RANT - Captain America

Now I know what it's like to spend $140m on dinner at a Swiss ski chalet ... 2 hours of wall-to-wall CHEESE.

A big cast of mostly unknowns, with the notable exception of Hugo Weaving as the evil Skull, Tommy Lee Jones as the harrumphing general, and a walk-on role (justly un-credited) at the end for Samuel L Jackson; a pointless appearance with an equally pointless eye-patch.

To its credit, the film spent the first 45 minutes on character-building, and to its dis-credit, the next one and a quarter hours doing nothing with those characters except firing bullets and pulse-weapons at them.

At least Captain America wasn't bitten by a radioactive hamster. Instead, Stanley Tucci playing the ex-Nazi-now-turned-and-working-for-zee-Americans injected a weedy Chris Evans with an industrial quantity of turbo-steroids. The resultant Captain America ended up with a pumped body and Olympic-caliber running and jumping skills.

All in all, the film came across as a blend of early James Bond and Inglorious Basterds, with neither of those example's wit or tension.

Oh, and the 3D didn't save it either.

RAVE: Trust

I shouldn't really post this review, as my lovely wife wanted to see this movie and now, with her out of the country, I saw it single.

Of course, her motives for wanting to see it - the fact that it starred Clive Owen - were entirely different to mine. I think Mr. Owen has aged badly over the last 13 years, since appearing as a suave Croupier, but there's not a shred of jealousy in that observation. Honest.

Trust tells the story of Owen's daughter, who is stalked by a texter who turns out to be much older than her 14 years. The family is torn apart when the inevitable happens, and thereafter divides its time between how father and daughter deal with the aftermath.

Now, I regularly diss Hollywood endings, but strangely, this movie would have been perfect if it had a Mel Gibson-style 'wronged daughter blasts offender with sawn-off shotgun' styled conclusion. It doesn't, but it's still an excellent film.

REVIEW - A Boy Called Dad

I guess that once you know Robbie is 14, and has just become a father - and you've remembered this is a British movie - then you know not to expect a fluffy ending.

The film is dour and depressing. The story, the dialog, the characters, even the weather, are all dour and depressing.

Ian Hart as Robbie's scouse father offers temporary respite, in that he's sharp and witty ...

Robbie: Where's Ireland?

Robbie's Dad (pointing out to sea): It's out there. On a clear day you can see Val Doonican.

... but eventually shows his real character. He's a loser, which is why he'd walked out on Robbie and his mother 12 years earlier. Very little time is spent on the other characters: the baby's mother, and step-father, and Robbie's own mother, which leaves the film somewhat flat.

Most reviews focus on the "unforgettable intimacy", and "heart-rending honesty", but watching this on my own at a stinky 'Art House' movie theater was a recipe for gloom. And so it turned out to be.

RANT - Budget Deficit

I'm no economist.

There, with that off my chest, I can rant.

Today's news that Apple Corp has more available cash than the USA should disgust anyone who has to put up with the daily bickering of adult men and women on both sides of the political Ultimate Fighting cage.

Apple now has more cash to spend than the United States government.

Latest figures from the US Treasury Department show that the country has an operating cash balance of $73.7bn (£45.3bn)

Apple's last financial statement put its reserves at $76.4bn.

The rest of the story drones on about the latest dull war of dull words by the dull government on blah, blah, blah.

Why doesn't the US Government just buy Apple, focus on launching the next generation iPhone and iPad, and shut down for the rest of the year? Or decade?

RANT - Barbacco

In some respects, this was better than I expected (their web site says, after you make a reservation "Note - most of our tables are counter seating or communal tables", when in fact it's like most downtown restaurants that cater to daytime city customers, rather than couples looking for a romantic tete a tete), but the food didn't quite live up to the well-written menu descriptions.

In other respects, we were let down. 

What we ordered sounded exotic and scrumptious, in a way that Californian / American menus can only sigh jealously at:

Suppli – mushroom risotto croquettes filled with truffled mozzarella 

Toasted almonds – rolled in chili sea salt

Ascalone – fried olives stuffed with pork

Bruschetta – with roasted peach, basil and prosciutto di parma

Prosciutti – with parma, san daniele, and la quercia salumis, and gnocco fritto

Brussels sprouts – fried in duck fat, with capers, anchovy, and red wine vinaigrette

Patate arrostite – rosemary roasted potatoes

Paccheri pasta – rustic pork ragu, and parmigiano reggiano

What we got was an assortment of overly salty, and otherwise so-so dishes.

The unnecessarily flashy drinks menus on iPads revealed a too brief list of 8 beers, 3 cocktails, and an interesting wine list. Unfortunately for me, I went for the 'Orange' wine flight, which turned out to be four pale orange colored 'white' wines, none of which I'd dream of ordering again.

