A Word About Jacko—And Maybe A Couple About Kurt Cobain For The Hell Of It

Like many, I was surprised—I’ll stop short at “shocked”; in much the same way I expect Mike Tyson’s journey to end poorly, I have to admit I harbored the same gut instinct regarding Michael Jackson—to hear of Jacko’s demise at the hands of cardiac arrest last week. Yet I was much more taken aback by the reaction of most members of my generation to his passing, with tearful remembrances on Facebook, impromptu playing of his music in record stores and unplanned flockings to the streets for random weeping and wailing.

Jackson unquestionably defined an entire era of pop music—and even the definition of what pop music was and should be—and pushed the bounds of showmanship and what it truly meant to be a performer. His signature moves were copied by white and black children alike, with Leroy just as likely to rip off a moonwalk on the street corner as Trevor was to beg Mom for a white sequined glove from Rose’s. He crossed racial boundaries, even if some are too sensitive to question whether or admit that no one could tell in the later years exactly what pigmentation he belonged to anymore. He brought Motown to Main Street and paved the way for an entire generation of performers with an unspoken challenge to do more and better, to take his torch and carry it into another dimension.

To many African-Americans, he represented hope and access to a musical world that had long held them at arm’s length. So from a standpoint of civil rights, it’s easy to empathize with the reaction of the black community to his death. He also was the classic child star, abused by his father in the pursuit of fame and fortune; he had an entire family strapped to his spindly frame and was told to carry it as far and as fast as he could.

I get it. There is no case that can be made against his talents as a musician, as a singer, as a showman. There is a story to be told of the obstacles he bounded across to overcome an upbringing that saw him forced to sing in strip clubs as a pre-teen. As a lover of music, I can’t help but respect what he meant to the industry, to the art form, to the age in which he lived. Like almost every other person of my age, male or female, I remember owning “Thriller” and playing it over and over and over. Hell, I think I even used the cover song as a backdrop in a school project at one point.

Yet forgive me I stop short of the idol worship and lamentations of the loss of a legend. Perhaps it is a level of cynicism that I am unable to overcome. Maybe it’s the subordination of all else to the truth, the cross to bear of a career journalist. I can separate the man from his music; I can appreciate his talents while never forgetting what he truly was. Which was a child molester. Which was someone who preyed on the fears and psychoses of those who are too young to handle them. Which was someone who used his fame to destroy the innocence and forever wreck the lives of those he was responsible for protecting.

On a much lower level, his bizarre behavior can be forgiven, his strange plastic-surgery decisions passed off as regrettable decisions, his odd public displays that endangered himself and his children left to fade away under the weight of his legend. But some even ascribe the ascension of music videos into popularity to Jacko—is that a good thing? Some credit him for elevating MTV into one of the most-watched channels ever, ushering in an entire era of multimedia presentation—is that worth claiming either? Others say he was the forerunner of the boy-band era, which, in the immortal of words of Jim Rome, featured middle-aged men with frosted lettuce dancing in unison in order to sell records to teenage girls—who the hell would be proud of that? To me, these are actually condemnations of his legacy. Then again, I write as one who hasn’t voluntarily watched MTV since he was about 14, so I’m aware of owning a somewhat unique perspective.


In these emotional and sensitive times, going against the flow can be construed in any number of ill-sounding ways. I get that, too. But it’s the same way I felt when people tried to foist Kurt Cobain on us, pass him off as the voice of my generation, the flawed symbol of Gen-X. And I was and am a huge fan of Cobain; my appreciation for him only grew deeper and deeper over the years as he proved to be an immensely talented and well-rounded musician and artist. But someone who spoke for me, for my feelings about the world, for my angst about the world I lived in, for the outrage against certain societal ills? Not a chance. Why does he represent me? Because he decided to shoot himself in the head? Really? Is that what it takes to become a generational mouthpiece? His choice to pull a trigger and stop the music somehow transposed his thoughts into the fact that I couldn’t get in-state tuition or figure out what made the girl in my Environmental Politics class tick?

Yet the difference is that there was so much still to offer from Kurt Cobain. One got the sense that he was merely scratching the surface of wondrous, deep musical waters, that he was only beginning to discover the muse within. His loss was lamented for the possibilities it stole, for the genre-wide void it created. Where would he have taken grunge? How far would he have gone with Nirvana? How much would he have challenged Eddie Vedder and others of his ilk to keep pushing the envelope, and what would they have then become? We knew what Michael Jackson had created, and it was worshipped by the masses; we never knew what Kurt Cobain might have found in his flawed pursuit of whatever he needed to quell the pain and quiet the voices.

So before we start putting Jacko’s likeness on ceramic plates and selling them on obscure shopping channels, before we anoint a Michael Jackson Day, before we fly the flag at Neverland at half-mast, before we slip on our tears over losing yet another childhood “hero,” I’ll be the one remembering those he robbed of something they can’t ever get back, the fragile ones with no voice to defend themselves, the soiled playground in the background, the broken that no payoff can truly pay off.

Because apparently unlike many of my generation, I can separate the truth from the image. I can respect Michael Jackson for what he did—and condemn him for who he was.

