5 Observations From Summer Concerts

1. To the drunk couple singing all the lyrics meaningfully into each other's eyes: no one came to see you sing and it's really not going to relight the sputtering spark in your sex life.

2. To the guy 10 feet from stage center: you're pretty cut to be able to hold your girlfriend on your shoulders that long, but everyone behind you came to see the band, not your girlfriend's ass.  It's a one-song limit on the shoulder-elevator, pal.

3. To bands that encourage unison, over-the-head audience hand-clapping: toss out some free deodorant with that.  Pit-sweat is the only thing stronger-smelling than weed.

4. To the weed-smokers: up your game.  I don't mind smelling your puff, but I do hate when it smells like a skunk's ass.  Shell out for more than stems and seeds, bud.  Get it?  Bud.

5. To the venue operators: $11 for light beer? Blow me.

The Thing With Prometheus...

People always ask me about films.

This, despite knowing that part of my academic job is learning and teaching how to rip films apart.  Not necessarily in a negative way, but in a critical way that examines how the films are put together.  This is a core component of know how to make a film.  Also, people ask me what I think about films even knowing what a cynical bastard I am.

So, you know, if you ask me about a film, fair warning: I'll tell you what I think.  Perhaps I overthink it, but you asked.  If you'd rather not have an actual answer, then just asked whether I liked a film, don't ask me what I think about a film.  See, I spend the head time that most people devote to Roth IRAs, stocks, and performance reviews considering movies, so you're going to often get a detailed answer if you ask.

Prometheus is a case in point.  LOTS of people asked me about Prometheus and I kind of dodged an answer because frankly, I don't want to spoil your enjoyment of the film.  However, a bunch of people know my admiration for the original Alien, my fondness for Sci-Fi in general, and my peripatetic admiration for Ridley Scott.  So, they asked.

Let me first say, there is much that is wonderful about this film: the beautiful visual extravagance of the opening 3D images and the imagining of the alabaster aliens in general was stunning, there were some wonderful performances from Charlize Theron and Michael Fassbender, and the sheer optimism that we will ever be able to build a ship that can travel like Prometheus was refreshing.

It is however, despite all talk of sequels, a disappointing story.

People have argued with me over this, but I bet I can ask you five questions about Prometheus that will change your view of the film.  If you don't want your view changed, then stop reading now.

1. What kind of "doctor" is Elizabeth Shaw?  Many are tempted to say archeologist, but at various points in the film she discourses on astrophysics, medicine, biology, sociology and more.  The real answer to this question is that she's a doctor of exposition -- a convenient mouthpiece to explain whatever plot point needs explaining at a given moment.

2. If you have hovering, wireless, 3d mapping robots, why wouldn't you toss those into the big, dark, dangerous alien ship BEFORE you actually go in yourself?  It may be the future, but apparently no one has ever played a video game.

3. Why are the archeologists forever rushing blindly into new discoveries without any remote hint of site protocol?  Moreover, why are the touching everything, including the moving black goo?

4. I can't imagine ever designing my own trillion-dollar spaceship, but even if you were, would you think it smart to make your quarters look like a spa?  I get the Weyland's are rich, but why must they be stupid as well?

5. Does anyone really believe you can give yourself an auto-surgical cesarian, then just hop up off the table and run around like an action hero?  Talk to a woman who's actually had a c-section, or do some basic anatomical research: cut the abs and you're doing no moving for a while.  Drugs strong enough to kill the pain will also knock you out.  I honestly thought this was going to be a dream sequence it was so outrageous and, when it wasn't, I couldn't seriously stay engaged in the movie.

These are really only the top of the heap.  I could keep asking these questions on and on and that, to me, is the sign of a flawed film.

Now, you asked me what I thought, so what I really think is I'm really no longer too excited about the rumored BaldeRunner sequel.

Hunkering Down

As hurricane Irene lumbers its way towards landfall on the US Eastern seaboard, it seems the news media has created its own perfect storm event.  The media, in all their glory, likes nothing better than an impending disaster.  At this point, they can indulge in all the "worst case scenario" hypothetical animations they want, with none of the actual damage having taken place.  All the shrill fear-mongering, with none of the price of actual damage and bodies.  These major storm events are a bonanza for the news/entertainment industry, because, if everything goes as they predict, they get to double-dip: they have material to report now, in the run-up, but they can also report on the disaster -- should it happen -- for a good long time.

