Disappointing Cultural Icons, Part 1: Pat's King of Steaks

I take cooking very seriously. To cook for someone is to show them you care enough about them to provide them with sustenance. It's like a reminder to people that you're happy they're alive. And food isn't a difficult science; if you know a couple of techniques, you can make fresh, quality ingredients taste wonderful. It's more difficult when you get into the art side of it. It's another form of self-expression. It doesn't need to be fancy to be good. Consider Eric Ripert (think reepear, not rippert): he owns four restaurants, including Le Bernardin, which is one of the most highly-regarded restaurants in Manhattan. You would think that he'd be somewhat of a snob about how he cooks or what he considers good food. Yet, his blog is comprised of videos in which he cooks good food in a toaster oven. There's nothing complex about anything he's cooking. He leaves out the pan-flipping and braising and straining and all of the other intimidating techniques used by the cooks of fine food. If you have ever wanted to learn how to cook delicious food, but have been daunted by the difficulty (it's all in your head, baby) of preparing food, watch Eric Ripert's "Get Toasted" series of videos. He should be linked somewhere to your right.

That being said, about a 15 months ago I went to Boston with a bunch of my buds, Alden and Andy of "comments" fame included. We were there for Alden's bachelor party and on the way home our friend Andrew took us on a detour through Philadelphia for one reason: to get one of their famous cheese steaks. While most of us were tired and just wanted to get home, we welcomed the pit stop (even if it was a bit out of the way) because we were curious about the much highly-lauded exploits of Pat's and Geno's, and more so because we were sick of regular road fast food. So we made our way into Philadelphia and parked across from Pat's King of Steaks.

At first glance it seemed like the perfect place to pick up some good street food. We might have gone to Geno's first, but the line seemed too long. Little did we know that the lines move fast at these places. After a quick tutorial of how to order given by Andrew, we reached the front of the line. With his able guidance, we successfully ordered and avoided the shame associated with being sent to the back of the line. It was like I was back in elementary school. With sandwich and beverage in tow, our group moved to the benches to eat our meal. We eagerly opened the hot package and dug in.

What went on in my mind, simultaneously, during that first bite are better expressed by bullet points. So, here's a chew-by-chew update:

• The bread doesn't seem to be that great. Clearly it was freshly baked, but when? It seems like there is more bread than needed.
  
• The cheese doesn't feel or taste like real cheese. It tastes like "cheez" which is not surprising because it is Cheez Whiz.
  
• The onions are not done and don't add much to the sandwich. Not sweet enough.
• The meat is kind of mealy. Mealy and greasy. And BLAND.
  
• The sandwich lacks something that I never thought it would: salt. Not just salt, but salt and pepper. It's as if the meat was not seasoned before cooking. You need to season the meat. You need to season EVERYTHING. If you don't, food comes off tasting bland.

Not to knock them too much, but Pat's was entirely disappointing. The greasiness, the blandness and the staleness really turned me off to Philly Cheese steaks. Am I saying, blatantly, that I could do better?

Screw it.

Yeah. I'll say that. I can do better.

I don't think it's a matter of the food quality, though. I think where Pat's is lacking is the way they cook. It's literally an assembly line. You spout off the coded order to them. The bread guy cuts the bread, the steak guy puts in the steak and vegetables, the cheese guy puts the cheez on top and the wrapper wraps things up. You get served withing 3 minutes of ordering. They're open 24/7. They must assemble thousands of sandwiches a day. Where's the love in that? In that respect, what's the difference between Pat's and McDonald's?

Come around here one day and I'll make good on the claim that I can do better. Anybody can do better if they put a little bit of heart into it.

The Crossroads of My World or How Elton John Ruined My Day

The crossroad of 355 and Shady Grove Road is a major area of Gaithersburg. If you go straight on 355, you go either to Gaithersburg proper and Germantown:if you're going the opposite direction, to the dreaded Rockville. If you go down Shady Grove Road, you end up in either Darnestown or the boonies. Whenever I'm driving on 355, it's usually to turn left onto Shady Grove Road, where the major post office for the area is. Where my netflix movies go when I send them back. So why wait for the movies to filter into the Shady Grove Post Office when I can just bring them there myself, right? The sooner netflix gets them, the sooner I get more movies.

So the thing about the 355-Shady Grove Road crossroad is that it's also bum central. Not so much bum central like a bus depot at Lakeforest Mall, but more of a place that the homeless people of the Gaithersburg area hang out and ask for change. I don't look down on these people because obviously they're battling with some heavy shit that, hopefully, I'll never understand. I'll usually hand them a couple of bucks (if I have it) because if they're willing to swallow their pride and put the abject poverty they're living with on full display by standing at the side of the road with a cardboard sign, they've earned a couple of my non-earned dollars, or at the very least, my respect. What if they're using it for drugs or booze, you ask? That's not for me to judge. They need the money more than I do. But this post isn't meant to be a lecture on the ethics of giving to the poor or a display of my preeminent magnanimity (the queue forms to the left, ladies).

Yesterday I was driving to the post office to drop off my netflix movies. I decided it would be a fine day to roll down the windows, damning the air conditioning and those who need it. Before I go on, I should also mention that I'm one of those assholes who plays his music loud when he's driving with his windows down. I don't offer any excuses for it, nor do I make any apologies: it's just part of who I am. If people don't want to hear Rachmaninoff or Robyn or RZA or any of the other hip R musicians, they can go climb a tree. So I'm driving around, windows down, listening to Honky Chateau by Elton John. As I'm nearing the 355-Shady Grove crossroads, the last seconds of "Amy" are dying down and one of my favorite Elton John songs comes on: "Mona Lisas and Madhatters". For the benefit of the story, give it a listen here.



Did ya do it? No?

Well listen! Here's another link to a non-Mandy Moore cover of the song. If you're too lazy for that, here are the lyrics. Trust me. You need to know the song to get the story.

And now I know
Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City

Until you've seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the Lord there's people out there like you
I thank the Lord there's people out there like you

While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can't and that is why
They know not if it's dark outside or light

This Broadway's got
It's got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I'll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City

Subway's no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the Lord for the people I have found
I thank the Lord for the people I have found

You get the point. It's about generosity in the face of selfishness and consumerism. That's a bit of an over-simplification, but you get it. Back to the story.


I stop at the red light, waiting for the turn arrow grant me passage to Shady Grove Road, while the first verse of the song ends. There is a homeless man standing right next to my car. It's clear that he can hear and is listening to the song. By the end of the chorus, another homeless man had joined the other next to my car. Then another. Then another. Just like those birds in that movie about the scary birds (Labyrinth?). The leader of the pack looks at me bashfully, puppy-dog eyes and all. I stare back, scared, and shrug my shoulders while giving them the international sign for "Sorry, I'm Broke." It's all Elton's fault. I' was sitting there at the stop light with the hoi polloi of Gaithersburg glaring at me because I didn't have any money to give them.

So I rolled up my window, turned on my air conditioning and waited until the light changed. I felt like such an asshole.

