I know updates have been sporadic at best—okay, that’s a lie, they’ve been non-existent—but lately my current nomadic lifestyle doesn’t easily lend itself to blogging.
Internet access isn’t even the problem; it’s the hardware I’m forced to use. The laptop (or netbook, or whatever) I’m presently typing on utilizes a keyboard roughly the size of my right hand. A grown man can’t type that way without accidentally mashing the wrong keys.
Even more frustrating is this damn scroll pad; if I look away from the screen for a microsecond I’ll inevitably accidentally brush against the pad, which will move my blinking cursor into the middle of my previous paragraph, and, well… I’ll stop complaining now.
I’ll try and post more.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Dolphins at Falcons: Week One preview
Most think this will be a high scoring game, but neither offense is really in sync yet and the scoreboard will reflect that.
The Dolphins defense will have five or six sacks total and two forced fumbles off those sacks (courtesy of Jason Taylor and Channing Crowder). Matt Ryan will throw two interceptions (Sean Smith is good for one of those, count on it).
Dan Carpenter's leg will be the difference maker; he will go 3 for 3, all from 40+.
The Dolphins’ only touchdown will be a three-yard Ricky Williams run set up by good field position after Matt Ryan turns the ball over inside of his own 30 yard line.
Miami 16.
Atlanta 10.
Not much I want to talk about around the rest of the NFL, but here’s my Lock of the Week: Houston Texans (-4.5) over the New York Jets.
The Dolphins defense will have five or six sacks total and two forced fumbles off those sacks (courtesy of Jason Taylor and Channing Crowder). Matt Ryan will throw two interceptions (Sean Smith is good for one of those, count on it).
Dan Carpenter's leg will be the difference maker; he will go 3 for 3, all from 40+.
The Dolphins’ only touchdown will be a three-yard Ricky Williams run set up by good field position after Matt Ryan turns the ball over inside of his own 30 yard line.
Miami 16.
Atlanta 10.
Not much I want to talk about around the rest of the NFL, but here’s my Lock of the Week: Houston Texans (-4.5) over the New York Jets.
Notre Dame sucks and so do you
Growing up, my favorite college football team was the University of Miami. I went to most of their home games in the Orange Bowl (it was a half an hour from my house) and they were the most consistently dominating team playing the game so it was pretty easy to become a huge fan.
Eventually, I went to (and many years later finally graduated from) the University of Colorado at Boulder*. The ‘Canes and the Buffs very rarely play each other, so I’m mercifully spared from choosing sides. The tie would go to CU, but it helps knowing that Miami would always kick their ass.
My third favorite? Well, that’s reserved for whichever team is playing Notre Dame. Yup, I’m an Irish Catholic and I hate the shit out of Notre Dame. (And I hate ABC for force-feeding me their games versus Navy instead of giving me ranked match-ups.)
Notre Dame is playing Michigan right now and I could give two shits. Yeah, every catholic in America roots for the Fighting Irish but they also drink the blood of their savior every Sunday. They aren’t to be trusted.
ABC inexplicably renews their broadcast deals with those non-conference nancy-boys regardless of performance or schedule. Actually, the Disney/ABC/ESPN mega-empire may be smarter than I originally thought. If you were a network and you had to pick your pony, why not affiliate yourself with the team whose fan base considers birth control to be a mortal sin? Even if the team sucks, the fans are will procreate so much that your base will never dry up. I see what you did there, Mickey Mouse.
Notre Dame, like USC, Michigan, and Florida, get so much media hype that almost every one of their NFL potentials gets drafted two rounds too early and ends up disappointing.
Who is the best current NFL player to graduate from Notre Dame?
Brady Quinn? Um, no, he hasn’t done shit yet (and I wager he never will).
Julius Jones? Nope, he sucks. He can’t stay healthy.
David Givens? He got his ring, but was only above average.
Ryan Grant? A solid starter, but he will never be a top ten back.
Justin Tuck? He’s good, and one of two current alumni with a Pro Bowl berth, but that pretty much is the result of playing on an already excellent New York Giants defense.
Give up? It’s Craig Hentrich. The punter for the Tennessee Titans. Yup, Notre Dame’s most prolific NFLer kicks the ball five times a game. Compare that to Miami or Florida State or OSU, all of which have great players all across the NFL at almost every position.
Notre Dame has no business being ranked after beating Nevada. Their QB1 Jimmy Clausen is no doubt going to be drafted a round or two sooner than he should. And I’ll say it—it’s going to happen because he’s white and he’s on ABC every Saturday.
Fuck the Fighting Irish, fuck the media, and fuck Charlie Weis.
P.S. – Michigan sucks too
* -- Colorado was humiliated and destroyed by the Toledo (Mud Hens?) last night. We shall never speak of it again.
Eventually, I went to (and many years later finally graduated from) the University of Colorado at Boulder*. The ‘Canes and the Buffs very rarely play each other, so I’m mercifully spared from choosing sides. The tie would go to CU, but it helps knowing that Miami would always kick their ass.
My third favorite? Well, that’s reserved for whichever team is playing Notre Dame. Yup, I’m an Irish Catholic and I hate the shit out of Notre Dame. (And I hate ABC for force-feeding me their games versus Navy instead of giving me ranked match-ups.)
Notre Dame is playing Michigan right now and I could give two shits. Yeah, every catholic in America roots for the Fighting Irish but they also drink the blood of their savior every Sunday. They aren’t to be trusted.
ABC inexplicably renews their broadcast deals with those non-conference nancy-boys regardless of performance or schedule. Actually, the Disney/ABC/ESPN mega-empire may be smarter than I originally thought. If you were a network and you had to pick your pony, why not affiliate yourself with the team whose fan base considers birth control to be a mortal sin? Even if the team sucks, the fans are will procreate so much that your base will never dry up. I see what you did there, Mickey Mouse.
Notre Dame, like USC, Michigan, and Florida, get so much media hype that almost every one of their NFL potentials gets drafted two rounds too early and ends up disappointing.
Who is the best current NFL player to graduate from Notre Dame?
Brady Quinn? Um, no, he hasn’t done shit yet (and I wager he never will).
Julius Jones? Nope, he sucks. He can’t stay healthy.
David Givens? He got his ring, but was only above average.
Ryan Grant? A solid starter, but he will never be a top ten back.
Justin Tuck? He’s good, and one of two current alumni with a Pro Bowl berth, but that pretty much is the result of playing on an already excellent New York Giants defense.
Give up? It’s Craig Hentrich. The punter for the Tennessee Titans. Yup, Notre Dame’s most prolific NFLer kicks the ball five times a game. Compare that to Miami or Florida State or OSU, all of which have great players all across the NFL at almost every position.
Notre Dame has no business being ranked after beating Nevada. Their QB1 Jimmy Clausen is no doubt going to be drafted a round or two sooner than he should. And I’ll say it—it’s going to happen because he’s white and he’s on ABC every Saturday.
Fuck the Fighting Irish, fuck the media, and fuck Charlie Weis.
P.S. – Michigan sucks too
* -- Colorado was humiliated and destroyed by the Toledo (Mud Hens?) last night. We shall never speak of it again.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Dolphins vs. Bucs game diary (08/27/09)
(This is the Dolphin diary I kept running during last night’s game at Tampa Bay. All the times are in mountain standard, so try and not get confused.)
PREGAME
5:57 p.m. Getting juiced on Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” Sorry, unnatural supplements are needed to get pumped up for any preseason game featuring Tampa Bay.
6:00 Fox coverage begins. (And let me tell you, it’s no movie, there’s no Mekhi Phifer.)
6:01 Not sure what silly techno-punk song is playing over these opening highlights, but it’s sure to excite that large niche who loves both football and raves.
6:02 Joe Buck and Troy Aikman are tonight’s hosts. They’re going to be gold, I can feel it.
6:03 Aikman suggests, twice already, the Dolphins were better last year because Chad Pennington (a.k.a CP10) “quit beating himself.” Not going to touch that one.
6:05 Pam Oliver talks to first year head coach Raheem Morris; he’s 32 and used to be the cornerbacks coach. “This is the first year that it’s his first year,” Joe Buck reminds us. Oliver jabs Morris about refusing to name a starting QB.
6:07 Buck: “Um, we’ll just talk about the other stuff later…. We’re out of time.” Yup, time for kickoff.
1st QUARTER
6:08 Byron Leftwich completes the first pass of the game for seven yards. I thought he still played for Marshall.
6:10 Tony Sparano get’s his first camera coverage. He looks like Godzilla after ransacking the Art Deco District of Miami Beach.
Aikman again rambles on about CP10 not beating himself.
6:11 Leftwich looks great so far. And his game is decent too.
6:14 Dolphins pull a Leon Lett. Patrick Cobbs blocks a punt (the kid does everything), Charlie Anderson tries to field it around the line of scrimmage, but he doesn’t even come close to catching it and the Buccaneers recover the ball and a fresh set of downs. Aikman won’t say it, but the Dolphins are beating themselves here.
6:15 Buck describes Leftwich’s incomplete pass over the middle as “too high and too hard for Kellen Winslow.” Bullshit, that boy is a soldier.
6:16 Cadillac Williams gets through to the secondary for a 19 yard run and a Bucs first down. Dolphins defense is asleep.
6:19 First and goal at the five yard line; the Dolphins defense needs a big play.
Kendall Langford strips Leftwich! The Bucs recover, but for a loss of twelve.
6:20 Third and Goal, Leftwich spends an eternity in the pocket looking for a receiver, but Sean Smith successfully defends his man. They have to settle for a field goal.
6:21 3 – 0 Bucs.
6:23 Back from commercials and boy did those Bud Lights look good. Fox treats us to a recap of the Dolphins remarkable 2008 season (sweet!). And finishes with the highlights from the despicable playoff game against Baltimore (boo!).
6:25 After a first down sack, Joe Buck describes CP10 as “wrapped up in the arms of Jimmy Wilkerson.”
6:26 Brian Hartline makes a great 38-yard third down catch, but the refs flag him for offensive interference. You know you want to say it Aikman, the Dolphins are beating themselves.
6:28 Bad news: we’re punting. Good news: more commercials!
6:31 Aikman “Leftwich has never felt this healthy going into a season.” Without hesitation, Buck, “..and on his back and rolling around is Leftwich.”
6:31 “It’s Thursday, and it’s third and nine.” Joe Buck sure is informative.
6:34 Bucs convert two third downs in a row. Leftwich threads needles when it counts and the Dolphins secondary looks powerless to stop him.
6:37 Crowder makes a great open-field tackle, finally forcing the Bucs to attempt another field goal.
Total Yards - Bucs: 115, Dolphins: 13.
2nd QUARTER
6:40 Field goal is good, 6-0 Buccaneers.
6:42 Buck calling the kickoff return, “…and Ginn runs into his own blocker before going out of bounds.” Yeah, that pretty much sums up Ginn’s career so far.
6:47 The Dolphins punt. Again. They have more punt blocks than first downs so far tonight.
6:48 Buck and Aikman are all over the Michael Vick update. Apparently he’s back in the league.
6:51 A good defensive series for the Fins as the Bucs go three and out.
6:52 Devone Bess catches the punt and immediately runs backward. Anyone else miss Chris Williams?
6:57 The Dolphins came to play the Bucs, but it’s the Tampa Bay Lighting giving them trouble at the moment. The refs suspend play because of severe weather; players head to the locker rooms.
Buck on the delay: “We’re going to make this fun. I mean, you’re going to enjoy it, okay?”
7:02 After about five minutes of watching (which yes, is worse than listening) Aikman and Buck talk, my brain tells me it’s about to explode. I empathize.
7:04 I can’t take another second, I’m switching over to Police Women of Broward County, at least I’m still blogging about South Florida. This blonde cop is super hot, by the way.
7:11 Switching back and forth, Oliver interviews Sparano during the delay. “[We] want to try and eliminate mistakes right now,” he says.
7:12 Buck talks about Bill Parcells for a bit and suggests Coach Sparano wasn’t the “sexy” hire. Clearly, Joe has never seen him rocking a speedo on South Beach.
7:13 Aikman: “Bill Parcells casts a big shadow.” Aikman has thrown Buck an alley-oop there, but Buck refuses to slam it down.
7:27 I’m really, really bored. The delay is stretching over a half-an-hour and the highlight, so far, has been Buck’s improvised commentary. I wish I were joking.
7:28 Oliver interviews Leftwich. He’s likeable and sharp, but he’s entering year seven and has done absolutely nothing in this league.
7:38 The players warm up (again) as Buck and Aikman take us to a commercial. Oh look, they’re selling Plan B. I’m suddenly get the feeling this diary should have aborted an hour ago.
7:41 And we’re back to football! CP10 throws incomplete pass to Hartline and the Fins are forced to punt. Man, was that worth the wait or what?
7:46 Jason Taylor knocks Luke McCown on his ass near the goal line, though he gets off a wobbly pass anyway. Sean Smith and Yeremiah Bell blow the coverage, but get off lightly because the receiver was bobbling it out of bounds.
7:47 First challenge flag of the night. Goodie, another delay!
7:50 After another four minutes of no football, the play stands.
7:51 A penalty before the snap. In the past hour and fifteen minutes, there have literally only been four plays.
7:52 Ernest Graham sheds roughly a plethora of tackles on his way to a huge gain. The Dolphins’ defense is somehow getting worse.
7:55 In reference to drafting Matt Ryan, Aikman says: “hindsight is easy to look at.” Thanks, guy.
7:56 Paul Solai records the Dolphins’ first sack of the game.
7:57 Back-to-back sacks, courtesy of a Nathan Jones outside blitz. Finally, 13 hours into the game, the defense has arrived.
8:01 The Dolphins go three-and-out again. Their offense may finish out the half with only 36 total yards.
8:04 At least the Dolphin-D sucks less.
8:08 Good news: the Bucs are punting! Bad news: the Dolphins are forced to receive. Yup, botch the return and fumble it again. Amazingly enough, the Bucs are unable to recover. This is an evenly matched battle of sheer incompetence, folks.
8:13 Finally, the offense steps up as CP10 connects with Hartline for 17 yards and a first down.
8:14 Davone Bess makes an exceptional catch; unfortunately, he makes it out of bounds.
Aikman: “Pennington floated that one a bit.” Yeah, and Joseph Stalin was kind of a dick.
8:15 Ted Ginn Jr. and his family make a nice grab; that’s two first downs in the same drive and I;m genuinely excited. The 2000 Rams we are not.
8:20 CP10 throws it out of the end zone. Dan Carpenter nails a short field goal with four seconds left in the half.
8:22 Buck laments entering the half: “Sorry for all the talk. It’s what we do.” I don’t even have a joke here.
3rd QUARTER
8:35 Ricky Williams is alive. He picks up eleven yards on two running plays.
8:37 CP10 throws a 55-yard bomb to Hartline. They’ve been on the same page all night. First-and-goal from the five!
8:42 CP10 rolls around forever, getting deeper and deeper into the pocket. Finally, throwing across his body, he finds a wide open Anthony Fasano in the corner of the end zone. Touchdown! All right, Miami.
Carpenter puts it through the uprights and the Dolphins lead 10-6.
8:53 Buck thinks McCown looks better than Leftwich. I think Buck is sniffing glue during commercials.
8:54 Buccaneers opening day QBs since 2004: Brad Johnson, Brian Griese, Chris Simms, and Jeff Garcia (twice). Not exactly Murderer’s Row.
8:58 There’s 7:24 left in the third when Chad Henne gets behind center for the Dolphins. His first pass is incomplete.
8:59 Henne is god at this three-and-out thing too!
9:02 Rookie Josh Freeman takes over for the Bucs at QB. His first pass is incomplete with Smith only inches away from intercepting it.
4th QUARTER
9:11 The Dolphins’ MVP so far is Brandon Fields. When the punter is your only game changer, it’s never a good sign.
9:15 Henne may be the Dolphins’ quarterback of the future, but he’s only the lukewarm backup of the present.
9:18 I was wrong, the MVP so far for the Dolphins is the head referee. He gives us another first down and I secretly hope we can sign him to a one-year contract.
9:21 After three more disastrous plays, the refs bail us out again with a fourth down penalty. You guys are so nice!
9:24Last week’s golden boy, Lex Hilliard, fumbles the ball after an awkward pitch from Henne. Bucs recover.
9:28 Backup LB Erik Walden makes a really impressive shoestring sack on 3rd down.
9:35 Greg Camarillo catches a well thrown pass from Henne on the sideline, and somehow manages to stay in bounds as two cornerbacks whiff on the tackle. Camarillo is one of the slower receivers I can recall, but 40 yards of this 55 yard reception is YAC. It’s a late nominee for Dolphin play-of-the-game.
9:41 Henne lays a golden turd, throwing a terrible interception in the red zone. This game is physically painful. It’s like someone rammed a catheter up my soul.
9:48 Aikman: “Hey Joe, do you have any more of that gum?”
Buck: “That's none of your damn business and I'll thank you to stay out of my personal affairs.”
9:50 Total punts so far: 15.
9:51 Vontae Davis gets away with some pass interfering, but there’s no call and the Bucs turn the ball over on downs. Hey, at least it isn’t a punt.
9:57 Mercifully, there’s only a few minutes left in the game. After what feels like 6 more punts from each side, the Bucs decide to let the clock run out.
10:02 Game over. The Dolphins are 3-0 in the preseason (hooray!), and I’ll never get this four hours of my life back (boo!).
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Michael Beasley deserves a break
1) I live in a college town where weed is smoked more often than cigarettes, so marijuana isn’t a drug that particularly fazes me.
2) I had my share of minor legal troubles when I was 20, so I relate to a man who matures just a little bit too late.
3) I’m a Miami Heat fan, so I want Michael Beasley to enjoy a successful career.
Sure, there are plenty of reasons for me to sympathize with Michael Beasley.
But there are reasons why you should give him a break too.
Common decency. Yes, Beasley only went to college for one year and now he makes more money playing a game than you will ever make at your desk. Get over it.
His fame and his salary don’t make him a bad person and they don’t excuse you when you root for him to stumble.
