Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
I like John Cusack. Do I like him, like him? Is he equal in stature to other members of my I-really-like-this-actor club, like Daniel Day-Lewis or Colin Firth or Sam Waterston? And, is that last question reminiscent of those on tests where you have to pick the one name that doesn't fit in? Anyway, no, he doesn't get to join that club, but I like him in most of his movies that I've seen. He started out with that young, quirky face -- the wry smile and sad eyes. Then, he grew into that face. His young face was in the scene with the boom box in Say Anything. Love that scene.
So, John Cusack came to mind when I entitled this post Serendipity, because he made a movie by the same name. Actually, Billy and I kinda know the director of this movie, Peter Chisholm, as he is a customer of Billy's. I like the idea of the movie, and it is a solid chick flick, but not a favorite of mine. So, moving right along . . .
Last week I was tooling along on my morning walk in Carmel. I rarely take the same route. Carmel is like a lot of places which, unlike the neighborhood where I live, is pretty much laid out in a grid. The streets get a little wavy as you get near the point, but you can rather easily truck along in a chessboard pattern. And I walk them more or less like a knight moves across the board (kinda funny -- in a town like Carmel with a renowned Mission, you would think I'd walk through it like a . . . wait for it . . . bishop! Hahahahahahahahahaha! Oh dear). Anyway, I tend to move a block over, then a couple of blocks down, and vice versa, hitting the pattern in which a knight moves, as I recall. I don't play chess much and I'm having difficulty remembering, as well as staying on the subject. So, the walk . . .
I came down a street that Ts into Bayview, which is where the house that Sandra and John used to own is located. They lived in Carmel before we knew them, but I would bet that we crossed in a store or on the street during that time. I took a photo of the house, texted it to Sandra, then walked the remaining yards down to Scenic, which is the street that runs along the ocean. I hadn't walked too far before I came to a curve where there were a few cars stopped, and a small group of people standing around. From this point you can see all the way up Carmel beach and to Pebble Beach beyond. I had my head down, doing my version of power walking, when someone said to me: See the space shuttle? And there it was, flying low across Carmel beach. I had forgotten that it was going to fly over Monterey, but had managed to hit the best spot to see it at just exactly the right time. It flew along Carmel beach, then cut in, flying right over our heads. So close! We were like kids chattering and cheering. It looks so small, I said. No, a guy with a Carmel Fire Department tee-shirt said, It's not small (you stupid, blonde bimbo). But in contrast to the jumbo jet carrying it on its back, it looked rather, well, petite. And sleek. Wow.
I had grabbed my phone and snapped a few pics of it as it was going over, and they probably would have turned out quite well, except that I hadn't charged my phone that morning and the battery was running low. Low enough that the camera couldn't operate. As I walked on up the beach, I was supremely disappointed. But then, I thought, wasn't it enough to see it? I almost missed it, but it was serendipitous that I was right there at the beach, in the best place to see it. I was lucky. The odds of seeing a whale in the bay are pretty good (see post entitled Thar She Blows, available here right now at a close-out price), but the odds of seeing the space shuttle fly by? Well actually, pretty good if you remember that it's going to do that. In my case, I was working against the odds, but it still worked out. So I shrugged off the misfire of the camera. Not meant to be.
As this trip comes to a close, in a week, I think about serendipity. We had a perfect trip to San Francisco, and the Dodgers won the game we attended at AT&T Park. That will stay in my memory with a residual glow. I heard a homily at Mass at the Carmel Mission that made me think about something in my life in a new way. And, the space shuttle flew right over my head. Being in the right place at the right time. My friends who speak yiddish call it beshert -- meant to be. And, as I've written in my blog, ad nauseam, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about (paraphrase alert!) moments when everything goes all glimmering. Serendipity. Just when you get complacent and begin to take life for granted, it may come your way. Or fly over your head. And, in case there isn't a fireman there to remind you, here is my last bit of advice on this subject: Don't forget to look up! And, thanks for reading my blog.