Limerick Friday LXXXXXXXXVII: Quirky, Flawed Stars Pass On, Plus Diesel Is On The Move

It's true, many boys became mans
While staring at her poster-sized cans
But we must bid adieu to pretty Farrah
Who introduced mall chicks to big hair and mascara
She leaves many confused and heartbroken fans

The downfall of the Hurricanes now makes sense
About recruiting rankings their staff was quite dense
Football recruiting isn't like buying a Snoogle
You can't look for a linebacker on Google
Stars don't mean shite when the hitting's intense

The Cavs have moved with a quickness
Brought Shaq aboard as the "Big Witness"
Got as much game as he does nicknames
He'll be a great help to LeBron James
Now the rest of the NBA is scared shitless

At 50, Michael Jackson is dead
The "King of Pop" had a heart attack, it's said
His nose was as weird as Macauley Culkin
His mysterious preferences had the press sulkin'
He had as many hits as young boys that lived in his bed

They're off with the ping of a bat
Best team in the land, no doubting that
Here come the Bayou Bengals
Hitting homers with a few singles
National champs after taking Texas to the mat

Last time …

Kind Of Like The Roughing The Passer Rule, “Leatherheads” Is A Good Idea Gone Way Wrong

If you were being nice, you could say that “Leatherheads” was a good concept that didn’t quite measure up in execution. If you were being a bit pithy, you could say that it was a little dull, the kind of movie that makes you go, “Enh.” If you were being brutally honest, you could say that it pretty much blew.

“Leatherheads” represents a period that has been relatively untouched by the cinematic world, so in that sense, it’s a neat concept and a promising piece. You saw the potential there for a “Bull Durham” type of exploration of how early professional football mirrored minor-league baseball; of course, you could also form a pretty compelling argument that “Bull Durham” would have blown pretty severely if not for Susan Sarandon.

The script for “Leatherheads” was written by former Sports Illustrated columnist and current ESPN sellout Rick Reilly and Duncan Brantley, a colleague at SI, and was directed by George Clooney—which explains a lot. According to Clooney, the plot was supposed to be loosely based on Harold "Red" Grange, who signed with the Chicago Bears out of the University of Illinois in 1925, the day after his last collegiate game. In this scenario, the Grange character is brought to life by John Krasinski in the form of Carter “The Bullet” Rutherford, a star at Princeton and a war hero. Clooney plays “Dodge” Connelly, a washed-up gridiron great who convinces Rutherford to leave Princeton early and turn pro, in an effort to save his bankrupt professional football team (obviously, long before the rise of the NFL).

Rutherford is so All-American that you expect to see him helping old ladies across the street, lifting cats out of trees at halftime and going home directly after the game for a piece of Mom’s apple pie. The problem is that, even though he’s touted as a war hero on top of everything else, the dirty little secret is that that isn’t exactly true. Predictably, Connelly and Rutherford begin vying for the attentions of reporter Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger, who succeeds in all the way opening her eyes in this movie), who has learned the true story behind Rutherford’s war escapades. Lexie is torn between following a tremendous scoop and letting a country who needs heroes go on believing in Rutherford. The ending has a rather unique twist, but even that is somewhat bland and misses the mark.


Clooney comes across more as his somewhat slapstick character from "O Brother, Where Art Thou," Everett, then probably intended, though Zellweger was actually pretty darn good in the throwback role as a wisecracking newspaperwoman (though I’m admittedly a sucker for the “world’s tallest midget” line; it always makes me chuckle). The biggest problem lies with Krasinsky, who, through no real fault of his own, is extremely hard to take seriously in a real role—he’s simply always going to be Jim from “The Office.” It’s decidedly not his fault, but that doesn’t change the fact that I found myself expecting on every play to see Dwight come soaring off the edge of the screen to clothesline Jim along the sideline, followed by a brief video interview in which Dwight describes growing up tackling llamas on his family beet farm while Mose kicked actual, literal pig skin around.

Of course, this flick had more problems than overcoming the Krasinski/Jim dynamic, but it certainly didn’t help. The bottom line is that “Leatherheads” fell apart in a trite plot, poor direction and questionable casting. Which would have been OK if you didn’t get the sense that there was a cool movie idea in there somewhere.

Oh well, I’m sure Clooney will land on his feet, most likely by amusing himself by playing grabass with his metro buddies as they make “Ocean’s 43”. And I’m sure the new season of “The Office” will be hysterical. As for Zellweger, I don’t know—how many fat Bridget Jones’s can she honestly be expected to play?

Take An Emotional Journey Through The Post-Katrina Big Easy, With Tears As A Guide And Laughter As A Lagniappe

“The music of New Orleans—like the city itself—is able to move from mood to mood in ways that might surprise people from other cultures. The sense of loss is an inevitable theme of this book. Loss almost defines New Orleans at this time. But humor and beauty exist comfortably in these same pages.
“For those who do not already know, humor, beauty and the blues all live right alongside each other. Even after Katrina, laughter is the best life raft.”-- David Rutledge

“We want our city. And we don’t want it to come back like no Disneyland for adults. It was getting that way anyway. We don’t want that. Just give us a chance to collect ourselves.”
-- Wynton Marsalis, as quoted in Rolling Stone

“‘There is nothing but that frail breastwork of earth between the people and destruction.”-- Mark Twain, in his 1883 book “Life on the Mississippi”


Here’s a book that makes you cry, that takes you back to where you didn’t want to go, that reminds you of one of the biggest crimes every perpetrated on U.S. citizens by its own country.

