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Meditations on Cat Food

I’ve been feeding a neighbor’s cats while she is on vacation. There are four cats. One of the cats has asthma and requires twice-a-day medication, so I must go in the morning and in the evening in order to mix her kitty meds with wet cat food. I try to spare an extra 5 minutes to play with the feline herd by dragging dangly toys along the ground, to mimic the movement of mice. Although the cats watch with interest, they would no sooner pounce on the “mouse” than I would hunt and spear a piggy bank.

There is something uniquely repugnant about wet cat food: The visceral smell upon opening the can, the squishy noise it makes as I mix in the powdered medicine, the slimy trace of congealed liquid left in the can that I must wash out so it can be recycled. My mind can’t even fathom the depths of the industrial food chain from where wet cat food comes. Below fast food, below USDA school lunches, below prison food, below Denny’s, there is a grade of meat made entirely of animal byproduct and presumably not fit for human consumption. But for kitty…

catfood

I wonder if the cats can discern a taste difference between the Gourmet Turkey Cutlets and the Roasted Beef Feast. Are they particularly gratified when I serve the Chicken Liver Supreme? Incidentally, it seems unlikely that, in nature, a cat would ever have the opportunity to eat cooked cow, turkey, or even chicken. You know the old joke… why isn’t there mouse-flavored cat food, anyway? (Oh, it probably is mouse-flavored, but not on purpose.)

One flavor is chicken and rice, and has actually rice grains floating in the fatty brown sauce. No way! Cats eat rice? Given my own current awareness of the diet that the human body evolved to eat versus the diet that human adopted upon the dawn of agriculture, I feed rice to cats with a little reluctance. Would you give bread to a lion?

But the cats eat it up, voraciously, determined, their little tongues and jaws attacking the meaty paste with primal vigor, shattering the stereotype of the finicky cat, and purring all the while with great yulping breaths in between bites. The table manners of a true carnivore.

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By Meredith – October 14, 2009

Airport Peep Show, Starring… You

There are few dignities afforded to airplane travelers these days. When they arrive at the airport, they are practically shoved onto the curb by friends or family members who are anxious not to loiter long enough to incur the attention of a self-important TSA traffic enforcer. Those guys tote guns, you know, and they’re jumpier than a truck load of starvin’ kangaroos.

Passengers are then herded like cattle through an airport security line, where they must remove their coat, their shoes, their belts, and their jewelry, and bare their toiletries in 3-ounce increments. That’s right, World, I use face wash for oily skin. Let she who is without pores cast the first stone.

If you are suspicious or just unfortunate, you are selected for extra scrutiny at the hands of a wand-wielding Transportation Security officer, who may opt to do a pat-down inspection that includes ‘sensitive’ areas of the body. (The underwire on my bra sets off the hand-wad every time and no one seems concerned. I guess the girth of my chest isn’t of suspicious proportions.) People dread the pat-down, but I suspect it’s not because their personal space is being violated by a joyless stranger. I suspect it’s because it makes them unjustifiably feel like criminals when all they wanted to do was go on a business trip or a stinking vacation.

After airport security comes the purgatory that is the gate, where travelers are faced with a host of uncertainties. Will the plane leave on time? Will I make my connecting flight? Will the plane drop into the ocean without warning, explode into a fiery inferno, or be beset by a flock of lethal birds? Will that fat guy over there eating the pungent Italian sub be my seat mate?

When and if boarding occurs, passengers are squeezed like factory-farmed chickens into cramped, often-smelly spaces with barely enough room to raise their elbows while mal-nourishing themselves on blast-chilled food that was reheated in the airport, driven across tarmac, and reheated in an onboard oven. (Unless, of course, you’re a front-of-the-plane passenger, in which case you’ll be luxuriating in wide seats with personal armrests and full horizontal recline and feasting on truffle-studded veal Orloff and Grand Marnier gâteau. But just remember, rich boy, planes don’t back into mountains.)

How could air travel possibly become more demeaning? How about… naked x-rays! Yes, in an ironic bid to make air travel less demeaning, the Manchester International Airport in Britain has unveiled a full-body x-ray scanner that essentially allows a security screener to see a three-dimensional naked picture of the passenger, with a “clear outline of passengers genitalia, as well as any false limbs, breast enlargements or body piercings” (here). Says an airport official:

“Most of our customers do not like the traditional ‘pat down’ search… This scanner completely takes away the hassle of needing to undress. The images are not erotic or pornographic and they cannot be stored or captured in any way.”