Showing posts with label Colin Firth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Colin Firth. Show all posts
September 25, 2012
June 1, 2012
Fifty Shades of Grey Book Club
Los Angeles, California
It's still spring, people! Ok so, for those of you who know me, I thought you'd get a big LOL out of this post title. For those of you who don't, and were actually expecting to find a circle of people here who appreciate that (or those) silly book(s), let me write this about that: You are SO barking up the wrong bedpost!
Don't get me wrong -- I read this book. Once it actually hit the shelves at Barnes and Noble (and then I saw it being sold to the masses at Costco), I had to read it, even though I knew it was The Bridges of Madison County all over again. I've always rather nastily enjoyed the memory of some of the people who gushed to me about TBoMC, trying to back-pedal when they figured out which way the wind was blowing about it. But, when a book that is so excoriated in the reviews does this well, it makes me curious. I even finished it. But I complained to my hairstylist, Bridgette, about it. She was the first person I knew who had actually read it. Before her, it was only a lot of chatter on radio and online. The sex is more or less always the same, was one of the comments I made to Bridgette. No it's not, she said. He flips her over every now and then. I also complained to my frister, Lydia (known in these parts by her monogram: LOL): The writing is terrible. She responded that the writing in books like this is never good. It's erotica! She reminded me. What about Henry Miller? And D.H. Lawrence? They got pretty hot, and still, still they refrained themselves from writing pithy phrases like: Oh my!
The set-up is an obvious play on the Austin/Bronte school of innocent lass (virgin! Yes, a college graduate virgin. Really? Really?!?) who encounters a man with a dark side. In fact, the description of Christian Grey with his auburn hair, sounds a bit like Colin Firth to me. But that could just be me. I tend to plug in the image of Colin Firth wherever I can. But I digress. Considering the possibilities with this premise, it, unfortunately, missed its opportunity to be campy. Don't know if it's still in print, but Terry Southern's Candy was a very funny send-up; an erotic novel which made the rounds when I was in junior high school, spending much of its time between the mattress and box springs in many of our homes.
Truth is, as I told Stella, a young clerk at Barnes and Noble, you can learn a lot from a bad book. And stop snickering -- I'm talking about writing. A really well-written book can seem daunting to your writing skills. But a badly-written one is like a handbook for what not to do. She was smart enough to not start her book with it was a dark and stormy night. Although, frankly, that might have been a step in the right direction.
But who am I to argue with twenty million copies sold in the USA alone? Especially since I bought one of them, which has since gone out of the house (into the hands of one of my fristers). It puts one solidly in mind of Henry Mencken's quote: No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. Still, if you want to go with the popular heavy-hitters I'm all for reading the Harry Potter books. They are fun, funny, and increasingly complex. I miss them, and am greatly looking forward to Harry growing to middle-age and then being portrayed in a next round of films by . . . you guessed it . . . Colin Firth. Holy Thunderbolt! I think I'm on to something here!! Thanks for reading my blog, even though this post was all downhill after the title (aren't they all?). Loved that title, though!
It's still spring, people! Ok so, for those of you who know me, I thought you'd get a big LOL out of this post title. For those of you who don't, and were actually expecting to find a circle of people here who appreciate that (or those) silly book(s), let me write this about that: You are SO barking up the wrong bedpost!
Don't get me wrong -- I read this book. Once it actually hit the shelves at Barnes and Noble (and then I saw it being sold to the masses at Costco), I had to read it, even though I knew it was The Bridges of Madison County all over again. I've always rather nastily enjoyed the memory of some of the people who gushed to me about TBoMC, trying to back-pedal when they figured out which way the wind was blowing about it. But, when a book that is so excoriated in the reviews does this well, it makes me curious. I even finished it. But I complained to my hairstylist, Bridgette, about it. She was the first person I knew who had actually read it. Before her, it was only a lot of chatter on radio and online. The sex is more or less always the same, was one of the comments I made to Bridgette. No it's not, she said. He flips her over every now and then. I also complained to my frister, Lydia (known in these parts by her monogram: LOL): The writing is terrible. She responded that the writing in books like this is never good. It's erotica! She reminded me. What about Henry Miller? And D.H. Lawrence? They got pretty hot, and still, still they refrained themselves from writing pithy phrases like: Oh my!