Empathy. He’s a kid struggling to become a man, and his evolution occurs in the most public of forums. He’s under a tremendous amount of pressure. He’s asked not only to publicly excel at his sport, but to serve flawlessly as a role-model for America’s youth.
What were you asked to do at twenty?
Fairness and facticity, perhaps? Last season, Derrick Rose had great numbers for a rookie point guard. He absolutely deserved the Rookie of the Year distinction. And frankly, both the national sports media and the in-game telecasters treated Rose as the anointed one. He was a phenomenal player destined for greatness and, oh yeah, he-cheated-on-his-SATs-and-publicly-endorses-gangs.
Rose is a talented ball player (as is O.J. Mayo, for that matter)and I honestly don’t know to what extent these allegations should be considered news, but there is an obvious double standard when it comes to both reporting and characterizing these young athletes.
Beasley is supposedly renowned for a “bad attitude” though no one explains why or even bothers to offer up a confirming source. He’s ascribed these vague but exceedingly negative attitudinal qualities for no apparent reason.
Yes, he used marijuana last year at the rookie symposium. His actions were unquestionably wrong. He was breaking the law, certainly not helping his team, and setting a bad example. His reputation (not to mention his conditioning) were likely to suffer. It was a mistake for which he still pays.
Early in the season, Coach Erik Spoelstra called Beasley out for a lack of defensive intensity and subsequently benched him behind a less talented player. He assured Beasley his minutes would return when his defensive game went up a notch.
Beasley lived up to his end of the bargain, but was not given extra minutes until the end of the regular season when Udonis Haslem missed games due to injury. Spoelstra was still reluctant to start Beasley in Haslem’s absence, though, when he did, Beasley’s numbers were exceptional.
Nevertheless, Beasley returned to the bench for the start of the playoffs and the Heat was knocked out in the first round. Did Beasley once complain in interviews or on Twitter? No. He simply did what was asked. In fact, since his one mistake at the rookie symposium, Beasley has seemingly done everything right.
On Monday, Beasley checked himself into a rehabilitation center in Houston. The details are still unfolding, but that hasn’t prevented rampant media speculation and armchair psychiatry.
Beasley is a good kid and I don’t see how anyone can reasonably dispute that.
Perhaps, until the facts are sorted, we can all refrain from indicting him.
Update: It now seems this rehab trip was long in the works. See what happens when we speculate?
Blogged with the Flock Browser
Monday, August 24, 2009
Five lessons we've learned about the 2009 Dolphins after two preseason games
The Miami Dolphins are 2-0 in the preseason for the first time since—um, who gives a shit? They dismantled the Jags a week ago and the dominated the Panthers on Saturday, but it’s perhaps a bit too early to pre-order those Super Bowl tickets.That isn’t to say we aren’t gaining valuable insight in regards to the talent and character of this team.
So what exactly have we learned?
1) Winning is important to the franchise, regardless of the stakes.
From the Palm Beach Post Dolphins blog:
“It’s important to win,” [Coach] Sparano said at his daily press briefing. “Every time they keep score and every time we get a chance to compete out there, we want to win.”
Sparano speaks of creating and maintain a “culture” of winning. While that may be one of this generation’s most terribly useless sports clichés, the Dolphins are still only 17 games removed from their franchise worst 1-15 season. After winning 10 additional games (and the AFC East) last year, it’s hard to accuse the sophomore coach of preaching banalities.
While the team clearly won’t give away too much in the way of offensive packages or play their first string units too long with the ever-looming risk of injury, it’s nevertheless refreshing to see these Dolphins’ players and coaches so interested in maintaining a winning attitude.
2) Players on the bubble can’t be saved by fan support.
Against the Jaguars, backup receiver Chris Williams returned the ball almost every time on special teams. Not all of his plays were good, but he was the most exciting player on the field for much of the game. On kickoffs returns, he consistently exploded through the first wave of would-be tacklers and generally excelled. Williams’ punt returning was more uneven, but he still made people miss.
Dolphin fans took an immediate liking to this guy. Many thought he’d eventually break one for a touchdown. Alas, he won’t be doing it in aqua and coral.
Williams, along with four other players, was cut early Monday as the Dolphins brought their roster down to 79.
Likewise, fans were excited to see last year’s free agent bust, Ernest Wilford, score a touchdown from the Tight End spot against the Jaguars. This didn’t save him. He had no receptions in game two and was also cut on Monday.
3) Eric Green is a bitch.
Veteran cornerback Eric Green was signed earlier this off-season to a two year contract. He was far from outstanding last season with the Cardinals and, frankly, the acquisition surprised fans and media alike. At the time, however, the Powers That Be couldn’t have foreseen drafting two studly cornerbacks, Sean Smith (outstanding so far) and Vontae Davis. (According to some, Davis has underperformed thus far. Frankly, his penalties in the opener were overblown and I'm in the camp that believes he's still poised to have an outstanding rookie season.)
Green played and practiced worse than both rookies, losing his starting role to Smith, the 61st pick in the Draft, only a few days into camp. Few were surprised when his craptastic outing against Jacksonville sealed his fate.
General Manager Jeff Ireland and Coach Sparano have no trouble correcting their own mistakes. They brought Green in for a rainy-day situation and, thankfully, the sun shines brighter than ever. The franchise did right by Green in cutting him early and allowing him to quickly find another team (and the 49ers did not hesitate in signing him).
And how does Green thank the organization for his early release (not to mention his $3 million in guaranteed money)?
“When they told me [about the release] I was almost relieved. Here, they are more laid back, which is what it was like in Arizona. In Miami they almost wouldn't allow you to chew gum in meetings."
You’re a talentless ingrate, Green. Here’s hoping the only gum they sell in San Francisco is that Mint Mojito crap.
4) The Dolphins are stacked at RB.
Even after his first Pro Bowl berth, the questions about Ronnie Brown remain. Will he remain healthy? Is he an elite running back or an above average one? What kind of contract does he deserve? I have no clue. Clearly, he’s at least above average as a starter and perhaps, at best, is a top seven guy in the league.
That said, I think the Dolphins have the best depth at running back in the league. Ricky Williams is an ideal second-string RB, and he looks to be running with much greater confidence than he did last year. Likewise, Patrick Cobbs and Lex Hilliard are both beasts (Hilliard simply couldn’t be brought down and Cobbs was outstanding catching those swing passes). I wish the Dolphins could work in some package with all four of them. Between those four, Ted Ginn Jr.’s theoretical emergence, and whatever Pat White brings to the table, we could see some real fireworks this season.
Sun Sentinel
Ronnie Brown is careful not to let Ricky Williams sneak up behind him.
5) Swine flu is still over-hyped and still annoying.
Jason Allen and Sean Smith do not have swine flu, so let's drop it.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Confessions of a Man–Slut or: Fuck My Life (a Two Act Play) -- Part 2 of 2
ACT II: Bathroom Shenaningans
(If you missed ACT I: Wam’s Birthday, be sure to read it first)
It's three in the afternoon. I still hadn’t heard from Molly.
I entertain several notions:
A) She’s still sleeping (if we had data on the sleeping habits of persons across every profession, strippers would surely be amongst those who slept the latest, right?).
B) She was walking around the streets of Boulder at 2:30 am last night, drunk and dressed in stripper gear, and the police picked her up for solicitation.
C) She was walking around the streets of Boulder at 2:30 am last night, drunk and dressed in stripper gear, and she was abducted, murdered, or eaten by a criminally depraved pervert or an extremely hungry moose.
D) Something happened to her phone.
E) She hates me.
---
I wait. And I wait. If there’s one thing my conscience doesn’t need, it's another dead stripper.
Finally she sends me a text. I'm honestly relieved that she's alive. There's bad news too, though: Apparently she’s moving to Chicago tomorrow.
Fuck. Last night was my one and only shot at stripper poontang.
I contemplate suicide. Nah. I contemplate Taco Bell. Mmm.
And then Molly sends me another text:
“Tonight’s my last night in town, I want to spend it with you.”
I forgive the missing semi-colon and agree to meet at the Sundown Saloon at 8 pm.
That's two hours from now, though, and I already feel like drinking. I go to Bacaro and sit down at the bar in front of my buddy Beeler—a rookie mistake if ever there was one. When Beeler's pouring, you're lucky to get a splash of Red Bull with your glass of vodka.
I leave Bacaro at 8:15, drunk and cheery and, well, drunk.
I finally reach the ‘Downer. Molly sits at a table drinking PBR with her creepy looking male friend Chris (or something). She asked me earlier if it was okay to invite some other friends (I said "of course.") It’s her last night in town, she should do whatever the hell she wants.
Chris-or-something talks but I really don’t listen. I do watch him speak though because I’m pretty sure he has sharpened teeth. Creepy.
Getting back to Molly, she’s different than I recall.
First, her hair is dyed bright pink (her dark roots indicate it has been this way for some time). Maybe it was the poorly lit strip club, maybe it was the liters of booze running through my veins, but I hadn’t noticed any pink last night.
Second, she’s not as hot as I remember. She’s attractive, sure, but on a scale from one to 10, she’s a seven. Not a nine. (Sevens are still well above my threshold, of course.)
Her two demerits are perhaps blessings in disguise. Molly still intrigues me but she’s no longer a perfect creature to be worshiped or feared. She's simply another girl I want to fuck.
As this epiphany manifests, more stragglers join our (once) small group -- and it’s obvious all these new guys at the table know her only through the strip club.
Before I realize it, there are almost a dozen horny douches surrounding us and I feel like a contestant on Who Wants to Bang a Stripper?. Molly is used to this sort of situation; she takes turns talking to and accepting drinks from each of her desperate suitors.
After about an hour of playing “musical dicks,” I’ve had enough. Besides, the odds of her being on my lap when the music stops are no longer spectacular.
Mercifully, I find an out. Attic Brad and Wheels, two tertiary friends from my days in the service industry, sip whiskey at a nearby table. I excuse myself from Stripperpalooza and bring a pitcher of beer over to my two buds. Seeking less sausage-filled pastures, the three of us soon leave.
Sundown Saloon, Boulder
Just in case you're confused, I made you a map.
By midnight, we are retardedly drunk and heading into the Pearl Street Pub. It’s a brash, annoying bar, but they serve food until the wee hours of the morning. We sip on our beers and Wheels mocks my stripper-naïveté as the annoyingly slow line cook prepares our sandwiches.
Molly arrives as the food is being delivered (her sausage entourage nowhere to be seen). I hit the bar for a fresh round of beers to go with our food and by the time I’ve returned three quarters of my cheese-steak is already gone. Molly licks her fingers with a nervous enthusiasm, as if to say she’s sorry but she can’t afford her own meal. I wonder what she did with the three dollars I stuffed in her panties on Saturday, but decide against asking aloud. “That,” I say instead, “was very uncool.”
Her response: “I was hungry, sorry. Let’s go dance and make-out.” Her apology is inexplicably satisfying.
My disdain for dancing in public is overshadowed by my vow to never disappoint strippers that hope to make out with me. Some crappy bar band plays “Mustang Sally” and I flail around like Janet Reno on ecstasy. Molly doesn’t seem to mind.
(this version of "Mustang Sally" is only slightly worse than the one we danced to)
The song ends and I prop her tiny frame up onto the bar. She shoves her tongue so far down my throat I think maybe she’s looking for the rest of that cheese-steak. We make-out for two or three minutes and I keep telling myself, she doesn’t taste like stale beer and cigarettes, she tastes like glorious wonderful stripper! I slowly slide my right hand up her thigh and beneath her cute yellow sundress. I reach her panties, half expecting to find my singles from last night.
I’m about three seconds from taking a finger hike down into Victory Canyon when Molly pulls back and says, “Slow down. I’m not drunk enough to cheat on my boyfriend back in Chicago.”
God damn it.
Let’s get something straight. I have absolutely no reservations about banging chicks with boyfriends. In fact, there’s a distinct upside (which I won’t get into now). But she should have either 1) opted against jamming her tongue down my throat or 2) never brought him up at all.
My drunken logic tells me she’s more interested in playing with my mind than she is in playing with my cock, so I leave her at the bar (well, on the bar) and seek out my friends in the other room.
On my way back there, I literally run into this plain looking blond woman who is approaching forty.
I’m already in full-blown drunken-horny-hammered mode and I have no reservations about getting straight to the point. The following is an exact transcript of our short conversation.
Approaching Forty: “Hi. I like tall guys.”
Me: “I like fucking in bathrooms.”
Approaching Forty: “Hmm.”
Me: “…”
Approaching Forty: “Do you have any condoms?”
Me: “Nope.”
Approaching Forty: “I have some in my purse. It’s with my date at the front of the bar.”
Me: “Get them.”
Approaching Forty heads to the front to get some condoms. I smile. Drunken reasoning: If you can’t fuck the prom queen, you might as well fuck the lunch lady.
She reappears with her purse. I whisk her to the very back of the bar, toward the bathrooms. As we pass my friends I yell, “Hey Wheels, watch this!” and begin giggling uncontrollably.
I take her into the Men’s room (which was surprisingly clean in retrospect). I want to set her on the sink and fuck her, but she'd rather do it in the handicapped stall. That works too I guess.
Inside the stall I pull down her shorts and panties. She grabs the condom from her purse (a condom, actually; she has enough in there to safely satisfy the entire Roman legion) and rips open the package.
I slide the condom on my dick but something isn't kosher. Shit. It’s one of those free condoms they give out in urban bars. Invariably, they're cheaply made and uncomfortably small. And I’m not being immodest here -- it's not like I'm making my sandwich with six pounds of Genoa salami. These are crappy condoms designed for people with micro-junk.
I keep it on and fuck her from behind anyway, but this thing just barely fits (and I feel like it’s cutting of some circulation). My effort is truly uninspired.
As men wander in and out of the bathroom to piss in the urinals, they clearly see my head above the handicapped stall and our bodies through the cracks in the door. It's honestly all a bit awkward. Whiskey-brain tells me it's a good idea to make conversation with these guys (or at them, as it were); it might put both them and myself at ease.
Various dudes go to and from the urinals as I’m fucking this old woman, and I've decided to chat them up.
Guy number one walks in. “Hey bro, what’s going on?” No response.
Guy number two enters. “Hey man, you used to work at Catacombs, right?” No response.
Numbers one and two wash their hands. “Don’t worry guys; I’m fucking a girl in here, not another dude.” They break into laughter and leave.
After about seven minutes of fucking, this extra-small condom is really irritating me. I pull my dick out, rip off the condom and throw it into the toilet. Approaching Forty barely notices I've stopped.
"Blow me," I say. She obliges but only sucks me off for about 45 seconds before stopping. Apparently the condom left a gross tasting residue on my penis. Whatever.
I leave her in the stall and get another drink. As I exit the bathroom, the ten or so patrons within a 15-foot radius of the door burst into laughter and faux cheer. I'm hammered enough to think it's all hilarious.
Wheels and Attic Brad have a beer waiting for me when I get back to the table. I rehash the bathroom details and we all laugh about it for another fifteen minutes. Eventually, Approaching Forty comes back around and gives me her number before leaving with her boyfriend. I’m drinking Jameson on the rocks now. Sometime later, Molly reenters the picture. Unfortunately, her sausage entourage has nearly tripled.
Molly apologizes for acting “weird” earlier and we talk awhile about movies and music. She has good taste, which is cool, but at this point I’m only interested in her vagina. We make out once or twice more and she even inquires about sleeping at my place. As exciting as that sounds, I can’t seem to convince her that it’s “bed” time. The bars are closing, but she wants to keep drinking with her friends. I’m not about to let the sausages party at my house. And telling Molly this makes her a bit whiny.
Fuck it. Maybe there was a 40% chance I would fuck her after all of that, but I’ll be damned if I was going to play video games in my living room while the stripper fucks two other dudes on my bed. As much as I wanted to cross this one off the bucket list, I wasn’t going to be humiliated like that.
So I wandered off. And then I called Approaching Forty. She met in front of the bar and drove us back to my apartment (drunk driving is so cool, kids). Her clothes were soaking wet and caked in sand. She must have spent the hour or two we were apart at the beach—which is interesting considering we live in a landlocked state.
The two of us get to my room, I find some legitimate condoms, and we engage in fairly vanilla drunken bar-skank sex (my black-out drunk modus operandi typically consists of fucking the girl doggy style while trying hard not to pass out). We bang for 20 minutes. I’m amazed I can still keep hard, but I know I’m way too drunk to ever get off—my sour cream will not be topping her seventy-nine cent taco tonight. Bored now, I take off the condom and throw it to the ground in disgust. “I’m going to sleep,” I announce. She's altogether indifferent.
Fast-forward to this morning. I wake up and am delighted to see that Approaching Forty is already gone. Strangely enough, she left her shirt and her slutty pink bra behind. My brain is still operating at a drunken and diminished capacity, but I still wonder how she made an inconspicuous exit if she was naked from the waist up.
Maybe she had a second shirt hidden in her purse. Maybe her chest is so hairy it looks like a sweater. I don’t know.
Shit. I can’t find last night’s condom. I know it's on my floor around here somewhere.
Fuck my life.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Weekly SoFla Sports Update (08/14/09)
I have neither the worth ethic nor the inclination for daily sports related posts, especially considering the majority of my teams are presently in their off-seasons.
Nevertheless, as the Marlins surge into both the Division and Wild Card races and as the Dolphins prepare for their first preseason game, there is much to be said. Even the Heat, who have been quiet for months, are finally making moves (well, one move at least).
The natural compromise is a weekly sports roundup.
Florida Marlins
Thanks to their "incredible" offensive consistency (10 consecutive games with 10 or more hits), the Marlins find themselves only three games behind the Colorado Rockies in the National League Wild Card race.
As fate would have it, those red-hot Rockies begin a three game series at Land Shark Stadium tonight. Probable starters are Jason Hammel (7-6) and Josh Johnson (11-2). Johnson hasn’t lost in over a month.
Yeah, I’d say these next few games are important.
Other Marlins news:
Anibel Sanchez, on the DL since June 4th, looked good in his first AA rehab start.