The Miracle, The Quest and The Conundrum

This morning I was supposed to have taken some assessment tests for a potential job (knock on wood), but there was a conflict with their scheduling and I had to reschedule for tomorrow. I love it when things like this happen. If you know me well (and some of you do) you're aware that when something important or exciting is happening, the night before I rarely get any good sleep. I drift off into this delicate reverie where I'm neither quite asleep nor quite awake. I imagine this painful, annoying middle ground is as close to hell as I've ever been. Thank you unnamed bringer of employment for allowing me the luxury of deep sleep.


I've decided to give up television for the month of August. I think television is my old standby when things get boring, so if I take it out of the equation maybe I'll suddenly become more productive in other areas of my life, most notably the romantic area (hurry up ladies: The Sisterhood of Traveling Pants 2 comes out soon and someone needs a date! The queue forms to the left). So I'm giving it up under a couple of conditions. I am allowed to:

1. watch Mad Men. Because it's amazing and I'm going to wait a year to watch it on DVD.
2. watch movies that have been rented from either Blockbusters or Netflix.
   
3. watch television if I am drifting off to sleep. Then it's more of a sleep aid than anything, so that's okay.

So there it is. No television for a month. I'll keep you updated. Feel free to play along.


Shouldn't it be called The Olive Orchard? Or The Olive Grove? I have no beef with Darden Restaurants, but the olive tree has been around for thousands of years. Trees do not grow in gardens. They grow in groves and when they bear fruit the groves are also called orchards. Not gardens. Gardens are not orchards. Gardens are for plants that thrive in undergrowth. If there are shit loads of trees around, there shouldn't be a whole lot of undergrowth. Again...their food is fine, but the name kind of makes me want to scream. Because olives don't grow in gardens.

Batman is Serious Business

I saw The Dark Knight last Friday and, despite all of the insufferable hype that has been affixed to it, the film does not disappoint. I think it's a fantastic film, but I'm not quite sure it's as good as the first. The first film explores Batman a little more thoroughly than the second does and in The Dark Knight it feels that Batman is something of a side note to the Joker. That's just me picking nits, though. It's a great movie.

There is one thing that I hated about it, though. It has nothing to do with the film itself. It's more of a byproduct of the film. Remember when people started quoting Dave Chappelle and Superbad?

Now you're going to hear people start saying "Why so serious" all the time. Thank you, makers of The Dark Knight. Thank you. Even as I type this I know some jerk is going to leave a comment asking why I'm so serious.


In other news, Mike Myers has said that The Love Guru was a tribute to his recently-deceased father. He must have really hated his dad.

Getting to Know You

In the interest of being more forthcoming with my readers and because this post should be a guest post, I thought I'd do a survey. Not just any survey, though, but the questionnaire from Inside the Actor's Studio originally popularized by Bernard Pivot. I can't forget to give him some credit.

First, though, some thoughts on the questionnaire.

• James Lipton is 81. 81! I can't think of any octogenarians that look nearly as good as him. He's downright spry! For all the fuss that is made about Keith Richards' immortality, we should be talking about Jimmy the Lip. That's what I call him.
• Bernard Pivot adapted his questionnaire from a questionnaire that Marcel Proust would take periodically throughout his life. I can't help sneering when people deify Proust. I guess I can't divorce him from his work (he was a spoiled, asthmatic, rich kid who seemed to be seeking ennui and depression out in his latter days.) in the same way people can't divorce Woody Allen from his work. It just irks me when people don't use their affluence and play at having a horrible life. Money may not buy happiness, but it sure takes some of the pressure off. Before I get off my high horse, I should mention that I have not completed anything by Proust and he very well may be the best thing since Nutella.
• Asthma seems like it was the "it" disease back when Proust was alive. Not to say that it's cool to have asthma. It's not. Trust me. But it seems like it was the hot-button disease of the late-19th century. So when Michael Savage spouted off an ignorant rant about autism, he may have actually touched on something. Having worked with a severely autistic child at a summer camp years ago, I know that autism isn't a joke and that Savage was fundamentally undereducated about the disease, but when he mentions that it's a hot-button issue, he's right. The media is covering autism in the same way they did ADD a decade ago and mass-hysteria has gotten to the point where parents will avoid vaccinating their children for fear of autism. It's certainly good that people are aware and talking about it because autism, while not as nasty as polio or rubella, is devious and life-changing for the afflicted and everyone they interact with. Autism is bad news bears and Savage is stupid for not realizing that, but, like a broken clock, he hits on one very interesting point: autism is a popular subject. Maybe this will lead to a cure or a vaccine or something.
  
• Peter Tork, former Monkee, is an advice columnist. If my life ever gets so bad that I need to take advice from one of the Monkees, please commit me.
• I feel like I need to get a girlfriend and fast. Why? Because The Sisterhood of Traveling Pants II comes out in a week and going with a girl might make me more comfortable...and less creepy. Does that make me certifiably insane?
• Whenever I have these bullet-point snippets I have this weird compulsion to make them all come full circle. So...isn't it crazy that America Ferrera hasn't been on Inside the Actor's Studio yet? Her career has sky-rocketed in the past couple of years. It's not like she hasn't doe as much as Hugh Jackman or Teri Hatcher. Just sayin'.
• And...full circle.

Onto the survey. Feel free to play along and do your own in the comment section. Comments are always appreciated. If you're still with me, congratulations.

What is your favorite word?
My favorite words are insouciance, periphery, jejune and braggadocio. I wish there was a story behind it. I just like those words.
What is your least favorite word?
Sluice. More for the way it looks than the way it sounds. I love the way "juice" sounds. I love the way "slice" looked. Mix 'em up and you get something horrible. Like eggs and ketchup. Ick.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Humility in spite of one's talent level, passion, nonchalance. And tits?
What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Arrogance and false humility.
What sound or noise do you love?
Engines whirring, the laughter of others, far away thunder, the music I like, four-part harmony.
What sound or noise do you hate?
This is something I hate more than anything in the world: metal spoons on ceramic bowls. I hate that sound. When I live in my own house I'm going to insist upon people using plastic spoons.
What is your favorite curse word?
I can't say it's a favorite, but I find "fuck" to be the most utilitarian.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Chef, film director, anything in the creative division of an advertising firm, architecture, music teacher.
What profession would you not like to do?
Anything where I'm not creating anything. I can live with having a normal 9 to 5 for a little while, but I think I need to create.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I have no idea where this will lead us, but I have a definite feeling it will be a place both wonderful and strange."


Have a good weekend.

The Day I Turned Into A Different Blogger

ZOMG Look at THIS hot mess! He's So OLD!!! I bet he can't even last 8 years in the White House. This is serious business. I bet he's so old that when he was in school there was no history class. I bet he's SO OLD that he was the busboy at the Last Supper. I bet he's so old that his social security number is 1!!! He's so old...he couldn't be the next prez. Plus he's a total creeper.



He best step off Barack Obama before I come over to his house and slap him! OMG I'd be like "You better take the bass out of your voice when you're talking to me, McCain." and then I'd smack him silly.


