Coming Attractions in 3D

My earliest memory of going to the movies was when I was five years old. My sister and I were being babysat during a hot Houston summer. To break from the daily routine of playing Barbie’s, our sitter decided to take us to see Ghostbusters. I remember her calling my mom at work to make sure it was ok for my sister and me to watch a PG movie. I was a mute Kindergartener who sucked my thumb insistently and my sister was a very grown up 3rd grader who had perfected the art of running commentary. So watching a laugh out loud comedy with early 1980’s movie animation was going to do little to bend our formative minds.

We were excited about the idea of not only going to the movies but just going somewhere without our parents. In our little minds we had reached “big girl” status. Our mom agreed that we could go and requested that we stay close to the sitter. I don’t remember the movie from start to finish but I do remember experiencing cinema magic that day. From the moment we walked into the lobby of the theater, I felt like I was somewhere special. Everything was new to my five year old senses. I loved the sensation of fantasy all round me. Ever since that moment I’ve been a big fan of going to the movies.

Due to my current life status (single), I have made the decision to “date-myself”. Meaning, on a weekly or bi-weekly basis, I choose to treat myself to dinner, a movie, or some special kind of outing. Until the man of my dreams manifest, I am not going to deprive myself of the treatment owning to a fabulous young lady which makes her feel like “she’s the only girl in the world”. This past Saturday I decided to treat myself to an afternoon movie. I wanted to see the fifth installment of the Fast & Furious franchise and a late afternoon showing seemed to fit in my schedule perfectly.

The closest theater to my home is AMC Cinemas at the Irving Mall. The Irving Mall is aesthetically challenged, to say the least, and has the reputation of being a mall for “troubled youth”. Nonetheless, the movie theater is clean and the staff refreshingly friendly. I pulled into the mall parking lot by the East entrance next to SEARS. The parking lot was crowded and all the good spaces were few and far between. I finally settled on a parking spot, locked my doors, and walked to the entrance. As I moved towards the front a cop stood outside his car and leaned against the door. As I got closer I noticed his stance hadn’t changed. The presence of the police at the Irving Mall was not a new sight, so I was not under any new alert. As I approached the end of the row of parked cars a lady to my left called out to me. “Hey, those cops have their weapons drawn on someone. I won’t go over there if I were you, “she said. “Oh my lord!” I shouted and turned around in a confused circle. “Thank you”, I said back to her. As I stepped away, walking forward but my head turned behind me to watch all the commotion, I started to panic. As I approached my car I saw family after family locking their cars and heading towards the crime scene. I waved and motioned to them. “Don’t go over there! The police are holding someone at gun point.” I said with a shaking voice. My heart raced as I heard the sound of more sirens approach the scene. As I warned others I failed to realize that I was making gun signs with my hands. From a distance I am sure it looked like I am threatening people. But the Irving Mall is a multilingual place and I figured the hand signal for a gun was pretty universal. As I scrabbled to open my car door crazy thoughts raced through my head. “OMG! What if they start shooting? I really don’t want to see dead bodies. I hope I don’t get shot in the face! Oh my god, what if I get shot in the face! That last face transplant surgery was a total disaster. Let me get out of here!”

As I exited the mall parking lot and re-entered the main intersection, I could still see the same cops with their guns steady drawn. Double the amount of police cars had swarmed the entrance. As I sat at the light I started to think to myself, “Ratz! I really wanted to see that movie. Stupid criminals are ruining my life!” Then suddenly I remembered, this is Texas, everyone has a gun! And if I leave the mall then the criminals win. I decided to drive a few feet and return to the mall but this time I would park by the Barnes & Noble. I figured the crooks won’t start shooting outside of a bookstore. They’re not really that into books anyways. I found a “secure” parking space and quickly ran to the doors of the B &N. Before I headed inside, I took another quick peek at the stand-off still in progress several feet away. All I could make out were flashing police lights and cops scattered. I let out a sigh of relief and strolled through the double doors. The smell of Starbucks coffee smacked me in the face. As I walked through the bookstore I looked at people’s faces. They had no clue as to the violent showdown happening outside in the parking lot.