And we have an update on the construction of Marlins Stadium: One day down, 449 more to go.
Marlins links:
FishStripes
Marlins @ Miami Herald
Marlins @ Sun-Sentinel
Miami Dolphins
Two weeks of training camp are in the books and the Dolphins are 72 hours from their preseason opener against the Jaguars.
What have we learned thus far?
1) Omar Kelly’s up-to-date depth chart shows us nothing too outlandish.
You’ll notice the Dolphins’ only rookie starter, as of now, is second rounder Sean Smith (61st overall). This is no slight against first round pick Vontae Davis (25th overall), who still sits behind Will Allen at LCB on the charts. Allen is perhaps the most talented veteran member of the Dolphins’ secondary; he had the most interceptions and the most passes deflected last season behind the recently departed Andre’ Goodman. Smith is assigned to a very weak right-side, with an unproven (at least as a Dolphin) Eric Green and an uneven (at best) Jason Allen. All that considered, I wouldn’t be surprised if Davis is starting ahead of Allen (and opposite of Smith) by week four of the regular season.
In only a few months (and mostly by way of the draft), their secondary unit has become exponentially more talented and so much faster. On paper, it looks great. And so far in training camp, they have outshined the quarterbacks and wide-receiver corps. Monday, however, is their first real test. It’ll be interesting to see how the three rooks (Davis, Smith, and Chris Clemons) fare against an unfamiliar offense.
2) Jason Taylor isn’t just back, he’s back. So much so that Ethan J. Skolnick is predicting a 10 to 12 sacks from him this season. How wonderful that would be, after trading him for a second round pick and resigning him for free a year later.
3) Pat White didn’t throw well in the first week of camp, but that’s no reason to worry. I’d be truly surprised if he takes five snaps from a conventional formation all season but he can still be an effective weapon. It might be bad form using a second round pick on a third string quarterback, but he isn’t just any third stringer. When the Dolphins go to the Wildcat (or the WildPat, as some now like to call it), White will make plays and he will make defensive coordinators plan for his presence.
And he looked better this week. "Pat's been getting better and better," says Tony Sparano. Is he ever going to be the starter? Probably not, but Chad Pennington won’t play forever and Chad Henne, with as much potential as he’s shown, is as unproven as anyone.
4) The Dolphins look to be improving.
Yeah, it is only training camp, even the Lions fans are chipper—but I think the Dolphins are legitimately better than they were last year. Certainly, with a healthy Tom Brady and with the additions of Terrell Owens and Matt Sanchez, the AFC East becomes only more competitive, but I think the Dolphins have a very good shot and reclaiming the division title.
I’ll wait a few weeks to make any regular season predictions, but if you’re a Dolphins fan, you have to be enthusiastically optimistic right now.
Dolphins links:
Ethan J. Skolnick @ Sun-Sentinel
Armando Salguero @ Miami Herald
The Phinsider
Miami Heat
Dwyane Wade has yet to resign, and no one expects him to any time soon, but that’s no cause for panic. It would be stupid for him to sign this quickly, but I’d bet a large chunk of change that he continues to play for the Miami Heat through the 2010-2011 season.
This Heat off-season has been historically slow, but that’s a deliberate movie by Pat Riley in hopes of landing an additional marquee free agent next summer.
Today, however, there were finally signs of life. Quentin Richardson, who has been dealt to everyone but the Washington Generals this summer, was traded from the Minnesota Timberwolves to the Heat in exchange for Mark Blount’s expiringcorpse contract.
Skolnick reports the Heat are the only team so far this summer to introduce Q-Rich to the media, so there’s a pretty good chance he’s here for awhile.
I like this move. It gives the Heat a semi-legitimate scoring threat at the perimeter when Wade is on the bench and Michael Beasley is posting-up. Even if it doesn’t work out, the Heat lost only their fourth string center and their cap space is still entirely intact for next year.
Also, Beasley is cool; follow him on Twitter.
Nevertheless, as the Marlins surge into both the Division and Wild Card races and as the Dolphins prepare for their first preseason game, there is much to be said. Even the Heat, who have been quiet for months, are finally making moves (well, one move at least).
The natural compromise is a weekly sports roundup.
Florida Marlins
Thanks to their "incredible" offensive consistency (10 consecutive games with 10 or more hits), the Marlins find themselves only three games behind the Colorado Rockies in the National League Wild Card race.
As fate would have it, those red-hot Rockies begin a three game series at Land Shark Stadium tonight. Probable starters are Jason Hammel (7-6) and Josh Johnson (11-2). Johnson hasn’t lost in over a month.
Yeah, I’d say these next few games are important.
Other Marlins news:
Anibel Sanchez, on the DL since June 4th, looked good in his first AA rehab start.
And we have an update on the construction of Marlins Stadium: One day down, 449 more to go.
Marlins links:
FishStripes
Marlins @ Miami Herald
Marlins @ Sun-Sentinel
Miami Dolphins
Two weeks of training camp are in the books and the Dolphins are 72 hours from their preseason opener against the Jaguars.
What have we learned thus far?
1) Omar Kelly’s up-to-date depth chart shows us nothing too outlandish.
You’ll notice the Dolphins’ only rookie starter, as of now, is second rounder Sean Smith (61st overall). This is no slight against first round pick Vontae Davis (25th overall), who still sits behind Will Allen at LCB on the charts. Allen is perhaps the most talented veteran member of the Dolphins’ secondary; he had the most interceptions and the most passes deflected last season behind the recently departed Andre’ Goodman. Smith is assigned to a very weak right-side, with an unproven (at least as a Dolphin) Eric Green and an uneven (at best) Jason Allen. All that considered, I wouldn’t be surprised if Davis is starting ahead of Allen (and opposite of Smith) by week four of the regular season.
Mike Stocker, Sun-Sentinel / May 1, 2009
Head Coach Tony Sparano sifts through his pockets for matches, hoping to light rookie CB Sean Smith's farts.
In only a few months (and mostly by way of the draft), their secondary unit has become exponentially more talented and so much faster. On paper, it looks great. And so far in training camp, they have outshined the quarterbacks and wide-receiver corps. Monday, however, is their first real test. It’ll be interesting to see how the three rooks (Davis, Smith, and Chris Clemons) fare against an unfamiliar offense.
2) Jason Taylor isn’t just back, he’s back. So much so that Ethan J. Skolnick is predicting a 10 to 12 sacks from him this season. How wonderful that would be, after trading him for a second round pick and resigning him for free a year later.
3) Pat White didn’t throw well in the first week of camp, but that’s no reason to worry. I’d be truly surprised if he takes five snaps from a conventional formation all season but he can still be an effective weapon. It might be bad form using a second round pick on a third string quarterback, but he isn’t just any third stringer. When the Dolphins go to the Wildcat (or the WildPat, as some now like to call it), White will make plays and he will make defensive coordinators plan for his presence.
And he looked better this week. "Pat's been getting better and better," says Tony Sparano. Is he ever going to be the starter? Probably not, but Chad Pennington won’t play forever and Chad Henne, with as much potential as he’s shown, is as unproven as anyone.
4) The Dolphins look to be improving.
Yeah, it is only training camp, even the Lions fans are chipper—but I think the Dolphins are legitimately better than they were last year. Certainly, with a healthy Tom Brady and with the additions of Terrell Owens and Matt Sanchez, the AFC East becomes only more competitive, but I think the Dolphins have a very good shot and reclaiming the division title.
I’ll wait a few weeks to make any regular season predictions, but if you’re a Dolphins fan, you have to be enthusiastically optimistic right now.
Dolphins links:
Ethan J. Skolnick @ Sun-Sentinel
Armando Salguero @ Miami Herald
The Phinsider
Miami Heat
Dwyane Wade has yet to resign, and no one expects him to any time soon, but that’s no cause for panic. It would be stupid for him to sign this quickly, but I’d bet a large chunk of change that he continues to play for the Miami Heat through the 2010-2011 season.
This Heat off-season has been historically slow, but that’s a deliberate movie by Pat Riley in hopes of landing an additional marquee free agent next summer.
Today, however, there were finally signs of life. Quentin Richardson, who has been dealt to everyone but the Washington Generals this summer, was traded from the Minnesota Timberwolves to the Heat in exchange for Mark Blount’s expiring
Skolnick reports the Heat are the only team so far this summer to introduce Q-Rich to the media, so there’s a pretty good chance he’s here for awhile.
I like this move. It gives the Heat a semi-legitimate scoring threat at the perimeter when Wade is on the bench and Michael Beasley is posting-up. Even if it doesn’t work out, the Heat lost only their fourth string center and their cap space is still entirely intact for next year.
Also, Beasley is cool; follow him on Twitter.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Confessions of a Man–Slut or: Fuck My Life (a Two Act Play)
ACT I: Wam’s Birthday
08/09/99 - Last night, the crew went out and celebrated Wam’s birthday. Since his third favorite activity in the world is seeing day boobies, we made a point to hit Nitro before dark.
The awesomeness was threefold.
1) The working ladies were surprisingly slightly above average (considering they were the daytime shift and probably not the “A+” squad).
2) The club has no cover charge or drink minimum during the day.
3) All drinks were half priced before 9 pm (sure, the drinks are normally so expensive that you aren’t saving much money even when the prices are halved, but it’s still kind of cool).
Our group pounded shots and threw singles on to the stage in the highest of spirits.
I took a particular liking to one of the girls. “Molly” is this uber-cool and very cute young lady who immediately grabbed my attention when she came out stripping to “Ava Adore.” This is one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands, and never before had I listened to it with perky nipples bouncing off my face.
After her set, she sat down next to me and we conversed for a good half-an-hour. Eventually, it was time to move on, but not before getting Molly’s real name and phone number. She wanted to hang out after work and told me to call her around 2:30 am. I was smitten with this, as I hadn’t bought her any drinks or paid for any lap dances. This allowed me to assume that her interest in me was genuine and not financially motivated.
Our crew went from bar to bar, slowly dwindling as one of us would get thrown out or silently stumble home.
Eventually only Wam, Alexis, and I are left standing. Alexis and I have hooked up before, but she is just a friend. Friend, perhaps, is even too strong a word. She constantly cock-blocks me when we’re out together. Her efforts are intentional and stem from some raging insecurities, I guess. I usually tolerate her annoyingly childish behavior because she so often buys all my food and drinks and because she has gigantic cans. Her goal this evening was to get me to forget about the stripper I had fallen for only a few hours ago and, sadly, she was mostly successful.
At 2 am, I’m chilling with Alexis at my apartment (she’s letting me play with her knockers or whatever, but her only motivation is preventing me from banging the stripper). Things start to fade to black around this time. I fall asleep with my head resting on her boobs.
This morning I wake up, stumble into the bathroom to pee, and then it hits me.
“FFFUUUUUUU!!!” I yell, pounding my fist against the wall. The realization that I didn’t capitalize on my golden stripper opportunity has me so upset it’s even affecting the aim of my stream. After cleaning the pee of off the floor and toilet, I come back out to the living room to examine my phone.
Apparently, we conversed a bit before I passed out on the devil’s bosom. She texts me after work, asking if I still want her to come over (it should be noted: THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME, I am not the guy who brings the strippers home from the strip club, I am the other guy, the one who buys her drinks all night and watches her go home with some douchebag instead).
My response is immediate, emphatic, and drunkenly misspelled. At 2:36 am, I tell her she should still come over and give her the cross streets for my apartment building. That’s apparently when I fell asleep.
After that, my phone shows five missed phone calls and six increasingly annoyed text messages:
“Cool. On my way.”
“I’m at the corner of Broadway and Maxwell, where do I go now?”
“Heh. You alive?”
“Where you at?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Goddammit.”
Yup, I fucking passed out last night. And I stood up the cool/cute stripper on her way over to my apartment at three in the morning.
And now she won’t answer my calls.
Fuck my life.
Look for ACT II: Bathroom Shenanigans tomorrow.
08/09/99 - Last night, the crew went out and celebrated Wam’s birthday. Since his third favorite activity in the world is seeing day boobies, we made a point to hit Nitro before dark.
The awesomeness was threefold.
1) The working ladies were surprisingly slightly above average (considering they were the daytime shift and probably not the “A+” squad).
2) The club has no cover charge or drink minimum during the day.
3) All drinks were half priced before 9 pm (sure, the drinks are normally so expensive that you aren’t saving much money even when the prices are halved, but it’s still kind of cool).
Our group pounded shots and threw singles on to the stage in the highest of spirits.
I took a particular liking to one of the girls. “Molly” is this uber-cool and very cute young lady who immediately grabbed my attention when she came out stripping to “Ava Adore.” This is one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands, and never before had I listened to it with perky nipples bouncing off my face.
After her set, she sat down next to me and we conversed for a good half-an-hour. Eventually, it was time to move on, but not before getting Molly’s real name and phone number. She wanted to hang out after work and told me to call her around 2:30 am. I was smitten with this, as I hadn’t bought her any drinks or paid for any lap dances. This allowed me to assume that her interest in me was genuine and not financially motivated.
Our crew went from bar to bar, slowly dwindling as one of us would get thrown out or silently stumble home.
Eventually only Wam, Alexis, and I are left standing. Alexis and I have hooked up before, but she is just a friend. Friend, perhaps, is even too strong a word. She constantly cock-blocks me when we’re out together. Her efforts are intentional and stem from some raging insecurities, I guess. I usually tolerate her annoyingly childish behavior because she so often buys all my food and drinks and because she has gigantic cans. Her goal this evening was to get me to forget about the stripper I had fallen for only a few hours ago and, sadly, she was mostly successful.
At 2 am, I’m chilling with Alexis at my apartment (she’s letting me play with her knockers or whatever, but her only motivation is preventing me from banging the stripper). Things start to fade to black around this time. I fall asleep with my head resting on her boobs.
This morning I wake up, stumble into the bathroom to pee, and then it hits me.
“FFFUUUUUUU!!!” I yell, pounding my fist against the wall. The realization that I didn’t capitalize on my golden stripper opportunity has me so upset it’s even affecting the aim of my stream. After cleaning the pee of off the floor and toilet, I come back out to the living room to examine my phone.
Apparently, we conversed a bit before I passed out on the devil’s bosom. She texts me after work, asking if I still want her to come over (it should be noted: THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME, I am not the guy who brings the strippers home from the strip club, I am the other guy, the one who buys her drinks all night and watches her go home with some douchebag instead).
My response is immediate, emphatic, and drunkenly misspelled. At 2:36 am, I tell her she should still come over and give her the cross streets for my apartment building. That’s apparently when I fell asleep.
After that, my phone shows five missed phone calls and six increasingly annoyed text messages:
“Cool. On my way.”
“I’m at the corner of Broadway and Maxwell, where do I go now?”
“Heh. You alive?”
“Where you at?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Goddammit.”
intersection of Broadway and Maxwell
The last known whereabouts of "Molly." They say if you inhale there at 2:30 am, you can still catch the faintest aroma of stripper lotion.
Yup, I fucking passed out last night. And I stood up the cool/cute stripper on her way over to my apartment at three in the morning.
And now she won’t answer my calls.
Fuck my life.
Look for ACT II: Bathroom Shenanigans tomorrow.
Monday, July 6, 2009
stellastarr*’s Civilized is competently disappointing
left: Civilized, the new stellastarr* album; right: stellastarr*, their kick-ass eponymous release.
There isn’t a single stellastarr* album review on the internet devoid of references to ancestral new wave bands or post-punk bands or post-new wave bands or whatever other silly genres we like to invent.
stellastarr* doesn't tread new ground, I get it—but to adequately review them do I really have to point out specific riffs in “Numbers” or “Tokyo Sky” that are influenced by the Cure? Robert Smith isn’t the first guitarist to use a chorus or delay pedal, and he holds no patents on the sounds they create. Then what’s the brouhaha? I’d bet a month’s salary that stellastarr* guitarist Michael Jaurin owns a copy of Disintegration, but he isn't a plagiarist.
Besides, stellastarr* is the band you blast on you car stereo when the weather is nice and the windows are down. Their songs are made to be sung over, even if harmonizing with your friends means one of you has to go falsetto. Unlike their oft-cited predecessors, connecting to stellastarr* doesn’t require the introspection you can only gain after your dog hangs itself or your girlfriend fucks the entire Australian national soccer team.
Maybe Civilized, their newest effort, owes as much to Whatever Wave as their first two albums—it not worth harping over either way. This isn’t Pitchfork and listening to music needn’t always involve a history lesson.
There are only three questions worth answering:
1) Is Civilized a fun listen?
2) Is there replay value?
3) Does its unrivaled awesomeness compel you to drink two-liters of Mountain Dew before throwing your little brother through the living room window so you can yell out (through bloodied shards of glass) into the night, “Civilized brings the Motherfuckin’ Ruckus!”?
In short, “yes,” “to an extent,” and “no.”
Civilized is a competent effort with high production values (especially considering they left RCA to pursue their own label) and solid guitar work that punctuate each song. It’s disappointing, though, in comparison to their debut. It has nothing as vocally textured as “Jenny” or “No Weather,” nothing as hypnotically relaxing as “Moongirl,” and nothing as explosively jubilant as “My Coco.”
Amanda Tannen at T in the Park
Amanda Tannen is the hottest bassist in the biz and an excellent backup vocalist. I wonder if she'd be okay with living in my Mom's basement.
It starts off with promise. The up-tempo “Robot” is Civilized’s shortest and simplest song—Amanda Tannen repeatedly intones “by design / you’re gonna hurt yourself” over a few sanitary melodies—but the simplicity serves stellastarr* well.
“Tokyo Sky” is a curious track. Shawn Christensen’s vocal approach is unsettling and rustic and, well, it makes you wonder whether all his singing prior to this has been a fraudulent Morrissey impression. “Graffiti Eyes" is Civilized's first single and thankfully reminiscent of the band's eponymous album. In it, Tannen and Christensen croon together flawlessly; the guitar oscillates between a measured verse and a meth-infused hyper chorus (thank you, Mr. Black); and the spirited breakdowns are as thunderous and pleasant as any boy could hope for.