(new, real post tomorrow because I'm bad at planning for guest writers)

Nutella: God's Joke on Humanity

Recently I've been discovering an array of new foodstuffs, both as an active departure from the food I've eaten for the past couple of years and because I've been just plain curious. This is what happens when you've been underemployed for two years.

So I was walking through the local grocery with my father and I picked up a jar of Nutella. I've never had it, but I've always stayed away from it thinking I hate hazelnuts. Well, I don't hate hazelnuts, it turns out. It also turns out that Nutella is the most delicious substance known to man. I mean, look at it. Just look at it!

It has this satiny texture and the combination of hazelnuts and chocolate is perfect. There remains one problem, though.



What the hell do you put it on? Is this some kind of cosmic joke? I find something as wonderful as this and nothing to put it on! You can't just eat spoonfuls of it. That would be overkill. I asked my friend Andy what he puts it on. His answer? Crepes. And me without a crepe pan. Fuck. My mother suggested white bread, but I think white bread is kind of disgusting. A noble suggestion, but it doesn't work either. Nilla Wafers? Not quite. Shortbread? Wrong again.

So now I'm left with a 3/4 filled jar of Nutella. Just sitting there.

The Most Mediocre Ways To Spend Your Time: Part 1

When I was touring The Netherlands a decade ago with my family, we stopped at an artisan cheese factory. Why? I'm not entirely sure. That's just what you do in The Netherlands when you're 15, sober, with your family and looking for something to do. We saw some canals, went into an honest-to-God working windmill (which is actually kind of horrifying) and saw some Rembrandt. That's just what you do. Visiting a cheese factory is the next logical step. Trust me. If you're lucky, an arrant stream of pepper spray may be shot, accidentally, into your face (another story for another post). Only if you're lucky, though.


Visiting that cheese factory wasn't so horrible, though. It was cheesy-smelling and we got to sample some fresh edam, which I will probably never do again. It's interesting to see different cultures making cheese. Pun intended. (See what I did there?)

So when I started watching the first season of Ghost Whisperer on DVD, I was immediately reminded of Holland and that cheese factory. It's a show that's better watched when you're doing something else, like writing a paper or doing your taxes or playing Civ IV.

It's not a bad show: the ghosts are startling and Jennifer Love Hewitt plays the character as well as can be expected. It doesn't hurt that she's absolutely adorable. She is a counterpoint to her brassy NBC counterpoint, Patricia Arquette from Medium. The difference between the shows is that The Ghost Whisperer is much more formulaic. JLH sees a ghost, makes contact with it, understands how she can help it, and finally helps it "cross over". It's not rocket science. The alive people she tells about her gift of seeing ghosts always think she's crazy. She always wins in the end and nothing is ever left unresolved. Nice, easy cheese.

Like I said, it's not a bad show as much as it is a mediocre one. But a good mediocrity, not the kind that makes you want to die. At least not yet. I'm not better for having watched it, but it passed the time and sometimes that's all we need, right?

Down the Rabbit Hole or Reginald and Jim Watch Some Smut

The other day (when everything happens), Reggie Hopscotch and I decided to take a tour of the Internet. Reg has not quite grasped our technology since the great thaw so I thought I'd lend him a hand. We checked out facebook, which he is part of, and all of the other networking sites. Then we saw a fine array of news sites.

"What of sport?!" he asked and we checked out espn, foxsports, mtvsports, foodtvsports, and aint it sports news.com. Our examination of all things sport was exhaustive and exhausting, mostly because I had to explain to him how "big metal chariots sail around a big, black river with so much haste." It took me a couple of minutes to realize he meant NASCAR. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it's one of the most popular "sports" today.

Poor Reginald was pretty pooped after the sports extravaganza. He asked, with a raised eyebrow and a hushed tone, whether the Internet had any sites that "appealed to the discerning gentleman." I sat there in confusion and typed the links to here and here, thinking it would sate his needs. He browsed the sites for a minute or two.

"While I'm impressed by these two electronic sites, Jim, I'm not quite sure it's what I had in mind." I asked him what, exactly, it was he wanted to see. He thought for a second, as if trying to find a way to explain himself to a three-year-old. "Something a little more provocative. Something a little more...bawdy."

Oh.
Porn.
He wanted porn.
Great. There's not much that skeeves me out more than watching porn with other people, unless I'm about to give my lady the business.

We started with the obvious sites and continued to the less obvious sites for two hours. It was like we were walking down a very dark alley, stealing glimpses of intimacy, but continuing until we saw something bigger, better, baser, and more disgusting. We ended up watching a fairly explicit video on a free movie website whose name is a not-so-clever play on the more famous youtube. We clicked on one of the highest-rated videos. In the video, a bland...err...blond girl is being interviewed about things of a sexual nature. I've seen this kind of thing before: it's merely a prelude to main attraction. This one was a bit disturbing, though, because when the action started Reginald and I could tell that the girl was 100% not into it. Clearly she had been duped and didn't know she'd be getting her tonsils checked by a young man wielding a bayonet. The worst part was that the man was "guiding" (ramming) her head back and forth, presumably to test her gag reflex. The girl's eyes start to water a little and she makes this face...like she's tasting something rotten (which, I guess, she is) or like she's in a great amount of physical or emotional peril (which, again, I guess she is). But, after the vocal protests of the girl (a gurgled "mmm. MMMMM!!!" that I still remember), the man stopped, removed his member and...started all over again, riveting away at the back of the poor girl's throat.

"Jim?" Reginald asked, but with reluctance in his voice.
"Yeah?" I answered, a bit shell-shocked by such a violent display.
"Why do people watch this?"
"I don't know, man."

And I don't know why people find that particular video (and millions of videos like it) arousing. I understand that there's a wide variety of sexual desires and proclivities. It would be short-sighted of me to say which are right and which are wrong. I don't think there's anything wrong with the people who like the kind of thing Reginald and I saw. Personally, I have always had a big problem with making girls do things that they don't want to do. It's a huge turn-off for me if I notice that a girl just isn't into it. But that might just be me. Maybe I'm wrong and the real men are right. That's fine if they like seeing girls dominated to the point of pain. I can't fault people for liking that, can I?

On the other hand, I can't help but be a little judgmental of it. What I saw offends me, not so much because it degrades the girl (she certainly had some hand in degrading herself), but it degrades men even more. It paints this picture that we are cavemen who don't really care whether we're boring a hole through the back of our mate's head, as long as we get off! Is that what it means to be masculine? Taking all media, pornography included, into consideration, to be masculine is to only care about one's self. When did this happen? Haven't things changed?

What makes a man: compassion and empathy or force and lack of emotion? If we go by pornography's example, it's the latter.