Published in 2006 by Chin Music Press as a “Broken Levees Books edition,” “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans” is billed as a collection of stories and essays set in the Big Easy. The collection was completed in just 89 days—and only 92 after Hurricane Katrina hit. In true Cajun tradition, it can best be described as a gumbo, with a massive helping of short stories, a dash of recipes, a pinch of old-world historical accounts, a touch of humor and a dose of sadness. The line “We lost New Orleans” is repeated at heart-aching intervals throughout the book, along with depictions of people who should be mad and devastated, but are instead grateful at strangers’ kindness.

Among the highlights were the hysterical story “I Was a Teenage Float Grunt” by Ray Shea, the tremendous “Professor Stevens Goes to Mardi Gras” by Rex Noone (“There he went, a man who did not participate in Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras happened to him.”), “Where Grace Lives” by Toni McGee Causey and “The World from Jackson Square,” which was a compilation of writings published in 1948. Causey asks why we can pinpoint a 2- by 2-foot hole to an underground bunker from thousands of miles away and strike it from hundreds—yet we can’t find a way to help a city that lies 966 miles from Washington, D.C.? Sentiments like these pepper the book, and no matter what your political affiliation might be or how closely you’ve followed the plight of New Orleans in the wake of Katrina, you can’t help but wonder just what in christ’s name we’ve let happen to this American jewel.

To be fair, in a collection like this that relies on the generosity and emotions of contributors who were themselves devastated by the hurricane, there are bound to be some misses. “A Lesson From Below” by Sarah K. Inman was one of these. This strange tale speaks of creepy aerobatics and small masturbating black children, serving as a disturbing and seemingly unnecessary downer smack dab in the middle of an emotional book. Not only was it displaced, but it actually robbed the collection of much of its momentum and emotion to that point, in my view.

Despite this hiccup, the collection was tremendous … unafraid of any subject, unyielding in its criticism of targets large and small, unflappable in its depiction of courage in unthinkable situations, and unwavering in its hope. Here are some memorable turns of phrase on a variety of topics:


On politics:

“When President Bush stood on a disaster site in the neighboring state of Mississippi and declared that Senator Trent Lott’s house would rise up again, bigger and better than ever, it made a few people shudder. Somehow this statement conveyed an image of Trent Lott’s huge house standing on that spot while the surrounding land remained a disaster. George and Trent could sip their mint juleps on a spacious new veranda while the rest of the people still sat in a landscape of rubble waiting for a sip of water. That seems to be the vision that some have of this rebuilding process.”
-- David Rutledge

“I basically told [the President] we had an incredible, uh, crisis here and that his flying over in Air Force One does not do it justice.
“But we authorized eight billion dollars to go to Iraq lickety-sp—quick. After 9/11 we gave the president unprecedented powers lickety-s—quick to take care of New York and other places. Now, you mean to tell me that a place where most of your oil is coming through, a place that is so unique when you mention New Orleans anywhere around the world everybody’s eyes light up, you mean to tell me that a place where you probably have thousands of people that have died and thousands more that are dying every day, that we can’t figure out a way to authorize the resources that we need? Come on, man.”
-- New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin

“President Bush showed cowardice and incompetence. A commander in chief’s first job is to protect the citizenry. Bush failed shamefully, flying over the city on his way back from another vacation on his ranch in Texas. LBJ was in New Orleans on the heels of Hurricane Betsy, inspecting damage and talking to people.”
-- Jason Berry

“ ‘What I’m hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas … and so many of the people in the arenas here are, uh, you know, were, uh, were under-privileged anyway, so this is working very well [chuckles] for them.’”
-- Barbara Bush, in an interview from the Reliant Center in Houston with American Public Media’s “Marketplace” show


On political e-mails:

“From: Worthy, Sharon

Sent: Sunday, September 4, 2005, 10:17 AM

To: michael d. brown

Subject: Your shirt

Please roll up the sleeves of your shirt … all shirts. Even the President rolled his sleeves to just above the elbow.

In this crisis and on TV you just need to look more hard-working … ROLL UP THE SLEEVES!”


On retaining New Orleans’s unique and distinct vibe:

“New Orleans needs to beware of charity … If there is a Starbucks in the French Quarter, something has been lost. If there is a Mardi Gras parade sponsored by Pepsi, something has been lost. If the houses are being designed by Halliburton … some things have already been lost.
“It is not just a city, not just houses—it is a culture … Studs Terkel wrote, ‘Hope has never trickled down. It has always sprung up.’ The same can be said for a culture. Let the trumpet sound.”
-- David Rutledge

“The crime and poverty were always there. My garage was invaded three times so I quit locking it.
“You could not live in the city and avoid the dreary performance of democracy; yet the town was held together by a spiritual essence few cities in this country possess.”
-- Jason Berry

“Through peculiar circumstances, we have evolved a unique kind of society. Architect Robert Cangelosi has reminded us that the reason our housing is so lovely is ‘preservation by neglect.’ Indeed, economic underdevelopment is probably the reason our culture and way of life remain distinct as well. As we look forward hopefully to greater economic opportunity, let us seek to preserve, or to salvage, those social features which also make us beautiful.
“We hold these truths not only to be self-evident, but self-propagating. Everyone in the world who is feeling these basic principles is a New Orleanian. Every New Orleanian who is not feeling these principles is also a New Orleanian because the gods adore difference and abhor sameness. See y’all in the streets. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”
-- C.W. Cannon, in “The New Orleans Manifesto”