There are misfires, too. “Freak Out” sounds like an aborted Eagles of Death Metal song; it’s grating enough to be skipped after one listen. “Prom Zombie” shoves so much sugary sweetness down your throat that you might as well be watching Brooke Banner deep-throat the Kool-Aid Man.
“Sonja Cries” is a typical tear-jerking finale (though certainly not The Standard By Which All Others Are Judged) with captivating vocals and affecting guitar melodies. It isn’t a spectacular song, but it’s pleasant enough to make you forget some earlier failings.
Go ahead and buy Civilized; stellastarr* is a worthy band and you were going to spend that money on candy anyway. It’s not their best endeavor, but it’s a step up from Harmonies of the Haunted and any progress should be encouraged with positive reinforcement.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
#7: Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (Lewis, 1999)
Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)
"Gentlemen, we found a vibrating brass cock ring buried inside Mrs. Chong. Please pick it up later today at 'lost and found.'"
Sex: The Annabel Chong Story is a documentary chronicling a woman’s attempt to fuck 300 men in one day of work. Annabel will inevitably be transformed from a giddy young porn starlet into a confused and insecure mess—and I simply do not care. She is tragic figure, sure, but her manically insipid dishonesty fails to generate in every scene.
Grover Cleveland may have once said, “Even lifeless documentaries are worth watching if they impart wisdom.” The Annabel Chong Story taught me that the University of Southern California is actually a pretty good place to meet sex workers, but I’m not sure if that’s what Old Grover meant.
I honestly wonder why Sex was ever made. Should I be impressed by Annabel’s attitude or accomplishments? (I’m not.) Moved by her relationship with conservative family? (I wasn’t.) Sickened by what we see of the porn industry when the curtain is pulled back? (I am, but certainly there are six million better ways to tell that story.)
Maybe Annabel and her friends are simply so intriguing as subjects, cameras can’t help but film their every movement (including movements from the toilet). However, Annabel’s trumped-up neuroses and predictable responses (“If I got AIDS from the whole thing, I’m not going to regret it. I had the experience. I lived.”) are boring and the other characters are worse.
And that’s a problem since Sex strives to be shocking above all else (e.g. one interviewee who never mentions Annabel is clearly kept in the film so he can say, “Why can’t you pay someone to suck your dick? Why is that wrong?”). Maybe this footage was riveting in 1999. I doubt it, but I don’t know. In today’s world, where you can’t throw a pretzel without hitting three people who have seen 2 Girls 1 Cup*, we aren’t shocked very easily.
A little research uncovers that director Gough Lewis dated Annabel throughout most of the project. The woman he cares for decides to fuck 300 other men and his reaction is “let’s film it!” What the hell? I would have rather have seen a documentary about him.
Instead we watch Annabel stumble over her own words and are asked to seriously consider her career path as a legitimate interpretation of feminism. Worse yet, the documentary is planned and executed terribly.
The editing is either sloppy or dishonest; we are asked to believe a secondary crew is already filming in her porn producer’s office when Annabel randomly decides to telephone them in hopes of negotiating a raise. The shot selection is amateurish (e.g. an extreme close-up of Annabel’s dark and shifty eyes for what seems like an hour—and yes, she looks as bored as I feel).
Near the end of this meandering, pointless little film, Annabel explains her love of gang-bang as a natural byproduct of her healthy psyche; in the next scene she gives us a tour of the random London flat where she raped by a dozen consecutive different men. The juxtaposing is ineffective and the sequence doesn’t work because neither the editing nor the subjects are trustworthy.
Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)
Annabel was emo before it became trendy.
Annabel finally admits making pornography is far less fun than it looks. She thinks being the subject of a 251 person gang-bang (I guess she cramped up before reaching 300) is the most torturous event a person can experience, but the only true test of endurance here is staying awake for 85 minutes worth of worthless documentary.
(NOTE: In one obviously staged scene, where our porn star slices into her arm in order to “let out the pain inside,” I briefly imagine Sex might be the worst documentary ever made. Fortunately for Annabel and company, I’ve also seen Kurt & Courtney.)
Final score: 16 out of 100.
---
*Sorry sickos, you're going to have to track that one down on your own.
#6: Keith (Kessler, 2008)
[NOTE: This film uses tired ideas to do some wonderful things. Embracing that theme, I’ve decided to riddle the review with fun clichés. See how many you can find!]
Keith is enjoyable, if not enchanting. In the interest of disclosure, however, I should point out its few substantial flaws before selling it to you as one of last year’s hidden gems.
This is director Todd Kessler’s first motion picture and traces of his inexperience are evident all throughout. The first scene focuses on a digital alarm clock reading “5:59” and a seasoned audience member can expect some beeping at six. Seconds later, our suspicions are confirmed and our protagonist crawls out of bed to face her day. At this point, I could very well be describing an opening sequence in hundreds of different novice works. Visual and structural bromides like these show us Kessler is not yet an auteur with a capital “A.”
He and co-writer David Zabel have zero previous screenwriting credits. IMDB states their script is based originally on a short story by Ron Carlson. There’s nothing there to indicate Carlson borrowed his idea from the dozens of other artists who have been suckling the tit of popular young girl with everything to gain is seduced by mysterious bad-boy with nothing to lose for centuries. Honestly, if I didn’t have a thesaurus within arm’s reach, I probably wouldn’t make it through this review without typing the word “generic” a half-dozen times.
Are you excited to watch Keith yet? I told you just a few paragraphs ago that you should be—don’t let my uncontrollable urges to highlight flawed writing and lackluster mise-en-scene scare you away from the film's great acting and emotional resonance.
Keith is not groundbreaking in story (I won't detail all the romantic plot points, but know there are more clichés than a Uwe Boll marathon, though they are mostly excusable), several of the film’s best scenes are derivative but you might be surprised to find yourself smiling instead of groaning. Instead, Keith is a finely paced, spirited showcase for two talented actors who admirably embrace their characters.
Keith (James Applebury) has seen Rebel Without a Cause (if not a few Neil LaBute plays) but is perhaps less disaffected than he aspires to be. Applebury is good in a role that doesn’t need him to be half as nuanced or charming as Natalie (played expertly by Elisabeth Harnois).
Natalie is blessed with academic success, a supportive family, and athletic prowess, but she isn’t the type to write “carpe diem” in her day planner. The girl will eventually meet the boy and this boy will profoundly change that girl, we've heard that tune before, but the characters give it a fresh life. She may have untapped potential, but Natalie’s interests, urges, and aspirations exist well before Keith enters the stage. It’s refreshing when she doesn’t need the insights of a wild-eyed new guy to awaken her character from a personality coma. (And it’s a minor miracle that she never dates a jerkish quarterback. There is a secondary love interest, Raphael, but he is by no stretch a hurtful or manipulative guy).
The two develop a bond in their chemistry class (you see what I did there?) and their friendship evolves naturally. As we would expect, Keith shows Natalie the fun in coloring outside the lines. Keith throws out the “picnic rulebook” in their first adventure; they sneak into the conference room of a busy law firm to enjoy a lunch of Twinkies and Slim Jims. When the pair is eventually noticed, Keith is actually saved by Natalie’s quick talking and creative wit. Scenes like these allow Todd Kessler to turn a generic concept into an endearing and genuinely touching movie.
Final score: 81 out of 100.
Keith is enjoyable, if not enchanting. In the interest of disclosure, however, I should point out its few substantial flaws before selling it to you as one of last year’s hidden gems.
Keith (2008) production still
Keith, why so serious?
This is director Todd Kessler’s first motion picture and traces of his inexperience are evident all throughout. The first scene focuses on a digital alarm clock reading “5:59” and a seasoned audience member can expect some beeping at six. Seconds later, our suspicions are confirmed and our protagonist crawls out of bed to face her day. At this point, I could very well be describing an opening sequence in hundreds of different novice works. Visual and structural bromides like these show us Kessler is not yet an auteur with a capital “A.”
He and co-writer David Zabel have zero previous screenwriting credits. IMDB states their script is based originally on a short story by Ron Carlson. There’s nothing there to indicate Carlson borrowed his idea from the dozens of other artists who have been suckling the tit of popular young girl with everything to gain is seduced by mysterious bad-boy with nothing to lose for centuries. Honestly, if I didn’t have a thesaurus within arm’s reach, I probably wouldn’t make it through this review without typing the word “generic” a half-dozen times.
Are you excited to watch Keith yet? I told you just a few paragraphs ago that you should be—don’t let my uncontrollable urges to highlight flawed writing and lackluster mise-en-scene scare you away from the film's great acting and emotional resonance.
Keith is not groundbreaking in story (I won't detail all the romantic plot points, but know there are more clichés than a Uwe Boll marathon, though they are mostly excusable), several of the film’s best scenes are derivative but you might be surprised to find yourself smiling instead of groaning. Instead, Keith is a finely paced, spirited showcase for two talented actors who admirably embrace their characters.
Keith (James Applebury) has seen Rebel Without a Cause (if not a few Neil LaBute plays) but is perhaps less disaffected than he aspires to be. Applebury is good in a role that doesn’t need him to be half as nuanced or charming as Natalie (played expertly by Elisabeth Harnois).
Natalie is blessed with academic success, a supportive family, and athletic prowess, but she isn’t the type to write “carpe diem” in her day planner. The girl will eventually meet the boy and this boy will profoundly change that girl, we've heard that tune before, but the characters give it a fresh life. She may have untapped potential, but Natalie’s interests, urges, and aspirations exist well before Keith enters the stage. It’s refreshing when she doesn’t need the insights of a wild-eyed new guy to awaken her character from a personality coma. (And it’s a minor miracle that she never dates a jerkish quarterback. There is a secondary love interest, Raphael, but he is by no stretch a hurtful or manipulative guy).
Keith (2008)
Keith's arrival makes Natalie reconsider her world view. Another classic example of the "4-WAY Stop Blues."
The two develop a bond in their chemistry class (you see what I did there?) and their friendship evolves naturally. As we would expect, Keith shows Natalie the fun in coloring outside the lines. Keith throws out the “picnic rulebook” in their first adventure; they sneak into the conference room of a busy law firm to enjoy a lunch of Twinkies and Slim Jims. When the pair is eventually noticed, Keith is actually saved by Natalie’s quick talking and creative wit. Scenes like these allow Todd Kessler to turn a generic concept into an endearing and genuinely touching movie.
Final score: 81 out of 100.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Overrated movies of the last 25 years (pt. 1)
It’s hard for my brain to comprehend that Battleship Potemkin (Eisenstein, 1925) is both a monumental film and a boring one. It may put me to sleep, but the technical achievements in editing and historical significance as part of Soviet montage are unparalleled. If a work of art is critical to the evolution is medium, can it still suck? Can it be overrated? I have no clue -- so we’re going to keep this span of inquiry to the past 25 years.
Dishonorable mentions for those near misses:
Bottle Rocket (W. Anderson, 1996), Casino (Scorcese, 1995), Cinema Paradiso (Tornatore, 1988), Magnolia (Anderson, 1999), No Country for Old Men (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2007), The Others (Amenábar, 2001), The Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick, 1993), Pan’s Labyrinth (del Toro, 2006), Sin City (Miller & Rodriguez & Tarantino, 2005), Thelma & Louise (Scott, 1991), The Thin Blue Line (Morris, 1988)
10. Crash (Haggis, 2004) – Modern melodramas dressed as cautionary moral tales are always showered with gallons of praise by those who want you to know how enlightened or socially conscious they are. It's a pedantic subgenre, and it's structured to thrive on a series of absurd contrivances that gradually increase the tension between characters (racial tension, in the case of Crash) until a boiling point is reached. Alea iacta est when a morally ignorant character lashes out horribly and violently toward a character of relative innocence.
It’s essentially a formula designed to foster drama and pull at the heart-strings while also making a moral stand. If the script has integrity and allows the ending to evolve naturally, this can be a great way to tell a story (e.g. Syriana, Straw Dogs). Usually, though, these film scripts rely upon stupid characters with improbably bad luck to reach that “ZOMG, I can’t believe that just happened!!!” ending (e.g. The Virgin Suicides, Mystic River).
Crash has three or four inspired moments buried under all the false manipulation, paper-thin characters, and atrociously unsubtle dialogue. It isn’t close to the worst movie I’ve ever seen, but people who find it life-altering piss me off. This is how those conversations always go:
Them: "Have you seen Crash?"
Me: "Of course. I can't believe James Spader fucks a chick in the leg hole!"
Them: "Um... What?"
Me: "Oh. You mean the one with Ludacris."
Them: “Yeah! It's intense, maybe the best movie I’ve ever seen. And it really makes you think, too…”
Me: “Heh. What does it make you think about?”
Them: “You know, racism, class struggle, how fucked we all are inside. It forces you to look at what's going on in society.”
Me: “Oh yeah? And what conclusions have all these thoughts brought you to?”
Them: “I don’t know. Racism is bad. People should look past skin color.”
Me: “Awesome. I'm going to go now, and stab myself in the eye with a fork.”
9. Any Christopher Guest movie. Pick any one, it doesn't matter.
I have no problem with documentary parodies. Häxan (Christensen, 1922) and Land Without Bread (Buñuel, 1932) are ancient classics. More recently, Borat is funny, Diary of the Dead is passable, and Drop Dead Gorgeous fucking rules.
But Christopher Guest? His mockumentaries are about as funny as chewing through a colostomy bag; it's the same drab actors having the same mundane conversations in every one. And when you comment on the lack of laughs, his minions will chastise you for not appreciating subtle humor. Oh, I enjoy a buried punchline as much as the next guy, but an uninspired gag about dumb hicks trying their hand at community theater isn't even mildly funny when stretched out over 90 minutes. He creates buffoons who think they are anything but and it makes us feel superior to laugh at them, I get it, I do. But if Guest really wants to do something "for my consideration," he should have someone film Eugene Levy bashing him in the face with a Louisville Slugger.
8. The English Patient (Minghella, 1996) – Alright, I need to confess. I never even saw The English Patient. I admit it. It's still overrated, though.
Every year, those kooky guys and gals running the Oscars arbitrarily pick one mediocre period drama and elevate it above genuinely great films. I’m positive The English Patient was their darling in 1996.
Even if it were, hypothetically, a very good movie, it isn’t better than the great ones it went up against. Fargo (Joel & Ethan Coen) and Lone Star (Sayles) are two of the best independent American films in the past few decades. Jerry Maguire (Crowe) is also highly underrated (as a sports flick and as a romantic comedy). And Danny Boyle’s colossally triumphant Trainspotting is better than all of those movies combined. I don’t have access to the algorithms used by whomever is behind the curtain to determines the “best picture,” but evidently any film set in a World War II hospital is a mathematical certainty.
(The English Patient has a low ranking because (1) while it may have won most of the Oscars in 1996, it has already been forgotten by most people. Thus it’s no longer rated highly enough to be egregiously overrated. (2) I never saw it, so there’s a 3.58% chance I have no idea what I’m talking about.
-----
Tomorrow we'll tackle 7 through 4…
(NOTE: Deep down, everyone knows Zoolander is dogshit, right? I’m not going to waste time writing about it here.)
Dishonorable mentions for those near misses:
Bottle Rocket (W. Anderson, 1996), Casino (Scorcese, 1995), Cinema Paradiso (Tornatore, 1988), Magnolia (Anderson, 1999), No Country for Old Men (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2007), The Others (Amenábar, 2001), The Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick, 1993), Pan’s Labyrinth (del Toro, 2006), Sin City (Miller & Rodriguez & Tarantino, 2005), Thelma & Louise (Scott, 1991), The Thin Blue Line (Morris, 1988)
10. Crash (Haggis, 2004) – Modern melodramas dressed as cautionary moral tales are always showered with gallons of praise by those who want you to know how enlightened or socially conscious they are. It's a pedantic subgenre, and it's structured to thrive on a series of absurd contrivances that gradually increase the tension between characters (racial tension, in the case of Crash) until a boiling point is reached. Alea iacta est when a morally ignorant character lashes out horribly and violently toward a character of relative innocence.
It’s essentially a formula designed to foster drama and pull at the heart-strings while also making a moral stand. If the script has integrity and allows the ending to evolve naturally, this can be a great way to tell a story (e.g. Syriana, Straw Dogs). Usually, though, these film scripts rely upon stupid characters with improbably bad luck to reach that “ZOMG, I can’t believe that just happened!!!” ending (e.g. The Virgin Suicides, Mystic River).
Crash (2004)
"I can't take any more of this liberal edification... Shoot us. Please."
Crash has three or four inspired moments buried under all the false manipulation, paper-thin characters, and atrociously unsubtle dialogue. It isn’t close to the worst movie I’ve ever seen, but people who find it life-altering piss me off. This is how those conversations always go:
Them: "Have you seen Crash?"
Me: "Of course. I can't believe James Spader fucks a chick in the leg hole!"
Them: "Um... What?"
Me: "Oh. You mean the one with Ludacris."
Them: “Yeah! It's intense, maybe the best movie I’ve ever seen. And it really makes you think, too…”
Me: “Heh. What does it make you think about?”
Them: “You know, racism, class struggle, how fucked we all are inside. It forces you to look at what's going on in society.”
Me: “Oh yeah? And what conclusions have all these thoughts brought you to?”
Them: “I don’t know. Racism is bad. People should look past skin color.”
Me: “Awesome. I'm going to go now, and stab myself in the eye with a fork.”
9. Any Christopher Guest movie. Pick any one, it doesn't matter.
I have no problem with documentary parodies. Häxan (Christensen, 1922) and Land Without Bread (Buñuel, 1932) are ancient classics. More recently, Borat is funny, Diary of the Dead is passable, and Drop Dead Gorgeous fucking rules.
But Christopher Guest? His mockumentaries are about as funny as chewing through a colostomy bag; it's the same drab actors having the same mundane conversations in every one. And when you comment on the lack of laughs, his minions will chastise you for not appreciating subtle humor. Oh, I enjoy a buried punchline as much as the next guy, but an uninspired gag about dumb hicks trying their hand at community theater isn't even mildly funny when stretched out over 90 minutes. He creates buffoons who think they are anything but and it makes us feel superior to laugh at them, I get it, I do. But if Guest really wants to do something "for my consideration," he should have someone film Eugene Levy bashing him in the face with a Louisville Slugger.