Well, when you put it that way,I guess the naked x-ray scanner is the prime choice for prudes, but maybe it’s a matter of taste, and it really comes down to which method you find less intrusive and demeaning: Getting patted down by a stranger, or having your naked body ogled by a stranger. For safety’s sake.

Looking for Guns, Finding Poor Muscle Tone

Looking for Guns, Finding Poor Muscle Tone

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By Meredith – October 13, 2009

Mount Isolation 4004′ Oct 11, 2009

Mount Isolation. Now there’s a mountain that lives up to its name. The easiest route to the summit clocks in at around 14 miles, which is a hike, indeed. Given that the terrain is largely flat, it’s an entirely feasible trip to accomplish in one day, but only if said day starts near the trailhead. And since Columbus Day weekend is prime foliage time, even the shack motels in the White Mountains are booked solid with leaf peepers from around the world. $125 to sleep in a smelly room that hasn’t been updated since the 1980s? Why do that, when sleeping in the woods is free?

Thus, we decided to break up the hike to Mount Isolation by backpacking and spending Saturday night in the woods. We left for New Hampshire before noon on Saturday, underestimating the impact that the leaf peepers would have on the traffic, both on the highway and on the local roads in the White Mountains. The full extent of leaf mania was made clear to us when we rounded a curve on I-93 and there were scores of people milling around the side of the highway and traversing the two lanes in order to take some pictures of peak foliage. Crazed leaf peepers, risking their lives on an interstate highway to snap low-quality digital pictures of some red and yellow leafs!

I don’t understand leaf peepers: Why would you want to drive around looking at leafs, when you can take a walk in the woods? You can gaze at a canopy of leafs above your head as they wink in the wind, tread upon a soft bed of freshly-fallen leafs, and even use them as toilet paper.

Walking in the Leafs

Walking in the Leafs

So although we didn’t start hiking until 3:30pm, it was okay because we only had to hike 3.7 miles to Rocky Branch Shelter #2, where we’d spend the night. I was nervous that the shelter would be full and we’d have to find a campsite for our tent, but it turned out we were the only people crazy enough to want to spend the night in 30-degree temperatures. We pitched the tent on the shelter platform, reasoning that the tent might retain some of our body warmth.

Rocky Branch Shelter #2

Rocky Branch Shelter #2

By 6:30pm, we were already pretty cold, so we decided to eat dinner. Dehydrated backpacker food: Mr. P had a hearty concoction called Chili Mac, while I had dehydrated eggs with a chopped-up avocado. By the time we finished dinner, cleaned up our stuff, and hung our packs on a tree branch, I was more than ready to abscond to the relative warmth of my sleeping bag.

I don’t know what time I woke up, but it was the dead of night. It seems that the dehydrated eggs had turned my normally-iron stomach into jello. Not to be too graphic, but my body wanted to expel the eggs by any means necessary. Up or down, either route would do. Yet the eggs did not move, they stayed lodged in my digestive track, causing hours of turmoil as I lay in my sleeping bag, sleepless and uncomfortable, with ice cold feet and clammy hands. Mr. P dozed beside me, his bear-like snores both a comfort and a taunt.

In the morning, when I “woke up” (a term used loosely, as it implies substantive sleep), it was snowing. Not hard, but resolutely and with patches of stickiness on the rocks and logs. We decided AGAINST our planned breakfast of dehydrated eggs, and opted instead for salami. Then, we consolidated most of our stuff into Mr. P’s pack, which we hung back in the tree so we could summit Mt. Isolation unencumbered.

Hanging the pack

Hanging the pack

Nice hike to Mt. Isolation. It took less than 4 hours from and back to the shelter, an easy trail but with quite a bit of water and mud on parts of the trail. And about a half-dozen river crossings, ugh.  Oh, how I loath skipping across a raging brook on wet, uneven stones with mud-caked boots and a sleep-deprived sense of balance. But we made it to the summit without a dunking. We were alone of the summit of Mount Isolation, which felt appropriate, and quite cold.

Summit of Mount Isolation

Summit of Mount Isolation

View from Mount Isolation

View from Mount Isolation

Mount Isolation Summit Cairn

Mount Isolation Summit Cairn

And now… leaf porn for any peepers out there!