On New Orleans’s musical soul:

“[New Orleans] … unlike so many other places, does not hold tightly to one sound. It is not Nashville or Detroit or even Memphis. Rather it is simply the city where music has a place to begin. More than any other, it is a place of musical possibility, and because of that, an endless source of stunning collaborations.”
-- Colleen Mondor

“‘Jazz is important, because it’s the only art form that embodies the fundamental principles of American democracy.’”
-- Colleen Mondor, quoting Wynton Marsalis

“The city of New Orleans is defined by three things: music, corruption and food. The music is nurtured in the souls of hundreds of local musicians who grow up wearing their tubas home and playing them at the bus stops rather than dragging music cases to waiting SUVs like other American kids. The corruption is ingrained in three-hundred-year-old French and Spanish training, with ex-governors sitting in federal prisons and elected officials stuffing cash into their pockets while a hidden video camera whirs. The citizens of the city know America shakes its head at the stories that come out of New Orleans. But they can take the occasional snicker about politics Southern style because their city’s food heritage rivals that of any place in the world.”
-- Dar Wolnik

“I know that the music of New Orleans will survive any catastrophe; the records are set, the lyrics transcribed, the recordings known all over the world. It can never disappear. But the magic of that place is not in the music it already knows, but in the sounds that are yet to be.
“The city has already played witness to an evolution in musical styles that is without precedent in our collective human memory. What I want to hear though, is what comes next. New Orleans is not done yet, not by a long shot. I want to hear what she has to give us next.”
-- Colleen Mondor


On grace:

“Hemingway called courage ‘grace under pressure.’ I saw that grace in great display after Hurricane Katrina bore down, grace entwined with another kind of valor: the realization that in order to be brave, you must first be afraid.”
-- Jason Berry


On knowing what it means to live through Katrina:

“The rage I felt watching New Orleans drown is still palpable. I cannot understand the fact that we live in a country which can put men on the moon, which can help build an international space station, which can create phenomenal structures or explore the deepest oceans, but we could not get water to people trapped on an overpass for days. I cannot wrap my mind around why they were trapped in the first place, since there were trucks passing them by. FEMA trucks, which wouldn’t stop. I don’t understand that. And I can’t believe I live in a country which could show this on TV, for days in a row, and no one did anything about it.
“New Orleans was dying. People were dying. It was just one scene of so many, and it made no sense. People died on that overpass, when help just drove right by them.
“I cannot understand how media crews could show the devastating events down at the Convention Center and the Superdome, and FEMA or our federal government did not ‘know’ the people were there. How do we live in a country which can drop aid to everyone else in the world, and no one could drop water and food to the people trapped there? How can we handle going into war-torn areas and get aid to people there, but a few thugs prevented us from helping Americans? How?
“How is it that more than two weeks later when we were still going to shelters bringing in supplies, I received reports from the outlying areas that FEMA still hadn’t shown up?
“Still. Hadn’t. Shown. Up.
“I don’t understand these things. I know I live in America. Well, last time I checked, Louisiana was still in America. New Orleans was still a major American city. Maybe something happened somewhere that someone forgot to mention to us, but yeah, pretty sure we’re still in America. And the magnitude of the inept response (including local government) was staggering.
“It was like watching someone I love get gutted and lie there bleeding and knowing that help was standing a few feet away, talking about golf scores.”
-- Toni McGee Causey


“Whether someone lost so much as a brick or all of their belongings, people in the Gulf lost far more than I did. They are missing a sense of place that may never come back.”
-- Steve Quinn

“There are images and moments which scarred us all, embedded deep somewhere in our souls, a slash that will not heal. The sights and sounds of people abandoned, dying, here on our soil.
“The heartbreak kept me from sleeping … The helplessness etched into every waking moment, acid into the pores, and rendered the grief unbelievably deep.
“We lost New Orleans.”
-- Toni McGee Causey

“We passed dank, steamy nights in the big house, eating canned food, trying to sleep in the heat, wondering about friends whose whereabouts we knew not and grieving for the city with a sorrow embedded like a sword in the heart.
“The city has fired three-thousand workers and is dead broke. The epidemiological issues are gigantic. Yet each day one sees a new stirring of life, another restaurant opened, lights on in another house. How many people will return? What kind of city will it be? In this strange, rootless configuration of our lives, the pull of family is a constant, and for now and perhaps forever I will think of you, my dear sweet flooded place, as what you were and are in my heart—the holy city of New Orleans.”
-- Jason Berry


On thankfulness:

“So when I say to you that you’ve made a difference, I don’t mean it lightly or in any sort of frivolous way. When it suddenly became clear that we were the ugly, unwanted stepchild of the government, or worse, the beaten, neglected child of the local officials who were hastily trying to cover up their long-term abuse with loud excuses, you made us feel human again. So many of you—giving, calling, writing, trying. Feeling the outrage on our behalf. Knowing it belonged to you, because you were us, we were a part of this country, and you cared.
“We lost New Orleans. We needed you, and you were there, and the outpouring of that grace and hope helped to get us through the worst of the days when we were watching in horror as our own people died, as our friends and family were left, as people were treated worse than we’d ever ever treat an animal.
“You made a difference. A big difference. And we thank you.”
-- Toni McGee Causey

The Mystery Of Megan Fox, Finally Explained

Look above.

