Vote or Die (by Fall from Trestle)

My pal Matt wrote to me this morning about a fun poll over at VelocityWeekly.com in which the Pope Lick Goat Man -- I tend to run with "Pope Lick Monster" or "The Goat Man," personally -- is up for consideration for one of those So and So's Louisville banners hanging off buildings around town.

I ran a cover story once on Halloween about The Goat Man. As I recall, it had a good illustration, but no horns. I'm also a big fan of the local indie short Legend of the Pope Lick Monster. I often catch myself singing "I'm a Red Neck" as I shuffle through my daily doldrums.


Here's a really nifty portrait of The Goat Man by local artist Jeffery Scott Holland.

Here's some whacked-out posting of The Goat Man as a D&D character -- apparently he casts no spells, but you do suffer sanity loss if you are unfortunate enough to see him. (I get the same general effect from a another Velocity poll nominee, Rick Pitino.)

But, seriously -- no Denny Crum's Louisville?

"Killer" chili

The Almighty Twinkie ranted unduly about a pot of chili I made recently -- so much so that I was nigh-forced into posting what passes for my recipe.

I'm reposting here, primarily so that I may correct a typo or two. I hate that Blogger does not let you (or I simply can't figure out how to) edit your own comments.

I actually got the soul of this recipe years ago from Cooking Light magazine, so it's not so bad for you.

Caveat: Don't get the whole green chilis and then just run them through your food processor -- they'll end up floating in a gnarly film, due to the thin consistency of the broth. Need chunks to sink.
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One pork tenderloin (comes in a bag; I can never remember how much they weigh -- will be two strips of loin)

About 5-6 cans chicken broth

4 cans green chilies, diced

A lot of white onions (again, hard to say how many -- I tend to use like 3-4 of the giant white ones per batch)

About ½ bulb garlic (or a whole blub -- I still smell like garlic)

Some red chili powder -- no way of predicting how much. At least a half-cup, I'd imagine -- it's a to-taste thing

Sazon Goya (a couple packages, if you can find it)

1 Serrano pepper

1 Jalapeño pepper

About 5-6 cans white hominy, washed (you don't want the gunk it comes packed in)

Salt, maybe (depends on how much chili powder you end up putting in there)

Onion powder and garlic powder (again, these are just for late-stage tweaking -- don't introduce these until it's simmered for at least an 1 ½ hours, if at all)

Cube the tenderloin and brown in olive oil, with one bulb diced garlic and some chili powder for accent. Sazon Goya is never a problem.

Coarsely chop the onions and with a little more olive oil, and maybe a half-can chicken broth, cook the onions and rest of garlic to near translucency.

Dump the rest the stuff in there, including a base level of chili powder. Hold back about one can of chicken broth -- you'll end up using it, probably, but you'll need some juice to tweak out the chili powder levels toward the end.

Just float the peppers (slice a couple little holes in there before you pitch 'em in)

After about 1 ½ hours of simmering, start tweaking out the stew with the various powders. You can expand to various other chili-centric seasonings (cumin, oregano, blah blah), but I find chili and garlic powder to be sufficient here. Since the consistency of the stew is that of chicken broth, feel free to leave yourself a little room to play toward the end -- you can't make it too thin, after all.

Cook it for about three hours, total.

Actually best on third day.

Pumpkinhead

I love making jack-o'-lanterns.

I made this one Saturday during my sparsely attended movie party.

Something turned out right.

Cardinal Sin

Spiteful Sports Tripe

After some thought – I suppose "obsessing" would be more accurate – I've come to this conclusion about U of L's now-moot football season:

We are gonna regret the day we didn't fire Bobby Petrino when we had the chance, free and clear.

It's not just that this creep – who tried to stab a friend and mentor in the back and then lied publicly about it until he just got plain busted – has robbed me of the typical fan-boy delusions about sportsmanship, hard work, epic struggle, blah blah blah. At Papa John's, it's all about winning and the money that comes from it. I'd hope the University doesn't have the gall to scold us fans for turning sour on this character, when it was Jurich and the Development Office who wrote the cynical rules that apply here. But if I hoped that, I'd be disappointed again.