All the screenwriters out there should also take note of the coverage, because one of the keys to making all thins non-stop storm coverage work is the ability to track the storm in real time and give you "landfall" estimates.  That's what we call a ticking clock, and every media outlet makes use of them in this type of event, despite the notorious inaccuracy of meteorologic forecasting.  That ticking clock gives you a built-in window, a race against time to get prepared for the storm.  That creates tension and makes for good viewing.

I know this sounds cynical, but...

I caught a rumor on the net this morning that the township adjacent to mine is recommending residents re-locate during the storm.  That seems more like panic to me than prudent storm preparedness.  In our Philadelphia Western Suburbs, we're a good 40-50 miles from the coast, it's unlikely that the storm will be hurricane strength by the time it gets here, and it's 36 hours away (at least).  This kind of hysteria is generated by a 24/7 media looking to fill the endless hours of broadcasting, and a public with unlimited access to information feeds that do little more than churn the same statistics for hours on end.  As imminent as the threat is, there's been plenty of warning, and the storm is only moving at 14 MPH.  We know it's coming and events aren't developing that quickly.

Now, pay attention here: I AM NOT advocating you don't evacuate when you're told to, nor am I saying you shouldn't take the storm threat seriously.  You may, however, want to take the media a little less seriously.

Rules of the Road - 2011 Edition

I know I've had a few choice words about driving over the course of my blogging, so I'll do my best not to repeat myself, even though some of my road rules apparently need endless repetition because some of you obviously haven't been paying attention.  Before you embark on the great American motorways in search of a cheap vacation, make sure you understand all the basic rules of the road.

1. Yellow lines divide lanes.  This is America, you should be driving on the right side of the yellow line.  Yellow dividing lines are not optional simply because you bought a gas-guzzling SUV the size of a zeppelin.  If you can't follow the lines, you shouldn't be driving.  As with coloring, you can say outside the lines is "creative" but it mostly results in a bloody mess.
2. Parking lots.  They also come equipped with dividing lines.  If you can't fit your car in, you might want to reconsider your lifestyle choices.  Basically, if you can't park it, you shouldn't be driving it.  Also, handicapped parking spots are marked for the handicapped, not for the chronically late.  Your scheduling issues make you incompetent, not handicapped.
3. Light jumping.  WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN.
4. Self-delusion.  Everyone thinks they can work their smart-phone and drive.  No one can.  Read the stats, tell your kids, and put down the phone.  I'm guessing that text isn't really worth dying for, or killing someone else.
5. Courtesy.  Being on the road today is like sitting in on a congressional budget debate, only with 1200 lb cudgels.  If you've got rage issues, perhaps you should address them somewhere other than behind the wheel of your car and misdirected at the poor schlep who's also trying to get home on time.
6. Motorcyclists and bikers.  Yep, you're right, you're entitled to the road, too, but that also means you have to obey the same rules as the rest of us.  You know, lights, stop signs, yellow lines (see #1 above), and courtesy.  You also might want to think back to basic physics class and lessons on mass in motion, before you let your road rage out on someone in a car.  I saw a guy on a chopper spit on a car the other day.  I gave the car driver big props for not simply backing over the moron.

Alternatively, you jump on some kind of public transit and avoid this crap altogether. 

But of course, this is America, where we violently defend our right to gobble up every bit of fossil fuel to fill our oversized cars to lug our overweight kids to the Wal-mart and buy them some soda at the best discount around.  I shouldn't complain, I suppose.  At least Coke is still made in America.

Down Time

Let's talk the pleasures of summer.  In many ways, I have a fantasy life, because I still have many of my summers free.  Just the word "summer" conjures up images of sweating glasses of icy drinks, the sound of the ocean, the smell of grills, the bleeping sparks of lightning bugs.  You think of long, lazy afternoons; a melt of time stretching into the hazy, humid dusk. Days at the pool, nights at the drive in.

But... but.