Hey.

Hey, eyes back down here.

HEY!

Thanks. Now, watch the video below.

As far as Megan Fox goes, this is really the only explanation that makes any sense at all.

Big-Theater Cinema's Aggression Will Not Stand, Man

I've always pulled for the little guy and rooted for the underdog. So as tiny art theaters increasingly are made obsolete by the antiseptic, 30-screen, plastic-popcorn-for-$14 multiplexes, it makes me try to find ways to support the Rialtos and the Colonys of the world.

And these smaller venues are doing their part to find their niche as well. That's what led me to the Colony -- where I saw an incredible indy film called "Once" a few years ago -- the other night, when they chose to show one of my favorite flicks, "The Big Lebowski." As if that weren't good enough to drag my arse out on a week night, the flick was $5. And on top of that, how can you not love a theater where you can buy beer, win door prizes and see people dressed up as Walter Sobchak?

To utterly and completely seal the deal, the awesome folks at the Colony decided to put "Logjammin'" and "Gutterballs" on the marquee as well (above). To quote the Dude, "That's fuckin' ingenious, if I understand it correctly."

So get out there and support your local indy shack. Check out their "Cool Classics" series this summer. Stick up for the little guy by trying something new and sticking your toe in the water.

Just be careful you don't lose it.

"You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don't wanna know about it, believe me … Hell, I can get you a toe by 3 o'clock this afternoon—with nail polish. These fucking amateurs …"

Limerick Friday LXXXXXXXXV: Durham Edges Trenton, Baghdad In Best Place To Live Rankings

Durham is one of the nicest cities to live?!
Maybe if you need some crack with a shiv
I guess Yahoo! is not very adroit
Might as well have chosen Detroit
Now I've seen it all—what gives?

Up north, it's all about tradition
In the south, it's scoffing at prohibition
Ah yes, it's football in the south
It's alcohol and running your mouth
Then trying to make it home in a conscious position

Last week I met a Nurse Gidget
Played golf and got a blistered digit
A blind kid and a fake Lil' Wayne?
"WTF?!" keeps running through my brain
Reminds me of working for a blind midget

With the economy, he's wielding his clout
Though some are beginning to doubt
Too early to say whether he's right
Considering he inherited this plight
Patience is hard for those who only shout

It's time for the U.S. Open at Beth Page
Rain is the story on this great stage
The sentimental favorite is Phil
I've heard enough about Tiger's will
Who's this year's Rocco, not acting his age?

Last time …

I'm Putting My Face In The Wind For You Today, Sweet Boy

I hope you know how much you’re missed.
I hope you don’t know how long a year can seem.
I hope you’re happy.
I hope you’re running.
I hope your nose is in the wind.
I hope you can see me now.
I hope you would be proud.
I hope you have seen our new home, and that you’re enjoying yours.
I hope you have seen us celebrate the joining of our lives.
I hope you know that I knew you were there, that I could feel you.
I hope you know that you were a part of it, looking on amidst Kristin’s flowers.
I hope you have seen me laugh at thoughts of you.
I hope you have seen me cry at remembrances of you.
I hope you know I carry you around every day.
I hope you know you’re etched forever on my shoulder and in brick.
I hope you know that I will make sure you live on in my daughter.
I hope you know that I will do my best to be the father you taught me to be.
I hope you know that you're still teaching me.
I hope you know that you're still a miracle to us.
I hope you know how much you’re missed.
I hope you know.
That you just know.

"Father's First Steps: 25 Things Every New Dad Should Know": A Book Review

Holy. Shit.

The End.

Emo Awkwardness And Trite Melancholy Define "Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist"

Awkward Lost Boy is heartbroken, stalking Teasing Ex. Fighting-Richness Girl Who Doesn't Know Who She Is pines for Awkward Lost Boy and frenemies Teasing Ex. Awkward Lost Boy drives Ironic Yugo and plays bass for Gay Band Members who drive around in Humorous Retro But Not a Rapist Van. Fighting-Richness Girl Who Doesn't Know Who She Is kisses Awkward Lost Boy to get back at biting criticism from Teasing Ex at New York grunge-ish concert hall. Sparks fly. Gay Band Members help Fighting-Richness Girl Who Doesn't Know Who She Is realize that her breasts are much larger than she realized, and therefore, more worthy of Awkward Lost Boy. Hilarity ensues along the lines of every single other teenage movie. Ever.