No, my main worry is just this:

I know what offensive play Bobby P. is gonna call next.

Well, most of the time – I still haven't figured out why he went away from Tinch over the middle in the second half against West Virginia.

But more often than not, I can predict with alarming accuracy the next rollout pass on 3rd-and-2, the next deep shot after a crossing route gains 14 yards (seven on the ground; draws up the safety), the next little semi-draw that grabs nine yards at mid-field. I'm no football genius, mind you – in fact, I still get a little confused by blocking patterns.

But I have been watching Petrino's offense for 2 ½ years now, and I see patterns. Oregon State and North Carolina don't watch every game, I suppose. South Florida does, and they knew what was coming, too. West Virginia has a stake in knowing what's coming, and they are well on the way to figuring this stuff out.

After the "shock and awe" wears off, what we have left is a gimmicky offense that can't reliably pop a 250-pound tailback off-tackle for two yards, and a defense that reflects the head coach's obsession with offensive homeruns by playing scared of them on the other side of the ball.

My prediction: 9-3, with the final loss probably coming at UConn to end the regular season, then a unsatisfying bowl win over some mid-tier Big Ten school that isn't gonna see it coming.

I said 8-3 at the start of the season, by the way (I have witnesses). But I didn't predict how crappy that would taste.

If You Are Reading This, You're Invited

I realize it might be considered unwise to post your phone number on a blog, but get real ... Google knows where you are already.

Now that's scary.

Back from the Social Grave

I used to have day-long open houses every Halloween.

Folks would come and go for chili and spooky movies. Initially, it would always be on the 31st -- even if it meant taking a day off from work -- but later it drifted to the nearest weekend. Friends left town, people lost interest, and I stopped doing the party about five years ago, I'd guess.

As autumn and middle age consume my horizons, I'm thinking about doing the open house one more time. I don't suppose anyone would come, but it would give me an excuse to make another party flier, which is about as creative as I ever get. The one here (circa 2000) is my favorite, I think. My rudimentary Photoshop skills have improved a bit, but not much.

I have this year's theme all picked out ...

What Does He Have to Be So Pissed About?

Forget MSNBC -- this kind of stuff is what the Web is really all about.

Someone Who SHOULD know ...

follow-up movie tripe

My pal Mark Clark, who has too full a life to be registered to post comments at Blogger, sent me the following note about my vampire movie challenge. Mark is a published author (for-real publishing, with paper and ink) on the subject of horror films as well as a massive geek, and yet I will take exception with some of his picks via comment below. My hubris knows no bounds.

p.s. -- note the properly posted comments by Greg Harris on the original post.
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It's hard to argue with most of your choices. Murnau's NOSFERATU would have made my personal list ahead of the Herzog remake. MARTIN, HORROR OF DRACULA and NEAR DARK would be lead-pipe cinches to make my list of faves, and FRIGHT NIGHT and THE NIGHT STALKER be very strong candidates for my list, as well.

Both the Spanish DRACULA and HOUSE OF FRANKENSTEIN are enjoyable (although the first is somewhat overpraised). From among the Universal films, I would have opted for the woefully underrated DRACULA'S DAUGHTER (or maybe even SON OF DRACUA, which has everything a Dracula fan could want -- except a halfway decent Dracula).

Another movie that would definitely appear on my list is EL VAMPIRO (THE VAMPIRE, 1957), the Mexican classic starring Abel Salazar and German Robles, which spawned a whole generation of Mexican horror films, most of which were nowhere as good as this. EL VAMPIRO is a first-rate gothic vampire yarn, and it had an obvious influence on the later Hammer vampire films.

Speaking of Hammer, I'd be tempted to include one or two more entries from that fabled studio: The action-packed BRIDES OF DRACULA and, even more likely, TWINS OF EVIL, which features one of Peter Cushing's best performances. Although the latter film might present a bit too much moral ambiguity for your taste!