If you're a bit compulsive, with a control freak twist, going from a jam-packed schedule to a suddenly open-ended vacuum presents it own particular challenges.  Trying to do it with a couple of pre-teens who take delight in creating mayhem just makes the fun more... pungent.  In other words, long, unstructured days can cut both ways.  I'm trying to force myself to relax, to take time to read a few books, not stress about all the stuff I should be doing around the house.  I tell myself that no matter how much the offspring try to push my buttons, there's going to come a time when they don't want anything to do with me, so I should try to let it flow off my back.

When all else fails, there's still a tall, sweaty glass of whatever I want to drink.

Shit That Annoys Me Today

Those of you who have ever read this blog understand that that there is no shortage of things that tend to aggravate me.  For the most part, in my daily life, I keep my mouth shut, because no one wants to listen to someone who bitches all the time, no matter how right they are.  Occasionally, a perfect storm of crap comes together and I can't hold in my ire anymore, and it spills out into the blog.  So, today's post.  In no particular order, the junk I find irritating right now:

1. Saudi Arabia.  Today's NYT reports that women aren't allowed to drive in the country.  Of course, they also can't vote or work (without a man's permission).  If you can seriously name one thing other than oil reserves that should command respect from this country, I'd like to hear it.  I'm all for respecting another culture's beliefs and ideals, but it's ridiculous to treat this kind of institutionalized sexism as anything other than repellant.
2. Pending public education budget cuts in Pennsylvania and elsewhere in the nation.  Let me get this straight.  It's okay to cut programs from the poorest school districts so that we can continue tax breaks for industries?  You're poisoning the future, you're wrong, and you should be ashamed if you support these policies.  If you're too stupid to understand that, then you probably didn't go to a public school.
3. The Free Pass For Wall Street.  The longer the economy languishes (and by every measure, it still is) the more it irks me that those responsible have suffered very little compared to the average citizens of the country.  Their business-as-usual mentality, while the American taxpayer picks up the tab, is a national crime.
4. Celebrity Culture.  Our nation's slavish worship of every glittering freak show is turning us into oatmeal-heads.  We're spending so much of our time worrying about what these fools are doing that nobody is actually, well, doing anything.  Write your own book, make your own movie, sing your own song.

Okay, that's it for today.  It's still early so I may be back, I reserve that right.  If you're pissed off about something, or at me, why not let me know?

Dig This! Tuesday

Time agin for one of my non-posts, which means I post something almost totally devoid of new content. So, here are a couple of things that got my attention from the web today.

• A 2001 black space monolith action figure. I'm gonna buy one, strap it to my forehead, and hope to evolve.

You may have noticed in the sidebar to the blog that I have an interest in wine, beer, and booze in general. It intersects with a passing interest in science here--

• Grapes ain't gettin' enough sex. This NYT article explains how genetics and cloning are resulting in inferior wines.

Finally, in the comic book department, as the nerd world rushes to weigh in on the folding of Wizard, here are some mildly inspired parodies of Batman Covers:

• Batman v. Internet Memes.

Here ends the churning of other's ideas represented as work-on-my-part.

Shameless Promotions

What's a blog for, after all, except indulging all your own narcissism?

First, let me give a little cyber-ink to the people running the Farce/Film blog and podcast. They give interesting and insightful written reviews of films -- all kinds, not just art-house stuff that never plays near you -- and have a rollicking, rambling, sometimes inebriated podcast that serves up dueling opinions of weekly releases amongst a rotating cast of semi-regular commentators.

In the interest of full disclosure, I admit they are all mostly former students of mine, but if you know me at all, you should realize that doesn't mean I'm cutting them any slack. What I'm saying is: these people are the real deal. As proof of that, when they invited me to sit in on a podcast episode, I agreed. The best students are the ones you want to keep working with, even after the formal Professorial relationship has ended and the Farce/Film group falls into that category. Of course, I claim some credit for them being the thoughtful critics they are, because that's what all good narcissists, er, Professors, do, right? Bring it always back to themselves?

Anyway, the actual shameless self-promotion is when I say -- go listen to the podcast with me in the guest chair. I talk about Green Hornet, Hot Tub Time Machine, Cameron Diaz in underwear, and NC-17 ratings. Beware, we cuss. A lot. We're all adults, even if I knew everyone else when they weren't.