Guest Writer: Doug Roberts - On Television

Doug Roberts is a big, bright, shining star. For the decade or so I've known him he's always been the talented one. You know, the guy who is just inexplicably good at most everything he does? Those guys are bastards, but Doug has always been different because he's so humble and generous. He's so bright that even his few short-comings are endearing. Well, as you are bound to read shortly, writing is not one of those few short-comings. I'm not surprised. He's thoughtful and the following piece is both great and small in scope with an added bit of poignancy toward the end. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention his music, which can be found here. I can't say that it's innovative in the way that TV on the Radio is, but they are almost impossible to listen to (unlike Doug). He has an uncanny feel for pop music and he writes very good songs. Give him a listen. You won't regret it and I'm sure nobody would be pisses off if you told your friends. I hope you enjoy this post as much as I did. Enjoy the weekend.
-Jim

On Television by Doug Roberts

Like many other people of worth and dignity, I've watched Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader. For those of you unfamiliar with the format, a contestant tries to correctly answer ten questions with the help of five school children. Sometimes the contestants are dullards, sometimes they're moderately bright... it doesn't really matter. As far as game shows go, it isn't remarkable. Jeff Foxworthy is an engaging host and helps to bring out the best and worst in his contestants. Occasionally, he also teaches proper grammar (which is a real treat).

In all honesty, I'd completely forgotten about the show until I saw it again tonight. It premiered in February of 2007 and I have no idea what's happened on the show between then and now. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the group of children had changed, as I wasn't too fond of the original cast. I mean, I'm pretty sure I'd never want to hang out with a group of 5th graders in any social setting, but especially bookish nerdy ones (if only to forget about myself in my younger years). Out of the original group, there’s only one kid who made them especially hard to bear.

His name is Jacob. He's a smug ninny who flaunts his knowledge every chance he gets. Even if he's not the chosen helper for the contestant, he sneers for the camera and acts like he’s above the material. He's like Draco Malfoy but on a smaller stage, which makes his pride that much more despicable. Thankfully, this season's class doesn't have anyone nearly as bad as him. However, tonight's episode was a special "Visiting Class" episode, which meant that last season's kids were back. There were two contestants and each one picked that little buttsniffer for two questions. Always Jacob. Never not Jacob.

I know from an outsider’s perspective that it doesn’t make sense how much I hate this kid. I mean, at first glance, it really doesn’t make sense to hate any TV characters, much less child actors, but the hatred is still palpable and real. I might be able to convert the energy that this raw hate breeds into something more productive, but feelings just are. The same hate I have for smug people in real life is going to carry over for smug people in far away places. Just because we may never personally interact with someone doesn’t mean that the affections we have for them are any less real.

I think the television fills a weird space in our lives. In general, I believe people used to live in closer communities where they knew their role. However, those roles proved unequitable and people began looking elsewhere for fulfillment. As our society has slowly become more equitable, we’ve also lost the purpose that our previous bonds afforded us. As a result, we don’t know how to talk to strangers because we don’t assume we have anything in common. But with television, we get to watch all sorts of people unlike ourselves within the comfort of our homes. We can watch people and not be responsible for maintaining a relationship; we can just think and feel without the baggage (which is both a good and bad thing).

From my personal experience, television and movies are where I built the foundation of my social skills. I didn’t really talk much to people at school, but I could come home and watch shows like the Simpsons to see how people interacted. Even if I didn’t know how to engage people, Wayne Campbell could show me how to be popular with his happy-go-lucky attitude. For years, I was convinced that high school would be like Saved By the Bell (and college would be like the College Years).

Yet high school wasn’t like Saved by the Bell (nor was college like the College Years) and I lost my faith in scripted shows, though game shows maintained the same charm they always had. Game shows bring together groups of people who seem like they never left their home town and force them to interact with others for money. I guess that’s what I like about game shows the most; I feel like I’m watching ordinary people trying to make the best out of being thrust into extraordinary circumstances.

When people are put through the fire, their character comes out and people react in many different ways. Some are joyful, some are rude, and some are downright snotty. The great thing about TV is that even if you don’t interact with the rest of the world, you can get a window into other people’s lives and see how others treat each other. Because of TV, I’ve learned (or was reminded) that I hate kids like Jacob. Maybe I can use that knowledge with other people and maybe I can’t, but at least in this case I can change the channel if I don’t like him.

New History

Once in a blue moon I'll stumble onto something amazing that none of my friends (or foes...) have ever seen. One of the funniest videos I've seen on the Internet is so simple that I can't believe I never thought of it.


Drunk History.
Some genius thought that getting a buddy drunk and interviewing them about an historical event would be hilarious. Thank God he was right.

I'll let the videos speak for themselves.

Drunk History (Not Safe For Work due to drunken uses of the word "fuckin'")

Playing With String

Sir Salman Rushdie is one of my favorite writers. One of the reasons I love the way he writes is that it takes so much effort to read. After I get into the rhythm of his prose, I start to understand it more, but I can't bring myself to skim anything. Most writers don't write elegantly enough anymore to stop me from skimming. This doesn't serve to discredit them, but it speaks to Rushdie's genius. Once you start reading his books, you begin to understand the prose, then you start to think like him and maybe, if you're really lucky, you begin to write like him.

Bill O'Reilly is dull-witted and simple. He is not a good writer. He is not a thinker, but a yeller.


That's why this video makes me chuckle a little. Salman Rushdie tolerates his questions, but you can tell that he's batting his head about like a cat would do to a piece of string.


This video is fairly interesting, too. If you're interested in reading anything by Rushdie, pick up his new book The Enchantress of Florence. It's kind of a genre book in the same way the newest Chabon novel is. He comes off as a bit of a provocateur because of the upheaval over The Satanic Verses, but he just writes really creative, fun books. This is a man who really loves storytelling, which is evident if you read one of his books.

None But Ourselves Can Free Our Mind.

I used to love baseball more than just about anything. From first grade until middle school (which started in seventh grade, the way it should be) I collected baseball cards, played baseball games in the field behind my house with the guys (all 4 of us) and I took batting practice about four times a week (with myself as the pitcher and the batter. The physics are mind-boggling). I was obsessed with baseball. No, no. I was possessed by baseball. I was a boy possessed.

Baseball was exorcised from my life, little-by-little, whenever a favorite player was banned for gambling or whenever a favorite player was suspended for drugs, but also when I learned how to play music. As a child, I wanted to be a baseball player and this seemed fairly realistic to me until I started playing music and I wanted to be a professional musician. I wanted to be for the tuba what Caruso was for tenors or what Rostropovich was for cellists, a dream that has proven unattainable, if not because of my talent level than for my lack of desire and work ethic. A dream, though, that was certainly more attainable than being a ball player. It wasn't a bad thing. It just...was.

In college, I fell out of love with playing music and in love, passionately, with film and literature. That is where my loyalties are and perhaps where they always have been. In sixth grade, I wrote a short mystery about a wrongly-diagnosed patient and the doctor who was trying to kill him. I found this story the other day (when everything seems to happen) and can honestly report that while I showed few signs of becoming the next James Patterson, the plot was pretty sophisticated for a sixth grader. Sixth grade was kind of rough because my teacher seemed to be phoning in the entire year. Whenever I aspired for something other than the status quo, my teacher (Ms. Mikus) did her best to stifle my creativity, which may be why I took to music so well; I wasn't ever scolded for writing things inappropriate for my age: I was always pushed and challenged to play beyond my age. Well, I'm proud to say Ms. Mikus couldn't keep me down. I'm back where I have always wanted to be.