My list would also feature a couple of my favorite '70s relics: COUNT YORGA, VAMPIRE and BLACULA, which are simply too much fun to leave off.

And finally, I would feel compelled to include at least one continental vampire picture, most likely the gloriously trashy lesbian-bloodsucker pic DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS, with THE BLOOD-SPATTERED BRIDE (the best adaptation of "Carmilla") and COUNT DRACULA'S GREAT LOVE (starring the one-of-a-kind Paul Naschy) looming as dark horse candidates.

Drinking the Cardinal Kool-Aid

sports tripe

The local media here in Louisville have really dropped the ball – in my never humble opinion – in their coverage of the football Cardinals’ prospects for a shot at the BCS national championship game.

We don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Period.

National observers – including Sportsline.com’s Dennis Dodd – have noted that U of L’s schedule in the Big East appears to be so weak that even an undefeated record won’t be enough to get us to the Rose Bowl. Craig James over at ESPN.com (sorry, can’t link to the subscription-only content, which is well worth $10 a month, BTW) goes further to list teams that, even with one loss, would have the drop on the Cards in the BCS:

• Ohio State
• Texas
• Florida
• Georgia
• Tennessee
• USC
• Virginia Tech

I’d throw in:

• Florida State
• Miami
• Cal
• Alabama

Bottom line: For U of L to make the Rose Bowl, the champions of four BCS conferences would need to have two loses each. That’s not gonna happen.

I hope to be eating these words in about 3 ½ months.

Not-so Innocent Blood

movie tripe

A lunch conversation today got me thinking about my 10 favorite vampire movies. (I can promise that “Underworld II” will not be among them.)

About 10 years ago, The Hunger would have been on this list, but I now find myself wanting a little more moral simplicity from my vampire flicks. I certainly don’t mind an exploration of why and how a creature comes to feed off the life of others, but ultimately I’ve decided that in movies, as in life, it’s a bad habit to take up.

I’ve given myself a pass on Todd Browing’s Dracula (1931) and Murnau’s Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922) – what else is there left to say? I’ve also refrained from adding “honorable mentions,” with the intent of baiting my movie geek friends into actually posting a comment or two.

Martin (1977)
This is increasingly my favorite Romero flick, and that’s saying a lot. The most successful twist on theme of vampiric sexuality – a backwater family mistakes its history of mental illness for the curse of the vampire, and the result is a sexual predator who calls into Pittsburgh radio talk shows to explain that there’s “no magic at all” in being undead. I show this one to my non-geek friends and they enjoy it – clumsy acting and low production values only serve to highlight the smart and genuinely disturbing plot. The violence is sparse, but realistic and horrific.

Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (1979)
As with most Herzog films, the visuals seriously outweigh the plot here, but these visuals weigh a ton. Herzog’s focus avoids the sensual; Kinski’s Dracula grows on Schrek’s Orlok to become the embodiment of decay and consuming desire. A prolonged sequence in which the count draws agonizingly near to, but then nervously retreats from, a witless victim is probably the single creepiest sequence I’ve ever seen in a vampire movie.

Fright Night (1985)
Much more fun than Buffy or The Lost Boys – you got Roddy McDowall, you got no complaints. The device of an aging B-movie star being pitted against the forces of darkness is both a nice homage and darn clever. Chris Sarandon is surprisingly good as the suave Dandridge, and the movie boasts a fair amount of vampire lore for what is essentially a comedy. I’m less enchanted by the teenage angst B.S. than I used to be, of course, but Evil Ed is still pretty cool.

Dracula (1958)
The most faithful (at least in spirit) adaptation of Stoker’s novel and the best of the Hammer horror films. Christopher Lee plays a feral, leering Count intent on spreading the “cult of vampirism” across Europe, and Peter Cushing’s unrivaled Van Helsing is heaven-bent on stopping him. The sexual undertones are there, of course. But this film, like most Victorians (including Stoker), is a little creeped out by them.