If you listen to the cast, let any of us know what you think, even if you hate it (although don't hate the one I'm on). Follow any of those good people on Facebook or Twitter, and you won't regret it. Follow me on Twitter, and you might.

In The New Year

Ah, that first day back to work after the holidays... the rude shock of being back to work and all the fun being over. No more sleeping in, no more pastries and coffee for late brunch, no more wine in the early afternoon. It's like Christmas shat you out and left you at the curb.

And that's all I have to say about the holidays.

Let's move on to 2011, shall we? I don't even want cast a fond glance over my shoulder at 2010, because, you know, it's over. Forget all the top ten lists, I want to start a clean page and move forward. So much of my life is spent looking back and over-analyzing things I can't change - should have zigged instead of zagged, etc. - that I'm just beaten down with the past. I don't want the baggage anymore, and this is fair notice. If I fucked you over unfairly in the past, I'm sorry, really I am and you can bet I've beat myself up about it, but I just don't care anymore. I want to shake all that off my shoulders and have a little fun. What do you say, 2011?

What does that really mean? It means I want to focus on the things that really matter to me: my wife and kids, my friends, friends I haven't met yet, cooking and wine, writing and reading. I gots to work to pay the man, but you know what? I'm not doing any freebies for the man anymore. I'll work when I'm supposed to, but the rest of the time is mine, so back off.

Ready, 2011? Let's get it on.

Holiday Cheer

I will freely acknowledge that my sense of humor is a bit perverse. With that in mind, I offer some of the things that have amused me this holiday season (so far, anyway).

Any shopping trip where you only really need one thing and you're under no time pressure. It's like being the designated driver at an Eagles Game, you can just sit back and watch the circus. On Monday evening, I went to the Target to pick up Christmas cards and was amazed. The place looked like a trailer park after a twister convention. Not only was merchandise strewn everywhere, but the customers had hollow eyes and were pushing what looked like all their belongings in shopping carts.

Spider-Man, The Musical. The most surprising thing about this entertainment pinata is that it's news at all. It didn't even really sound like a good idea when it was first gestating, and now that it's struggling through labor pains it makes even less sense. The venn diagram containing Spider-man fans, Julie Taymor fans, and U2 fans doesn't really seem like enough to warrant $65m and numerous cast injuries, does it? And after those 47 people in that venn center see it, and everyone who works for Marvel sees it, who's gonna go? If you want seats in the action, I hear they cost over $250 bucks a pop. For that money, you could get every U2 cd ever recorded, as well as the iPod to play it on, or -- every Spider-man movie, plus the blu-ray player to play it on, or -- enough Spider-man comics to keep you reading for weeks on end.

Nouveau Drinking. I love how a whole new generation has decided it's now hip to drink, and especially hard liquor. It's as if bourbon was invented last year solely for their amusement. From those of us who have long been aware of the pleasure of spirits at the holidays, I can only say, "welcome to the party." Somehow, I always knew if I just kept drinking consistently, I'd eventually be in fashion again.

Cheers and happy holidays!

Seriously?

So, I'm in a hotel room in a deserted east coast beach town in the middle of January, playing scrabble with my kids, while my wife's got the Golden Globes telecast on the TV. Foolishly, I had forgotten to load up on booze from home, so I was stone cold sober during the whole process, ergo my take on the old GGs was perhaps a little too unforgiving, but still, this was the worst telecast since the year after 9/11, when they just held a press conference.

It was a uniquely awkward, unpleasant experience where even the attendees didn't seem to be having much fun, and most of them weren't sober. Here, in bullet list form for those with short attention spans, are my top five things wrong with the Globes this year:

1. A painfully unfunny Ricky Gervais. Catwoman jokes? Way to keep up, Rick-o.
2. Mariah Carey's continuing love affair with her own boobs.
3. James Cameron's discussion of his "need to pee" during both acceptance speeches. They're called "Depends", dude.
4. Sandra Bullock's joke about someone "buying" the award for her. If you know anything about the Globes, you'll know this wasn't a joke. (I think this was Sandy, but if it was someone else, please correct me.)
5. -Tie- James Cameron's Na'vi speech, which enabled you to clearly imagine him speaking klingon at a Trek convention. -Or- James Cameron ordering the audience to give themselves a round of applause. Considering Avatar will end up making more money than, oh I don't know, the annual income of the entire nation of Haiti, that seemed in particularly bad taste.