ALB: mumble mumble awkward pretty mumble like music mumble misunderstood
FRGWDWWSI: Yeah, like, tortured artist draws me, right, like, totally? I'm misunderstood too, just because, like, my dad is like, richer than god, right, and I sleep around with that, like, really, like goofy-looking dude, right?
PDG: It would be gross if I threw up and then picked my gum out of the toilet, right? That would be memorable?
ALB: mumble mumble morality arrives mumble won't sleep with ex mumble mumble like you a lot awkward awkward mumble
FRGWDWWSI: I'm like, frigid inside, right, because, like, I'm in my dad's shadow, right, but there's something pretty, like, inside me, not just my boobs, right? Really? P.S. I haven't had an orgasm, right?
GBM (in unison, with jazz hands): Awwwwww!
PDG: blechralphhueybarfpuketosscookies
ALB: mumble you get me mumble awkward mumble cool
FRGWDWWSI: I like you, too, even though you're, like, a dork, who's, right, built like a, right, 12-year-old girl, right? You know? Really? Kiss?
ALB: awkward awkward awkward mumble mumble mumble
[insert line stolen from "Almost Famous"]

--And Scene--

Limerick Friday LXXXXXXXXIV: Heroes, Scandals, Mysterious Injuries—And Boobs Of All Kinds

I'll brave the heat and the bugs
To take big steps and get bigger hugs
It's time for the Race for the Cure
Avoid the Barrel Monster, to be sure
Doing my little part to save the jugs

Two more departures over at the Hill
Including a lineman with a medical bill
He's got a career-ending injury, oh well
But he's playing next year at the Citadel?!
15 on the waiver wire, and it's early still

After Nadal kept knocking him cold
All the critics said Roger was too old
"But he's only 27," you said, confused
And then you looked on, bemused
As he added a French Open to his fold

The next shocker has come out of USC
Tim Floyd resigned amidst controversy
O.J. Mayo gave his program a push
He paid him like Pete Carroll paid Reggie Bush
I'm sure the NCAA will show one of its favorites mercy

Ochocinco is trying not to be bitter
Tries for relevance again through Twitter
Did he really put "Brokeback Mountain" in his feed?
I'm sure Carson Palmer read that and peed
Trading him from Cincy to Chapel Hill would be fitter

Last time …

“Sacred” Leaves Boston—And Lehane's Comfort Zone—Behind In An Uneven Effort

“Angie was where most of me began and all of me ended.”

In this installment of Dennis Lehane's Patrick Kenzie-Angie Genarro series (the third, to be exact), we follow the dynamic detective duo's work with a dying father and his irresistible sexpot of a daughter (defined by the Shakespeare quote, “The ornament of beauty is suspect”). "Sacred" is probably the weakest of the Lehane books I've read, the most sentimental and emotional, which is concretely revealed to be not within Lehane's wheelhouse of strengths.

For the first time, Lehane moves the scene outside of Beantown, trading in his customary gritty depiction of Boston for the Florida beaches. Always-beautiful, sometimes-seedy Tampa Bay emerges as another character in the book, melding nicely with the super-charged firecracker that is Desiree Stone (“‘My toes spun, man. And like, all’s I can say is, well, she should have a ride named after her at Epcot. You know?’”). Straying out of Boston proper unquestionably brings Lehane out of his comfort zone, but it was an unavoidable and inevitable twist handled well by a seasoned writer.

Lehane delves somewhat too deeply into the Angie and Patrick dynamic in this one, with their budding, erotic relationship becoming a bit too fairy-tale-like. I suspect the author realized this and immediately began working on putting up borders for the next book. "Sacred" becomes a little too much of a love story, not just a mystery or a thriller. Yet there's no question that Lehane simply has a way of knitting a story and drawing you in for an entertaining, quick read.

The ending was somewhat disappointing and awkward in its overly dramatic nature (Shakespeare's sonnets, really)? Pitting father vs. daughter in a death battle of guns and wills was a bit much to take, and then out of nowhere Patrick and Angie decide to take a trip to Maine together. Are we supposed to believe that this is the beginning—or continuation—of a non-work partnership? Is Lehane asking us to suspend all the trauma this pair has seen and accept that they're going to give the couple thing a legitimate shot?

"Sacred" undoubtedly falls far short of Lehane's best work, but it perhaps represents an exploratory, slightly immature stage in his development as a writer. Yet even at his most questionable, Lehane proves once again to be among the most readable and alluring storytellers of his generation and genre.

In Second Sight, Symbolism, Contrasts Elevate "Thin Red Line" Into Epic

"We were a family. How'd it break up and come apart, so that now we're turned against each other? Each standing in the other's light. How'd we lose that good that was given us? Let it slip away. Scattered it, careless. What's keepin' us from reaching out, touching the glory?"
—Private Witt

"What difference do you think you can make, one man in all this madness?"
—Sergeant Welsh

Sometimes, we're not in the right frame of mind to fully appreciate a piece of art. Independent of age or mindset or philosophy … sometimes we're just at a stage in life where our mind is more closed to the possibility of the abstract, more open to the call of cynicism and lack of attention.

I watched "The Thin Red Line" years ago, and remember thinking that it was OK, but more just another in a long line of war movies. However, I made myself rewatch the movie recently, listening to an internal pull that was telling me that there was something I had missed, some new artistic presence within the movie that I wasn't prepared to embrace at that former point in my life. Usually I'm not a big fan of rewatching a movie, in much the same way that I don't re-read books—I figure there are so many tremendous cinematic and literary works of art out there that to see or read the same one twice only diminishes by one the number that I can absorb in my lifetime. But I am tremendously glad that I took the time to view "The Thin Red Line" again.


Early on, the narration in this abstract movie reminds one of "Forrest Gump," but you begin to get used to it, and then revel in the revealings. "The Thin Red Line" is part poem and part film; it's part love story and part war story; it's part optimism and part pessimism. In essence, it's a film of contrasts, a movie of questions, a work of art that calls on the viewer to engage directly, to work to stay involved, to call certain beliefs into question.