The set-up is an obvious play on the Austin/Bronte school of innocent lass (virgin! Yes, a college graduate virgin. Really? Really?!?) who encounters a man with a dark side. In fact, the description of Christian Grey with his auburn hair, sounds a bit like Colin Firth to me. But that could just be me. I tend to plug in the image of Colin Firth wherever I can. But I digress. Considering the possibilities with this premise, it, unfortunately, missed its opportunity to be campy. Don't know if it's still in print, but Terry Southern's Candy was a very funny send-up; an erotic novel which made the rounds when I was in junior high school, spending much of its time between the mattress and box springs in many of our homes.
Truth is, as I told Stella, a young clerk at Barnes and Noble, you can learn a lot from a bad book. And stop snickering -- I'm talking about writing. A really well-written book can seem daunting to your writing skills. But a badly-written one is like a handbook for what not to do. She was smart enough to not start her book with it was a dark and stormy night. Although, frankly, that might have been a step in the right direction.
But who am I to argue with twenty million copies sold in the USA alone? Especially since I bought one of them, which has since gone out of the house (into the hands of one of my fristers). It puts one solidly in mind of Henry Mencken's quote: No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. Still, if you want to go with the popular heavy-hitters I'm all for reading the Harry Potter books. They are fun, funny, and increasingly complex. I miss them, and am greatly looking forward to Harry growing to middle-age and then being portrayed in a next round of films by . . . you guessed it . . . Colin Firth. Holy Thunderbolt! I think I'm on to something here!! Thanks for reading my blog, even though this post was all downhill after the title (aren't they all?). Loved that title, though!
March 1, 2011
The George Clooney Effect
Los Angeles, California
It's time for a recipe, so I thought I would mix you up one of Billy's martinis. My girlfriends say that Billy makes the best martinis, and here is his specialty.
Vodka Martini
2 ounces Ketel One vodka
a dribble of Cinzano dry vermouth
1 jalapeno-stuffed green olive
Place vermouth in a small martini glass and swirl around. Pour out (or, as my dad did, drink) any excess. Place a handful of ice cubes and vodka in a small shaker. Wrap shaker with towel and shake about fifteen to twenty times. Set aside. Place olive in glass (I like to use a decorative pick stuck through the olive, especially since I've bagged these from hotels, restaurants and resorts around the world) but Billy considers this 'clutter'). Give the shaker about ten more shakes, then immediately pour over the olive. Makes one martini -- of the size that martinis are supposed to be, unlike the current supersized ones!
Note: I drink martinis with a twist of lemon. Billy uses a lemon zest "stripper" to remove about a two-inch strip of lemon zest. He runs it around the rim of the glass, then carefully ties in in a knot. Into the glass it goes in place of the olive. I prefer a martini with a twist, though sometimes I steal the olive out of his drink, just out of spite. He doesn't seem to mind.
Having just seen a movie with a lot of cocktails in it (though mostly whiskey in a crystal glass which can be fine on cold, rainy, or bluesy days), I thought I would provide the above recipe. I went with Lydia to see The King's Speech last Friday, even though I had already seen it. It was a cold (for Los Angeles) rainy day, and seemed the perfect time to be indoors at the movies (other appropriate times are when the temps soar over 100, but that's months and months away). Lydia doesn't see a lot of movies out at the theaters. She's a busy chica and her work entails a long commute. So time is of her essence, and these days with ads, interminable trailers, and the length of movies, going to see a film can tie up an entire afternoon or evening. Time that she doesn't always have to spare, or that she'd rather spend SHOPPING. But I knew I could get her out to see this because of one of the film's elements. And that element is Colin Firth.