I could go on, but it's self-evident, if you were watching. Which brings up the larger question, why were we watching? If I wanted to see a bunch of rich people at a self-congratulatory party, C-span is on all the time. Of course, the really frightening thing about that comparison is most people know more about the folks on the Globes than those on C-span, but the people on the globes don't really affect most of our lives directly.

Now, don't imagine I'm on a high horse, because I was watching the telecast, too. If I hadn't been, maybe my 10 year-old son wouldn't have beaten me in Scrabble. Evidence! Entertainment shows do rot the brain.

Ten Ten, Baby!

We're a nation of lists. It doesn't mean anything to us unless it shows up on a list, somewhere. We delight when our preferences are confirmed by someone's "Top Ten" and jeer when something shows up on a "Worst Of". I want you to ask yourself: are you really that afraid of or incapable of coming up with your own unadulterated opinion about something?

But, it's a brand new year, and I'll try and get into the spirit of things (in addition to my usual list in the sidebar). Without further ado, or more clever explanation, my top ten list of top ten lists:

1. Top Ten Most Requested Articles in The New Yorker
2. Top Ten+ Films, All Time Box Office
3. Top Ten Bestselling Books of All Time
4. Top Ten Artisanal Canned Beers
5. Top Ten Baseball Players... To Hate
6. Top Ten Popular Comic Books
7. Top Ten Live Jazz Recordings
8. Top Ten Muscle Cars
9. Top Ten Gadgets
10. And... Top Ten Rules for the Internet

Discuss, debate, comment. But be clever and do it in the form of a list. Happy New Year!

On Being Compelled

I swore to myself - as opposed to swearing at everyone else, which is what I usually do - that I was going to maintain at least one blog post per week through the end of the year as a run-up to a major re-design of the blog and my web presence in general, which I plan to launch in the new year. Some weeks, though, it's a little hard to focus. It was a week where everything got swept away.

Now, I could take the common route with blogging, which is to form all my general complaints into some king of entertaining narrative, but complaining seems a bit pointless. It's not like you care, right? You might get a good laugh out of my misery, or maybe just toss me a knowing nod because you've been there, too, but whining is a little too self-indulgent for me. Besides, no one would believe most of my gripes because they sound like a bad stand-up routine. I mean, who would buy that both my toaster and stove broke in the same week? That's like a weird conspiracy against heating elements.

I could do my standard political riff, but politics this past week has mostly been about Sarah Palin and I really think I need more of a challenge than that. Although, I did see a "Sarah 2012" bumper sticker this morning, which actually made me seriously consider the Mayan Prophecies for the first time.

I haven't talked about writing in a while, but considering the amount of student work I'm slogging through, now is probably not the best time to discuss that particular subject. The weird thing about teaching writing is that not only are you bombarded with difficult and troublesome material, the process takes so much time and energy that it salts the earth of your own work. After reading student scripts all day, one of the last things I want to do is sit down and work on my own stuff.

Oh, wait, I've found a point to make today after all, because this is the key difference between professionals and amateurs: we pros are compelled to do it. Even after the long day of mediocre grammar, I still make myself do some real writing. Even with no real plan in mind, I sit down to blog because that's what I committed to. It's not always inspiration and latte, sometimes it's brain sweat and angst. Welcome to my world.

Lessons From The Strike

No, no, I'm not going back on my promise to leave the baseball blogging until spring training, nor am I going to wax on wax off about the writer's strike of a few years ago. I'm talking about the transit worker's strike in Philadelphia over the past week. Now that it appears to be over, there's a few items that have crystallized for me and I'm passing those little diamonds along to you to save you the trouble of thinking really hard.