Powered by an incredible cast, it involves an internal look at Charlie Company, with thoughts from a disparate range of various characters, revealed as voiceovers. At one glance, it appears to be a movie about the pregnant-pause-laden dynamic between the characters of Jim Caviezel (Private Witt) and Sean Penn (Sergeant Welsh), with Witt being the martyr, the Jesus-like character invested in the beauty around him in the midst of war, saying, "War don't enoble men; it turns 'em into dogs." He muses, ""This great evil … where'd it come from? How did it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from?" Welsh is the pragmatist, a hard-nosed cynic who has been too damaged and broken by the events around him to give too much thought to the aesthetics of a dying bird. He counters Witt by noting, "There's not some other world out there where everything's gonna be OK. There's just this one, just this rock … In this world, a man, himself, is nothing. And there ain't no world but this one … We're living in a world that's blowing itself to hell as fast as everybody can arrange it." But Witt refuses to give up on his sergeant, maintaining that "I still see a spark in you." Later, as he kneels over Witt's body, Welsh whispers, "Where's your spark now?"


"The Thin Red Line" offers a distracted view, with a wide variety of perspectives on war and humanity, but it's a very beautiful film, filled with haunting music and bold intensity. Director Terrence Malick uses a rolling cinematography approach in certain scenes, which serves to make you feel as if you're directly "in" the action. Centered mainly around Charlie Company's extended assault on a hill held by the Japanese in Guadalcanal during World War II, we are shown the limits of human endurance, where some reach the breaking point. It's rife with symbolism, with the loveliness of the hill's wind-rippled grasses overlaid with the horror of the blood staining it, with smoke as a spirit, with the final image of a tiny island with a plant at the end, before the fade to black, signifying that true beauty can still be possible on a tiny island in the midst of turmoil. We see that Witt was that island, that he had a grace and a beauty, even among the terror and horror of war, leading to his loss being felt by so many, even though they may not have known him so well.

Boasting tremendous intensity and vivid camera work, the film also isn't above relying on a few clichés, including Woody Harrelson's character muttering, "I'm cold, I'm cold," as he's dying, as well as an amazing and memorable turn by Nick Nolte as the quintessential crusty Lieutenant Colonel Tall. Captain Staros (Elias Koteas) and Tall face off as examples of competing leadership approaches, heading up the idea of sacrifice vs. strategy. Tall forces Staros to consider how many lives the objective is worth, then accuses him of not being of tough enough fiber to lead men into war. As Staros is relieved of his duty, he emotionally tells his men, "Dear sons, you live inside me now." The performances of both Nolte and Koteas are incredible in their fitting understatement.


Another noteworthy storyline involves Private Bell (Ben Chaplin), who intersplices the cruelty and brutality of war with flashbacks of a simpler life back home, to intimate moments with his beloved. In one of a number of touching love-note voiceovers, Bell says/writes, "My dear wife, you get something twisted out of your insides by all this blood, filth, and noise. I want to stay changeless for you. I want to come back to you the man I was before." He also says, "Where does it come from? Who lit this flame in us? No war can put it out, conquer it. I was a prisoner. You set me free." However, Bell eventually receives a letter from his wife telling him she is leaving him for another man, the tender love notes destroyed by the reality of unfaithfulness. He writes back, "People who've been as close as we've been always meet again … Help me leave you," and finally ends with, "If I never met you in this life, let me feel the lack; a glance from your eyes and my life will be yours."

The bliss of numbness permeates the haunting chaos surrounding these men, who eventually encounter briefly touched upon difficulties in fitting in anywhere after the war. Again, the idea of morality as it relates to the military rears its head, with the inevitable question chasing these men after the war: am I bad because I was a soldier?

"The Thin Red Line" was nominated for seven Oscars, yet it remains a somewhat overlooked and underrated film. Based on an autobiographical novel written by James Jones in 1962, it was first made into a movie in 1964, in a version that dwelled mainly on the Tall-Welsh relationship. Malick took on the project, but it took him 20 years to complete, finishing in 1998. Due to the difficulty of filming on Guadalcanal (50% malaria rate), the flick was shot primarily in Queensland, Australia, and some in the Soloman Islands.


Besides Caviezel, Penn, Nolte, Chaplin, Koteas and Harrelson, this film also featured Adrien Brody, George Clooney, John Cusack, Thomas Jane, Jared Leto, Tim Blake Nelson, John C. Reilly, John Travolta, Nick Stahl ("Carnivale") and Kirk Acevedo ("Fringe," "Oz"), among others. The phenomenal cast was no accident; a ton of other notable actors were originally in the movie, including Billy Bob Thornton (who had three hours worth of voiceovers eliminated), Martin Sheen, Gary Oldman, Jason Patric, Bill Pullman, Lukas Haas, Viggo Mortensen and Mickey Rourke. Drawn by Malick's impeccable reputation, ensemble cast and dramatic return to film-making after an extended absence, basically every major male actor of the time approached Malick about wanting to be in the movie. Upon meeting Malick, Penn reportedly said, "Give me a dollar and tell me where to show up." However, the extensive cutting involved in the final version upset some of the actors, most notably Brody, whose larger part was severely diminished. The end result is reportedly much, much different than what was initially shot, but no full-length DVD has ever been released that includes the deleted materials, leading to something of an underground movement to get Malick to do so.