But sometimes those old desires creep back. Like whenever I hear a band play or like last night. I don't usually care so much about the MLB Home Run Derby and I've only followed this season of baseball from afar. I'm happy that the Orioles are doing better than they have in a decade. I'm even happier that the Nationals are foundering so immensely. But last night, before I started watching The Ruins, a movie that I was pleasantly surprised by, I turned on the Home Run Derby.

I stopped religiously watching the Home Run Derby almost entirely because of Chris Berman, which is another post entirely, but this year, for no reason, I watched Josh Hamilton step up to the plate. I was interested in him specifically because I feel a sort of bond with him. Hamilton was drafted first overall by the Tampa Bay Rays back in 1999 and signed a contract with them, which immediately put 4 million dollars in his bank account. For reasons that don't really matter, he started experimenting with drugs. Unfortunately, Hamilton's amazing talent couldn't keep him from falling into the dark expanses of addiction and he progressed from pot to coke to heroin. By 2002 Hamilton had pretty much gone and ruined his dream of playing professional baseball.

He wasn't discouraged for very long, though. He got back on his horse (not heroin horse, but the metaphorical one), found Jesus (as most recovering addicts seem to do) and started working out. Soon enough he was re-drafted by the Cincinnati Reds and playing everyday for them. This winter he was traded to the Texas Rangers and was voted as a starter to the American League All Star Team. Last night he batted last in his first (and probably not last) Home Run Derby. Hamilton has been through much more than I have and his struggles have been much more difficult to overcome, but I can't help but feel a kinship to someone like him. Someone who had high expectations thrust upon him and failed to live up to them. Someone who has, no doubt, suffered more from disappointing himself than others. I'm hard on myself like Hamilton must have been. All I have to learn is how to drag myself up from the abyss that I've flung myself into. Hamilton makes me think that it's not only possible, but probable. I love him for making me feel that way.

The pitcher, also Hamilton's little league and high school coach, lobbed fastballs to him. He watch each go by until the perfect pitch was presented to him on a platter and then one, two, three four five home runs later, everybody was on their feet cheering the former addict on. Hamilton ended up hitting 28 home runs in the first round which is a new record, but more impressive was how far he was hitting the balls. Sometimes he'd just barely make it over the fence, but the majority sailed into the crowd with no trouble. In the end Hamilton didn't win, but what he did transcended winning or losing. He captured our hearts and minds, if only for a couple of hours.

That's when my old obsession with baseball came back to me, if only for a short time. I love baseball because ever-present is the possibility of greatness. Even an ex-junkie who didn't pick up a bat for 3 years can have a moment of glory. If only life was like the All Star Game Home Run Derby: we could swing at the perfect pitches and let the bad ones go by. Sometimes we'd swing at the bad ones with mixed results, sometimes sending the ball just over the fence, sometimes missing all together. But in baseball, we can just smash the next pitch out of the park and bask in the adulation the fans pour onto us. In baseball, we can go from zero to hero. That's why I'll always love baseball, if only for seconds at a time and if only in the deepest recess of my mind. In baseball, redemption is just a swing away.

The Poor Judgement Awards

Today's Poor Judgment Award ("The Pudgy") goes to the editorial board at The New Yorker for allowing this (links to Huffington Post article) cover to run unedited.


The cartoon, titled The Politics of Fear, is meant to be satirical: it is satirical. It satirizes the fear-mongering that politicos use to sully Barack Obama's character. It's a representation of what Obama's opponents want you to think so that you will vote for the other guy (or gal). Although it's provocative, Barry Blitt's (the artist) intention is obviously to point out the absurdities of branding the Obamas as unpatriotic (even in some cases implying that they have links to terrorism). The satire is obvious and it raises very good point. There's only one problem.

Understanding this picture is almost entirely contingent upon knowing its title. If this illustration was untitled, it would certainly be presumptuous, offensive and libelous. The title is part of the satirical nature of the illustration. Looking at pictures of the cover, though, no title is present. Oops.

Many people will ask why The New Yorker ran this cover, but that's not the right question. They should be questioning why they printed it without a title. The people at The New Yorker are not stupid; they hit the nail right on the head as far as satire goes. The satire is valid and relevant. Now, though, because of the way they decided to publish it, they allow (and compel) people to misinterpret the illustration in whatever manner they are prone to.

Way to go editors of The New Yorker. This could have been avoided with a cover line. I don't blame them for publishing a provocative political illustration because that's what they do. They are guilty of bad judgment, though, for omitting a cover line.

Guest Writer: Alden Michels - Sacrosanctimonious: The Glorification of Dead Celebrities

Since the inception of this blog, Alden Michels has been ubiquitous in the comments section, usually in some form of disagreement. This doesn't really come as much of a surprise because we've been disagreeing with each other about things since we became good friends a decade ago. I value his opinions very much, not because they are uniquely his, but because they tend to keep me honest. He always brings up compelling points and I admire how quickly he thinks on his feet. So enjoy Alden's post, I think it makes for some pretty interesting reading. See you Monday.

Sacrosanctimonious: The Glorification of Dead Celebrities

By Alden Michels

No one gives a damn about Tim Russert. Not really. I never cared for him much. In fact there were several times during his career that I found his exploits downright shameful. I thought he was far too willing to accept the Bush Administration’s answers with few follow up questions even after it was patently obvious they had lied in the past to him on his show. I also think he showed blatant hostility toward Hillary Clinton on two separate occasions when he was supposed to be the moderator of the debate. As a journalist, I thought he was overrated and I constantly wished they had a different host of Meet the Press.

Still reading? I should amend the first sentence; I mean no one in the general public. Obviously his family, friends and colleagues care. Now, I’d love to say that I said the above for sheer shock value, but I meant it, and while it might be insensitive, it is honest. I have heard several people who knew him speak in hallowed tones of his good nature and professionalism. In fact it’s all I heard for weeks on end, and that talk spilled over to conversations I heard in the workplace, standing in line, in restaurants. People spoke of him as if they were going to miss him, despite the fact that they never actually met him. And then his son’s eulogy was repeated ad nauseum ad infinitum, which resulted in his son making the talk show rounds to discuss it. A public funeral is one thing, but a televised funeral used to sell ad space to Johnson & Johnson makes me a bit sick.

It reminded me of when Heath Ledger passed away before his time and people began to draw ludicrous parallels from him to Marlon Brando. I thought he was a good actor, but not even in Brando’s area code. I was very careful not to mention that I thought his work in Brokeback Mountain was vastly overrated. Everyone was afraid to say anything negative about him. Well, everyone except John Gibson. The reverence for Mr. Ledger continues today with the impending release of The Dark Knight with record numbers of advance tickets being sold and Oscar Buzz already generating for his turn as the Joker. It very well may be an incredible performance, but would the buzz be as strong if it were not shown posthumously?