Overall, a good-looking but otherwise unsatisfactory eaterie.

It was a good job my date was volcanically hot.

RAVE - 13 Assassins

I love movies with sub-titles. Ergo, I love foreign movies.

Last night Amo, Gareth and I peered up at the not-very-large screen in San Francisco's smallest theater, and loved 13 Assassins. Well, I say "loved" ..... Gareth and I really liked it, while Amo thought it was too long.

Admittedly, the first hour was spent in dimly-lit homes in 1840s rural Japan, watching Sir Doi recruit his team of samurai to kill the evil Lord Naritsugu Matsudaira. The second hour delivered what must be the longest sword fight in movie history.

Both halves of the film drew me in and captivated me.

Every fan cites "miles better than anything Hollywood has delivered lately", or similar sentiments. 

The battle, wherein Doi and team attempt to whup the evil Lord, came across like The Alamo, or Rorke's Drift in Zulu - absolute mayhem with a small group of our heroes defending against massive odds - in this case 13 Assassins versus 200+ Naritsugu-ers. 

Fine stuff, and if you believe the postscript, rooted in real history.

RANT - Mrs Page's Unique Ways

I was going to call this Pavey's Peccadilloes, but when consulting the dictionary to find out how many Cs, Ds  and Ls were in there, I learned that I've been using Peccadillo incorrectly ever since I was old enough to form a critical thought. 

I always believed that it described an interesting trait, but now learn it implies a slight fault. I have too many years of planned non-parenthood left to go risking it all by suggesting my darling wife has actual faults.

No, these are simply a few of the many ways she keeps me interested, captivated, and wondering what on earth she's going to come up with next.

These latest musings have been brewing for years, prompted perhaps as far back as 2001, when that wonderfully long list of his wife's wacky ways were recorded by a blogger before there were blogs. I forget the writer - shame on me - but hope you remember it going viral, and therefore who I'm talking about.

Anyway, what stirred me into action was when we debated last night about which movie to see tonight. Mrs P said "I want to see something that's playing at The Century".

"Shouldn't we first see what's on, then decide whether to see what's playing at The Kabuki, where we can reserve specific seats?" was the manly, logical reply from yours truly.

"But" - and here is where my wife-list starts - "they serve Kettle popcorn at The Century."

I've learned that an aversion to certain foods approaching a Vampire's view of garlic in the sun goes with the her Indian territorial roots. Pavey's brother, sister and father hold equally weird views about what they can and cannot eat. Yes, that's you Sandy and Rip! Father-in-law Ninder won't be reading this because they don't have the internet where he lives.

My otherwise perfect wife:

1. Will eat some, but never all of the crust on a slice of toast.
2. It's the same with many foods - she'll eat some, but never all of a potato skin.

3. Will demand EXACTLY 1/4 of a spoon of sugar in her tea, even though it has been scientifically proven (by me) that you can't tell if 1/4 of a spoon of sugar has actually been put into the cup, or  not.

4. Will only drink tea from the mugs with the thin handles, not the thick handles.

5. Will only drink cool tea, but will never drink chilled water. Her tea has to stand for 10 minutes before she'll sip it, while her half-drunk bottles of room temperature water litter the counter tops.

6. Will only eat Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast. I call this out because I get shouted at if I come back from Safeway with $350 of weekly groceries but get, shock horror, regular Cheerios for her.

7. Will only eat Kettle popcorn from The Century - she doesn't like the kettle corn from Whole Foods.

8. Recently, when I slaved over a hot oven to make game hen stuffed with onion and garlic, and lovingly served her both hen breasts while I took the legs, she complained that I hadn't offered her a leg. That's like someone handing you the caviar off  their plate and complaining that they didn't give you the sour cream too!

What makes this list bearable, aside from my almost saintly demeanor? Pavey's assertion that if she wasn't here, those are the very traits that I'd miss.

Check mate.

REVIEW - International Football Snooze-fest

Soccer friendlies are often disappointing, and yesterday's game at AT&T Park, between a team I don't support, and a team I'd never heard of (Manchester City and Club America) was just that.

City at least fielded most of their full team - everyone except that arch complainer, Carlos Tevez. Admittedly, they substituted all 11 players at half time, which added to the air of surrealism. 

At least the Latino element of the 11,250 crowd made some noise: the drums and trumpets made it sound like a passionate game, even if the players didn't rise to the occasion.

The warm evening, Gareth's commentary, and the beers and tacos at Pete's Bar afterward meant the day was enjoyable, and confirmed my membership of the Manchester City, Who Cares? club.

The score? Irrelevant.

REVIEW - The Other Man's Grass is Spotify

I know it's only been available for a day or so in the US, but surely covers are there in order for us to judge books by them - or something like that.