Lyd and I have been friends for a long time, but only recently did we discover that we shared this Bridgette Jonesesque Colin Firth thing. Mine started back in 1987 after seeing him in a PBS series on Masterpiece Theatre which was, I believe, entitled Lost Empires. He was young (as was I, come to think of it). Lydia discovered him after seeing him in A&E's Pride and Prejudice. Think of that series as his version of Last of the Mohicans which put Daniel Day-Lewis on the map for a lot of American women. But I don't want to write too much about that because Daniel Day-Lewis could be a whole 'nother post or two or three.
So, back to Colin Firth. After seeing him in Los Empires back in the late '80s, I searched the video store in hope of finding him in movies. A couple of "country" movies came up, and I eagerly rented them. One was Another Country which also had a young Rupert Everett in it. The other was A Month in the Country, which, as I recall without checking here, also starred Kenneth Branagh. Billy called this our Colin Firth Film Festival. In truth, this became a contentious point in time which came to a head, if memory serves, after we rented A Handful of Dust (which Colin Firth was not in). After viewing that film, Billy put down a moritorium on Brit films. He was running a pint or so low on chase scenes, and had pretty much had it with World War I told from the British point of view. Luckily I had gotten a good fix of Firth movies before that point.
So where does George Clooney come in to all of this? Well, here's the thing. I really get the Colin Firth thing. I get the Daniel Day-Lewis thing. Both of those in a BMW (big major way), in fact. But I must make a confession: I never really got the George Clooney thing. That is, until I experienced him in a movie where I really, really liked him. And that movie was, The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now, if you're familiar with this movie at all, you know that he's not visually in it. It's animated. And if you saw the film, you know how good it was, and how good he was voicing the main character. And maybe that's where he got me. The voice. Like Colin Firth, for me, it's the voice. Cary Grant? Voice.
OK, now I've done it. I've simply got to digress and, at least briefly, write about Cary Grant. For a long time I have believed that Cary Grant movies are the best antidepressant on the market (with no harmful side-effects, plus affordable!). I don't love them all. Some are decidedly better than others. And I own most of those better ones. I started collecting them some time back and have a pretty good DVD library of them. Don't know why this is, but they always work for me. Bad mood? The blues? Mean reds (which is worse than the blues, as Holly Golightly pointed out)? Try Cary Grant movies -- especially my favorite, The Awful Truth. It will do much to uplift and pull you right out of it. You must trust me about this.
Perhaps some day, I'll collect George Clooney films to yankify this thing that I have with British actors. Don't know why I have that, but I am reminded that my late father, who was a first generation American raised by an English father (and in a very English way, it appeared) once dissed my affection for Greta Garbo films.
"Don't you like Greta Garbo, Dad?" I asked.
He shook his head. "She was a cold fish," he stated.
Cold fish, I thought? This from a conservative and proper father who was strict about manners, never cursed (wouldn't even let me use the word bitchen in our home), nor told an off-color joke. Had that thing which Freud called sex raised it's ubiquitous head in this conversation?
"Well, then, what actresses did you like better?" I questioned. I figured I'd cut straight to the chase. However, even with the cold fish comment, I expected him to come up with Greer Garson.
"Sophia Loren," he said, in a shot. No thinking about it. It was Sophia all the way.
I would love to say that this conversation finished on a witty note, but it was difficult for me to respond with my mouth hanging open. Dad?!?
Well, he had good taste and to prove it, next time you're feeling blue, try Houseboat. A lot of bang for your buck, as you get Sophia AND Cary. Antipasto and antidepressants, so to speak. And while you're Netflixing, do order The Fantastic Mr. Fox. If you're not getting the George Clooney effect yet, this may do it for you. If not, I hope, like Lydia and me, that you have Colin Firth to fall back on. Thanks for reading my blog, and le sigh . . .