First, the political lessons:

• Organized labor may, at one time, have been essential to moving forward as a country, but that time has passed.
• Asking for unreasonable demands in an economy like the one we have right now is no way to gain public sympathy and support.
• Union leaders really need to be made aware of the fact that they, like politicians, represent a constituency. They need to look out for them, not their own consolidated power.
• At the end of the day, $50K for driving a bus is a hell of a lot of money.
• If you choose to strike, you need to be prepared to absorb the wrath of the people's lives you have damaged in the process. Don't expect everyone to cheer for you because you strong-armed someone into giving you more than the bulk of America is getting this year.

Next, Road Rules addendums:

• If you don't drive normally during rush hour, you're probably doing it wrong.
• Yes, we know you're inconvenienced, but you don't get to break the law because of it.
• Don't make lanes where there are none. The yellow lines mean something.
• DON'T BLOCK THE BOX! If you don't know what this means, turn around and drive home immediately.
• Patience, Courtesy. You will get there. The earth will continue to turn.

And finally, the IQ rules:

• If you don't take the trouble to really understand how these issues work, please keep your mouth shut. On the other hand, don't get pissed at someone else for pointing out your ignorance. Yes, this is for all of you who think any mass transit agency has money to spare.
• Don't take your anger out on the wrong people. The union instigated the strike. The people who are still working did not. They deserve a thanks for the work they're doing.
• Employers shouldn't use the strike as an excuse to fire people who are genuinely impacted by this strike. On the other hand, workers shouldn't use the inconvenience of the strike as an excuse for a vacation.
• For those of you who think mass transit is a big waste of time and money, you may now return to the rocks from under which you have crawled.

Monday - Shotgun Rules

So, it's Monday morning. I've got a mountain of work I'm trying to climb. Only one cup of coffee aboard the system so far, no coherent thoughts in my brain - and isn't that just a great reason to keep reading? - but I want to not disappoint all the readers out there. All, like, three of you who tune in regularly. So rather than have something organized and coherent, I'm taking the shotgun approach, hoping that if I fire enough little nuggets, one or more will stick in you.

• Glenn Beck is a moron. He's an hysterical little girl, with a shaky grasp of both politics and history, who hopes that if he's shrill enough you won't realize how asinine his ideas are. The irony is that his listeners/viewers apparently don't recognize his tactics as those favored by the very shadowy political movements he wants you to fear. Hitler could shout with the best of them, just like you, Glenn.
• Nancy Grace seems to come from the same journalistic school. If you're loud, you must be right. Her confrontation with John Gosselin did something I didn't think was possible: made me feel bad for him.
• The Phillies played baseball in 20-degree weather last night. This to me is a clear sign that places where winter falls this early should not have baseball teams, and that THE SEASON GOES ON TOO DAMN LONG! In the 1970 World Series, with the Oriels of my boyhood dreams, there were two games played by this time in the calendar, and we aren't even out of the playoffs, yet.
• I have to admit, the Yankees played a couple of great games. I still hate them.
• Although I can appreciate the historical symmetry of a Dodgers/Yankees series, that's only marginally more interesting than a LA/LA series. Go Phils!
• Cub Scouts has come a long way since I was a kid. Camping in a fort, with an outdoor movie and indoor plumbing really isn't "roughing it."
• It's frighteningly easy to get yourself piled with work, just by being a nice person and having a genuine desire to help people out. So I've heard.
• Many parents don't understand the concept of movie ratings. Apparently, they think: "Yeah, R. That means it's something the family watches together." On a psychotherapy note: if you take your little kid to see Zombieland, you can't complain at them for not being able to get to sleep, or if they start gnawing on your fleshy parts.
• Nobel Peace Prize. I'm just sayin'.
• And finally, dinner with famous comics guys is a lot of fun. Listening to Mike Mignola and John Arcudi go at it and getting a glimpse inside the Hellboy universe... good times.

So, there, in no particular order was my week. Go ahead, pick out the pellets.

Talking Smack

So, once again, I was shooting off my mouth about something. Contrary to normal circumstances, though, I wasn't talking about movies, politics, or baseball. I was holding forth on, of all things, Peppermint Patties, and telling boring stories about buying them warm by the bag from the factory, when the conversation took a slight detour into nutritional value and I calmly asserted something to the effect of, "sure, anything with a fat content contains protein," concerning the chocolate covering on the minty patties.