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isolation2

isolation9

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By Meredith – October 12, 2009

Lobster Crackpot

The New York Times ran an article yesterday about Linda L. Bean, granddaughter of LL Bean and an heiress to his vast fortune. For the past several years, Linda L. Bean has been executing on a business plan to “mass market Maine lobster the way Perdue does chicken” (here). Because it takes a kooky woman to make a cheap lobster.

I’ve never bought anything from LL Bean, and in fact I’ve been consciously boycotting the company for the past 5 years, precisely because of Linda Bean, who was previously known as Linda Bean Folkers but has either divorced or decided to market herself better. Linda Bean is a notorious figure in Maine, a “deeply religious, conservative Republican” who has tried to unsuccessfully buy her way into politics in two failed bids for Congress. She uses her fortune to fund right-wing causes like anti-gay rights campaigns, and is known to fraternize with televangelists and Christian cult leaders. But what really burns me about Bean: She once dismantled a 60-year old camping shelter on her vast Maine property, and constructed a barrier on a town-owned road that lead to the property and hiking trails, because she was upset over campfires and trash on her land. You’d think a women who lives off the largess of outdoor activity would try to find a more amendable solution.

Bean has funneled millions of dollars into her vision of becoming Maine’s lobster magnate. She’s buying wharves, warehouses, and processing stations. She started a chain of sandwich stands and restaurants called “Linda Bean’s Perfect Maine Lobster Roll”, with the goal of having at least 100 franchises nationwide in a year. And she’s been lobbying for costly Maine lobster certification to protect consumers from that fake Canadian crap lobster.

But although she’s making an impact on the lobster business, Bean focuses most of her attention on the marketing end of things. For instance, Bean is trying to re-brand the meat that comes from a lobster’s claws, under the belief that the word claws is “scary.” Her idea (patent pending)? “Linda Bean’s Lobster Cuddlers.” Cuddlers! Aw, because the wobster wuvs you! (Maybe my mind’s just diseased, but ‘dipping cuddlers in butter’ sounds downright naughty).

Bean is also planning on trademarking two phrases to describe her lobster offerings: “It Stirs Your Primal Senses” and “In a Class by Itself.”

“I love to work with words,” she said, admiring the latter phrase on a truck.

WTF? How are either of these phrases applicable to lobster rolls? When my primal senses are being stirred, its not because I’m looking at mayo-slathered lobster on white bread. Class, indeed.

“[Bean] has also commissioned local artisans to make tableware from lobster shells and a lobster claw pendant; both will be sold at her restaurants.”

The entire souvenir industry in Maine has been relying on the iconic lobster for decades. If Linda L. Bean thinks that she can peddle some some special, unique lobster crap that the world’s never seen before, she can go right ahead, but I think she’s overestimating the appeal of lobsters. It’s one thing to be in Maine and want to memoralize the idyllic vacation by buying a headband with wiggly lobster-claws (yes, I really did). It’s another thing to be in a restaurant and want to memoralize that delicious lobster roll you had for lunch by buying lobster-themed houseware.

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By Meredith – October 8, 2009

French Fried Culture

McDonald’s has confirmed that they will be opening a branch in Paris just steps from the entrance of the Louvre Museum, in the underground stonewalled ‘Carrousel du Louvre‘ (here).

More shocking than McDonald’s ballsy nerve in infiltrating one of the world’s greatest cultural bastions with burgers and fries is that the French surrendered! (Hmm… actually, I guess French surrendering isn’t too shocking.) They buckled under a Blitzkrieg of burger and milkshake!

If the French weren’t sufficiently repulsed by idea of the world’s preeminent symbol of capitalism, industrialism, and consumerism casting a garish red and yellow glow upon the world’s preeminent symbol of art, culture, and sublimity, then surely the thought of sweaty Americans making burger pitstops on their way to snap a picture of the Mona Lisa would have caused them to reconsider?

Mr. P has a typically French view of McDonald’s. He fears the societal effects of fast food and he dreads the thought that his native country’s cuisine and eating habits are becoming more like those of his adopted country. But that wouldn’t stop him from going to McDonald’s if it was lunchtime and if it was convenient. The fact is, even though the French are scornful over the idea of McDonald’s, many of them still go to McDonald’s. It’s hot, cheap, fast, tasty food, and while they would vastly prefer sitting around a table for 3 hours for a 6-course meal, there’s just not enough hours in the day. Not if you want to keep your mistress happy, anyway.

