name that sensation

Help me out, please. I'm trying to come up with a word. What do you call it when a song falls into your lap and you're instantly smitten. You don't want to listen to any other song for at least a few days, or maybe ever again. Maybe. You're smitten, so you're allowed to entertain the idea that this song might be It for you. You put that song into its own playlist and then set that playlist to repeat. You haphazardly whip up a mix CD topped with that song or copy the song to your iPod so you can listen to it over and over again in your car. With the windows down and the wind blowing and the leaves are changing and you do feel home.

This song might be It for me.
(But I've said that before. And before that. And even before that. So many times.)

So what do you call this kind of song when it happens to you? Maybe I'll make you a mix of those songs of mine if you come up with a name for them that saves me the trouble of saying, "Oh man, I just heard this song and I can't stop listening to it."

Mono-Moviewatching

Have you seen Disney/Pixar's latest film, UP? If not, and if it is still playing in a theater near you, go see it ASAP. It's a wonderful movie, and I hope your experience will be as...um...moving...as mine was.

Hopefully all of you have gone to a movie by yourself. In my professional opinion, a solitary movie-going experience is up there with riding a really great roller-coaster for the seventh time in a row, or having a really great cup of coffee and thinking about the wonderful book you just finished. A solitary movie-going experience to UP is heavenly.

And soggy. And somewhat embarrassing. But still wonderful.

I had been wanting to see UP for a long time, as it had not yet come out in El Salvador while I was there. When I got back to the States, it took me a while to go and see it, and one day after my classes I finally did. By the way, a solitary movie-going experience is best experienced during a matinee showing.

So, I finally went. I walked in to the theater, and my only company were two mothers and their respective children sitting in the middle seats on either side of the aisle. So I settled down in the second row to the back: out of sight.

I was crying within the first 15 minutes. And by crying, I mean sobbing. And by sobbing, I mean, I was making crying noises and had my handkerchief out. I was a mess. I was doing all I could to not be heard by the mothers and children, who I'm certain were NOT crying.

Now, let's make something clear: I am not a crier. It is rare that I cry, and usually, when I do, I feel stupid. Sometimes my thoughts are that maybe a cry would be good for me, but about a minute in I usually regret it and want to get on with my life. So my UP experience was quite the anomaly. And, though I was embarrassed about it, I must admit that I left that theater feeling pretty good.

I'm not sure what the nice thing is here. It could be the movie, solitary movie-going experiences, or the therapeutic catharsis of a rare and unexpected cry. I suppose it could be all three.

Please don't bring up the crying thing outside of the digital world. I'll deny it. And I don't want to be a liar. That's not very nice.

New Movie Trailers: New York, I Love You

Remember Paris, Je t'aime? I could watch it again and again, but I've never been to Paris, and it's not even at the top of my list of places to see before I die.

I have been to New York City, and I did love it. After my tour group left Staten Island, I got sidetracked by a Middle Eastern street vendor on our way to the alluring bargains of Chinatown. Suddenly I found myself alone, lost in some public park because I couldn't resist New York's cheap and tasty street food. I sat on a park bench with the kebab in question, and imagined that this was what it felt like to be local. I was slightly disappointed when my friends finally found me.

That was the moment I fell for New York, and that is why I am so glad that a new New York, I Love You trailer just went online this weekend.



Hurry up and get here, October 16.

Rogue Tusk

Happy 4th of July weekend! I saw a lot of America in the last two weeks. My dad is home for a bit from his job overseas, so we took a family trip to Yellowstone, but not before spending Father's Day with my brother and sister-in-law (and future niece!) in Arkansas. Nathan was still pretty fresh off the plane from El Salvador. It's so rare that we get to chat in person, so catching up with him in Searcy was a very nice thing.

Here's who you're dealing with here at The Real Ideal.

Look At This Photograph

First, I'd like to apologize for the title of this post, which I admittedly borrowed from a song by either Nickelback or Hinder, which are basically the same band. But this is a blog about nice things, not terrible things, so here we go.

Truly, madly, deeply, what could be nicer than old photographs? Recently, there have been a few instances that have rekindled my interests in these images of the past.