8. The English Patient (Minghella, 1996) – Alright, I need to confess. I never even saw The English Patient. I admit it. It's still overrated, though.
Every year, those kooky guys and gals running the Oscars arbitrarily pick one mediocre period drama and elevate it above genuinely great films. I’m positive The English Patient was their darling in 1996.
Even if it were, hypothetically, a very good movie, it isn’t better than the great ones it went up against. Fargo (Joel & Ethan Coen) and Lone Star (Sayles) are two of the best independent American films in the past few decades. Jerry Maguire (Crowe) is also highly underrated (as a sports flick and as a romantic comedy). And Danny Boyle’s colossally triumphant Trainspotting is better than all of those movies combined. I don’t have access to the algorithms used by whomever is behind the curtain to determines the “best picture,” but evidently any film set in a World War II hospital is a mathematical certainty.
(The English Patient has a low ranking because (1) while it may have won most of the Oscars in 1996, it has already been forgotten by most people. Thus it’s no longer rated highly enough to be egregiously overrated. (2) I never saw it, so there’s a 3.58% chance I have no idea what I’m talking about.
-----
Tomorrow we'll tackle 7 through 4…
(NOTE: Deep down, everyone knows Zoolander is dogshit, right? I’m not going to waste time writing about it here.)
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Something remarkable happened today
If you’re a cynic or a skeptic, stop reading right now. You won't believe my story. In fact, give me your address so I can mail you a t-shirt that says: “I lack faith because my parents didn’t love me. I am a destroyer of dreams. Misery gives me pleasure, for I am cynic.”
On Thursdays, I wander around my block in the morning to contemplate the in-and-outs of our corporeal existence. To my delight, today's walk brought me to a garage sale. I love garage sales, you guys. Great bargains, unique items, and, if you pay attention, you can learn a lot about your neighbors. (ex: Debbie Bergen’s weight bench was for sale because she separated from her abusive husband and he never took it with him. Thus I've learned, Debbie is a relentless harpy who drove her husband away and likely deserved each and ever beating she received.)
Between herbal teas and Sega Dreamcasts, Anton Lo Pan offered the most exotic wares at the garage sale. Mr. Lo Pan is our town's second favorite Chinaman but, frankly, his booth reminded me of the creepy gift shop in Gremlins. Behind the bootlegged DVDs, next to the electric rice cooker, one particularly dusty item caught my eye.
A Cannon X99, an authentic facsimile machine from the late 20th century.It compatible with a 56K modem and everything! This is exactly what I was hoping to find.
Mr. Lo Pan was willing to unload this device of wonder for less than market value because the it's supposedly haunted. He claims the Canon distribution center in Wyoming was constructed on an old Cheyenne burial ground. Furthermore, one of the previous owners died on September 11, 2001. That's honestly pretty sad. He wasn’t in the Twin Towers or anything; it was pancreatic cancer. I didn’t believe Mr. Lo Pan's tale before, but now I'm not so sure. Mr. Lo Pan sold the priceless relic for only $40 (if there is one ethnicity I’m really good at negotiating with, it’s the Orientals).
Returning home, I plugged in my Canon X99 and headed to the toilet. (On a side note, studies suggest a man’s wit is at its sharpest when he's pooping. It's all very scientific. When you push all the waste out of your body, only the best stuff remains, right?) I sat on the can and I thought. "I’m a worldly man. I took Econ at the community college. With this small purchase, I finally control some of the 'means of production.' Can this fax machine catapult me into the aristocracy? I wonder if --" A familiar sound interrupted my thoughts. Could it be? The fax machine was running on its own!
I leapt off the toilet, pulled up my shorts without wiping, and bolted to the living room. (Oh my God, guys. Don’t ever do that. Shit got on these nice shorts my Grandma sent me and I had to throw them out-- poop even ended up on the wall somehow!) I snatched the transmission from the tray; my eyes moistened as I read the letter. I don’t know if the content of the message brought the tears or if it was the realization that juice from my own feces slowly dripped down my leg. Either way, this is the fax I received.
To whom it may concern,
If my calculations are correct, this message has been sent to The Future. Do not be alarmed.
I come from a very turbulent time. One in which the walls of society are slowly crumbling and the end of the world is very fucking nigh. In your time (The Future), I am already dead. Mortality is a fleeting and fickle mistress.
As a survivor, I assume you are descend from the most resilient of our time. If you are still reading this letter, I must also assume that you speak English. If you’re still reading this letter but you do not speak English, I really don’t know What to tell you. There is also the distinct possibility The Future is ruled by intelligent apes. This isn’t preferable but it will suffice.
You may wonder what value is in dead man's letter. Please let me explain before use this as tinder. Lessons are learned from the past. Perhaps my correspondence will serve as a bridge between our two peoples. My people rule the Earth, the Seas, and—believe it or not—the stars. Our doctors cure disease; our scientists master fission (or fusion? I get them confused); our artists and philosophers show us what it means to be human; our teachers do stuff too. Chosen by all the people, our tribal chiefs lead with courage and dignity. Our world is magnificient but our time here is fleeting. No doubt you and your tribesmen roam the Earth scavenging for food and shelter. With my help, you can to master the land itself! If you're one of the ape men, I can even teach you about toilet paper.
If The Future hopes to avoid the bleak destiny of my present, you must learn from your past. In 184 days I will be dead. Our assassin is silent but lethal nevertheless. You see, when the clock strikes midnight on December 31, 1999, 99.9978% of my world’s population will die. My people call the beast “Y2K,” and even top scientists don’t know what to do.
I quarantined myself in my mother’s basement as a precautionary measure. I have many cans of Spam and even figured out a way to recycle my own urine (diminishing the need for fresh water). I left my compound only once this month, and that was to go see The Matrix one last time before they end its theatrical run. You know not of what I speak, but take my word for it when I say the risk is worth it (Trinity is really hot). So, my new friend, I’m stuck here drinking my own urine with only a few movies and CDs to distract me from the looming end of days. (The Crystal Method is all that and a bag of chips, by the way. Techno is the wave of the future!)
I will write again.
Best Regards,
Vern Fishapple
June 26, 1999
True story. Every Word.
I bet now you wish you would have taken the blue pill.
On Thursdays, I wander around my block in the morning to contemplate the in-and-outs of our corporeal existence. To my delight, today's walk brought me to a garage sale. I love garage sales, you guys. Great bargains, unique items, and, if you pay attention, you can learn a lot about your neighbors. (ex: Debbie Bergen’s weight bench was for sale because she separated from her abusive husband and he never took it with him. Thus I've learned, Debbie is a relentless harpy who drove her husband away and likely deserved each and ever beating she received.)
Between herbal teas and Sega Dreamcasts, Anton Lo Pan offered the most exotic wares at the garage sale. Mr. Lo Pan is our town's second favorite Chinaman but, frankly, his booth reminded me of the creepy gift shop in Gremlins. Behind the bootlegged DVDs, next to the electric rice cooker, one particularly dusty item caught my eye.
Mr. Driller for Sega Dreamcast
In 1884, Europe's top physicists concluded that Mr. Driller is the greatest video game ever.
A Cannon X99, an authentic facsimile machine from the late 20th century.It compatible with a 56K modem and everything! This is exactly what I was hoping to find.
Mr. Lo Pan was willing to unload this device of wonder for less than market value because the it's supposedly haunted. He claims the Canon distribution center in Wyoming was constructed on an old Cheyenne burial ground. Furthermore, one of the previous owners died on September 11, 2001. That's honestly pretty sad. He wasn’t in the Twin Towers or anything; it was pancreatic cancer. I didn’t believe Mr. Lo Pan's tale before, but now I'm not so sure. Mr. Lo Pan sold the priceless relic for only $40 (if there is one ethnicity I’m really good at negotiating with, it’s the Orientals).
Ottoman Empire
Cancer terrorized people on 9/11 too.
Returning home, I plugged in my Canon X99 and headed to the toilet. (On a side note, studies suggest a man’s wit is at its sharpest when he's pooping. It's all very scientific. When you push all the waste out of your body, only the best stuff remains, right?) I sat on the can and I thought. "I’m a worldly man. I took Econ at the community college. With this small purchase, I finally control some of the 'means of production.' Can this fax machine catapult me into the aristocracy? I wonder if --" A familiar sound interrupted my thoughts. Could it be? The fax machine was running on its own!
I leapt off the toilet, pulled up my shorts without wiping, and bolted to the living room. (Oh my God, guys. Don’t ever do that. Shit got on these nice shorts my Grandma sent me and I had to throw them out-- poop even ended up on the wall somehow!) I snatched the transmission from the tray; my eyes moistened as I read the letter. I don’t know if the content of the message brought the tears or if it was the realization that juice from my own feces slowly dripped down my leg. Either way, this is the fax I received.
To whom it may concern,
If my calculations are correct, this message has been sent to The Future. Do not be alarmed.
I come from a very turbulent time. One in which the walls of society are slowly crumbling and the end of the world is very fucking nigh. In your time (The Future), I am already dead. Mortality is a fleeting and fickle mistress.
As a survivor, I assume you are descend from the most resilient of our time. If you are still reading this letter, I must also assume that you speak English. If you’re still reading this letter but you do not speak English, I really don’t know What to tell you. There is also the distinct possibility The Future is ruled by intelligent apes. This isn’t preferable but it will suffice.
You may wonder what value is in dead man's letter. Please let me explain before use this as tinder. Lessons are learned from the past. Perhaps my correspondence will serve as a bridge between our two peoples. My people rule the Earth, the Seas, and—believe it or not—the stars. Our doctors cure disease; our scientists master fission (or fusion? I get them confused); our artists and philosophers show us what it means to be human; our teachers do stuff too. Chosen by all the people, our tribal chiefs lead with courage and dignity. Our world is magnificient but our time here is fleeting. No doubt you and your tribesmen roam the Earth scavenging for food and shelter. With my help, you can to master the land itself! If you're one of the ape men, I can even teach you about toilet paper.
If The Future hopes to avoid the bleak destiny of my present, you must learn from your past. In 184 days I will be dead. Our assassin is silent but lethal nevertheless. You see, when the clock strikes midnight on December 31, 1999, 99.9978% of my world’s population will die. My people call the beast “Y2K,” and even top scientists don’t know what to do.
I quarantined myself in my mother’s basement as a precautionary measure. I have many cans of Spam and even figured out a way to recycle my own urine (diminishing the need for fresh water). I left my compound only once this month, and that was to go see The Matrix one last time before they end its theatrical run. You know not of what I speak, but take my word for it when I say the risk is worth it (Trinity is really hot). So, my new friend, I’m stuck here drinking my own urine with only a few movies and CDs to distract me from the looming end of days. (The Crystal Method is all that and a bag of chips, by the way. Techno is the wave of the future!)
I will write again.
Best Regards,
Vern Fishapple
June 26, 1999
True story. Every Word.
I bet now you wish you would have taken the blue pill.
#5: big block of cheese day
I watched (RE: endured) a shit-ton of movies in the past week or two. I'm far too forgetful (RE: lazy) to review them ex post facto, but I'll give them each a sentence or two and maybe we'll just count that as a single review towards this unrealistic end. Cool? Okay? Please?
Listed in order, from shit to THE shit:
Ghost Rider (M. Johnson, 2007) - No. No. No. My initial expectations were lower than a Tokyo Drifter's custom suspension, but no horrid review could prepare me for this kind of abomination. I refuse to even link you to the IMDB page, that's how much I hate it. 0 out of 100.
Fu Manchu does not approve:
Small Town Gay Bar (Ingram, 2006) - Documentarian Malcom Ingram chills 2 ounces of homosexuality and 1.5 ounces of drunken debauchery over a few cubes of Deep South intolerance, and garnishes his documentary with a wedge of transvestite kink before serving. Sounds like a mouth-watering cocktail, right? Wrong. The result is dilute to blandness and the aftertaste is bitter enough to make you cringe (and yes, I am now the proud owner of "the world's most embarrassingly contrived bar metaphor"). 39 out of 100.
I'm Reed Fish (Adler, 2006) - Meh. If you have the chance to marry Rory Gilmore, you do it (lest she give you the stare). Life really is that simple. 43 out of 100.
Kill Your Idols (Crary, 2004) - A rockumentary on the rise of No Wave in NYC. The roots of the movement are thankfully explored (as I'm no rock historian) in the film's great first half. Then the n00bs appear and everything turns to shit. When seasoned veterans from Suicide or Sonic Youth wax nostalgic it's meaningful, mostly because they know what the fuck they're talking about; when the scatterbrained hapa kolea from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs pontificates about her own importance, it's unbearable to watch. 59 out of 100
Timecrimes (Vigalondo, 2007) - Satisfying, but not as good as Primer. Ebert breaks it down: "'Timecrimes' is like a temporal chess game with nudity, voyeurism and violence, which makes it more boring than most chess games but less boring than a lot of movies." 68 out of 100.
The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief (Clennell, 2006) - A fairly engaging documentary illuminating peculiar corners of the Japanese sex trade. If you didn't think Japan was weird before seeing this... well, you're a fucking idiot. 79 out of 100.
Smithereens (Seidelman, 1982) - Lumpy's 45th Axiom of Awesomeness: random films made during the '80s are inevitably more interesting (and revealing) than current ones set in '80s. "I got a scar, I'll show it to you for five dollars... it's in a real interestin' place." 83 out of 100.
The Last Detail (Ashby, 1973) - I don't say this about too many things over 35 years old, but The Last Detail is insanely funny. Jack Nicholson at his absolute best. I have too much dignity to call anything a "hidden gem," but I'm tempted. 93 out of 100.
Manhunter (Mann, 1986) - I can never say this enough: Michael Mann is a phenomenal (and underrated) filmmaker. Manhunter has everything I want in a thriller (except, of course, Sharon Stone's fluffy sausage wallet). 94 out of 100.
Talk Radio (Stone, 1988) - This movie is a double-tall Red Bull and awesome! It's very clearly a stage adaptation (98% dialogue, only two or three different locations), but that's not a detriment here. It's Network on meth. 95 out of 100.
Once (Carney, 2006) - Gorgeous in every measurable way. Wonderfully heartbreaking original music. Please see it now. 98 out of 100.
Yup, I've watched some epic movies lately. Except Ghost Rider. Which sucks.
--
Once more with extra Fu:
Listed in order, from shit to THE shit:
Ghost Rider (M. Johnson, 2007) - No. No. No. My initial expectations were lower than a Tokyo Drifter's custom suspension, but no horrid review could prepare me for this kind of abomination. I refuse to even link you to the IMDB page, that's how much I hate it. 0 out of 100.
Fu Manchu does not approve:
Small Town Gay Bar (Ingram, 2006) - Documentarian Malcom Ingram chills 2 ounces of homosexuality and 1.5 ounces of drunken debauchery over a few cubes of Deep South intolerance, and garnishes his documentary with a wedge of transvestite kink before serving. Sounds like a mouth-watering cocktail, right? Wrong. The result is dilute to blandness and the aftertaste is bitter enough to make you cringe (and yes, I am now the proud owner of "the world's most embarrassingly contrived bar metaphor"). 39 out of 100.
I'm Reed Fish (Adler, 2006) - Meh. If you have the chance to marry Rory Gilmore, you do it (lest she give you the stare). Life really is that simple. 43 out of 100.
Kill Your Idols (Crary, 2004) - A rockumentary on the rise of No Wave in NYC. The roots of the movement are thankfully explored (as I'm no rock historian) in the film's great first half. Then the n00bs appear and everything turns to shit. When seasoned veterans from Suicide or Sonic Youth wax nostalgic it's meaningful, mostly because they know what the fuck they're talking about; when the scatterbrained hapa kolea from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs pontificates about her own importance, it's unbearable to watch. 59 out of 100
punk sucks
"They say punk is dead / It's all in your head / Art doesn't pay / I got a job instead"
Timecrimes (Vigalondo, 2007) - Satisfying, but not as good as Primer. Ebert breaks it down: "'Timecrimes' is like a temporal chess game with nudity, voyeurism and violence, which makes it more boring than most chess games but less boring than a lot of movies." 68 out of 100.
The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief (Clennell, 2006) - A fairly engaging documentary illuminating peculiar corners of the Japanese sex trade. If you didn't think Japan was weird before seeing this... well, you're a fucking idiot. 79 out of 100.
Smithereens (Seidelman, 1982) - Lumpy's 45th Axiom of Awesomeness: random films made during the '80s are inevitably more interesting (and revealing) than current ones set in '80s. "I got a scar, I'll show it to you for five dollars... it's in a real interestin' place." 83 out of 100.
The Last Detail (Ashby, 1973) - I don't say this about too many things over 35 years old, but The Last Detail is insanely funny. Jack Nicholson at his absolute best. I have too much dignity to call anything a "hidden gem," but I'm tempted. 93 out of 100.
Manhunter (Mann, 1986) - I can never say this enough: Michael Mann is a phenomenal (and underrated) filmmaker. Manhunter has everything I want in a thriller (except, of course, Sharon Stone's fluffy sausage wallet). 94 out of 100.
Manhunter (1986)
Michael Mann's classic film needed more pussy.
Talk Radio (Stone, 1988) - This movie is a double-tall Red Bull and awesome! It's very clearly a stage adaptation (98% dialogue, only two or three different locations), but that's not a detriment here. It's Network on meth. 95 out of 100.
Once (Carney, 2006) - Gorgeous in every measurable way. Wonderfully heartbreaking original music. Please see it now. 98 out of 100.
Yup, I've watched some epic movies lately. Except Ghost Rider. Which sucks.
--
Once more with extra Fu:
Grindhouse (2007)
"This is my MECCA! muhahahahah"
#4: Street Fight (Curry, 2005)
"I understand what you've done here, Queue. But I think the lesson could have been learned without the loss of 18 members of my crew." - Captain Picard
My Netflix queue is almost always at maximum capacity. I don't get it, who doesn't have 500 movies they are dying to see?