This was at a fundraising dinner at my church, so everyone else at the table was basically too polite to call me on this. There were at least two doctors present who cocked their heads and started to express some doubts on my assertion, but I obnoxiously over-talked them -- hey, I've learned something from the Republicans -- and changed the topic. It got me to thinking, though, that I might just be full of shit on the topic of proteins. It stuck with me all weekend, so this morning, I tried to find a definitive answer.

The first stop was my own pantry. Pop out ye olde bottle of Olive Oil. Check the helpful label. 14 grams of fat per serving, zero protein. Well, that didn't take long. Confirmation that those doctors weren't forgetting their basic biology, they were just being polite to me. Damn it. Perhaps, I comforted myself, I just had gotten things backwards: maybe anything with a protein content contains fat?

I hit the internet to do a little research. Egad. Wikipedia on protein goes on and on about essential amino acids. I finally found a somewhat useful nutritional page on protein. But still no definitive answer on the protein/fat correlation, if there is one. I know enough smart people, that someone reading this blog should be able to provide a quick breakdown, with some possible web references, so I'm asking for some help here. Go ahead, prove me wrong. Post your findings as a comment, please, or send them directly to me and I'll claim the work was my own and publish it in a blog post.

So, do I feel bad about talking smack? Sure, a little. It's embarrassing to realize something you thought to be true actually had no basis in fact. I feel worse about behaving like a boor and dismissing anyone else's opinions on the matter. So, to those of you at dinner. I'm sorry. I can't say I'll never do it again, but thanks for calling me on it, because that's what you should do when people aren't making sense. I took it to heart, did a little research, found out I was wrong. Now, I'm seeking a more informed answer. That's something the Republicans could learn from me.

Good Old Civil Disobedience

If you read the Pennsyltucky entry from a few days ago, you might be interested in this follow-up, which talks about a march protesting the Pennsylvania arts tax.

I've got mixed feelings on this, partly because it's Monday morning and my brain isn't awake, partly because the idea of an organized resistance of artists sounds like a really nerdy stand-up routine. "And a battalion of sculptors staged a carve-in today..."

Artists are, by definition, not the most organized of individuals, and usually not the most combative, so for them to actually band together in any type of organized civil disobedience speaks volumes about how troublesome this issue is. Unfortunately, in our society, artists tend to not be taken seriously when matters of state are being resolved, so it's still unclear what the outcome will be.

For now, Pennsylvania continues its march toward being the most backwards state in the union.

Pennsyltucky

Generally, I've argued against this derogatory moniker for our commonwealth. I live in the Philadelphia portion of Pennsylvania, so we're largely urban, partially cosmopolitan, steeped in history, and rich in diverse culture. The only people to generally call us backwards are New Yorkers, and they feel that way about everyone who isn't a New Yorker, so you don't take that one personally.

I have officially revised my opinion, however, in light of this week's budget dealings out of the state capitol. This backwards state is now, in an attempt to balance the budget, going to levy a tax on arts-related events and institutions. You can read today's coverage from the local papers by clicking here. When this kind of move gets legislative traction, I have the feeling we may be insulting Kentucky, rather than Pennsylvania, by blending the names.

In whatever world it makes sense to tax the arts, which are chronically underfunded, I can't help feeling the cultural end of days is near. It's like taxing mass transit to offer automobile rebates. The irony is, of course, that this tax will mostly penalize Philadelphia and Pittsburgh which are rich in artistic and cultural institutions, and not so much the rest of the state where they guzzle gas and eat squirrel pie, hunted by theirselves with them semi-auto guns we nazi liberals cain't take away.

I suppose I shouldn't make fun of them like that because it's cultural elitism, but... maybe someone should drag them -- not necessarily into the new millennium -- but at least up to the enlightenment. Because you know what? Philly and Pittsburgh count for the largest portion of the state tax revenue. Without the income we provide, there is no state budget. At. All. So having state legislators from backwards counties taxing culture would be like us taxing, hell I don't know... squirrels?