I finally made it to the movie box office to buy my ticket. “One for FAST FIVE at 2:30 please”, finally my afternoon was back on track. Although I tried to act normal I still felt a little shell shocked. The thought that I had just avoided walking into gunfire still had me a little shaken. As the movie clerk handed me my ticket I couldn’t resist telling him what just happened. “The police have somebody at gun point right outside the mall by SEARS. It’s so gangster!” I blurted into the box office speaker. I needed to share the experience with someone so that I could calm down. The two movie employees and others standing in line directed their attention to me. “What happened?” someone in line insisted I recap the ordeal. I told the story acting out the role of the cop with my “gun” drawn. As I recounted the situation I felt a rush of adrenaline. Hearing my own words tell the story made me even more nervous. My audience of movie goers and box office clerks were in shock. I ended the story by saying, “But hey, this is the Irving Mall. Who doesn’t have a concealed weapon on them?”

As I sat alone in the dark theater and munched on my small popcorn, I started to laugh to myself. What a bunch of crazy drama. And people are afraid to travel to Mexico? I was happy I didn’t abandon my movie plans altogether. It was clear though, I prefer action sequences be played out on the big screen and not in real life.

What the Pho?

For as long as I can remember, my dad has taken my siblings and me to the Asian part of town to eat in whole in the wall restaurants. Uncle Balls restaurant was regularly packed with Vietnamese families stuffing their faces with pho noodle soup after Sunday Mass. Our family was purposely seated in the front of the restaurant so that we could be watched closely. Despite the extra servings of discrimination we enjoyed every delicious bite of our Oriental fare. And as a curious child, I was always fond of the foreign atmosphere. The use of wooden sticks as utensils, the brown drippy dishes that wet my appetite, and colorful zodiac calendar place mates all transported me to the Far East. It was a much needed break from my Texas reality. As for my dad, maybe the restaurant and its proprietors reminded him of his military tour in Vietnam. In spite of the warfare, Vietnam was his first real opportunity to see the world and experience new cultures. Or it could have been the use of exotic vegetables and meaty broths in there dishes. Whatever the reason, my dad’s love affair with Asian cuisine transformed over time into a family tradition.

Like any love affair, its sensations can fool you into believing that you can do things that are not reasonable. My dad's affection for Asian food led him to believe that he could cook it as well. I don't mean the straight forward dishes like chicken fried rice or egg drop soup. I am talking about taking a box covered in Chinese writing and filled with a mystery grain and preparing us kids an after-school snack. =(

My dad would fearlessly visit the meat department of an Asian grocer and ask about rare cuts of meat and how to prepare them. I would stand there and watch him negotiate with the butcher in broken English. Neither side could fully understand each other but they made an attempt to communicate. On occasion, a plastic bag with a living creature inside of it would walk across the meat counter and take my attention off the international collaboration. My dad would return home with his exotic ingredients and whip up his own version of some authentic Asian dish. In the end, the mystery grains were converted into pancakes and the meat of choice was fired up and served with a dipping sauce.

In recent years, my dad has left the Asian cooking to the experts and has perfected his ordering skills. He and my mom form these united fronts when it comes to patronizing one establishment over the next. To illustrate, my parents had a long standing relationship with a Vietnamese restaurant called Pho 95 (or $4.95). Oddly influenced by the presence of urban culture, the Ebonics friendly restaurant is where my parents spent their time and money. In later years, Pho 95 was shut down by the health department and my mom and dad quickly rebounded with Pho Nhuy. Pho Nhuy was good! However, its owner had a growing gambling addiction and the restaurant continued to change management. Yet, it always remained Vietnamese. Pho Nhuy eventually became Pho Vienna and then finally ended up Pho Legacy. My parents loyally stood by Pho Vienna, but once the Pho Legacy neon sign in front of the restaurant was illuminated their appetites had disappeared. Nowadays, my parents dine exclusively at Pho Empire and it is quite the world ruler. The restaurant is modern, bright and spacious. My parents know the wait staff by name and how close each staff member is to completing their nursing degree. T.I.M.