I wondered for a long time; why do people attach such meaning to people they have never met? What did Russert or Ledger mean to any of them? And why did any negative talk of them have to be stifled? We, as a culture, are so afraid to speak ill of the dead. That is understandable. Certainly comments like the ones Gibson said about Ledger are inappropriate, especially when children are involved. But does that mean he has to become the finest actor of our generation? Does death really turn Heath Ledger into Marlon Brando and Tim Russert into Edward R. Murrow? Is it not only dishonest, but disrespectful to the memories of the truly great? Isn’t this affected sadness a presumptuous attitude posed by an invasive cultured hooked on TMZ and US Weekly?

And just when I thought I was immune from the reverence of dead celebrities, George Carlin died. Now, I hold that George Carlin was a better stand-up comedian than Russert was a journalist or Ledger was an actor. But, that is not the point. The point is when Carlin died I felt a loss even though I had never met him. His brilliant cynical perspective always cut through conventional wisdom and made me look at life differently. And in that moment maybe I felt a kinship with those who saw Russert as a Sunday morning mainstay and felt connected to the story of him and his father. I felt a bit of what Ledger fans must have felt when they realized that he would give no more performances.

I suppose it is right that we are mindful of others’ feelings after the passing of an icon, but where do we draw the line? I know that we do care for these public figures, but do we have a right to? And if so, to what extent?

What Now, Abe?

With the acquisition of Elton Brand, the Philadelphia 76ers move up the ranks of the Eastern Conference to become a contender. Roger Mason also split town to sign with the San Antonio Spurs. This is awful news for my beloved Washington Wizards.

So, as of now, the Wizards will put this roster on the floor:

1. Gilbert Arenas starts at the point, backed up by Antonio Daniels and maybe Dee Brown (not the Digital Dunk Dee Brown: the one who played second-fiddle to Deron Williams at Illinois)
   
2. DeShawn Stevenson starts at the 2 and hopefully shares time with Nick Young.
3. Tough Juice starts at small forward, backed up by Dominic McGuire, I guess.
4. Antawn Jamison holds down the 4 and he's backed up by Darius Songaila and Oleksiy Pecherov...and I guess sometimes Andrey Blatche and JaVale McGee?
5. Brendan Haywood handles center, backed up by Blatche, McGee and a hopefully healthy Etan Thomas.

This isn't a bad lineup. It's just that there are seven teams with better lineups. How does Washington deal with Philadelphia, Orlando, Boston, Cleveland, Detroit or Toronto? And it's worth mentioning that Atlanta's young players will be better. What about Miami? That's 8 teams right there that could push the Wizards out of the playoffs.

Did Ernie Grundfeld build this team for 2010, when Boston becomes horrible again, Cleveland loses LeBron and Detroit is too old to matter? I guess dumping Arenas and Jamison this year is a bad idea since the draft is pretty mediocre next year, but isn't it worth it to Jamison (and fans) to go for the NBA title? I'm scared that Larry Brown is going to coach up his Bobcats and they'll be an amazing team in a year or two.

Mostly I just hate being so close to winning it all and then falling just a teensie bit short.

The Loophole

From what I understand, this video is legit.

So when I hear that George W. Bush has pardoned himself and his administration of war crimes, only one question pops into my head:

Wait...we can do that?

So...through the power vested in me by...myself, I pardon myself from any wrongdoings I may commit in the future.


Watch out, world: I'm unaccountable!

The Worst Movies I've Ever Seen: Part 1

I've probably seen about 4000 movies, which doesn't seem like a lot until you count up all the movies you've seen and realize you haven't seen over 1000. I'm not trying to brag, though. It doesn't matter how many I've seen, at least not in this context. Last night I saw one of the 10 worst movies I've ever seen. Thank you Mr. Roland Emmerich for 10,000 BC.

One day Roland Emmerich must have been sitting around his mansion, having an Emmerich movie marathon, satisfied in his self-perceived genius...and he must have had a moment of inspiration. He looks into the mirror and says to himself "Self? Let's make a movie about a prehistoric tribe!"

And there was rejoicing in the Emmerich house. But Roland looked around and wondered who would write this brilliant movie. He looked again in the mirror and knew he'd found his scribe. But Roland had a problem: the story was too hard! So he got on the phone and called up his friend Harald Kloser and asked him to help. The only problem: Harald Kloser already has a job as composer of the score. So, Roland Emmerich and a film composer wrote this movie.

That may not be enough to deter you. You might not know how hard it is to write a story or a script (very), so here are some more reasons to avoid 10,000 BC.

1. The story is banal. Boy falls in love with girl, girl gets kidnapped, boy goes for revenge. If you want to watch that story, go rent something better than this
   
2. Bad writing.
   
3. I don't know much about prehistory, but I'm pretty sure the continents were still far enough away that going from the tundra to the desert to plains back to Egypt in a DAY is impossible. If not, where is this magical place? Can I go there? On vacation? This is just insulting to my intelligence.
   
4. In one scene, the hero, D'leh has trapped the biggest saber-toothed cat I have ever seen, but...he lets it go. Instead of returning the favor by making a snack of D'leh's dreadlocked head, the tiger bounds out of the trap to go do things that saber-toothed cats do. Later, when faced with a spot of trouble, the cat returns to protect D'leh! ZOMG!!! In real life, wouldn't a cat of this size eat the man? And wouldn't the man try to eat the cat? Come on, Emmerich. Get real.
5. Wooden acting. If I was casting a movie about robots I would call the stars of 10,000 BC and it would be perfect.
6. How is the main tribe so multicultural?
   
7. How do the people keep their beards and hair so perfectly coiffed?
   
8. How do they get from the tundra to Egypt during the building of the Pyramids? Did they open up a stargate? I think both movies were made by Roland Emmerich, so...that's possible, right?

I guess if you can get past all of this, you might enjoy this movie. But I couldn't. It really is awful.

Darwin's Blade

If Charles Darwin was alive today, do you think he'd be disappointed that his legacy has been whittled down so low that he's now remembered more for bumper ornaments than for being one of the brightest minds of the 19th century?


Discuss.

Weekend Edition

I believe in our fundamental right to protest that comes with the First Amendment, but I also believe in the responsibility to not be an asshole.


George W. Bush was giving a speech at Monticello yesterday and he was bombarded by protesters as seen in this CNN video. I can't honestly say that Bush didn't make some mistakes in Iraq or that our Union's current state is a tenuous one, but I can say that protesters should pick their battles a little better. You have a right to protest any kind of speech you want, but why would anybody think the protest a naturalization ceremony on the 4th of July? What is gained by doing that? How is this much different than the Westboro Baptist Church protesting funerals of soldiers? It's a little less offensive, but not much. The Monticello website describes the ceremony at which Bush was speaking as:

This outdoor naturalization ceremony for new citizens on Monticello’s West Lawn and is one of America’s most inspiring July 4 events. This year's ceremony features the remarks of President George W. Bush. The Independence Day event is scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. and members of the public will be admitted free of charge.


Maybe next time they can protest someone's graduation or go to somebody's birthday party. The protesters, who couldn't even really come up with any worthy protest, settle for disrupting what could have been a very beautiful and meaningful ceremony for our new brothers and sisters. I maintain that they have a right to protest, but everybody else who came to the event has the right to enjoy it without the braying of a few disgruntled simpletons.

