My Coats are Old

Our trip to the snow an hour and a half away allowed me to bust out my pea-coat. I was very excited about this.

[Let me first say that I don't want to have a full-on dialogue about the differences between jackets (items you wear in November and March) and coats (thicker items you wear in January and February, as both will be featured here.]

My pea-coat was something I wore in the coldest months in New York, and layered with a scarf, fleece, gloves and hat, I felt I could handle any weather.

Another nice thing was that it went with anything else I was wearing: jeans and hoodie or suit and tie.

Purchased in late 2006 or early 2007, it's my newest coat.

At 14 years old, it's my newest cold-weather outer wear.

Taking it to the mountains was something I was looking forward to, and it got me thinking about the jackets I wear regularly and the coats I wont let go of, their ages and circumstances under which I came to possess them.

The next newest jacket is a corduroy zipper ensemble I wear half the time during these mild southern California winters:

If I'm wearing jeans, dark pants, and/or no forcasted rain, I tend to wear this. I used to wear it with a scarf when it was necessary and I had a small soft one, also a skull cap, but not so much anymore.

It was a Christmas present in 2002. My mom got me and Dan and Norm each a different earth-tone color. Back in high school and beyond Norm and I would raid the closets of elders who'd been sent off to facilities for corduroy treasures: leisure suit sport jackets were the best, and by the time I made the dorms, my jacket had nearly disintegrated.

A few years later this corduroy had replaced it, it having been lost to the ages.

The next jacket I wear the other half of the time, if it's going to rain or if I'm wearing dressier clothes:

For a long time in San Luis it was simply my rain jacket: when I had to ride my bike in the rain from Oceanaire to school, I wore this, even as it was a little too warm.

It reminded me of a jacket my friend (and dorm-time idol) Alan would wear, and I liked the way it looked back at the time I came into possession of it.

I say it like that because I didn't purchase it.

We had a Halloween party at Oceanaire in 2001, and I only remember that was the year because when we moved the couch I found the local newspaper from September 12th wedged against the wall. After the party, nobody claimed the jacket, and I asked lots of people. So, I've been wearing this jacket from winter 2001 on.

This brings me to my oldest coat, and something I haven't worn regularly since we left New York back in 2009. It may also be my warmest garment. This is my Yankee parka:

It's a classic '90s era Starter parka. It was another Christmas gift, only from 1992. I just did the math in my head: I was in 8th grade, because I had mentioned wanting one, then later mentioned how I didn't really want one, rather, I wanted a poncho. I hadn't realized it, but my folks had already gotten it, and that year I ended up getting both.

But I remember not yet being in high school, and seeing how '93-'94 was my first year, this had to be winter '92. This has been in my possession for 27 years and a month.

If it was ever cold enough, I would fully wear it.

My coats are old.

Just the Three of Us, For the Last Time

It's been a while since I got over to this, but I felt like I needed to do this before our family grew.

Some time after the new year, we drove from daycare pickup up to the mountain village of Wrightwood, only 90 minutes from our place in LA traffic. That means it's super close.

If you drive over to I-15, head north towards to Barstow and then Vegas, and turn left right outside of LA metro area, in ten minutes you'll be in Wrightwood, population 5000, elevation 6000, and with snow on the ground in January.

We arrived at dinnertime to our AirBnB, dropped our stuff off, and walked down to the street with the restaurants. We got pizza, took it to the brewery, which let us eat and me have a beer. (The pizza joint was take-out only.)

I haven't taken my pea-coat out since we moved to southern California in 2011, so this was pretty great.

The next day we walked to a diner for breakfast, and then played around in the snow for a bit:

In the front yard of the AirBnB was a likely grassy area covered in snow for us to snowman, as a transitive verb, "to snowman."

I think Corrie had more fun than Cass:

As we left the place at the appropriate time, we swiped a thrashed plastic sled from their recycle bin and returned to the gentle slope we played at after breakfast. Even Corrie braved the sled and slope, nine months pregnant and all.