On a recent trip to Pho Empire my dad decided to shake up the status quo of the kingdom. He is consistent with his order. A pho noodle soup, size small, with lean cuts of beef and an iced tea. I order the pineapple fried rice with chicken. It comes with a small side of pho broth. I am a big fan of pho broth but not a big fan of rice noodles. The broth in pho soup is so earth shakily good, that I always imagine that there must be a 200 year old yoga instructor steeping in a large soup cauldron, elegantly frozen in a half lotus pose, giving the broth its brilliant flavor. It's that good.

As the pho soup arrived, my father started with is usual routine of customizing it for taste. In went the jalapenos, bean sprouts, mint, leeks, and chili pepper oil. Savory! My dad in particular, has the unique talent of taking the already “exotic” and up staging it. As I started to devour juicy chunks of pineapple I noticed my dad pulling out a small plastic bag from his corner shirt pocket. He had brought a zip lock baggie of BRAN cereal to the restaurant. I stopped eating. "What are you doing with that BRAN dad?” I asked him. "Oh, this is a great way for me to get my fiber," he replied as he sprinkled a small amount onto his soup spoon then lowered it into the seaming broth. I was silenced but not for the obvious reason you may think. The old me would have thrown a fit. To add BRAN cereal to any Asian dish is so preposterous! And to do it in the middle of a public restaurant is "UNCULTURED" by definition. But that would have been the old me. The new me has come to realize just how old my parents have become. I know that my dad was not trying to offend Vietnamese culture nor horribly embarrass me. He was simply trying to keep an old flame burning all awhile making adjustments for old age. "What does it taste like?” I asked. "Here! Try it!” he tossed me the mini zip lock bag across the table. I copied his method of adding the BRAN to the soup spoon and then lowering it into the broth. I let the BRAN soak in the broth for a few seconds and then gulped down the soggy grains. It actually tasted pretty good. Its flavor resembled a hearty homemade oatmeal cookie that spent a semester abroad in Saigon. It was amazing!

Use as directed

At the start of 2010, I decided to chop off all of my relaxed hair and go natural. Like most things in my life I didn't have a plan in place, I just jumped. I knew nothing of taking care of natural hair nor of the important hair care regimen that is necessary to maintain the fro of your dreams. Thirteen months into managing my African locks I have experienced highs and many lows of nursing natural hair. Despite the lows, all self inflicted, I love the true identity of my mane. It has so much personality! A big side of that personality is its perpetual need of moisture. For all of you non-African heritage readers, natural hair can be likened to a house plant. When regularly watered and trimmed it will flourish and liven up a room. Let it go neglected and it will wither and die. The past four weeks of winter 2011, have been uncharacteristically cold and dry, and as a result, my hair has greatly suffered from the lack of humidity in the air. I thought it be a good time to apply natural oils to my fro to help alleviate some of its dehydration.

During a brief trip to Wal-Mart, I came across an oil treatment that included natural oils and excluded all of the harsh chemicals that kill African hair. I noticed that it was a THERMAL OIL TREATMENT but I was more interested in the natural ingredients. Plus, I was thinking of using it on a daily basis to help my hair get through the rest of the winter months. With that goal in mind, I really should have gone with a regular daily treatment verses a thermal version. The instructions on the back of the box recommended only 1 -2 applications a month, because the product could cause burning. I read these instructions at least 3 times but never concluded that this hot oil could do any harm. I guess I have a different interpretation of the word 'thermal'. Although, that word has a very limited definition. But in the English to Moira dictionary, thermal is a throwaway adjective used for clothing or a layer of the earth's crust. Nonetheless, I parted my hair into several sections and applied the oil. As directed, I applied the oil onto my hair roots, gently massaged it into my scalp, and then brushed it to the ends of my hair. The oil felt great on my tight itchy scalp. I made two stranded twists with each section of hair, applied my head scarf, and headed off to bed.

The following morning I woke up to a burning sensation on my left temple. I patted my hair on each side of my head and felt a terrible sting all over. I sat up in my bed and unwrapped my hair. As I pulled on a few twists the stinging sensation intensified. OMG! I burnt my scalp! I jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet in the bathtub and dunked my head under the cold running water. As the water made contact with the seared sections of my scalp I could feel the degree of the burn to my head made by the thermal treatment. I felt like an idiot. I dangled upside-down over the side of the bathtub and made oh-ah sounds, due to the pain, for a good fifteen minutes. As I toweled dried my hair and tried to assess the damage to my scalp, I could see white flakes of charred scalp at the roots of my hair. "Rats!" I thought. Instead of being proactive, I have taken steps back in helping my scalp/hair maintain moisture. But like all my hair lows, it is was entirely my fault. Thermal means one thing and one thing only. HEAT!!! The sheer stupidity of it all. Sometimes I need to be saved from myself. Happily, I was able to rectify the situation but now have to nurse burned patches of scalp along with dry hair for the next several weeks.