Famed director Martin Scorsese called "The Thin Red Line" his second-favorite film of the 1990s, and it did win the top prize at the Berlin International Film Festival. The first time I saw it, I was a much different person; my mind was too closed to fully experience and embrace the abstract and beautiful aspects of this tremendous film. But sometimes, the genius is in the rediscovery … as I truly and finally learned.

Limerick Friday LXXXXXXXXIII: News Dominated By Cheating, Double Standards And Ass Whoopin's In Sports

One arm is twice as big as the other
Has a haircut only loved by his mother
He had never lost on the clay courts of France
Even though he wears girly capris as pants
Nadal's streak ended, but will Federer start another?

Another year, Ohio State again beaten by tons
Another season, the Buckeyes leave with beaten buns
But this time it wasn't the SEC
It wasn't even football, you see
Instead of points, this time they got crushed by 31 runs

Corruption has reached the rankings of our higher schools
Are you shocked, considering some of these gene pools?
Manipulation makes U.S. News & World Report a joke
As integrity winds up going up in smoke
Is it Clemson or the magazines that are run by fools?

Some question the double standard of the NCAA
Some are untouchable, like Roy Williams and Coach K
Big programs usually get a free pass
While others get knocked on their ass
But not sure I'd be defending Calipari if I was UK

For the longest time, thugs resided over at the U
But now it's Urban Meyer who is running a criminal zoo
Arrests are stacking up like Tim Tebow bibles
But the Gators aren't questioned like their in-state rivals
You don't think the media falls for stereotypes, do you?

The best team in the history of the ACC?
57-1 over two years was a sight to see
The '74 Wolfpack boasted the incomparable DT
Towe, Burleson and Stoddard, also a formidable three
Under Sloan, they ended the Bruin dynasty with glee

Last time …

Have I Really Lived If I've Never Been Cursed Out By Pauly Shore?

There are surreal times that we all encounter that make it seem as if our lives are passing in a matter of moments. This guy, Chris Milk, captured that feeling in an epic fashion in this short video, shot for the 42 Second Dream Film Festival in Beijing, China, this year.

It seems all the more poignant to me after all that has happened in the past year. Anyway ... enjoy.

Last Day Dream [HD] from Chris Milk on Vimeo.

Father of the Year, Killer Biscuits And Golf Gone Wild: Welcome To FAIL Blog

One of the tremendous new sites that's stumbled across the Scooter & Hum desk is FAIL Blog. Among the many daily pearls of wisdom available from this reservoir of degradation are the following:

The 2009 Butner Father/Doucheneck of the Year, Billy Joe Jim Bob Jason Ray, Jr.:


The Pillsbury Doughboy be capping bitches over at the Teeter:


And what happens when former MSI execs go mini-gimping golfing:


So be sure to put FAIL Blog in your Google Reader (or check it routinely in my links list to the left) and get a wee dose of funny with your morning cup o' joe …

"Prayers for Rain" Offers Glimpse Into Lehane's Fun, If Unrefined, Roots

“‘Hey, it’s nature, right? You live, you die, people cry, and then they think about where they’re gonna eat.’”

Early Dennis Lehane novels are quick and easy to read, perfect for the plane or beaches. His earlier works read more along the lines of James Patterson, with gripping storylines, a tendency to rely on cliché and prose that is in the process of being developed. You can sense the great writer just underneath, during sweeping lines of lofty prose in the midst of rather mundane dialogue; these are glimpses of the writer who truly arrived with "Mystic River" and "Shutter Island."

But "Prayers for Rain" falls into the former category, written in '99, and introducing me to the detective duo of Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro. This novel is the last in the five-book series of Kenzie-Gennaro tales, and features a gripping opening that is somewhat surreal. The writing is good, and even though Lehane tends to rely on a few too many clichés here, he does slide in some humor. The character of Bubba is a bit too much of a goodfella from Central Casting and some of the technology feels a bit dated now (again, written a decade ago), but there is no argument that Lehane spins a great yarn.

His early description of Kenzie's client, Karen Nichols, was tremendous:

“The first time I met Karen Nichols, she struck me as the kind of woman who ironed her socks … She had a stuffed animal collection, I was pretty sure. Her totaled Corolla had either a smiley face or a Jesus fish affixed to the bumper. She read John Grisham novels, listened to soft rock, loved going to bridal showers, and had never seen a Spike Lee movie.
“She had never expected anything like this to happen in her life.”

There was also an unexpectedly funny (and apropos?) description of the name Scott:

"I had to work at it to begin thinking of him as Scott and not Wesley. The name Wesley had fit him—patrician and haughty and cold. Scott seemed too bland and middle class. Wesley was the name of the guy you knew in college who was captain of the golf team and didn't like blacks at his parties. Scott was the guy who wore tank tops and loud baggy shorts, organized pickup games, and puked in the back of your car."

I finished "Prayers for Rain" in just a couple of days, and the riveting ending leaves you ready to read the next Kenzie-Gennaro tale. There is little question that Lehane has evolved as a writer, but one hopes that the somewhat unanticipated commercial and cinematic success of movies like "Gone Baby Gone," "Mystic River" and the soon-to-be-released "Shutter Island" don't lead to a diminishment of his writing skills. One hopes that, in the future, Lehane occasionally returns to his Kenzie-Gennaro roots … which may not be as refined, but may just be a little more fun.