The Lathe of Escher

Duplicate digit days always remind me of Risa, because she was born on one of them and I called to wish her a happy birthday on the wrong one once.

For over a decade, Risa has been compiling and distributing sundry articles amongst a select group of members in a top-secret organization loosely connected to Cedar Falls, Iowa. A mailer arrived the other day, and upon skimming the contents, I came upon the transcriptions of a Camping Journal- a term coined by Risa- giving a distorted play-by-play of Brett and Andrea’s wedding reunion campout. “Oh, that’s strange,” I commented aloud, “I thought I had written a lot of that.” I then read the explanatory opening paragraph with near disbelief: I had written the bulk of that night’s Camping Journal.

My handwriting is completely illegible, and it does not improve with drinking. One morning in Maupin, Oregon, while struggling to read an entire page of my own Camping Journal scribbles from the epic night before in Dick’s backyard, I showed it to Sandy. She just laughed and shook her head. “My students have better handwriting than that.” I have been typing everything intended for others to read since my parents bought an Apple 2e clone when I was in seventh grade. Risa, however, was somehow only stumped by six words, which she scanned and included in their original form. The first four are: gun, woman, misbehavin’ and paddling; I have no clue myself what the last two are.

It suddenly occurred to me that Risa and I have remained in fairly consistent contact since we first met in Brad’s dorm room on April 27th, 1996, which is longer than anybody else I know. Therefore, it is highly probable that Risa knows me better than anybody else. This is likely how she was able to kick my ass at Risk last month, despite my having taught her everything (worthwhile anyway) she knows about the game. (Anyone who’s played a board game with my dad or I will get this joke.)

Risa’s married to this guy Chant. Chant and I met while “working” at a gas station conveniently located a couple blocks from “The Blue House,” where Risa lived at the time. Upon meeting Chant, I thought to myself, this guy is either as smart as I am or as full of shit. He dons a jaunty grin, keen eyes, stilt-like legs and flaxen hair. Perhaps he’s just a little too adorable for my tastes. He brews some fine beer, though. (I’m genuinely tempted to add LOLZ.)

One day while working together, Chant called me out for staring at a cute customer. Two years later, that cute customer and I would move to the San Francisco Bay Area together, not long after Chant and Risa had moved to Eugene, Oregon.

About a year ago, Chant and Risa asked if I’d seen some movie I’d never heard of. Chant promptly burned me a copy and, instead of writing the name of the movie, drew a picture of some devious-looking guy on it. Most people shy away from recommending movies to me, as I’m generally not shy about giving my opinion on it. If I don’t like a movie, I tend to amuse myself by talking through it ala MST3K. Anyway, I finally got around to watching the movie last night. It’s tragically titled The Lathe of Heaven (1980), so now I get why Chant opted to omit it. It is my kind of movie in so many ways- a sort of Twilight Zone meets Philip K. Dick in Portland, Oregon with a PBS budget (literally). It seems an essential link between cinematic science fiction prior to Star Wars (1977) and those that weren’t trying to be another Return of the Jedi (1983).

Chant also burned me the first season of The Wire. I plan on starting to watch that next week.

Risa has always had a crush on Arlo Guthrie. She even made me re-watch Alice’s Restaurant (1969) during our college years, and it turned out to be much better than I remembered it. I’m sure their newborn son, Escher Arlo, will be seeing it soon.

There’s a tête-à-tête in the entertainingly quotable movie Tombstone (1993) where, after the tuberculosis addled Doc Holliday, delightfully portrayed by Val Kilmer, coughs up blood and falls off his horse, Turkey Creek Jack Johnson asks, “Why are you doin’ this, Doc?” Holliday slurs, “Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.” Johnson scoffs, “Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.” Holliday replies, “I don’t.”