Awe vs. Aw

awe |ô|nouna feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder: they gazed in awe at the small mountain of diamonds | the sight filled me with awe | his staff members are in awe of him.• archaic capacity to inspire awe: is it any wonder that Christmas Eve has lost its awe?verb [ with obj. ] (usu. be awed)inspire with awe: they were both awed by the vastness of the forest.ORIGIN Old English ege ‘terror, dread, awe,’ replaced in Middle English by forms related to Old Norse agi .aw |ô|exclam.used to express mild protest, entreaty, commiseration, or disapproval: aw, Dad, that's not fair.ORIGIN natural exclamation: first recorded in American English in the mid 19th cent.
In this world where so many of our communication are written out, there is a difference between the two.  If you are ever confused between the two, please, just write "Ô".  Thank you.

Sports Movies

I was going to write about band names ("Hollow Stairs", anyone?  No?  Dibs.), but something more important came to mind.

Sports movies.  They're the best.  Or they tie for the best with war movies.  Sports and war movies?  With Tom Hanks?  Why yes, I do love A League of Their Own, even if my dad does hate Geena Davis.  I still don't get that.  What's wrong with Geena Davis?  Besides the fact that she spells her name "Geena" instead of "Gina".  Especially in that movie, one would think Dad would take issue with Rosie O'Donald or Madonna.  Geena Davis.  Myself, I enjoy Beetlejuice. 

Sports movies.  There are so many, and with such great diversity.  I am convinced that sports movies are like beer.  If you tell me you don't like them (or "it", in the case of beer), then I will tell you you just haven't tried the right one.  Already I've named a classic that many people love, but others... well, it's not quite their taste.  There are a plethora of other baseball films that are phenomenal: The Natural, Field of Dreams, The Rookie, Rookie of the Year, Angels in the Outfield, Moneyball, The Sandlot, etc.  Baseball not your thing?  Okay, not everyone likes IPAs.  I get that.  Sort of.  Football?  Who doesn't love Remember the Titans?  That is not a rhetorical question.  Please, find me someone who doesn't love that movie.  I hate football, and I love that movie.  It has great music, is based on true events, stars Denzel Washington, and features a very young Ryan Gosling enjoying some awfully honky-tonk tunes.  And NO Geena Davis.  The list goes on.  Golf? The Legend of Bagger Vance.  Soccer?  Bend It Like Beckham.  Figure Skating?  The Cutting Edge.  Basketball?  Coach Carter (Okay, I haven't seen that one, and don't know if it's any good... uh... SPACE JAM!  Bam.)  Bobsledding?  Cool Runnings.  Horse diving?  Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken.  Something for everyone.  And lots for me.

Of course there is one category conspicuously missing.  The noble sport of the North.  I'm not speaking of dog sledding (Iron Will) or curling (Men with Brooms.  Didn't think I had one for curing, did you?)  But no.   I mean hockey.  A friend once asked my why chicks dig hockey more than guys.  It's probably because of the Mighty Ducks trilogy.  Best movies.  Best sport.  And if that wasn't enough, they went and made Miracle.  Why sully this topic with more words?

Sports movies.  Did you know the Netflix has a category for their "watch instantly" films with this title. Well, it's kind of sad and disappointing.  This bums me out enormously.  There is one though that has David Tennant in it, so that's a win, right?  And there is A League of Their Own.   

Berlin

And I do mean the city in Germany.

I'm thinking Berlin is going to be the next project/adventure.  Obviously, London will always have my heart and soul, but right now, Berlin has my curiosity.  It keeps popping up in art/literature/my life, and I've come to realize I know very few facts about Berlin.  Of course, I've read a little non-fiction on the matter, but Eric Larson's In the Garden of Beasts focused on a very narrow window of time, and Berlin is more than that.  I feel like Berlin in the 20th century was it's own person, with it's own cracked out, off the wall, unbelievable story to tell.

I saw this painting the other day.  The artist is Karl Hofer.  I was wandering around the museums in hopes of catching a glimpse of a Caravaggio or a Van Gogh (there are never enough of those works... or just any of those works), and stumbled along this.  This was painted in Berlin in 1935.  Do you know what Berlin was like in 1935?  Nor do I.  Books like Ken Follett's Fall of Giants and Winter of the World give me a fictionalized account, and the two Berlin graphic novels by Jason Lutes lent some illustrations, but, I'll be honest, when I was hitting the history books hard, I kind of skimmed over Berlin.  All I wanted was to read accounts of Concentration Camps or heroic tales of Allied troops.  Closed mind?  Yes.  Oh, and don't get me started about post World War II.  For a very long time, I believed that there was one perfect decade.  1939 (which was when The Wizard of Oz was released) to 1949.  World War I was okay, but it had nothing on WWII.  Please.  Where was I?  OH.  Okay.  This picture.  Artists no longer created because the Church was writing them a paycheck.  They created what they wanted, when they wanted.  What about Berlin made Hofer want to create this?  And what was going on in the nightclubs and the streets and the meeting rooms?  To live in Berlin in the 1920's or the '60's or in '89/'90 when the Wall came down?  I've touched part of the Wall.  I've listened to Cabaret.  But now I think it's time Berlin and I got a little more acquainted.  Then, when I have neither the time nor the money, I will go and see what Berlin is.  Now.

Forks

And I don't mean the city in Washington.

I have a strange relationship with forks.  In my perfect world, I would be able to eat everything with either a spoon or my hands.  You may suggest chopsticks, but then, what about salads?  It's the accursed salads that foil my forkless plans.  Let's start from the beginning.

It is so hard to find a good fork.  If a fork is too long, then the distance between my hand and my mouth is too great and mayhem ensues.  Not fun, electric mayhem, but salad on my lap mayhem.  One would think that by this point in my development I would have conquered the skill of feeding myself.  No dice.  At least not with a long fork.  And I know.  I used to always know when one of my parents had set my place with the wrong fork.  It's similar to how I can sense when a glass of milk contains something other than skim.  This sounds like an OCD, but it's not.  It's more a lack of coordination on my part than anything else.  Short forks are great.  And I have no shame in asking for a little fork when attending a meal at another's house.  No shame.  The shame comes from the aforementioned salad dropping.  Or missing my mouth.  But I guess that happens more with straws.  Heavy forks?  Also good.  I may or may not have "acquired" a most excellent fork from a shady Chinese place in Kalamazoo because the fork had a good weight to it.  What can I say, it balanced well in my hand.  You can't turn your back on balance on those rare chances you find it.

Second thought.  Have you ever had to clean a fork?  I mean wash it by hand with a scrubby or washcloth or other such thing.  It sucks.  See, I like to clean and rather enjoy doing dishes... EXCEPT FOR THE FORKS.  Bowls?  Fine.  Plates?  Great.  Pans?  Let them soak.  Knives and spoons?  Things can get a little dicey, but on the whole, not a problem.  But forks.  With the tines and the encrusted schmutz?  Bah.