They say mistakes are not a waste as long as you learn from them. The lesson I take away from this ordeal is to not listen to my private interpretation of a spoken language. If in doubt, consult family and friends with a command of the language as well. And lastly, own up to your mistakes and forgive yourself. Hair and skin are resilient and will heal. Wash, rinse, and don't repeat!

True Grit, True Life

As a loyal member of Team Coco, I have mandated that the late night show watching in my household go to Conan. I have successfully recruited my dad as a regular Conan fan as well. Earlier this week Jeff Bridges was a guest on the Conan show, plugging his new movie True Grit. My dad is a fan of Jeff Bridges and an even bigger fan of Westerns. After viewing a clip from the movie my dad asked me if it was at the dollar movies yet. My dad consistantly asks if new movies are at the dollar movies. But interestingly enough, he reserves his dollar movie status for the movies he really wants to see. I explained that it's a new movie and has several Academy Award nominations, so if anything it will be in the regular movie theaters even longer. It is very seldom that a Western movie comes out in theaters and even more seldom that late night show marketing works on my dad, so I agree to take him to so see the movie the following day. We went to a 2:40 showing, which guaranteed no crowds and a $2 discount off the regular movie price. Going to the movies with my dad is like job shadowing a safety inspector at a chemical plant. He critics and analyzes every aspect of the theater. As usual, the floor plan is all wrong, the seats are not practical and don't recline properly, and the surround sound system is "too loud". Seat selection is even more interesting. My dad likes to sit way, way, way in the back of the theater by the movie projector window. When we finally settle in and watch 15 minutes worth of coming attractions, my dad switches gears and starts to enjoy himself.

The movie True Grit lasted for a very long two hours and forty minutes. The most interesting aspect of the film for me was the authentic costuming, the consistent use of American English dialect of the Old West, and Matt Damon's cowboy hat. The double belted band with a one-sided flip hat gave his character a fashion forward look. Other then that, it was not as amazing as it was marketed. I believe if I was born and bred in the Northeast and cowboy culture was this exotic thing below the Mason Dixon line, then I may have enjoyed the movie more. But being a Texan, the movie felt incredibly familiar. Texas is filled with individuals with "True Grit". My grandfather was one of them. Even though he has been dead over the past fourteen years, the raw characters of the movie allowed me to remember him clearly.

Speaking of the day's work while spitting chewing tobacco into an old Folder's coffee can, my grandfather always reminded me of the Black John Wayne. The front yard of my grandparent's home in southeast Texas was consistenly covered in work tools and old farm equipment. Along side the tools was an old pick up truck that was infected with rats from my grandfather's hog farm. The slop truck and rusted farm tools were such an eye sore that one time their neighbors had the city fine my grandparents for bringing a health hazard to the neighborhood.

I didn't think Jeff Bridges' character was as unique as movie critics perceive. I've brushed shoulders with his character, 'Marshal Rooster', in checkout lines at the HOME DEPOT, dinning at the Cracker Barrel on Sundays after church, and bullying slower moving traffic into the slow lane on Texas highways. A reality tv show crew could easily wonder into a coffee shop in downtown Grand Prairie, TX and find retired members of the Klan with equal ruggedness. The movie True Grit isn't all bad either. If you are scheduled to do some community service at a retirement home and it happens to be movie day, True Grit would be a great film to show. Despite the flawed floor plan of the theater, my dad enjoyed the movie a little more. The reoccurrence of the Church of Christ song, Lean on the Everlasting Arm, and open range scenes of cowboys on horseback, reminded him of his childhood and Western heritage. My dad and I both agree that True Grit has 10 too many Academy Award nominations but is worthy of a dollar movie theater screen.