Yesterday, some relatives that I knew nothing about made a surprise visit to my grandparents' house bearing an envelope for my father. In the envelope were pictures of great uncles and aunts, my father when he was a boy, and even some early 90s family reunions in which I made some appearances. Well, that struck a note in my grandmother, who was not to be outdone. So she dug out the photo albums, and away we went.

Paul & Debbie of a friend's family, in an old photograph

I love seeing old pictures of my dad's family that I know little to nothing about. I like to think about their lives and what they were like. I like to see them sitting on the front steps of their true-to-form Arkie cabins, or, a little later, proudly posing with their new Chevrolet. I like to wonder what it was like to work so hard picking cotton or strawberries, raising pigs, and tending chicken houses so they could buy a vehicle to ride into town on the weekends.

A few days ago, in the midst of moving and emptying a large shop-building, I came across a trunk that belonged to my mother's mother, or, as I called her, Omi. She was from Heidelberg, Germany, and got off the boat in the late 50s after my mother was born.

In the trunk were tons of German books and old letters written in the language, which were treasures in themselves, but for a brief while I was fascinated by all the old photos that were littered about the box. Images of old European streets filled with small, roundish autos and thin-wheeled bicycles with fenders gave me a sense of longing, and pictures of people I was likely related to, whose descendants still live in Germany, made me curious.

Many of these photos were more than 50 years old and of people and places I have never known, but they had such a profound impact on me. This is my past, your past, or just plain old anybody's past, and that fascinates me. Especially when room is left for imagination and story-making.



*Bonus: What other popular song titles can be found in this post, and who performed them?

Time Out!

This is a good day for Zacks and Morrises and Indiana. When I was in middle school, an airport worker checked my passport and asked if I was any kin to Zack Morris. I might've joked, "Oh, you mean my husband?" But I was 14, so even though I probably had an old Tiger Beat photo of Mark Paul Gosselaar in a heart-shaped frame somewhere, I acted really bershon, like this airline employee was full of lame. Also, 14-year-olds are too young to be making "I'm married" jokes to grown-up strangers.

I know I'm not ahead of the curve on noting Gosselaar's Jimmy Fallon appearance from last night, but since Nathan is still in El Salvador (not for long!), we can pretend that maybe he hasn't caught wind of this fun Saved By the Bell throwback yet.

Note the tight-rolled jeans.

Time in!

Finding Home in Unlikely Places

First of all, I'd like to apologize for keeping you--the blogosphere--anxiously waiting for this next installment of The Real Ideal: Nice Things to Say About Nice Things. I know this has caused some deep distress, and I take full responsibility.

Whew. Now that I've got that off of my chest, let's get to the niceties.

I, Nathan, one of two co-writers of this fine publication, have been away from home for a while now--going on 10 months. I've been living in an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar people and unfamiliar customs. My time here has mostly been wonderful. I've met some great people and I've seen some great things. But, though I've grown to love this place, it's still not home. I've sure all of you have felt like this at some point.

Sometimes, however, we are blessed with the most familiar things in the most unlikely places; we are given the most unexpected reminders of home. And I'm not talking about being able to walk down the street to pick up a Whopper Jr. from the King himself. That's really not that nice. I'm talking about receiving an apple pie as a gift from a student, or making great jokes with a hilarious lady from Texas. That's the good stuff.

I had one of these unexpected pieces of home encounters a couple of weeks ago: probably the best one so far. A couple I've made friends with wanted to take me to a folk/bluegrass concert at the national university. I went, and I was so pleased. It was a legitimate four-piece string band from the Appalachians/Brooklyn, and they were great! They played a lot of my favorite songs, and it was a wonderful reminder of some of my favorite times spent at home--a heaping portion of American Pie.

The Hoppin' John Stringband

The Hoppin' John Stringband not only played great music, but they were great to talk to as well. They were so glad to have brought something so familiar to a boy from Arkansas and a girl from North Carolina (and Elvis, her Salvadorean husband). Check out the Hoppin' John Stringband, along with some of the members' other projects, here: hyperlink to their MySpace. I especially like the song "The Blackest Crow."

Here's to finding home in unlikely places; it is truly a nice thing.