Rat" gave me a belated birthday present -- a collection of wartime correspondence between Random House co-founders Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer. Sounds nerdy, I know, but Cerf is one of my all-time favorite human beings. He surely led a charmed life.

I drove home in the fading twilight, Sinatra playing gently on the iPod (This time, we almost made the pieces fit, didn’t we, girl?), quite thankful for the simple joys of the season.

Resurrecting the western (and having fun doing it)

Finally...

Nick and I ducked into the Downtown Grill just after 6 tonight. They'd moved the host table to the right side of the entrance. But we found it.

The server sat us upstairs. Nick could see three TVs. Still, nothing was on, he said.

All I got was the bar, Fox News on one TV and a view of a woman sitting across the way.

I got the better end of the deal.

Nick ordered a Coke and chicken fingers. I asked for a Blonde and a barbecue pizza.

But we weren't here to eat. Not really. We were going to the movies.

Regal Entertainment has built a big, nice, spiffy looking theater right smack dab in the middle of downtown. I didn't see a speck of dust anywhere. Even the bathrooms are top notch. I thought the automatic blow dryers were going to rip my skin right off my hands.

The film was "3:10 to Yuma," James Mangold's brilliant, mighty fine update of Delmer Daves' 1957 western classic. I said "finally" at the beginning of this blog because this -- finally -- is the movie I had convinced myself that Hollywood couldn't make anymore.


Oh, what a picture it is.

"Yuma" is the story of an outlaw, a likable, downright enigmatic outlaw, named Ben Wade. Played to perfection by the venerable Russell Crowe, you love Wade and hate him too -- sometimes all at the same time.

Wade is captured and sent to the town of Contention, where he has an appointment with the 3:10 train to Yuma prison. Dan Evans (Christian Bale) is the poor farmer who signs on (the reason isn't as obvious as you might think) to help bring Wade to justice.

How cheap that synopsis sounds, though, because "3:10 to Yuma" isn't anywhere near a standard western. Oh, no. It throws all those cliches you've grown to know and love (or hate) on their ear. It's peppered with religious symbolism, ambiguous human motivation, drama, quiet reflection and a whole lot of other things.

At its heart, "Yuma" is Dan Evans's story. Evans essentially agrees to transport Wade to get the $200 reward the railroad offers him. His farm is drying up from a drought. A local magnate wants his land for the coming railroad. Evans has a wife, two sons -- one with TB -- and, as he says, is "tired of seeing my boys go hungry."

But, like a lot of foolish things people do, his motivation isn't so crystal clear. Evans sets off for Contention for deeper, darker reasons.

He's limping from one leg, lost in the war. But he's no hero. His oldest son William (Logan Lerman) doesn't respect him. Neither -- maybe -- does his wife Alice (Gretchen Mol).

No, friends, what Evans is really after is redemption, the desire to have his son look at him with pride, the chance, finally, to hold his head up.

It's Crowe, though, who has the real tour de force in this film. His Ben Wade is the most likable villain since, well, Glenn Ford's take on Ben Wade 50 years ago. Oh, he has fun. And, oh, is it indeed a joy to watch him act.

Bale, given a difficult, brooding part to play, is quite good too. So is young Lerman, who should have a long career ahead of him.

I ducked into the Riviera not believing this cast and crew could make me forget about the original "3:10 to Yuma." But guess what, y'all?

They did. Not only that, they've given me hope that both the western, and the thoughtful Hollywood movie, may not be dead after all.

"3:10 to Yuma" is now playing at theaters everywhere. It is rated R for violence, language, adult situations and gore.