It's time for a recipe, so I thought I would mix you up one of Billy's martinis. My girlfriends say that Billy makes the best martinis, and here is his specialty.
Vodka Martini
2 ounces Ketel One vodka
a dribble of Cinzano dry vermouth
1 jalapeno-stuffed green olive
Place vermouth in a small martini glass and swirl around. Pour out (or, as my dad did, drink) any excess. Place a handful of ice cubes and vodka in a small shaker. Wrap shaker with towel and shake about fifteen to twenty times. Set aside. Place olive in glass (I like to use a decorative pick stuck through the olive, especially since I've bagged these from hotels, restaurants and resorts around the world) but Billy considers this 'clutter'). Give the shaker about ten more shakes, then immediately pour over the olive. Makes one martini -- of the size that martinis are supposed to be, unlike the current supersized ones!
Note: I drink martinis with a twist of lemon. Billy uses a lemon zest "stripper" to remove about a two-inch strip of lemon zest. He runs it around the rim of the glass, then carefully ties in in a knot. Into the glass it goes in place of the olive. I prefer a martini with a twist, though sometimes I steal the olive out of his drink, just out of spite. He doesn't seem to mind.
Having just seen a movie with a lot of cocktails in it (though mostly whiskey in a crystal glass which can be fine on cold, rainy, or bluesy days), I thought I would provide the above recipe. I went with Lydia to see The King's Speech last Friday, even though I had already seen it. It was a cold (for Los Angeles) rainy day, and seemed the perfect time to be indoors at the movies (other appropriate times are when the temps soar over 100, but that's months and months away). Lydia doesn't see a lot of movies out at the theaters. She's a busy chica and her work entails a long commute. So time is of her essence, and these days with ads, interminable trailers, and the length of movies, going to see a film can tie up an entire afternoon or evening. Time that she doesn't always have to spare, or that she'd rather spend SHOPPING. But I knew I could get her out to see this because of one of the film's elements. And that element is Colin Firth.
Lyd and I have been friends for a long time, but only recently did we discover that we shared this Bridgette Jonesesque Colin Firth thing. Mine started back in 1987 after seeing him in a PBS series on Masterpiece Theatre which was, I believe, entitled Lost Empires. He was young (as was I, come to think of it). Lydia discovered him after seeing him in A&E's Pride and Prejudice. Think of that series as his version of Last of the Mohicans which put Daniel Day-Lewis on the map for a lot of American women. But I don't want to write too much about that because Daniel Day-Lewis could be a whole 'nother post or two or three.
So, back to Colin Firth. After seeing him in Los Empires back in the late '80s, I searched the video store in hope of finding him in movies. A couple of "country" movies came up, and I eagerly rented them. One was Another Country which also had a young Rupert Everett in it. The other was A Month in the Country, which, as I recall without checking here, also starred Kenneth Branagh. Billy called this our Colin Firth Film Festival. In truth, this became a contentious point in time which came to a head, if memory serves, after we rented A Handful of Dust (which Colin Firth was not in). After viewing that film, Billy put down a moritorium on Brit films. He was running a pint or so low on chase scenes, and had pretty much had it with World War I told from the British point of view. Luckily I had gotten a good fix of Firth movies before that point.
So where does George Clooney come in to all of this? Well, here's the thing. I really get the Colin Firth thing. I get the Daniel Day-Lewis thing. Both of those in a BMW (big major way), in fact. But I must make a confession: I never really got the George Clooney thing. That is, until I experienced him in a movie where I really, really liked him. And that movie was, The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now, if you're familiar with this movie at all, you know that he's not visually in it. It's animated. And if you saw the film, you know how good it was, and how good he was voicing the main character. And maybe that's where he got me. The voice. Like Colin Firth, for me, it's the voice. Cary Grant? Voice.