So, think about this: If you go to the Louvre and you’re hungry, the less time that you spend eating, the more time you have to explore the museum. Bourgogne, terrine, and morbier may be cultural achievements in their own right, but they can’t really compete with the priceless antiquities, tapestries, painting, and sculpture within the Louvre. So in fact, if you really love fine art, you’d skip the lackadaisical service as the brasseries and bistros, and grab a le p’tit poivre at McDonald’s.

_mcdo_france

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By Meredith – October 6, 2009

This Season, on the Supreme Court…

Today was the season premiere of the Supreme Court. Oh good, I love this show!

Over the summer, the producers decided to spice up the cast by adding some color to the mix. Justice Sotomayor promises to be scads more entertaining than that dead fish Justice Souter, and the perfect empathetic foil for Justice Scalia, the Court’s unofficial villain ever since that season when he criticized Miranda rights and denied that we have a Constitutional right to privacy. Jerk off.

To kick things off, today the Court refused to hear a case involving the pro-life group Choose Life, who unsuccessfully sued the state of Illinois for discrimination because they refused to offer a specialty “Choose Life” license plate (here). Um, yeah folks, it’s only discrimination if the state issued “Choose Choice” license plates. Duh.

Though the docket does carry a number of controversial cases that will divide the Court down their stalwart ideological lines, according to the New York Times the season is expected to be “dominated by cases concerning corporations, compensation and the financial markets,” apparently stemming from the economic crises and the government’s subsequent intervention and regulation of the markets (here). That’s what I love about the Supreme Court: They know how to keep their material timely!

And no re-runs, either. “In recent terms, the business docket was studded with cases about employment discrimination, federal pre-emption of injury suits and the environment. With the exception of a single employment case, all of those categories are missing.” Because everyone knows that those federal pre-emption of injury suit cases are ratings death.

Although it looks like an eventful season for the Supremes, I’m worried that they’re not doing enough to remain relevant. I mean, in this go-go digital era with so many other things competing for our attention, it’s hard to expect people to care about just exactly “who” the Supreme Court is, “what” they do, and “why” they matter.

You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about maybe it’s time to let people see the “real” Supreme Court. I’m talking about a fly-on-the-wall, un- or semi-scripted look at the Supreme Court via an all-access camera crew. Placing the Justices in some sort of artificial living environment would be ideal. A weekly elimination round would be cool, if it’s constitutional. Perhaps there could even be competitions, where the US Supreme Court would face off against the UK Law Lords. Judical smack-down! Who can hear the most cases in a week? Ain’t no one gonna write a more scathing dissent than Ruth Bader Ginsburg!

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By Meredith – October 5, 2009

Carless Love

After 10 years of carlessness (7 years spent living in Boston at the mercy of the MBTA, and 3 years spent living in the inner ‘burbs with my husband and his Civic at my mercy), it appears that, for career advancement purposes, it is time for me to procure an automobile of my own.

Last week I did some research on buying cars. I read about gas mileage and safety features and financing, but more important, I wanted to know how to psychologically outwit the car salesmen. It is common knowledge that car salesmen are tricky, thieving, commission-hungry predators who operate with a lesser set of morals than the rest of us, and I won’t be swindled out of a couple of thou by a textbook ruse. So I did some Googling and the first page I found said, “You can forget about psychologically outwitting a car salesmen. You buy cars maybe once every 5 or 10 years; they sell cars everyday. ”

Petrifying. But we weren’t going into the car-buying process blindly. We had a pretty good idea what we wanted to buy: A 2010 Volkswagen Jetta TDI Diesel. We had a back-up choice: 2010 Honda Civic Hybrid. We had a good idea of what each should cost. And we were pretty confident that our driving passions would not be aroused by a mere test drive to the point where we’d acquiesce to the smarmy charms of a car salesman.

Our first stop was at a Ford dealership, to check out our cheapest, economical choice: the Ford Focus. It was 9:30am and the collective sales force seemed a smite out-of-sorts, as if they had spent the night on couches covered in empty beer cans. The most easy-going salesman ever took us out to the rainy car lot and tried to muster enthusiasm about the Focus. “It was popular during Cash-for-Clunkers,” he said repeatedly. We took a test drive. The sterile dashboard of the Focus was depressing. Each bump on the road rattled my teeth. After talking the Focus’s economical virtues to death, the salesmen fell silent as I drove. Hell, he might of fallen asleep. After returning to the dealership, we quickly made an exit.