Leno a-go-go

Did I miss something? I must have, because from where I was sitting, The Jay Leno Show looked and played exactly like the Tonight Show, just at 10, instead of 11:30. This is what Leno took 3 months off to come up with? Yeah, he got a new set, but he didn't get a new set of anything else. It's the same old white guy brand of humor with musical guests selected to connect with the kids. Overall, the show was not only boring, but uncomfortable. Jay clearly doesn't do well in the "two chairs" interview format and even Jerry Seinfeld's Schtick couldn't make it less painful to watch.

Presumably, it comes down to whether you like Leno. He's never been a particularly daring, or insightful comedian and as he ages, his humor has become noticeably rigid. You need a rim-shot after every punch-line. As a performer, he's about as supple as an I-beam. He can't roll with punches in his set or in his interviews. It's like watching Don Rickles' stand-up routine circa 1957. That might have been okay 40 years ago, but on prime time?

Leno's been doing the "headlines" bit since even I was a kid and of all the things to carry over, it seems the least likely to translate to today's audience. Newspapers are dying faster than his jokes, but he still wants you to send him headlines? That's the definition of "behind the curve".

The "interview" with Kanye West -- an accidental coup since the rappers were booked well in advance of Kanye's MTV VMA performance -- was ridiculous, serving only West's own narcissistic desire for more airtime, when what would have been fair would have been to bump him altogether and give the platform to Taylor Swift.

I'm well aware of the economics involved in making the show, and how low the threshold is for Leno to be considered a success in prime time. Hell, he's even cheaper than a reality show to produce. But if this is all he's got up his sleeve, we'll all be bored to death by sweeps.

What A Bas-turd!

I was asked to defend my listing of Inglourious Basterds as one of the crappiest movies of summer (see Useless List side-bar), so off we go. So you understand where I'm coming from and don't think this is purile Quentin bashing, you need to understand a few things about my personal film philosophy. Film is primarily a visual medium, one that immerses an audience in a story they experience in a very visceral way. It's a manufactured reality wherein, if it's manufactured correctly, you are unaware you're experiencing something manufactured. In other words, you get lost in the experience of the story. Thus, anything that takes you out of that experience is a flaw.

How can you tell when you've been taken out of that experience? When you find yourself wondering things like, "I wonder how hard it was for Brad Pitt to keep his jaw jutted and talk like he had a can of beans up his ass?" At that point, you're one step away form making mental grocery lists and the film has lost you.

The causes of this wandering of attention are legion in this film, and across Tarantino's films in general. The main flaw for me is the incessant, pointless dialog. Many people who love his films, love this inane chatter, but dialog is the purview of the theater, where, because of physical limitations, life must be lived out loud. When this much dialog is jammed into a film it feels fake and stagey. And when it comes right down to it, when the characters are prattling on, they aren't that interesting. If they're not interesting, I don't care about them; if I don't care about them, I'm wondering about Brad's jaw again.

I could discuss the disturbing identification with the Nazis or the palpable hatred of women that runs throughout the film, but I don't want to sound like a politically correct turd, so I'll pass over that.

Let's just move on to the real reason this film was at the top of my crap list for the summer: it was boring. QT ratchets up the tension to the breaking point in individual segments, then just lets the moment pass on by, like you're watching an old friend depart. Long after you've stopped caring, THEN the big bang will come along, more often than not in a flurry of incomprehensible action. That's most noticeable in the underground bar scene, for which the ending was telegraphed a good 20 minutes (felt like 2 hours) before you get to it.

In the end, this film isn't about Nazis or Jews or WWII or even Brad's jutter, it's about films. That's infuriating. There are references from Once Upon a Time in the West to Cinderella, with the Marx brothers and Dirty Dozen thrown in for good measure. It's like the film was assembled by the ultimate idiot savant fanboy with turrets. It's a kind of filmmaking that draws attention to itself at every turn, pulling you out of the story. You always suspect QT is lurking behind you, winking, "did you fucking see that, pretty fucking cool, huh," with every celluloid reference to better, more original films.

Tarantino continues unabated his post-modern scrapbooks masquerading as original films, and based on box-office, he's going to make more, so I'm going to stick out my jaw and look for a can of beans. Maybe it'll make the next film more interesting.