This is particularly annoying whenever I stumble across an awesome looking softcore lesbian foreign "film" and the site won't let me queue it up. Since I know that I'll forget the name of That Movie with That French Chick immediately after navigating away from its page, I have a conundrum. I can...
1) ...Forgo watching I Kissed a Mongolian Girl (and I liked It) altogether.
2) ...Prune a random film from the list I wasn't likely to watch in the first place (I'm looking at you, Rollerball).
3) ...Stream a queued "instant" movie through the Netflix website, after which a spot will be freed.
Tonight, I chose option three.
Streaming a movie through a browser is a bit different than watching it on a disc. The picture quality is pretty good, but not as great as DVD and nowhere near Bluray standards. There aren't any subtitle options, which annoys the screenwriter in me. And you don't get any special features (i.e. director's commentary, deleted scenes). I decided on a documentary ((1) less emphasis on picture quality, (2) likely was never a screenplay, (3) low budgets often result in very few DVD extras).
I picked Street Fight (Curry, 2005). Curry gives us a good documentary about the 2002 mayoral election in Newark, NJ, focusing mostly on the grotesqueness of urban politics and barriers that prevent new ideas and new candidates from dismantling "the machine."
The subject is compelling, Curry's style was adequate for a "follow you around" type doc, the footage was intimate, and the characters say provocative things ("We ask our black children to get educated. And they do. Then we call them white.") Street Fight is a good film, I thoroughly recommend it, etc., etc.
What really fascinated me was this glimpse into Newark. It's a fucking disgusting city in every respect, I really had no idea! If the occupants weren't speaking quasi-English the whole time, I would have assumed they were filming in Port-au-Prince or something. The police are corrupt, the buildings are rundown, the candidates are unapologetic criminals who are consistently re-elected by the stupidest constituents to ever be captured on celluloid! Newark is the fucking asshole of the entire hemisphere.
Who knew?
Street Fight (2005)
Even buildings kill themselves when forced to live in Newark.
And the film's most random exchange:
LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "I just touched Booker. If you don't believe me you can smell my hand"
DOCUMENTARIAN: "Um, does he have a smell?"
LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "Yes. He smells like... he smells like THE FUTURE."
Final score: 78 out of 100.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
#3: Thelma & Louise (R. Scott, 1991)
Remember when I was going to review 100 movies in one month? Well, I got distracted. Sue me. Since the last review, I celebrated my 28th birthday, graduated from my university (kind of), and purchased the awesomely distracting Rock Band 2. I've re-focused, though; I'm back!
I had somehow never seen Thelma & Louise and geez-louise (get it?) did it turn out to be overrated.
The dialogue is cheesy, the supporting characters are embarrassingly one dimensional, the jokes are flat, and the plot is ludicrous.
If the movie featured male leads, critics would have called it an average-- if not cliched-- road movie. Instead: it's a feminist masterpiece! I don't know. If it's empowering to women, great. Really, good for them. But it bored the crap out of me.
The film's saving graces are:
1) Geena Davis (as Thelma). Her character has a fun arc and the acting is spot on. This is in contrast to Susan Sarandon's Louise. Sarandon overacted the entire time.
2) DP Adrian Biddle (who has enjoyed an uneven career) does some interesting things with the road shots. The film is particularly beautiful when the duo reaches the Grand Canyon. Maybe I'm giving him too much credit-- he did have THE GRAND CANYON to work with.
Overall, Thelma & Louise didn't do much for me. And the way Ridley Scott handled the ending was especially stupid. The alternate ending included on the DVD was longer and actually more appropriate.
Final score: 45 out of 100.
Thelma & Louise (1991)
"If you've murdered a man and there's no turning back... press five now."
I had somehow never seen Thelma & Louise and geez-louise (get it?) did it turn out to be overrated.
The dialogue is cheesy, the supporting characters are embarrassingly one dimensional, the jokes are flat, and the plot is ludicrous.
If the movie featured male leads, critics would have called it an average-- if not cliched-- road movie. Instead: it's a feminist masterpiece! I don't know. If it's empowering to women, great. Really, good for them. But it bored the crap out of me.
The film's saving graces are:
1) Geena Davis (as Thelma). Her character has a fun arc and the acting is spot on. This is in contrast to Susan Sarandon's Louise. Sarandon overacted the entire time.
2) DP Adrian Biddle (who has enjoyed an uneven career) does some interesting things with the road shots. The film is particularly beautiful when the duo reaches the Grand Canyon. Maybe I'm giving him too much credit-- he did have THE GRAND CANYON to work with.
Thelma & Louise (1991)
Much like the female gender itself, T&L is pretty to look at but boring and just a tad shallow upon closer inspection.
Overall, Thelma & Louise didn't do much for me. And the way Ridley Scott handled the ending was especially stupid. The alternate ending included on the DVD was longer and actually more appropriate.
Thelma & Louise (1991)
The alternate ending doesn't have the cheesy freeze frame. It shows the fucking car go into the Canyon. Which is cool.
Final score: 45 out of 100.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
#2: Confessions of a Superhero (Ogens, 2007)
Over the next month (10/22 - 11/22), I will be viewing and reviewing 100 films on this blog. This is entry number two in that series.
Confessions of a Superhero is one of the more thoroughly depressing documentaries I’ve ever seen. Director Matthew Ogens invites us to tour one famous stretch of Hollywood Boulevard where freelancing “actors” in homemade costumes pose as popular American icons. Dressed as anyone from Elvis Presley to Elmo, these characters pose for photographs with tourists all day long in the relentless Southern California heat. They earn no wages; their only permitted income is the unsolicited tips of charitable spectators.
Ogens’ film focuses on four of these street performers who come to work every day dressed as Superman (Christopher Dennis), Wonder Woman (Jennifer Gehrt), Batman (Maxwell Allen), and The Hulk (Joseph McQueen). Each of these jaded heroes is quixotically fascinating, though all their stories vaguely resemble those cautionary Tinseltown tales we’ve heard before.
Dennis is the ultimate obsessive-compulsive Superman fanatic. He’s elated to meet Margot Kidder, but he still tears up thinking about Christopher Reeve’s passing. Gehrt is the quintessential transplanted Midwest pageant queen; her innocent smile is saccharin, but her naivety is frightening. She realizes she may not be skinny enough to be a leading lady when her agent suggests she audition for more “voluptuous” roles.
McQueen is the foursome’s only black man. His race is rarely mentioned but it’s telling that, as a fully costumed Hulk, he’s the only hero covering up the color of his skin. McQueen can’t afford to put a mattress in his bedroom but, as he shows us the alleyway he used to live in, we understand why he’s still upbeat.
Allen, a legitimate George Clooney lookalike, is violent and possibly delusional. He attends therapy sessions—dressed like Batman, of course—and boasts about the people he killed back in Texas (“You do realize there is no statute of limitations for murder,” says his therapist at one point).
Ogens’ film is gorgeous. The settings are never dull, the colors are always rich, and the composition is unusually elegant for a documentary. The visual elements give life to the tragic limbo that imprisons these four unsatisfied people.
As a man who is only a few months away from taking the same desperate plunge, I found this film chilling. Confessions of a Superhero forces anyone with grand aspirations to reexamine their situation. Can one ever sense their own mediocrity? Am I destined for this purgatory too?
Hopefully, I’ll be the only one dressed up like Colossus.
Final Score: 86 out of 100.
Confessions of a Superhero is one of the more thoroughly depressing documentaries I’ve ever seen. Director Matthew Ogens invites us to tour one famous stretch of Hollywood Boulevard where freelancing “actors” in homemade costumes pose as popular American icons. Dressed as anyone from Elvis Presley to Elmo, these characters pose for photographs with tourists all day long in the relentless Southern California heat. They earn no wages; their only permitted income is the unsolicited tips of charitable spectators.
Ogens’ film focuses on four of these street performers who come to work every day dressed as Superman (Christopher Dennis), Wonder Woman (Jennifer Gehrt), Batman (Maxwell Allen), and The Hulk (Joseph McQueen). Each of these jaded heroes is quixotically fascinating, though all their stories vaguely resemble those cautionary Tinseltown tales we’ve heard before.
Dennis is the ultimate obsessive-compulsive Superman fanatic. He’s elated to meet Margot Kidder, but he still tears up thinking about Christopher Reeve’s passing. Gehrt is the quintessential transplanted Midwest pageant queen; her innocent smile is saccharin, but her naivety is frightening. She realizes she may not be skinny enough to be a leading lady when her agent suggests she audition for more “voluptuous” roles.
McQueen is the foursome’s only black man. His race is rarely mentioned but it’s telling that, as a fully costumed Hulk, he’s the only hero covering up the color of his skin. McQueen can’t afford to put a mattress in his bedroom but, as he shows us the alleyway he used to live in, we understand why he’s still upbeat.
Allen, a legitimate George Clooney lookalike, is violent and possibly delusional. He attends therapy sessions—dressed like Batman, of course—and boasts about the people he killed back in Texas (“You do realize there is no statute of limitations for murder,” says his therapist at one point).
Ogens’ film is gorgeous. The settings are never dull, the colors are always rich, and the composition is unusually elegant for a documentary. The visual elements give life to the tragic limbo that imprisons these four unsatisfied people.
As a man who is only a few months away from taking the same desperate plunge, I found this film chilling. Confessions of a Superhero forces anyone with grand aspirations to reexamine their situation. Can one ever sense their own mediocrity? Am I destined for this purgatory too?
Hopefully, I’ll be the only one dressed up like Colossus.
Final Score: 86 out of 100.
#1: Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore? (Popper, 2006)
Over the next month (10/22 - 11/22), I will be viewing and reviewing 100 films on this blog. This is entry number one in that series.
Documentarian Frank Popper follows idealistic schoolteacher Jeff Smith as he runs for U.S. Congress. Jeff is energetic and plucky, but his valiant fight against our nepotistic political institutions is seemingly naïve.
I liked Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore?, but I did not love it. Popper tells an interesting tale, but his limited scope and lackluster execution ultimately thwart something greater.
As a human drama, the film is unquestionably successful. Like the voters in Missouri’s 3rd Congressional District, we first see this baby-faced schoolteacher with a zero political experience and think: “This guy? Really? But he has a lisp!” Jeff’s quirky charm eventually grows on us, however. By the end of the film, we are more invested in his campaign than are his cynical parents. The problem is we never understand why. Audiences will generally root for any compelling underdog regardless of political platform. Besides anonymity, what does Jeff Smith offer his potential constituents? What differentiates him from the other candidates in the democratic primary? We’re shown a few seconds of rhetoric on reproductive rights and health insurance, but we never really find out.
The film poses an important thesis question: can the best candidate, regardless of fame or finance, still win an election? There aren’t any definitive answers. We learn the eventual fate of Jeff Smith, of course, but Popper fails to put his protagonist’s struggles in any greater context.
Why is Jeff’s road so difficult? According to his campaign staff, it’s clearly a matter of insufficient resources and reputation. Perhaps institutionalized politics really are that impenetrable, but Popper needs to show us. The film is so personal that it doesn’t allow audiences to draw any broader conclusions about the political landscape. We see in the film’s opening scenes that Jeff is barely even able to convince the members of his immediate family for support. Perhaps Jeff’s journey is made difficult because of a flawed or mismanaged campaign. The campaign managers frequently claim to be doing everything correctly; perhaps Popper should have asked for a second opinion.
Documentarian Frank Popper follows idealistic schoolteacher Jeff Smith as he runs for U.S. Congress. Jeff is energetic and plucky, but his valiant fight against our nepotistic political institutions is seemingly naïve.
Still from Can Mr. Smith Get Washington Anymore?
If Jeff Smith doesn't make it in politics, he might have a future in the NBA.
I liked Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore?, but I did not love it. Popper tells an interesting tale, but his limited scope and lackluster execution ultimately thwart something greater.
As a human drama, the film is unquestionably successful. Like the voters in Missouri’s 3rd Congressional District, we first see this baby-faced schoolteacher with a zero political experience and think: “This guy? Really? But he has a lisp!” Jeff’s quirky charm eventually grows on us, however. By the end of the film, we are more invested in his campaign than are his cynical parents. The problem is we never understand why. Audiences will generally root for any compelling underdog regardless of political platform. Besides anonymity, what does Jeff Smith offer his potential constituents? What differentiates him from the other candidates in the democratic primary? We’re shown a few seconds of rhetoric on reproductive rights and health insurance, but we never really find out.
The film poses an important thesis question: can the best candidate, regardless of fame or finance, still win an election? There aren’t any definitive answers. We learn the eventual fate of Jeff Smith, of course, but Popper fails to put his protagonist’s struggles in any greater context.
Why is Jeff’s road so difficult? According to his campaign staff, it’s clearly a matter of insufficient resources and reputation. Perhaps institutionalized politics really are that impenetrable, but Popper needs to show us. The film is so personal that it doesn’t allow audiences to draw any broader conclusions about the political landscape. We see in the film’s opening scenes that Jeff is barely even able to convince the members of his immediate family for support. Perhaps Jeff’s journey is made difficult because of a flawed or mismanaged campaign. The campaign managers frequently claim to be doing everything correctly; perhaps Popper should have asked for a second opinion.
100 Films in 30 Days
That’s right, folks. I pledge to view and critique 100 different films in the next month. One hundred!
Yes, I understand an appeal to quantity is the last recourse of any man whose work suffers in quality. I’m strangely comfortable with that.
On deck (courtesy of Netflix), a slew of documentaries.
Let the games begin!
Yes, I understand an appeal to quantity is the last recourse of any man whose work suffers in quality. I’m strangely comfortable with that.
On deck (courtesy of Netflix), a slew of documentaries.
Let the games begin!
Ravens 27, Dolphins 13: Fish Fall Again
Photo by Eliot J. Schechter/Getty Images via NFL.com
Quarterback Chad Pennington lost the game but did find a new proctologist.
My masochistic streak normally compels me to watch the Dolphins get pummeled every week, but my schedule was complicated this past Sunday. While Terrell Suggs was showing us his TAINT (touchdown after interception) at Dolphin Stadium, I was watching a bunch of 13 year-old boys pound each other into the boards at a AA hockey tournament. Yes, I was forced to choose between supporting my friend (who coaches youth hockey) and supporting my football team. I chose wisely.
I didn't see the game live and only a jerkoff would feign insight without watching it, so I'll just leave you with two thoughts:
1) Chad Pennington has been unexpectedly great this season, but he is not our quarterback of the future. I can't wait to see Chad Henne play more.
2) Cam Cameron is a douche.
Buffalo comes to town next; I'll post a preview soon.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Island of Dr. Mengele
I watch television.
I know, I know, just because TV is "cool media" doesn't mean watching it is cool. I don't care.
As a filmmaker and film student, you can believe my position isn't very popular, but I love television. I love it for the media it wants to be. And I love it for the media it almost is.
Film has one distinct inherent advantage. Viewed in its natural habitat, films enable a more effective sensory assault. Theaters are insulated from extraneous lights and sound, they effectively prohibit distractions or multitasking. Theater projected films do not beg for the audience's attention, they demand it. Television viewing (as well as home movie viewing), on the other hand, typically occurs in a far different environment. Most people who watch television are also engaged in other activities, whether they be cooking, eating, conversing, paying bills, etc.
Once that obstacle is successfully navigated, television will become the superior medium. TV programs have already transitioned to higher definitions and more superior widescreen ratios. In the past, movie ticket revenue has allowed film production budgets to soar far above their freely broadcast boob-tube counterparts. Today, cable and premium subscription networks (i.e. FX, HBO), as well as increased ad revenue, allow television programs to greatly enhance their production capabilities.
I don't really want to dive fully into my thesis, but television shares many of film's pluses while negating most of its minuses (for example: TV is produced quicker, thus it can afford to be more topical; the episodic nature of television allows greater story development and characterization).
I truly believe television will one day become the best storytelling medium. I keep watching TV, eager and ready to document its inevitable supremacy. Unfortunately, it still mostly sucks.
I'm going to start giving my loyal readers a lowdown on the TV I'm consuming (with the exception of sports and news programming), starting first with the very worst:
9) The Island (Real World/Road Rules Challenge): If reality television is terrible by definition, "The Island" is the worst of a bad genre. Nevertheless, there's something compelling about watching entitled brats in their mid-twenties backstabbing their pals, hoping to extend their "15 minutes" ever so briefly. Honestly, it's the closest thing we have to Battle Royale.
The show is a joke, but its implications are tangible. People more socially conscious than I might have problems with the casting and portrayal of these young adults. No, I'm not talking about those beautiful bouncing bikini-clad blobs of silicon. Those are awesome. Everyone likes fake boobs and every TV show has an attractive cast, no issue there.
Isn't there a deeper problem, though, when MTV sends 20 young Americans to an island and only three of them are white? In this day and age, really? What the fuck? There are two Latina women who, thus far, serve only as arm candy to the "main" characters. And then there's The Black Man. Tyrie is literally given zero screen time in the first four episodes before finally being featured in the fifth before his sudden elimination.
Thankfully, I'm not burdened with the aforementioned social conscience. I tune in for chicks making out and the hilarious misogyny of the drunken frat boys.
Up next: "The Fringe," a wildly uneven "X-Files" derivation.
I know, I know, just because TV is "cool media" doesn't mean watching it is cool. I don't care.
As a filmmaker and film student, you can believe my position isn't very popular, but I love television. I love it for the media it wants to be. And I love it for the media it almost is.
Film has one distinct inherent advantage. Viewed in its natural habitat, films enable a more effective sensory assault. Theaters are insulated from extraneous lights and sound, they effectively prohibit distractions or multitasking. Theater projected films do not beg for the audience's attention, they demand it. Television viewing (as well as home movie viewing), on the other hand, typically occurs in a far different environment. Most people who watch television are also engaged in other activities, whether they be cooking, eating, conversing, paying bills, etc.