Is what these protesters did adding anything to the National discourse anyway? Or are they just sounding off like loud-mouthed babies with rhetorical, unfounded nonsense? If you're really that upset with the Bush administration, or any administration, why not write something that has facts and details, something to be published so that instead of you looking like a party-pooping moron, people will see your point and maybe do something productive. Productivity: what most protesters lack. Maybe that's why we don't shoot protesters or imprison them: we know that they react in an incendiary fashion and throw common sense and logic out the window. Nobody really listens to them. If Gandhi had been more rash and thoughtless, India would still be a British colony. It seems as though we live in a society where volume is considered more effective than truth, logic and common sense.

Before these people protest another event, maybe they should read some Thoreau and think of some ways to protest productively. Put down the big stick, take the bass out of your voice and do something smart and valuable. I don't disagree with their message, only with their delivery.

Guest Writer: Unsung Heroes of the White House by Katie Baynor

I've known Katie for a while and when I figured on starting this blog on the first week of July, I knew she'd be perfect as the inaugural guest writer. She is, in my eyes, a cynical patriot...or maybe a patriotic cynic, but her love for this country runs deeper and stronger than anybody I know. Our generation could use about a thousand more people like her: maybe we'd get this country back to where it belongs. Where some may see cynicism as a dark pall on the American spirit, I see it as an efulgent beacon, guiding us through the dark waters of the shameful politicking we are so familiar with in post-9/11 America to the solid ground that sustained our forefathers: where common sense and decency are more important than that almighty buck. Who better to write this entry on our nation's birthday (in this time when mediocrity holds sway) than her? So now I graciously and proudly give you our first guest writer: Ms. Katie Baynor. Happy birthday America.


Unsung Heroes of the White House

Everyone has heard of Washington, Lincoln, and Jefferson. No one remembers Harrison, Buchanan, or Coolidge. Many of our nation’s presidents have had interesting habits and idiosyncrasies no one has even heard of.

Therefore, in honor of our nation’s birthday, I proudly present Unsung Heroes of the White House.

William Henry Harrison: Father of the Constitutional Crisis

Harrison died after 31 days in office. Most people believe that he caught a cold as a result of giving a two-hour long inaugural address in freezing rain. However, Harrison didn’t become ill for nearly three weeks after his inauguration. Lack of rest due to the nonstop requests of office-seekers under the patronage system caused his cold to develop into pneumonia. Doctors attempted to cure him by administering opium, castor oil, and snake venom, which, surprisingly, caused him to become delirious. He died of acute pneumonia and septicemia nine days after becoming sick.

Harrison’s death caused a strange event: three presidents served in a single year. Martin Van Buren was president at the beginning of 1841 until Harrison was sworn in, and John Tyler was sworn in after Harrison died in office. His death also revealed the problems with the presidential succession clauses in the Constitution. It was not specified whether the vice president would become president, or merely acting president, nor was it specified whether the vice president should serve the remainder of the dead president’s term. Chief Justice Taney, of Dred Scott fame, decided that if Tyler took the Oath of Office, he would in fact become president. This precedent remained in effect until Congress passed the Twenty-Fifth Amendment in 1965.

James Buchanan: Our First Gay President?

Buchanan, in addition to ignoring the approaching secession crisis and appeasing the slavery lobby, may have been a) a gold digger, b) a gay man, or c) both. Buchanan was engaged to Ann Caroline Coleman, the daughter of a wealthy iron mogul. During their engagement, Buchanan was caught up in his law firm and political machinations, and was rarely seen in public with her, which started rumors that he was only marrying her for money and seeing other women. Coleman broke off their engagement and soon after died from what her doctor called “hysteria” but was probably an overdose of laudanum.

While he was serving in Congress, for fifteen years prior to his presidency, Buchanan shared a house with his friend William Rufus King, an Alabama senator and vice president under Franklin Pierce. Andrew Jackson, known for his tolerant views of people of all types, referred to Buchanan and King as “Miss Nancy” and “Aunt Fancy,” and Aaron Brown, Buchanan’s Postmaster General, referred to King as “Buchanan’s better half.” Contemporary press at the time also speculated about Buchanan and King’s relationship. Modern authors have argued that King, being from Alabama, may have been responsible for Buchanan’s views on slavery. Buchanan remains the only president to never marry.

Calvin Coolidge: Silent Cal Liked It Rough

Coolidge was president when my grandfather was born in 1924, so I’ve always had a little interest in him. Everyone knows the famous Dorothy Parker dinner party anecdote: She sat next to him at dinner and informed him that she had a bet that she would be able to get him to say more than two words. He looked at her and deadpanned, “You lose.” Silent Cal was in fact a gifted public speaker, but at Washington social functions usually appeared uncomfortable and spoke very little.

Coolidge got his White House exercise in a very unique way. He had a mechanical bull installed in his dressing room. At that time, it was apparently called an “electric exercise horse,” but … yeah. It was a mechanical bull. He rode it every morning for a warm-up before his morning walk. After his morning walk, he ate breakfast with his wife. While he was eating breakfast, he liked to have his head massaged with Vaseline, according to many fine internet sources. Though, after the mechanical bull, I’m rather inclined to believe just about anything.

Coolidge, like some of our more recent presidents, was also a big fan of sleeping. He was known to sleep for up to 11 hours a day. While attending a Marx Brothers show in Washington, Groucho paused during the performance and addressed the president directly by asking, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Calvin?” Coolidge was also known to take naps on the couch in the Oval Office.

…

The American presidency is a treasure trove of these little known statesmen. As another commander-in-chief recedes into the pages of history, take some time this Independence Day to salute the Coolidges and Buchanans, right along with the Washingtons and Jeffersons. After all, without all the mediocre leaders out there, how will we be able to tell who the good ones are?

Unheralded Greatness: Episode One - Jimmy McGovern

Jimmy McGovern is responsible for hours of the best shows you've never seen (unless you have, which makes me a real nob). If not for McGovern, you wouldn't be watching your endearingly acerbic House or any of the shows of that ilk. Jimmy McGovern, who is probably very famous and well-respected in the United Kingdom, is virtually unknown here. I aim to remedy that.

In 1993, McGovern wrote a television program about a smart ass psychiatrist who helps the Manchester police department solve crimes. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald (masterfully portrayed by Robbie Coltrane) is a brilliant shrink who seems to have the uncanny ability to solve crime like some modern day C. Auguste Dupin. The bumbling Mancunian police department need his help and take it, despite Fitz's every attempt at pointing out just how bumbling they really are. But Fitz, who is an addict in every definition of the word, doesn't merely get his kicks by winding them up. On one hand he's trying to help them become smarter and more savvy; on the other, the guy just can't help it, something smart asses everywhere can understand. The crimes that Fitz helps solve (while his marriage is falling apart and he alienates everybody he knows) are sometimes topical (from a man who murders because he wants revenge for the Hillsborough Disaster), sometimes classic (a woman is murdered and a man with amnesia is the prime suspect) and sometimes controversial (a religious sect that murders a girl to shut her up and save their morally bankrupt leader). It's not about the crime, though, which is why Cracker shows the viewer up front who committed the crime and how it was committed. It's about how Fitz and his crew of Manchester coppers solve the crime.