There's been a lot of noise over the past couple of years about Spotify, the UK's equivalent of Pandora.com, and "why oh why can't we get it over here in the USA?" Of course, there's been equivalent reverse whining - "why oh why can't we get Pandora here in Europe?"

It all reminds me of that viral email going around a few years back, with a photo of some hot babe along with the banner: It doesn't matter how hot she is, someone, somewhere, is sick of her s**t.

Same here, with the salivating over Spotify. 

In the US, it's only available to invitees for now, but if you don't have one and can't wait, there are instructions at lifehacker.com describing how to do an end run around those restrictions.

Is it worth it all?

Well, aside from being able to factor your local music files into playlists along with those from Spotify, I don't see anything better in Spotify. In fact, the ads that litter the free version seem to be much more frequent and intrusive than the equivalent from Pandora.

I think I'll go and get my "Meh" tee-shirt out of the closet.

RAVE - Saved Whale Gives Thanks

A fabulous story about a small team of whale-savers in The Sea of Cortez (east side of Baja California) who free a humpback whale from the fishing net in which it was stuck.

After an hour of work, the whale is freed, and proceeds to celebrate and/or thank the team by performing 40 or so leaps out of the sea (what we whalers call "breaches").

The full video is here

RAVE - Pastafarian

Being very, very happily married to a Sikh movie starlet, I don't want to in any way offend my turban-toting in-laws and friends, nor (perish the thought) any of the more strident religious advocates, but I'd like to give a big shout out to the recent disciple of Pastafarianism.

This story comes from today's BBC News:

An Austrian atheist has won the right to be shown on his driving-license photo wearing a pasta strainer as "religious headgear". 

Niko Alm first applied for the license three years ago after reading that headgear was allowed in official pictures only for confessional reasons. Mr Alm said the sieve was a requirement of his religion, pastafarianism.

Later a police spokesman explained that the license was issued because Mr Alm's face was fully visible in the photo.

"The photo was not approved on religious grounds. The only criterion for photos in driving license applications is that the whole face must be visible," said Manfred Reinthaler, a police spokesman in Vienna.

He was speaking on Wednesday, after Austrian media had first reported Mr Alm's reason for wearing the pasta strainer.

After receiving his application the Austrian authorities had required him to obtain a doctor's certificate that he was "psychologically fit" to drive.

According to Mr Reinthaler, "the licence has been ready since October 2009 - it was not collected, that's all there is to it".

The idea came into Mr Alm's noodle three years ago as a way of making a serious, if ironic, point.

A self-confessed atheist, Mr Alm says he belongs to the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, a light-hearted, US-based faith whose members call themselves pastafarians.

A medical interview established the self-styled "pastafarian" was mentally fit to drive

The group's website states that "the only dogma allowed in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is the rejection of dogma".

In response to pressure for American schools to teach the theory known as intelligent design, which some Christians favour as an alternative to natural selection, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster wrote to the Kansas School Board asking for the pastafarian version of intelligent design to be taught to schoolchildren.

In the same spirit, Mr Alm's pastafarian-style application for a driving license was a response to the Austrian recognition of confessional headgear in official photographs.

The license took three years to come through and, according to Mr Alm, he was asked to submit to a medical interview to check on his mental fitness to drive but - straining credulity - his efforts have finally paid off.

It is the police who issue driving licences in Austria, and they have duly issued a laminated card showing Mr Alm in his unorthodox item of religious headgear.

RAVE - Cabo Battery Recharge

There are holidays where something memorable happens every day, or you visit one or more jaw-droppingly gorgeous sites each day. This past week wasn't like that.

This was our fourth trip to Cabo San Lucas, so we've already seen and done everything there is to see and do. And it's not a classy place. It's too close to America for that, and that proximity makes it more of a central American Benidorm, albeit somewhat hotter and spicier.

This trip was all about relaxing - avoiding anything work- or stress-related, and hanging with my honey.

Did I just write that? "Hanging with my honey?" Pavey won't mind being called "my honey", but Ivor Davies, my grammar school English tutor, would turn in his grave. They probably buried him with the blackboard eraser he used to throw at us Somerset bumpkins whenever we lapsed into our local accents, or used colloquialisms.

After 15 years' of living in the USA, I worry less and less about Americanization (see, I even use Zs automatically). But every now and then something slips out that has me re-focusing on my English for the following few days.

Anyhow, back to Cabo. It was ridiculously hot. Neither of us lay out in the sun once, but splashed around in the pool or hot tub, and read in the shade. The biggest effort of the day was expended debating where to go for lunch or dinner.

The picture is from the courtyard in a restaurant in Todos Santos, about 40 miles north of Cabo san Lucas, on the Pacific coast.

That review reads like the drivel you'd put on a postcard. Does anyone send postcards any more?