Once that obstacle is successfully navigated, television will become the superior medium. TV programs have already transitioned to higher definitions and more superior widescreen ratios. In the past, movie ticket revenue has allowed film production budgets to soar far above their freely broadcast boob-tube counterparts. Today, cable and premium subscription networks (i.e. FX, HBO), as well as increased ad revenue, allow television programs to greatly enhance their production capabilities.
I don't really want to dive fully into my thesis, but television shares many of film's pluses while negating most of its minuses (for example: TV is produced quicker, thus it can afford to be more topical; the episodic nature of television allows greater story development and characterization).
I truly believe television will one day become the best storytelling medium. I keep watching TV, eager and ready to document its inevitable supremacy. Unfortunately, it still mostly sucks.
I'm going to start giving my loyal readers a lowdown on the TV I'm consuming (with the exception of sports and news programming), starting first with the very worst:
9) The Island (Real World/Road Rules Challenge): If reality television is terrible by definition, "The Island" is the worst of a bad genre. Nevertheless, there's something compelling about watching entitled brats in their mid-twenties backstabbing their pals, hoping to extend their "15 minutes" ever so briefly. Honestly, it's the closest thing we have to Battle Royale.
The show is a joke, but its implications are tangible. People more socially conscious than I might have problems with the casting and portrayal of these young adults. No, I'm not talking about those beautiful bouncing bikini-clad blobs of silicon. Those are awesome. Everyone likes fake boobs and every TV show has an attractive cast, no issue there.
Isn't there a deeper problem, though, when MTV sends 20 young Americans to an island and only three of them are white? In this day and age, really? What the fuck? There are two Latina women who, thus far, serve only as arm candy to the "main" characters. And then there's The Black Man. Tyrie is literally given zero screen time in the first four episodes before finally being featured in the fifth before his sudden elimination.
Thankfully, I'm not burdened with the aforementioned social conscience. I tune in for chicks making out and the hilarious misogyny of the drunken frat boys.
Up next: "The Fringe," a wildly uneven "X-Files" derivation.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Texans 29, Dolphins 28: Five reasons for Dol-fans to stay hopeful
You pooped in the fridge? And you ate the whole wheel of cheese? I'm not even mad, that's amazing...
Normally, when the Dolphin's squander a 14-3 lead in the first half, my afternoon is only going to get worse.
Characteristically, when their punt coverage unit misses a dozen tackles on a 70 yard return for a touchdown, I scream enough profanities to make Andrew Dice Clay's dirtiest hooker blush.
Typically, after a 4th and 2 defensive meltdown with 0:03 seconds left in the game, I throw my Coors Light at the television screen (if not the Texans fans sitting next to me).
Usually, yesterday's astonishing loss would have hit me harder than Kimbo Slice with brass knuckles.
The good news: this season has been anything but normal.
In all honesty, I'm not mad. I'm disappointed and a little stunned, but I'm not angry. I'm not even all that discouraged.
How could any lifelong Dol-fan remain so optimistic after such a seemingly devastating loss? I'm glad you asked. I've compiled five good reasons why you should still be happy about where the Dolphins are at too:
5) They lost to the Houston Texans. They always lose to the Texans. You knew, deep down in your heart-of-hearts, that this wasn't going to be an easy game. The Texans came into this game winless, but they aren't a below average team. You want to win every game... but, if you have to take a loss, isn't it better to be defeated by a winless team? Surely you remember how tangible the dread feels, viscous and black, as it slowly floods your mind each week as you impatiently clamor for your team's first win.
Don't forget, the Texans also have four ex-Fins on their team. You know you secretly wish Morlon Greenwood, Sage Rosenfels, Matt Turk, and Jeff Zgonina all find success (okay, okay, maybe not Matt Turk). If you're from South Florida, you might also be a Hurricanes fan, and watching the dynamic Andre Johnson is always exciting.
4) The Dolphins have a bad secondary, a bad receiving corps, and a disastrous special teams unit*. I know what you're thinking: "Wait a minute, that's not a good thing." You'd be wrong.
Consider the statement's flip side: the Dolphins do not have a bad offensive line, defensive line, running back corps, linebacker corps, or quarterback. Doesn't that make you smile, just a little bit? Last year every one of those units was below average. For a few of them, it was because of injuries; for most of them, it was a lack of quality personnel.
The Three Musketeers (there must be a better nickname for Bill Parcells, Jeff Ireland, and Tony Sparano out there somewhere... really, this needs to be addressed) did a great job in one off-season at the positions where help was needed most desperately. The Dolphin's offensive line and defensive front seven honestly look pretty good. Joey Porter, Matt Roth, and (to my surprise) Channing Crowder are playing like Pro Bowlers.
3) Going into week seven, the Miami Dolphins are completely healthy. Crowder went down yesterday, but he returned almost immediately. As far as I can tell the Dolphins sustained Zero significant injuries this weekend. After six weeks, everyone on the team is healthy. Let me reiterate: everyone on the team is healthy. That's unheard of in the NFL.
At this point last year, the starting SS (Yeremiah Bell), the starting QB (Trent Green), and the starting RB (Ronnie Brown) were all on the injured reserve list and out for the remainder of the season. An uninjured team is probably just a lucky team, but it sure is nice to finally have a few breaks go the Dolphins way.
Speaking of differences between this year and the last...
2) The Dolphins will not finish 1-15 this season. Barring a retroactive forfeit, IT'S IMPOSSIBLE. The Dolphins are 2-3 right now, but their schedule gets easier every week.
Four of their next five games are at home (BAL, BUF, @Den, SEA, OAK); all of them are very winnable. Seattle and Oakland are a combined 2-8 and Baltimore's rookie Joe Flacco is likely to get the "Matt Cassel treatment" from the Dolphin's physical defense. Buffalo won't be easy and Denver's Jay Cutler could very well decimate the Dolphin's secondary, but the team be at least 5-5 after week eleven.
This year's team is healthier, more talented, and considerably better coached than it last year's.
1) The Dolphins are a legitimate 2008 Playoff contender. Really. They are.
I guarantee at least one team from the AFC East will earn a Wildcard berth. The AFC is weaker than ever before. The Colts will fade (yes, I saw Peyton this weekend, but it's an aberration, they're done) and the Ravens will falter. The Jaguars will stick around; the Chargers probably will not (and remember, the Dolphins own the tie-breaker there).
I'm not sure how the AFC East will go down, but I do think all four teams will finish at or above .500. This weekend's loss hurt, but it wasn't a backbreaker. The Dolphins need to win their upcoming home game against Buffalo. I know we're looking ahead, but the Dolphins must win their final regular season game against the Jets. To have a real shot at winning the division the Dolphins have to finish at least 4-2 in the AFC East. The Dolphins still get to play the two worst teams in the AFC West and the three worst teams in the NFC West. 10-6 is not even a stretch at this point.
Are you convinced yet? Perhaps not.
Hopefully you're at least feeling more sanguine after yesterday's meltdown. I know I am.
Honorable mentions: (1) My fantasy team (2-4) finally won this weekend. Maurice Jones-Drew showed his firsts signs of life. Both of those unexpected events make me happy. (2) Ronnie Brown is a bona fide beast. He leads the NFL with seven offensive touchdowns.
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*disastrous special teams unit - It's very possible that special teams coach John Bonamego needs to be fired. I don't know much about Bonamego, except that he held the same job with the Saints and that he was mildly successful with Reggie Bush. Tedd Ginn Jr. is no Reggie Bush. Sadly, he's no Davone Bess either.
Both our coverage and our return units are consistently horrible. Something needs to change. Man, I miss Coach Westhoff.
Normally, when the Dolphin's squander a 14-3 lead in the first half, my afternoon is only going to get worse.
Characteristically, when their punt coverage unit misses a dozen tackles on a 70 yard return for a touchdown, I scream enough profanities to make Andrew Dice Clay's dirtiest hooker blush.
Typically, after a 4th and 2 defensive meltdown with 0:03 seconds left in the game, I throw my Coors Light at the television screen (if not the Texans fans sitting next to me).
Usually, yesterday's astonishing loss would have hit me harder than Kimbo Slice with brass knuckles.
The good news: this season has been anything but normal.
In all honesty, I'm not mad. I'm disappointed and a little stunned, but I'm not angry. I'm not even all that discouraged.
How could any lifelong Dol-fan remain so optimistic after such a seemingly devastating loss? I'm glad you asked. I've compiled five good reasons why you should still be happy about where the Dolphins are at too:
5) They lost to the Houston Texans. They always lose to the Texans. You knew, deep down in your heart-of-hearts, that this wasn't going to be an easy game. The Texans came into this game winless, but they aren't a below average team. You want to win every game... but, if you have to take a loss, isn't it better to be defeated by a winless team? Surely you remember how tangible the dread feels, viscous and black, as it slowly floods your mind each week as you impatiently clamor for your team's first win.
Don't forget, the Texans also have four ex-Fins on their team. You know you secretly wish Morlon Greenwood, Sage Rosenfels, Matt Turk, and Jeff Zgonina all find success (okay, okay, maybe not Matt Turk). If you're from South Florida, you might also be a Hurricanes fan, and watching the dynamic Andre Johnson is always exciting.
4) The Dolphins have a bad secondary, a bad receiving corps, and a disastrous special teams unit*. I know what you're thinking: "Wait a minute, that's not a good thing." You'd be wrong.
Consider the statement's flip side: the Dolphins do not have a bad offensive line, defensive line, running back corps, linebacker corps, or quarterback. Doesn't that make you smile, just a little bit? Last year every one of those units was below average. For a few of them, it was because of injuries; for most of them, it was a lack of quality personnel.
The Three Musketeers (there must be a better nickname for Bill Parcells, Jeff Ireland, and Tony Sparano out there somewhere... really, this needs to be addressed) did a great job in one off-season at the positions where help was needed most desperately. The Dolphin's offensive line and defensive front seven honestly look pretty good. Joey Porter, Matt Roth, and (to my surprise) Channing Crowder are playing like Pro Bowlers.
3) Going into week seven, the Miami Dolphins are completely healthy. Crowder went down yesterday, but he returned almost immediately. As far as I can tell the Dolphins sustained Zero significant injuries this weekend. After six weeks, everyone on the team is healthy. Let me reiterate: everyone on the team is healthy. That's unheard of in the NFL.
At this point last year, the starting SS (Yeremiah Bell), the starting QB (Trent Green), and the starting RB (Ronnie Brown) were all on the injured reserve list and out for the remainder of the season. An uninjured team is probably just a lucky team, but it sure is nice to finally have a few breaks go the Dolphins way.
Speaking of differences between this year and the last...
2) The Dolphins will not finish 1-15 this season. Barring a retroactive forfeit, IT'S IMPOSSIBLE. The Dolphins are 2-3 right now, but their schedule gets easier every week.
Four of their next five games are at home (BAL, BUF, @Den, SEA, OAK); all of them are very winnable. Seattle and Oakland are a combined 2-8 and Baltimore's rookie Joe Flacco is likely to get the "Matt Cassel treatment" from the Dolphin's physical defense. Buffalo won't be easy and Denver's Jay Cutler could very well decimate the Dolphin's secondary, but the team be at least 5-5 after week eleven.
This year's team is healthier, more talented, and considerably better coached than it last year's.
1) The Dolphins are a legitimate 2008 Playoff contender. Really. They are.
I guarantee at least one team from the AFC East will earn a Wildcard berth. The AFC is weaker than ever before. The Colts will fade (yes, I saw Peyton this weekend, but it's an aberration, they're done) and the Ravens will falter. The Jaguars will stick around; the Chargers probably will not (and remember, the Dolphins own the tie-breaker there).
I'm not sure how the AFC East will go down, but I do think all four teams will finish at or above .500. This weekend's loss hurt, but it wasn't a backbreaker. The Dolphins need to win their upcoming home game against Buffalo. I know we're looking ahead, but the Dolphins must win their final regular season game against the Jets. To have a real shot at winning the division the Dolphins have to finish at least 4-2 in the AFC East. The Dolphins still get to play the two worst teams in the AFC West and the three worst teams in the NFC West. 10-6 is not even a stretch at this point.
Are you convinced yet? Perhaps not.
Hopefully you're at least feeling more sanguine after yesterday's meltdown. I know I am.
Honorable mentions: (1) My fantasy team (2-4) finally won this weekend. Maurice Jones-Drew showed his firsts signs of life. Both of those unexpected events make me happy. (2) Ronnie Brown is a bona fide beast. He leads the NFL with seven offensive touchdowns.
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*disastrous special teams unit - It's very possible that special teams coach John Bonamego needs to be fired. I don't know much about Bonamego, except that he held the same job with the Saints and that he was mildly successful with Reggie Bush. Tedd Ginn Jr. is no Reggie Bush. Sadly, he's no Davone Bess either.
Both our coverage and our return units are consistently horrible. Something needs to change. Man, I miss Coach Westhoff.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Calling Captain Planet
In fiction filmmaking, as in most narrative mediums, character perfection is vital. Maintaining the delicate balance between specificities and generalities is particularly tricky. If your characters aren’t detailed enough, you risk making an inauthentic film. If your characters are too nuanced, audiences might not grasp your vision. Realism is often coveted—and rightfully so, but is there no place for the archetype anymore?
Well, that depends on the type of film. I’m not a huge fan of genre theory, the genres themselves are often too vaguely defined and, when articulating in those terms, you risk having a lot of people misinterpret your ideas. Purists may argue against “suspense,” “action,” and “horror” even being considered genres, but the terms merit use. I’d argue that films of that sort can actually be enhanced by the inclusion of archetypical characters (unlike the melodrama, for instance). Characters should never be cut from cardboard, of course, but sometimes it’s more engaging when their personas transcendental their situation.
While “spectacle” may be the action flick’s most important element, the hero is likely its most important character. For an action film to be successful, the protagonist needs fresh quirks and a signature phrase, but also a plethora of qualities that exceed his particular situation and tie in closely with the genre. It’s important that our action hero is strong and decisive, or at least plucky and resilient. The hero unquestionably evolves over time—Dirty Harry was embraced as vigilant and anti-establishment because audiences in the early ‘70s were fed up with serial killers and corrupt politicians; Christian Bale’s Dark Knight, were he really to exist, would likely be involved in several simultaneous ACLU lawsuits, but audiences in 2008 are legitimately comfortable with police sometimes illegally tapping phones to triangulate the ne’er-do-well. Traditional heroes in any action film have more commonalities than differences. Each one, however, still embodies non-transferable traits specific to the context in which the feature was created. Society is always perpetually diseased and, ideally, the action hero personifies each new generation's cure.
In horror, the hero takes a backseat to the villain. If a hero represents a perceived solution, does it follow that the villain represents a perceived problem? To the anecdotal evidence, Batman! Some of the earliest celluloid villains come from German Expressionism. In From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of German Film, author and film critic Siegfried Kracauer argues Germans in the early 20th century suffered from “a fear of chaos and a desire for order, even at the price of authoritarian rule.”* His theory corroborates with M (Lang, 1931) and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Wiene, 1920).
Mary Shelley’s 19th century canonical novel, Frankenstein, is viewed by many as a cautionary tale of science and industry meddling recklessly in realms forbidden to man. The 1931 silent Universal film adaption (dir. James Whale) is markedly different. In the film, Frankenstein’s monster is humanized—his creator regards him as a man (he’s even given a name), though not an intelligent one. In Shelley’s novel, the monster self-educates himself with literature and eventually learns to speak—in the film, Boris Karloff is a mute and a simpleton. The contrast between the two sources is distinct: Shelley’s monster is a victim; Universal’s monster is a villain.
What then, does this cinematic monster represent? If German Expressionism warned us to fear the demons inside of us, Frankenstein (and The Mummy, Dracula, etc.) cautioned us against an external monsters coming to a neighborhoods near you. Universal’s "Golden Age of horror” catalog was really a cornucopia of xenophobic horror pictures. These villains were foreigners, they were sexually ambiguous, and they were Godless. Imagine all the uptight white men of that era who feared the influx of immigrants and the subsequent consequences (i.e. miscegenation). Here comes Count Dracula, an Eastern European heretic who is hell-bent on sneaking into your daughter’s room tonight to literally tarnish your bloodline.
Marco Lanzagorta of PopMatters.com explains, “Horror is about transgressing boundaries and norms. If you think about it, monsters are creatures that challenge biological, physical, social, and even moral rules. And truth be told, it is such an attitude of contravening rules that ultimately makes them dangerous to our world…” His statement is insightful, but perhaps less relevant to the genre as it exists today. If your goal is to frighten the conservative vanguard, then yes, you would certainly do well to challenge their various social and moral cornerstones. Change is inevitable and it can be fucking terrifying, but consider moviegoers in the 1960s and 1970s. The audience became increasingly younger. Do anyone honestly believe teenagers of that era were deeply threatened by boundary transgression or the violation of social conventions? Between the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassinations (of Martin Luther King Jr., Robert Kennedy, and Malcolm X), and the Watergate scandals, any vague threats of “change” or “progress” that remained had unsurprisingly lost their zest. Young men and women simply were not scared by a potential cultural paradigm shift because the shift had already occurred. Change was omnipresent, and the anachronistic scarecrows of the previous decades failed to frighten any longer.
So if communist body snatchers and Hungarian immigrants were no longer menacing, what was?
In the summer of 1975, Steven Spielberg found unfathomable success with Jaws, his horror epic about a big fish that terrorizes a small town. Jaws. Consider the villain: a ferocious great white shark with an insatiable taste for human blood. The monster was absolutely terrifying, but could it challenge the biological, physical, social, or moral rules of its society? Not really.
Now consider the iconic opening scene of the film. A dozen long-haired teens sit around a bonfire at a late night beach party. They dance, drink, smoke dope, and appear to preparing for love and not war. Chrissie and Tom, who have just met, leave the party in search of a more private venue. Chrissie strips as she runs down the beach. Tom follows in hot pursuit and drunkenly speaks the film’s first line of dialogue:
“What’s your name again?”