McGovern's latest show is called The Street and is about a street in Manchester and the people who inhabit it. This is a six part series of hour-long episodes about different families on a suburban street. The first episode starts with a hit-and-run complicated by the fact that the victim of the hit-and-run is the daughter of the woman (played by Jane Horracks) who is having an affair with the hitter. The second episode is about a recently-retired man (an incredible turn by Jim Broadbent) who considers suicide because he doesn't think he has anything to live for. The third revolves around a scandal in which a teacher is accused of exposing himself to a little girl in a public park: the catch is that he was only peeing. The fourth is about a young soccer star who screws up his life by getting involved with the criminal element. The fifth is about a taxi driver (played by the underrated Timothy Spall) who picks up a non-English speaking immigrant and feels compelled to help the man when nobody else will. The last episode is about a heavy-drinking, wife-beating criminal and the ultimate vengeance doled out by his wife and her family. This show is at times tragic and at others hilarious, but it's always fascinating. It is not an overstatement when I say that this show is one of the best shows ever made: certainly the best show that you've never heard of. My only regret is that I can't see the second season until it comes out on dvd in the States.

It's not surprising to me that Jimmy McGovern's shows have won 2 BAFTAs, and have been nominated many more times. It's not a stretch to compare his work to that of Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski: The Streets, although not about the Ten Commandments, is similar to the slice-of-life look at society that The Decalogue presented us with. McGovern has created characters that are morally good and evil, but he never imposes any judgment upon them. He is the master of the antihero and is directly responsible for the popularity of them in today's television programs, from House to Horatio Caine, from Dexter to Tony Soprano. Jimmy McGovern, by making the antihero a viable option for a television program, has made an indelible mark on modern television and deserves all of the accolades that have been given to him, but he'd probably be just as happy if we Americans would watch his shows.

The Job Seeker Interviews With A Sparks HR Rep and A Robot: A Scene

Context: Sparks is a metropolitan DC temp agency. They like wasting the time of potential job seekers by not informing them of their basic requirements.


tableau: The Job Seeker sits at a table across from two empty chairs in a small, beige room. A woman of about 45, with blond, dowdy hair and leathery skin tanned a little too much, and a big, silver robot walk into the room. The woman sits down while the robot merely stands, looming over the two humans.


Job Seeker: (confused) Is the robot staying or will it go when we start the interview?
Robot: (compassionately) I will be staying to assist in the interview. If you don't mind.
JS: Oh. No, I don't mind. Is it okay with her?
HR Rep: (monotone) What would you consider your greatest strength and your greatest wea-
Robot: (interrupts HRR) Not yet, Cathleen. Not yet, dear. No, she doesn't mind one bit. You're sure you're alright with me being here?
JS: Yeah, of course. It's fine.
Robot: (relieved) Oh good. That's a load off. We should just start off with some questions. Go ahead, Cathleen.
HR Rep: What would you consider your greatest strength and your greatest weakness?
JS: Well, I guess my greatest strength is my ability to work under pressure. I did a lot of that in college when I worked for our paper. I was an assistant editor and one weekend I stayed up for 53 hours to help make deadline. It just had to be done. I guess my biggest weakness is that I care too much. I did stay up for 53 hours straight to finish a college newspaper. So I guess my biggest strength is my biggest weakness.
HR Rep: (looking up at robot, sotto voce) This does not compute.
Robot: (sighs, also sotto voce) It's okay Cathleen. It was just a long answer. He answered well. Just keep going, dear.
JS: (furrows brow) Is she okay?
Robot: Of course, why wouldn't she be? I'd say she's doing a fine job (he pats her head complimentary)
JS: It's just that...
Robot: What?
JS: Well, she's not blinking.
Robot: What do you mean, human?
JS: Her eyes! She's not blinking.
Robot: (sternly) CATHLEEN. Blink! Next question.
HR Rep: Given the choice, would you rather work in a team or individually?
JS: I really don't mind either. I find that I can do an effective job as a team member or working alone.
HR Rep: But if you had to make a choice. Between the two. Which would it be?
JS: Like I said, I'd be comfortable doing either. Whatever the job dictates, I suppose. I'm flexible in that regard.
HR Rep: (over and over, without stop) Team or individual? Team or individual? Team or individual?
JS: (looks at robot) Seriously? What do I say to make her stop?
Robot: Just say that you're a self-starter and a team player.
JS: I'm a self-starter and a team player? (HR Rep stops)
Robot: Good. Sorry about that. She's a little bit new. Still a few glitches we need to work out.
JS: (grabs briefcase, walks frantically out of the room) Mr. Robot? I have to thank you very much for this opportunity but I don't think we will be able to work with each other after all.
Robot: (JS is gone; Robot looks to HR Rep, frowns) He was doing so well, wasn't he Cathleen? Yes. Yes he was.

Curtain

Out there's our home. And it's in trouble.

I visited the cinema with my good chum Reginald this weekend. We decided to see the two films that were released on the 27th, Wall-E and Wanted. Nothing is at all odd about my frequent trips to the theater with Reginald, but when we went to the theater this weekend I noticed something strange: the difference of audiences for both films.


You're thinking to yourself that the differences are obvious. One film is about a cute robot who falls in love and saves the world. The other is the adaptation of a graphic novel about a league of assassins and the facile doormat who liberates them. So one movie is about robots while the other's plot is simply robotic.

The crazy thing is that while we were watching both films, Reginald and I felt as though the average IQ was much greater in the Wall-E crowd. Granted, this was the group that also chuckled it up during the Beverly Hills Chihuahua trailer (watch at your own risk; it makes me wonder whether I'm connected to myself) so I could be totally wrong.

The plot (and pacing) of Wall-E is much more sophisticated. The titular robot does not speak for the first fifth of the movie and it isn't until much later that there is any explicit, forward-moving plot. The kids, though, shocked me with their patience. The theater was packed, but only a few children were wandering around out of boredom. The kids oohed and ahhed when they were supposed to and generally seemed to get the big picture. Wanted, on the other hand, is all plot from the very get go. Explosions, gun fights, assassinations...all within the first half-hour! The viewers sat staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at slow-motion bullets, exploding heads, and Angelina Jolie's sacrosanct beauty. And I must admit that we were hypnotized by her righteous posterior and her inviolate curvature.

In one theater we have a bunch of kids and their parents transfixed with a Chaplin-meets-Metropolis world of science (non)fiction. In the other theater we have a mix of young and old adults (including the old codger who sat next to Reginald and ate popcorn nonstop, like one of those little plastic birds that dunks their beak in water meticulously), all clearly jaded by real life, laughing and clapping when someone gets their head blown off.

If being like the kids from the Wall-E theater is considered infantile and idiotic, then that is a label I am willing to wear with honor. The people in the Wanted theater seemed so...lonely, like they were looking for something the one-up the last thrill: something that would shock them. I sat in that theater, next to my old friend Reginald, thinking how sad it is to not find joy in a small scale (in comparison to Wanted) movie like Wall-E.