At Honda, we fell into the hands of a tall, suave salesmen with an arm tattoo poking out from under his cheap suit. We came in asking to see the new Civic Hybrid, and he immediately tried to sell us a used 2007 Hybrid with 50k miles for $16,000. Obviously, he was trying to press his luck straight away. When we rejected this ridiculous offer, he began to tell us why we didn’t want a Hybrid. The real reason was that they didn’t have any in stock, but he pulled up a software program that purported to show us that we’d pay more upfront for the Hybrid then we’d save on gas in the next 8-10 years. Since there were no Hybrids in stock, we test drove a regular Civic. Not bad. Roomier than we expected, with okay performance. The salesman projected such an air of confidence that we would buy the Civic that he seemed too stunned to put up a fight when we said that we’d think about it and left.

Next stop: Volkswagen. A tall, older man cornered us the second we entered the dealership. At first he appeared to be kindly and rather befuddled, but as he talked to us I realized that he was a career car salesmen, intent on handling us the way that a baker handles dough. He did his job well. We did fall in love with the 2010 Jetta TDI, and we were rather apprehensive when he repeatedly reminded us that he only has 1 in stock. But the more we resisted his charms, the more aggressive he became, and the more I wanted to leave. He kept going to talk to his manager and I got the feeling that his desk was bugged. Since we weren’t buying that day, he seemed as eager for us to leave as we were.

Finally, we went to another Volkswagen dealership so that Mr. P could test drive the Jetta TDI in manual. To my relief, we were approached by a female saleswoman. She was younger and had an expansive townie accent, giving me the (mistaken?) impression that she couldn’t possible swindle us. When we went for the test drive, she turned up the radio and didn’t mention half the attributes that the previous salesman mentioned. But she exerted no pressure on us, and praised us for not rushing into such an important decision. That’s the sort of tricky psychology that I like: Flattery!

So we’re sold on the 2010 Jetta TDI Diesel. Now all we have to do is buy it…

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By Meredith – October 4, 2009

Tom Cruise and I Share a Moment

Today, shortly after noon, I decided to take a lunchtime walk despite the chilly sunless weather that has beset Boston. I set off on my usual route, a roughly 1 1/2 mile loop down to Boston’s World Trade Center and then back via the waterfront. As I neared the WTC, I noticed four Boston Police officers standing on an overpass, peering down at a little-used stretch of highway that serves as a local connector to the Mass Pike (a product of the Big Dig, incidentally). Several other office workers on lunch were milling around, one woman with a silver digital camera clenched in her hand. So of course I stopped and stared at the eerily-empty highway.

I was about to ask one of the women “What are we staring at?” when the sound of rapid-fire gunshots rang out from the highway. Then, a strange convoy became visible. It was a truck towing a large platform that carried a car, some cameras and lighting equipment, and about two dozen people. The truck was going about 30mph and swerving all over the road while the sound of gunshots continued intermittently. Looks like Hollywood magic to me!

I was fairly certain that this was related to the Tom Cruise/Cameron Diaz moview Wichita that was filming in back of my office building on Monday, although my yoga teacher mentioned that a Ben Affleck movie had filmed in his neighborhood last weekend and that the producers put up signs warning residents of gunshots. He mentioned this during yoga class, as we were all bent over in Pigeon pose.

The convoy drove under the overpass and came to a halt right under my nose. I recognized Tom Cruise immediately because he wore the same clothes and reflective sunglasses that he had on Monday. He jumped on the hood of the car, then jumped off, then jumped on again, as if practicing the move. He talked to someone briefly and then looked around the road. And then, he looked up.

God strike me dead if the following paragraph isn’t the absolute truth:

Tom Cruise looked up at the overpass and saw me, two women, and a cop staring at him. Tom Cruise looked straight at me, smiled, and waved. I waved back. One of the women waved too, and yelled “Hi!”  But, I know he was looking at me. In fact, the cop even looked at me, as if wondering if I was acquainted with Tom Cruise, because why else would Tom Cruise smile and wave directly at me?

The convoy began slowly backing up on the highway, and everyone rushed to the other side of the overpass to watch. But I continued on my walk, positively glowing. Honestly, I’ve always thought Tom Cruise was kinda a jerk, but right now he’s like a God to me. That smile! Magical! Magnetic! Bewitching!