OK, now I've done it. I've simply got to digress and, at least briefly, write about Cary Grant. For a long time I have believed that Cary Grant movies are the best antidepressant on the market (with no harmful side-effects, plus affordable!). I don't love them all. Some are decidedly better than others. And I own most of those better ones. I started collecting them some time back and have a pretty good DVD library of them. Don't know why this is, but they always work for me. Bad mood? The blues? Mean reds (which is worse than the blues, as Holly Golightly pointed out)? Try Cary Grant movies -- especially my favorite, The Awful Truth. It will do much to uplift and pull you right out of it. You must trust me about this.
Perhaps some day, I'll collect George Clooney films to yankify this thing that I have with British actors. Don't know why I have that, but I am reminded that my late father, who was a first generation American raised by an English father (and in a very English way, it appeared) once dissed my affection for Greta Garbo films.
"Don't you like Greta Garbo, Dad?" I asked.
He shook his head. "She was a cold fish," he stated.
Cold fish, I thought? This from a conservative and proper father who was strict about manners, never cursed (wouldn't even let me use the word bitchen in our home), nor told an off-color joke. Had that thing which Freud called sex raised it's ubiquitous head in this conversation?
"Well, then, what actresses did you like better?" I questioned. I figured I'd cut straight to the chase. However, even with the cold fish comment, I expected him to come up with Greer Garson.
"Sophia Loren," he said, in a shot. No thinking about it. It was Sophia all the way.
I would love to say that this conversation finished on a witty note, but it was difficult for me to respond with my mouth hanging open. Dad?!?
Well, he had good taste and to prove it, next time you're feeling blue, try Houseboat. A lot of bang for your buck, as you get Sophia AND Cary. Antipasto and antidepressants, so to speak. And while you're Netflixing, do order The Fantastic Mr. Fox. If you're not getting the George Clooney effect yet, this may do it for you. If not, I hope, like Lydia and me, that you have Colin Firth to fall back on. Thanks for reading my blog, and le sigh . . .
December 1, 2010
Albert Finney Slept in My Bed
Los Angeles, California
Caught your attention, now didn't I? Well, while the afterglow of Kona is still somewhat with me, I thought I might relate one more Kona Village story. And I will start by telling you five things about me that are extraordinary. Now, don't go away. I don't actually mean things that are inherently about me. Rather, this is more about things that have happened to me, mostly through the luck of being in the right place at the right time. And they are (and I am totally excited to introduce the bullet format into my blog):
So, with all of the above in mind, here is the short list of celebrities that I would love (or would have loved, in the case of those who are DYK -- Dead, You Know) to have spotted: Paul Newman; Robert Redford; Daniel-Day Lewis; Colin Firth (be still my heart); Diane Keaton (mostly because Billy saw her at a McDonald's in Santa Monica, which makes him one up on me). And if the list were longer it would certainly include Albert Finney.
I was pretty young when my sister was studying English Literature in college. Still, she took me to a revival movie theater to see the Tony Richardson film Tom Jones. I loved it. And the actor who played Tom Jones was amazing. His name is Albert Finney, and after viewing the film I had a huge crush on him. When I was a bit older, I saw a movie that changed how I conceptualized marriage (for better and worse). It was Two For The Road, with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. It was at the beginning of a love affair with the later Stanley Donen films -- my favorite being Once More With Feeling, which is hard to come by but you can occasionally catch it on TCM. It stars Yul Brynner and Kay Kendell (FABULOUS). But I digress. This post is about Albert Finney.
