A Certain Point of View: Writing, Film and Stuff

I can't remember if this was a Thanksgiving photo or not. But this was probably taken in 1986, judging by my beard and the deerskin rug on the living room floor.    I can’t remember the last happy Thanksgiving that I experienced in Miami before my mother died in July of 2015.   As Thanksgiving 2020 lurches its way to my current abode in New Hometown, Florida like a dreadful creature from a 1930s horror film (complete with artificial fog generated by dry ice), I sit in my now claustrophobic bedroom/study and try to recall a holiday season that wasn’t in some way dampened by discord or drama. And even taking into account the passage of time, the unreliability of memory, and my own biases, I can’t remember any truly happy Thanksgivings where my half-sister Vicky was present. Oh, sure. I can recall those recurrences of the holiday that were peaceful and even joyful because Vicky was absent. Thanksgivings at home with Mom and – on occasion – friends and family members who happened t

Today is Sunday, May 10, 2020. As I start this blog post, it's almost 3:30 PM in my corner of Florida. It's a warm afternoon ﹘ 81℉ (27℃) under partly sunny skies ﹘ and it looks like it might rain. Of course, this is immaterial; ever since I left Miami and moved here I rarely ever go for walks or do anything outdoorsy, so the weather only affects me if there are thunderstorms or severe cold snaps. Right now, according to the forecast, we are experiencing the high for the day; at night the temperature is expected to drop to 65℉ (18℃). In a few weeks, if Florida weather sticks to its normal patterns, the days will be increasingly hotter, stickier, and less pleasant. Today is also Mother's Day, the 10th occurrence of the occasion since Mom got sick in 2009/2010 and the fifth since she died. My older half-sister Victoria and I managed to "celebrate" the day with our Mom for the last time in 2015 ﹘ she died a little over two months later, on July 19, 2015 ﹘ and eve

Illustration by Erik_Erik via Pixabay Hello, everyone, and welcome to another edition of Bloggin' On, the blog-within-a-blog section of A Certain Point of View that by design is not devoted to politics or reviews. It's Monday, March 9, 2020, and it's already mid-morning in my corner of Florida. Outside, the temperature in my area is 68℉ (20℃) under mostly cloudy skies. The forecast calls for a high of 76℉ (24℃) and a low of 59℉ (15℃) is expected for tonight.  I'm really tired today. I had a rare but enervating bout of insomnia last night: I was a bit drowsy around 10 or so. but the drowsiness vanished sometime around 11 PM. I watched eight episodes of Star Wars: Resistance back-to-back, thus finishing the second and final season of that Sequel Trilogy era animated series from Lucasfilm Animation. I also read a chapter and a half of Richard B. Frank's Tower of Skulls: A History of the Asia-Pacific War - July 1937-May 1942 in an effort to get s

Jeronimo Diaz-Granados (1919-1965) in his Aerocondor pilot's uniform. (Author's collection) This column was originally published in the February 13, 1986 issue of Catalyst, Miami-Dade Community College - South Campus's student newspaper. I'm proud to have been his son Alex Diaz-Granados Opinions Editor Early in the morning of Feb. 13, 1965, a C-46 transport was cleared for takeoff from Miami International Airport. There were no passengers aboard, just cargo. Its destination: San Salvador. Unfortunately, two minutes after leaving the ground, the plane crashed in an auto junkyard on NW 47th Street not far from  NW 37th Avenue. The two-man crew was killed. That was 21 years ago today. When I was six years old, the thought of something unsettling about my family crossed my mind when I observed that other children often talked about something wonderful and unknown ﹘ fathers. I, being curious and innocent, asked my mother what a "father" w