Chrissie giggles, then dives—naked—into the dark blue water. Tom passes out while undressing on the beach. Seconds later, John Williams' infamous Pavlovian death-score is cued up, informing Jaws breakfast has been served. What, then, do we know about the first victim? Chrissie is young, she is blonde, she is attractive, she is part of the counter-culture, she uses drugs, she drinks alcohol, and she is sexual (if not promiscuous). Oh, and she is shark bait. When juxtaposed, there’s a complete reversal of roles. The victims are mostly benign, but they've challenging the societal norms. The villain, conversely, is assigned a new role—Jaws is the sentry! The shark literally swims around Amity Island, patrolling the waters for social deviants.
The 1930s-1950s villains represented unknown culture and institutional change, effectively frightening old audiences unsure of how to adapt in a modern world. The 1970s (and 1980s) villains were invariably shaped by the modern world itself—they existed because of the deviation in social norms. When newspapers reported declining church membership, people were especially terrified when watching The Exorcist (Friedkin, 1973) or The Omen (Donner, 1976). Poltergeist (Spielberg, 1982) and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Hooper, 1974) warned, in vastly different ways, against the potential pitfalls of rapid suburbanization. Carrie (De Palma, 1976) and Halloween (Carpenter, 1978), depending on your vantage point, were either horrific essays on the long-term and societal effects of child abuse or paranoid exaggerations of thalidomide birth defects.
The delineation was clear. Villains from the Golden Age of horror were mostly unsympathetic and always indiscriminate; villains of the ‘70s and early-‘80s were products of their respective environments. They were partially tragic creatures charged with bringing their wildly liberal youth movement back toward the center.
After approximately 497 million combined Friday the 13th/Nightmare on Elm Street sequels, producers shied away from big budget horror films through most of the 1990s. Several high grossing exceptions are The Silence of the Lambs (Demme, 1991) and Seven (Fincher, 1995), which are both grotesquely wonderful, but should probably be considered “thrillers”; the underrated Bram Stoker’s Dracula (Coppola, 1992); stylistically provoking but canonically irrelevant The Blair Witch Project (Myrick & Sanchez, 1999); Universal’s family-style remake of The Mummy (Sommers, 1999); and the poetically intriguing Interview With A Vampire (Jordan, 1994). None of those films revolutionized the genre, though it’s worth noting all the vampires featured in Interview and Dracula are flamboyantly tragic figures.
Two films from then significantly affected the genre, The Sixth Sense (Shyamalan, 1999) and Scream (Craven, 1996). The Sixth Sense didn’t really have a villain, but it did pave the way for a new Hollywood sub-genre aptly titled "crappy M. Night Shyamalan films." Scream is perhaps the most interesting horror film of the '90s, in that it is sufficiently self aware. Its characters have seen more horror films than you; not only do they know the genre’s conventions, they'll iterate them to you didactically whenever convenient. The victims are killed off in an order we expect from a typical ‘70s slasher film (sexually deviant characters are killed first, drug users are stabbed next, etc.), but the film gives its audience reasons more satisfying than “God always smites the unrighteous.” The film's villains are actually unveiled to be students of the horror genre. They intentionally kill their victims according to the principles established in '70s horror; their well-machinated effort is equal parts social commentary and self-amusement. Wes Craven’s film is triumphant because it functions on two levels: a post-modern deconstruction of the genre, and a genuinely scary festival of death.
In the first half of this decade, American theaters were clogged with shot-by-shot remakes of Japanese and Korean horror. Since those films are essentially exact replicas of their foreign predecessors, and since I have zero understanding of the cultures from which they were appropriated, I cannot intelligently discuss their relevance to modern horror.
Over the past several years, a new theme has emerged: the heroes are the villains. Man as his own enemy is not conceptually new, but this isn't a Jekyll and Hyde/duality of man rehashing. Human perpetrated environmental fallout is the new cinematic rage. The appeal is obvious—an angry Mother Nature is a terrific catalyst of action, capable of causing many explosions. The story is poetic—in the end, we only hurt ourselves (and maybe kittens and puppies too). The ending is appropriately ambiguous—has man been salvaged? Will he survive for a sequel?
I’m not sure who to blame for the ensuing eco-horror trend (Al Gore, maybe?), but we inevitably must look at the recent resurgence in disaster films. The Day After Tomorrow (Emmerich, 2004) was a below average faux-apocalypse movie, memorable only because mankind was threatened—not because God was hurtling inter-galactic meteors at France or Zeus was downing trans-continental passenger jets with bolts of uber-lightning—but because our own species was irrevocably damaging its ecosystem. Mother Nature wasn’t angry, per se, she was entering menopause.
The movie garnered lukewarm reviews, but the theme spread, and was eventually co-opted by the horror genre (including two "films" from earlier this year). In The Happening, M. Night Shyamalan’s latest pitiable effort, flora has declared war on fauna. In The Day After Tomorrow, men were slowly and indirectly driving themselves toward extinction; in The Happening, angry trees actually conspire against the pesky human opposition! The trees pump chemicals into urban parks and nearby citizens (litterers and recyclers alike) commit suicide en masse. I started to fall asleep in the last act, but I'm pretty sure the humans surrendered formally at Appomattox Courthouse (after promising the Plant King to reduce carbon emissions by 18% before 2020).
Most film historians remember the "carnivorous plant" subgenre peaking with The Day of the Triffids (Sekely, 1962). DreamWorks SKG, hoping to revitalize the elusive Little Shop of Horrors (Corman, 1960) demographic, released The Ruins (dir. Carter Smith) earlier this year. Unlike the vindictive trees in The Happening, the evil vines from The Ruins probably won't be voting for Ralph Nader. Their agenda really doesn't extend much further than devouring human flesh and giggling like school girls.
Where, then, do we go from here? Will horror filmmakers ever become innovative with these leafy-green villains? Is there a live action Bushroot film in the works? Are we five years away from another Wes Craven satire where a talking fungus (voiced by Matthew Lillard) explains to his furry forest friends that the next pretty young redwood to get chopped down will be the one who promises to “be right back” or engages in premarital sex with a lumberjack? Sorry folks, I don't have the answers. Horror films are more ridiculous than ever, but so is the world surrounding them. Perhaps our environment is indeed this generation’s super villain, but that only begs the next question—who will be our new heroes?
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* From Caligari to Hitler - Clearly, I've never actually read this book... but I bet it's awesome anyway. So click on the link, purchase a copy, and let me know how it goes.
Monday, October 6, 2008
God Hates Fangs
If you're lucky enough to have a copy of my “Coolest Things, Ever” list, you probably already know several things about me.
First, I use commas way too frequently. I even embed them in the titles of my lists. I can’t help it. Punctuation is like ketchup: it makes everything taste better... and you can always do to add more... and they're both high in sodium.
Second, my interests are varied and unquestionably marvelous (But you don't have to take Run DMC's word for it). Here are a few items that cracked my Top 250:
246. Isaac the bartender from “The Love Boat”
187. Medieval war machines
112. Steven Seagal
106. Funny talking Southerners who live near swamps
86. Black holes
73. The movie Roadhouse
52. Evil blood-sucking vampires
34. Flagrantly homosexual black dudes
31. Any HBO television series
19. Anna Paquin
4. Misunderstood “heart of gold” vampires
2. Boobies
I know what you’re thinking: “Good call, boobies rule.” Yeah, they do.
I know what else you’re thinking: “Wait, 86% of that list can be found on that new fall show ‘True Blood,’ why hasn’t Lumpy reviewed it yet?”
Good question, loyal readers. The new HBO show “True Blood” does incorporate many of the coolest things in my universe. And yes, I have been watching it regularly. So what’s the verdict? Meh.
I’ll wait until the end of the first season to give it a proper review, but so far I'm sticking with “meh.” It’s disappointing. Almost tragic when compared to the fucking bad-ass opening credit sequence that begins every episode.
See for yourself:
Dolphins vs. Chargers -- Post-game thoughts
Sunday afternoon, the Miami Dolphins (2-2) defeated the visiting San Diego Chargers (2-3), 17-10. Last year, the Dolphins finished with a franchise worst 1-15 record. The Chargers were defeated in the AFC Championship Game. In yesterday's contest, the Dolphins almost doubled the Chargers' total offensive output (390 yards from scrimmage to 202); the Dolphins had zero offensive turnovers and committed only one penalty (for five yards). They finished the game with over a 13 minute advantage in time of possession.
Ronnie Brown carried the ball 24 times for 125 yards and one touchdown (he has seven combined rushing and passing touchdowns a quarter of the way through the season). Over the past two games, Chad Pennington's is completing his passes 79.5% of the time, and his quarterback rating is over 110 (compared to career averages of 65.7% and 89.1, respectively). Since their season opener, the Dolphins' offensive line has allowed three sacks in three games (giving up one coverage sack in yesterday's effort). Linebackers Joey Porter and Matt Roth are on pace for to record 30 combined sacks this season. The Dolphins' defense held all-pro running back LaDainian Tomlinson to 35 rushing yards on 12 carries. They also gave up only one play of over 25 yards, and held quarterback Phillip Rivers to 46.4% in pass completions.
Reread those first two paragraphs... go ahead, I'll wait. Notice I shied away from subjective language. Notice that the story still reads the same: the Dolphins beat the Chargers' ass.
For the second game in a row, the Dolphins destroyed their opponent in every category possible (except special teams*). Norv Turner was outcoached by Tony Sparano, the Chargers' O-line was decimated by the Dolphins' D-line, Chad had all day in the pocket, the Chargers' D-- which had plenty of time to dissect the Wildcat formation-- was unable to defend against it.
Miami's offense can't really be considered explosive, but it's creative, productive, exciting, efficient, and successful. Wow, it's been a long time since you could type that with a straight face.
Will the Dolphins finally emerge victorious after playing the Texans next weekend? I think so. Can the Dolphins contend for a playoff spot this season? Yes, they can. Wow.
Wow.
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* special teams - I do like rookie kicker Dan Carpenter, but, on the whole, I agree with David Hyde's assertion that the Dolphins' special teams aren't exactly "special" in the good way.
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Mets Ruined My Childhood
Whenever anyone talks to me about the New York Mets, my response is so dead-panned and instantaneous, it probably seems pre-programmed: "The Mets? Yeah, they ruined my childhood."
The Mets ruined my childhood. It's succinctly obscure. It's intriguing but believable. It's even easy to remember. As a personal creed, it perhaps lacks the accessibility of "dance like no one's is watching," but one could do worse.
Growing up in South Florida, the weather was so perpetually pleasant that every kid played an outdoor sport. I was too much of a pussy to play football, I was too lazy to play soccer, and I was too heterosexual to play tennis. That pretty much left Little League baseball.
Anyone who has ever known a single mom should know that the quickest way to win her heart is to show an interest in her child. Whenever my Mom would bring a new "uncle" home for dinner, he would inevitably try and charm her by engaging me in conversation. When people hear you play baseball, they naturally assume you won't mind talking about it. Thus, dozens of childhood dinners were made awkward by lame questions some new guy would feel obligated to ask. You like baseball? What position do you play? What's your favorite baseball team? After dinner, would you mind going to your room and putting on your headphones? I desperately needed a favorite baseball team.
The Florida Marlins wouldn't be established for almost another decade, so I would have to entertain bids from the nation at large. My methods weren't scientific. I turned on the television one night and the Houston Astros were battling the New York Mets. It was the 6th game of the National League Championship Series and the score was tied 3-3 in the bottom of the ninth. The winner, I decided, would enjoy the honor of becoming my favorite team. An hour later, we were entering the 13th inning and the score had not changed. This was turning out to be a historically significant game. Sadly, it was past my bed time.
The next morning, I found out the Mets had eventually won (I'm still convinced sleep deprivation caused the Astros to forfeit in the 349th inning). Hooray, my new favorite team was in the World Series! A few days later, Mookie Wilson hit a playable ground ball that effectively ruined Bill Buckner's career. The Mets were World Champions! I was hooked. Darryl Strawberry quickly became my MostFavoritistPlayerEVER (mostly because of his name). Doc Gooden was pretty rad too. I collected all their baseball cards, watched as many games as I could, demanded tacky apparel from my parents, etc. Orange and blue blood pumped through my veins.
The very next spring, my Aunt C. and Grandma R. took me on my first trip to NYC. The entire vacation was exceptionally awesome but the unquestionable highlight was visiting Shea Stadium for the first time. (Yes, I went to Yankee Stadium too. Fuck Yankee Stadium.)
Tuesday, April 7, 1987, the World Champion Mets hosted the lowly Pittsburgh Pirates (Barry Bonds was BALCO-free in those days). In the first inning Darryl Fucking Strawberry hit a home run and I dropped the ice cold lemonade I had been sipping in between bites of dog (my first stadium hot dog, mind you; no one had told me about the 7-7-7 Club*). The Home Run Apple emerged from the giant top hat beyond the outfield fences, completely balancing out the traumatic lemonade accident from eight seconds prior. Time corrupts all memories but I'm 96% sure that, as the Home Run Apple rose, so too did my first erection. The Mets won, 3-2. I was ecstatic, Shea Municipal Stadium was my new Mecca.
If I could surgically remove that moment from my brain, wrap my hands around it, and wring it over a juicer... the orange and blue liquidy discharge would be the literal essence of one man's perfectly happy youth. Do you know how much most pedophiles would pay for an ounce of distilled childhood innocence? It’s priceless you fucking pervent -- It’s not for sale!
A few months after my magical pilgrimage to Shea, Darryl Strawberry was arrested for breaking his wife's nose. I had reached my life's pinnacle and now I was beginning the descent. The Mets of the late 1980s were the worst role models a young boy could have. Pablo Escobar told me once in a phone interview that, back in '88, he would split each shipment of cocaine unevenly between two truckloads. The smaller truckload would be broken up and eventually circulate through the streets of Miami; the larger truckload went directly to the New York Mets clubhouse.
In a recent ESPN The Magazine feature, Hall of Famer Gary Carter admits, "I once saw Keith Hernandez snort a cocaine portrait of Corey Feldman. Seriously, our supply man had a Lost Boys fetish. It was weird." Strawberry, Hernandez, Gooden, Lenny Dykstra... when they weren't doing blow, they were beating their spouses. Yup, my heroes were fucking dicks. In the span of two years, I went from jovial lad to cynical young adult. And I began to hate baseball.
Eventually, the All-Star cast of douchebags washed out of the league. I only went to a handful of games after my ’87 adventure at Shea until 1993, when the expansion Florida Marlins sought to renew my spirit. It was fitting that Opening Day brought the Los Angeles Dodgers and their newest acquisition, Darryl Strawberry, into town. I remember watching him meander through the outfield. Fans enjoy heckling has-beens. “Dar-ryl, Dar-ryl,” they chanted over and over again hoping to invoke his infamous rage. Strawberry didn’t resemble the Adonis who dominated his sport only six years ago. He was a shell of a man. He was pathetic. A wreck. I wished my seats that day were close enough to sling my stale kosher salted pretzel at him.
Let's jump ahead 15 years to 2008. For the second year in a row, the Marlins have eliminated my the Mets from playoff contention on the last day of the regular season. This year is more dramatic, however, because Shea Stadium is being dismantled to make way for a newer, shinier facility with all the bells-and-whistles one could ask for… but none of my young memories. The last golden relic of my happy childhood is soon to be torn limb from limb. No, friends, there will not be any erections tonight.
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*7-7-7 Club - Founded by KC, Dustin, and myself @ Coors Field. To join the 7-7-7 Club, one must successfully ingest seven hot dogs and seven beers before the end of the seventh inning.
Orson Welles made Citizen Kane at 26.
Well, I'm 27... What have I accomplished? What have I to show for it?
If you ask my Grandma B.: "Not a damned thing."
If I could cram all my half-arsed ambitions into a cardboard box and carry them to the Pack -N- Ship, the cost of postage would far exceed my solvency.
This blog is a tool. Writing needs to become my daily ritual. For me to realize even a fraction of my hopesdreamsgoals, new habits must be adopted. To paraphrase the vague and lazy introductory speeches of new NFL head coaches everywhere (I'm looking at you, Cam Cameron): we need to create a culture winning.
Writing, for me, is a labor of love. On those rare occasions when I feel I've produced a work to be proud of, the mental satisfaction that swells inside of me* is unparalleled. The feeling is always earned, though. Perhaps I haven't paid in blood or sweat, but you can bet, at the very least, everything I have previously seen fit to share with an audience represents an investment of my time. My writing process is very rarely as fluid as I would like. I can easily spend hours or even days trying to find the right word or phrase. My jaw clenches, my blood pressure rises, my vision blurs, and my deadlines usually go bye-bye** as I stare with irresolvable anxiety at that damned blinking cursor, trying to think of the perfect next word.
I envy and loathe those writers whose prose flows quickly and steadily, like Lloyd Christmas's oft-cited salmon of Capistrano. This fledgling blog hopes to serve many ends, but none bigger than allowing me to rise above my own artistic insecurities. In the practical universe, I know-- instinctively-- that I will rarely have the time to adequately tune the smaller details of my work. I'm becoming an old man. I've already missed my Citizen Kane window and no longer can I afford the luxury (no, "luxury" is not the right word, but as part of my new effort to forego waiting for the right word, I will use it anyway) of the prolonged inactivity borne from my paralyzing insecurities.
Sure, I'll probably still end up fixing the typos and grammatical errors in my posts. But I vow never to edit (after publishing, at least) for theme, content, direction, or word choice. Writers write (yes, I realize that sentence isn't even eloquent enough to be considered a cliché, but it's the only truth I know regarding the craft I claim to love). I need to write more. I need to write more frequently and learn to do it with greater ease.
I spend far too much time considering what to write, so my blogging goal is to simply entertain whatever whimsical inspirations creep into my head. My interests are varied and my taste and tact are questionable. So yes, be afraid,
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*swells inside of me - That phrase requires some sort of meta-justification. I have none.
**My jaw clenches, my blood pressure rises, my vision blurs, and my deadlines usually go bye-bye - In elementary school, I was taught to separate all items in a list with a comma (even the one preceding the "and"). "Jane went to the market for apples, bananas, and prophylactics." I realize my comma usage may be dated, downright abominable perhaps. Get used to it.
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