As a result of this Moment that Tom Cruise and I shared, I can affirm three truths:

  1. That Wichita looks like the dumbest movie ever but I’m seeing it anyway.
  2. That, despite the rumors, Tom Cruise is absolutely not gay.
  3. That I am worthy.

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By Meredith – October 1, 2009

The Solution to the Issue

Perhaps this has happened to you:

You’re sitting in a conference room, at your place of employment, listening to a band of co-workers discuss a looming issue that will result from the successful completion of a larger project… and you know what the solution to the issue is. Of course you know the solution, because you are the solution. It’s practically your job description.

Everyone in the room is waiting for you to raise your hand and volunteer 30 or so hours of your time to dedicate to the solution for the issue. Then, everyone will relax, the conversation will peter to a conclusion, the meeting will end, and you will return to your desk and check your stock portfolio.

But for some reason, despite being a somewhat exemplary employee who does not typically shirk from responsibility, you just don’t feel like it. You don’t want to have anything to do with this issue, and the thought of carrying out the tasks involved with the solution for this issue makes you want to go home and eat coconut oil-roasted almonds while watching streaming Netflix. That’s how you want to spend the precious time that you have been allotted on this Earth. Not by being the solution to the issue.

The innate nature of the issue requires you to take ownership of the solution, but cripes, can’t someone else do it? You sit there quietly as your co-worker volley the issue around the table, waiting for you to step up and spike the issue off of the table by volunteering to do what you are paid to do. Although several people at the meeting at higher-ranking, no one has the proper authority to task you with a project of this magnitude. Sure, they are dropping hints, glancing in your direction as they speak, repeating words that seemed honed to describe your core job responsibilities, but your name is not mentioned. Maybe it’s because they fear your reaction, maybe it’s because your boss died 3 months ago, or maybe it’s because you look aggressively evasive.

Finally, exasperation snaps you out of your silent rebellion. You say “Why don’t I…?” and then outline how you will solve the issue by doing what everyone has already agreed needs to be done. A slight sigh of relief ripples through the meeting’s attendants now that the stray action item has found its way to the proper home. Before you know it, a deadline has been set and progress checks have been established, the meeting is adjoined, and you leave the conference room, the new owner of an issue.

It’s moments like those that I wish I had pursued my dream of being a punk rock band groupie.

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By Meredith – September 30, 2009

I’m Seeing Stars! (Tom Cruise & Cameron Diaz)

Usually, the office on a Monday is a pretty dull place. But, usually, Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz aren’t there.

Yes, today we were working alongside the Tom Cruise and the Cameron Diaz, who were filming a scene for their movie Wichita in the parking lot at the rear of our building in Boston’s Fort Point neighborhood. We spent our morning watching the Hollywood magic from the windows.

scene

That's Cameron Diaz in the Yellow Dress

Specifically, for about 3 hours, we watched Cameron Diaz (dressed in a flouncy yellow dress, her blond hair long and lank) rush off an MBTA bus and take off down the sidwalk…

Cameron Dia running off an MBTA Bus

Cameron Dia running off an MBTA Bus

… followed by Tom Cruise (wearing metrosexual casual clothes, groomed, clean-cut), who is pursuing her off of the bus but not giving her chase. They repeated this over, and over, and over again, with little breaks in between during which equipment was moved and extras were shifted.

Wow. Cameron Diaz’s job is every bit as monotonous as mine.

Tom Cruise & Crew

Tom Cruise & Crew

There are much better photos on the internet of the Wichita film set (here for one), but for some reason, my crappy pictures taken from my office window feel special.

I have friends in Los Angeles and New York who chicly complain about how the presense of a film crew in their metropolis can be disruptive to their lives. But we savor these disruptions here in Boston, which is a tiny speck of a city that aspires to global importance. Of course, we’d prefer to be disrupted by stars a little less washed-up than Cruise and Diaz, but at least director James Mangold (Walk the Line, 3:10 to Yuma, Girl Interrupted) holds some promise.

IMBD has this plot summary for Wichita:

An action-comedy that begins when a small-town woman (Diaz) has a chance encounter with a mysterious man (Cruise). He is either the man of her dreams or, perhaps … her nightmares. Amid shifting allegiances and unexpected betrayals, they are swept up in a whirlwind of globe-hopping adventure and world-changing secrets.

Wow, that sounds incredibly insipid! Unfortunately, now I have to go see Wichita, just to find out how the “getting off the bus” scene turns out.

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By Meredith – September 28, 2009