Jamie Fox has done it again; he has complemented last years "Ray" and "Collateral" with the new movie, "Stealth". There hasn't been an actor since maybe Tom Hanks that has the ability to start an Oscar streak so profound, so enthralling, so prosaic. You see, come next spring as the frost melts and the snowbirds head home, one fatefull morning we will all wake to what is likely to become the mundane -- another Oscar nod for Mr. Fox. And after all have seen this movie, we'll just nod our appreciation for someone so obviously in his prime. When you think about it, we are the lucky ones. Mr. Fox has the pick of the litter; and my dear friends, we will truly reap the rewards of his prophetic choices and daring attempts at studio resuscitation. We'll have the opportunity to watch him, again, become the token black guy while brilliantly delievering clever lines such as, "three is a prime number, and four is just unlucky," or "sometimes women need to bow down," before his very hyper-sonic jet (of which he is one of only three pilots qualified to fly) slams into the obligatory jet movie valley wall. But what makes this scene so emotional is the fact that his wing[wo]man was telling him he was too close, he just didn't listen. "You're too close, you're too close!!" I don't have any friends in the Navy that are flyboys (i think that's what they call them), but you can be rest assured that if "Stealth" inserted that line in the movie then it's authentic. I mean, can't you just picture the most qualified fighter-pilots in the world yelling, "Cut left. Go Faster!! Higher, higher. SHOOOOOTT!!" -- "Listen cap., I told him to shoot, and then go faster, hyper-faster, but he just didn't listen." -- "That's ok mav, let's go get some chicks in our milky white Navy suits. You look like you've lost that loving feeling."

But you see for me, I haven't. After his performance in "Collateral", I fell in love. And watching "Stealth", if only for a brief momment, made me feel like a flyboy. It was as if I personally wrapped myself in the Navy's pasty whites, walked into some vibe off base bar, full of the finest women and got lucky -- panties in the bathroom, or in front of some coin-op lucky. One night with Jamie Fox and "Stealth" and you too will walk away, cigarette dangling from your mouth, with that post coitus smile. Just take the action of an abridged version of "Top Gun", the emotional levity of "Hot Shots: Part Duex" and stir in the acting ability of a heat soaked Gumby, and you get yourself this summers covert hit, "Stealth".

This past week Katie visited. We had a ball. But there's something i noticed as we walked my streets, drank a bit too much alcohol and waxed existential; a biting wit, clever predilection, and a gracious prediposition are clear indicators of a tenacious individual. I would even go so far as to say that Katie is well equiped. She reminds me of Anne Lamott and Alexandra Fuller; two authors whose writings exude the very sensibilities I see in Katie's demeanor, as well as, aptly conveyed throughout her writing.

As Sartre, Camus, and others of that breed can attest to, life is difficult; we are given nothing but the freedom to accept his grace and move on. This weekend I found one who has. She's living in the real, defying categorization, acknowledging her part and , as Rick once said to me, embracing the pain. I think we all long to look at our life and face it in such a manner, but I must admit, few of us will look as good trying.

If I’ve noticed one thing in the last couple of months, it’s been this: My friends who smoke are schizophrenic and my time with them is confirming that I am lacking in certain amount of mental stability, as well. It’s reminiscent of those relationships we witnessed in high school (albeit from the inside or from the comfort of yours or someone else’s couch) that were tumultuous, sad and oh so entertaining, although exhausting. You know the ones I speak of. The conversation starts like this, “you know what Joel? That’s it, I’ve decided that it’s time, so-and-so and I are through, fini, kaput…I mean it. We’re done.” However, that conversation was uttered when the rooftops still had frost and as soon as it melted we all saw them gazing in each others eyes with that sickening look causing many to vomit, or mock, or both. It’s like the hard hitting conversations I’ve had with my brother, or my father, or even that of the Surgeon General and his, her, or whomever’s carefully placed and oh so instructional warnings, they’re just flaccid. They have the same penetrating force a Ford Focus has upon the rear end of an Excursion. “Huh? What? Something hit me?”
And therefore (like that great song of old) I am convinced, unequivocally, that these two unique yet not mutually exclusive conversations have allowed modern man the ability to master the art of the perceived attentiveness. “I mean it. That’s it. I’m quitting. I haven’t bought a pack in like five days.”
“Uh huh. Yeah. I know. This time IS different. I know you’ve been working out. Yes, you look good. Of course I believe in you.”
It always ends the same.
“Hey man, hold up. Excuse me, would you mind if I bought a cigarette off of you for a buck?”
--“Dude, no worries. I believe in cigarette karma. I don’t charge.”
“Oh, you rock. Got a light.”
And there they are, making out again.