Eventually we left for home, an hour and a half away, and 40 degrees warmer, all the way into the 70s.

We had a quick little snow trip, just the three of us, right before that time will be over. It was grand.

Just Sayin'

After finishing Disney+'s "The Mandalorian," I think it's pretty obvious that Din Djarin, the refugee saved and raised by a troop of Madalorian warriors and is the titular Mandalorian, is way cooler and more interesting than Boba Fett:

Boba Fett, above on the right, is the clone of disgraced Mandalorian bounty hunter Jango Fett, the one clone raised as a son instead of becoming a storm-trooper. Like his "father," he works for himself outside the good graces of other Madalorian subculture. Or so I hear.

Din Djarin, simply known as "Mando" throughout the 8 episodes, is a respected member of the guild, is such a thing exists, and lives by some sort of code.

Disney banked on the cool-ness factor of the Boba Fett mask, and let Jon Favreau craft an entertaining western television show, eight episodes deep, that may be the best Star Wars product since 1983.

Was it always this trippy? Revisiting Three Caballeros

I don't really want to write about the trippyness of the Three Caballeros, Disney's animated feature from 1944 that used some unused footage from the earlier, surprisingly successful in South America, Saludos Amigos, mixed love action and animation, used simplified backgrounds to save money, and let the animators go a little crazy.

The film is quite weird, mildly uneven, and has that psychedelic Mexican "third act" section that I probably should talk about later. My brother and I watched it regularly as kids---at least I remember that way, and with Disney+, I just recently watched it with my son.

I remember being fascinated with the categorical trio of avian ethnicities: Donald, and American duck; Jose, a Brazilian parrot; and Panchito, a Mexican rooster.

What I did want to write about this time were two things, one I completely forgot about until the audible cue came up, the other was something I noticed because of the elevated level of sophistication in my more mature ears.

The first was the song of the aracuan bird, a character and musical cue I had totally forgotten about:

For some reason, the annoying song and presence of this Woody Woodpecker-inspiration is something I love? Dearly? I guess? I can't explain it. On Youtube someone has pasted together a six-hour animated cycle of the annoying song scene, and while it would be a form of torture to be tied up and forced to listen to it, I think I could last longer than most before losing my faculties.

Instead of a full-order review of this animated project, I just wanted to keep this short and sweet. The aracuan bird, and this other observation:

When Donald meets Jose for the first time, in the middle third of the piece, there is about 25 to 30 minutes of regular samba beats, Brazilian music for a solid brick of time. The music shifts noticeably, and it should, when we head to Mexico with Panchito. It's all pretty informative for the era---the 1940s---and yet is characteristic, I'm sure, of specific regions in those countries.

But you hear them and think: "Brazil" or "Mexico."

At one point, Jose and Panchito are pushing a reluctant Donald to go dance with a pretty live-action lady at Mexican fiesta, and Donald complains that he doesn't know the dance steps. He gets up on the stage and the music changes: the band starts to play a jazzy dance number, with pianos and horns, and I realized: this is American music.

It's a noticeable shift, and in the movie theaters of the 1940s, anywhere in the world, all three of the music cues would have been obvious to listeners; samba, garricha, and jazz. In another room not watching but still able to hear, it's obvious.

I have a thesis about portrayals of the concept of "American" to foreign audiences, like Jiminy Cricket, or Joseph Cotten in The Third Man, or the kid who plays Han Solo in the stand-alone movie. And these music cues are another aspect of that thesis.

Happy New Year

I've heard plenty of people complaining about 2019. Maybe since November 2016 each year seems like a shittier version of the previous. Besides November of '16, that year was pretty rad for us. 2019 was pretty awesome also: got a new place, a new car, a crazy trip to Italy, a crazier trip to Orlando, and a bun on the oven that's about to join the family. We made it past Cass's arrival, so all's well on that end.

Anyway, check out what opened up on the ground floor of our building:

A comic shop...A COMIC SHOP! They've already offered to watch Cass anytime. They're good people.

Here's to the new year, hopefully we won't have to strike again!