- Saw The Beatles in concert
- Have seen three no-hitters pitched at Dodger Stadium (Bo Belinsky, Fernando Valenzuela and Kevin Gross). Belinsky, by the way was pitching for the Angels who utilized Dodger Stadium during the first few years of the franchise
- Have experienced the Northern Lights in Washington State. Seriously. No drugs involved in this
- I ALWAYS find excellent parking. I call it "TV Parking" because it is like on that old TV show, The Streets of San Francisco. Drivers on that show were always able to pull up into a parking place right in front of the Buena Vista (cafe in San Francisco famous for Irish Coffee and immortalized, so to speak, in the opening scene of the film When a Man Loves a Woman). Anyway, parking thusly in the heart of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco is, in a word, impossible. But I do have that kind of luck when it comes to parking. I'm famous for it.
- I have a finely-tuned radar for spotting celebrities. The list is long, but to name a few: Barbra Streisand (at a nursery in Calabasas, California), Steve Martin (California Pizza Kitchen), Clint Eastwood (Piatti restaurant in Carmel), Doris Day (Rio Grill which is also in Carmel), Julie Andrews & Blake Edwards (Michael's restaurant in Santa Monica, California), Billy Wilder (also at Michael's on same evening as Julie and Blake -- she went over to talk to Billy at his table), Cyd Charisse (at a workout studio in Encino, California), and both Jake (Hungry Cat, Hollywood) and Maggie (Le Pain Quotidien in Bev Hills) Gyllenhaal, just to name-drop a couple for the younger gen.
So, with all of the above in mind, here is the short list of celebrities that I would love (or would have loved, in the case of those who are DYK -- Dead, You Know) to have spotted: Paul Newman; Robert Redford; Daniel-Day Lewis; Colin Firth (be still my heart); Diane Keaton (mostly because Billy saw her at a McDonald's in Santa Monica, which makes him one up on me). And if the list were longer it would certainly include Albert Finney.
I was pretty young when my sister was studying English Literature in college. Still, she took me to a revival movie theater to see the Tony Richardson film Tom Jones. I loved it. And the actor who played Tom Jones was amazing. His name is Albert Finney, and after viewing the film I had a huge crush on him. When I was a bit older, I saw a movie that changed how I conceptualized marriage (for better and worse). It was Two For The Road, with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. It was at the beginning of a love affair with the later Stanley Donen films -- my favorite being Once More With Feeling, which is hard to come by but you can occasionally catch it on TCM. It stars Yul Brynner and Kay Kendell (FABULOUS). But I digress. This post is about Albert Finney.
I heard somewhere along the line that he had spent time at The Kona Village, which isn't surprising. Through the years a ton of celebrities have stayed there. Some have come regularly, and some we have seen while we are there. But I'm not going to divulge that information because it flies in the face of what is special about the Village. However, I do need to write about Albert Finney's stay there. From what I heard, the staff liked him a lot. He lived large, enjoying the food and good wines at meals. He was kind to the employees, and I suspect a lot of them may not have known who he was. We heard from guests whose stays had overlapped with his, that he was a bit of a character. But it wasn't until a couple years after hearing these stories that someone mentioned which hale was his during his stay (for refresher on what a hale is, see post entitled Kona Hanu. Oh, never mind, a hale is like a cottage). And, lo and behold, Albert's hale was OUR hale! The very same one we stay in every year when we go to the Village.
It was a long, long road from viewing Tom Jones when I was in junior high school, to learning that we had stayed in the same hale, showered in the same shower, and slept in the same bed, albeit at different times. See what can come to those who are not impatient for the arrival of serendipitous events in their lives? And, so it is that I can truthfully state that Albert Finney slept in my bed. Or I slept in his. Same difference. Now if I could just figure out where Colin Firth goes on vacation . . . And thanks again for reading my blog.
It was a long, long road from viewing Tom Jones when I was in junior high school, to learning that we had stayed in the same hale, showered in the same shower, and slept in the same bed, albeit at different times. See what can come to those who are not impatient for the arrival of serendipitous events in their lives? And, so it is that I can truthfully state that Albert Finney slept in my bed. Or I slept in his. Same difference. Now if I could just figure out where Colin Firth goes on vacation . . . And thanks again for reading my blog.
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.