The Night Stalker (1972)
The pilot movie for the Kolchak TV series is smart as a whip. Master sci-fi writer Richard Matheson provides a keen take on what would happen if a Victorian vampire actually did start rampaging through a modern American city. Throw in ‘70s-era Vegas as the backdrop and Darren McGavin as a crusty reporter who provides his own comic relief, and you have a completely entertaining and occasionally creepy flick, made only more brisk by the limitations of broadcast TV.

Salem’s Lot (1979)
Just the image of a ghoulish kid floating outside a bedroom window would put this TV miniseries in my top 10. It certainly has its rough patches, but King’s book is so damn scary that the successful bits and pieces here sum to a greater whole than any “Blade” movie. It gets kinda harsh in spots – that kid outside the window used to be alive, after all. When I come back from the dead, I want James Mason to be my familiar: “No one can resist the Master!”

Drácula (1931)
Save Lugosi’s archetypal turn as the Count, this Spanish-language version – shot on the same sets as the ’31 classic – is a better film than Browning’s standard. Of particular note is Pablo Álvarez Rubio as Renfield, who is far creepier and gets a lot more attention than does his American counterpart. Night-time shooting may explain why everyone on the set seems a little drained.

Near Dark (1987)
These bloodsuckers play with their drunken redneck food before eating it in one of the most inventive and disturbing scenes you’ll find in any vampire flick. The back story of a “child” vampire’s perverted loneliness is obviously boosted from Anne Rice, but it’s much more successful here – whatever their initial conflicts, these undead are just flat out mean. Bill Paxton and Lance Henriksen are spectacular; the star-crossed romance between a cowpoke and a cutie-pie vamp is the most forgettable element of the film.

House of Frankenstein (1944)
By far the best goofy vampire/monster flick you will ever see. Horror buffs know this film as the only one of Universal’s “House” free-for-alls graced by Karloff, but for my money John Carradine steals the show as the Count, even though the story focuses on Larry “Wolfman” Talbot. Karloff actually coached Glenn Strange on his portrayal of The Monster. Good dumb fun.

Geung si sin sang (1985)
Forget all the stupid vampire action picks Hollywood has churned out over the last decade. Feudal Chinese monks kick the crap out of hopping ghosts and other sundry undead nuisances in “Mr. Vampire,” a romp that spawned a whole genre in Asia. The original is by far the best, and in many ways outshines more recent Kung-Fu slapstick. Fingernails can be just as big a problem as fangs, by the way.

Only a Cold Indifference ...

Not so resourceful, after all.

After seeing Herzog’s remarkable Grizzly Man twice in the same weekend, I was reminded of this snapshot I took at the Kentucky State Fair last month.

More specifically, I was reminded of how little empathy I felt for the ironically disposed bear you see here. I think back to a John Ed Pearce column about the original Care Bear craze of the early ‘80s, in which the acrid old coot noted that missing from the ranks of Hope Bear and Sunshine Bear were (and still are, I’d warrant) Profit Bear and Tear Your Throat Out With One Swipe of Its Paw If You Get Too Close to Its Young Bear.

I do not like bears. They might like me, although I imagine I'd have something of a salty aftertaste.

Did I mention that I'm old?

I haven't posted in a few months for one simple reason – I forgot my password. I really tried to get back on in early July, as I recall, but no matter what I did, I couldn't summon up the user ID/pass combo, nor could I get Blogspot to mail me my login information – Lord knows what I typed into that e-mail address form when I first signed up.

So, this morning, while evaluating blogging software options for work (so much fun), I just randomly floated out here and – bam! – first try and I'm back on. It's a fairly common ID/pass combo I've used elsewhere. I wish I could blame it on a technical snafu in the increasingly ominous Googleverse, but I'm resigned to the fact that my gray matter is just flat shot.

Thankfully, nothing of note ever happens in my world. So I got that going for me.

Shower of Shame

Too much information tripe

I've gotten a lot less modest as I’ve gotten older. I suppose that’s natural. Perhaps it’s the case that I’ve simply become less self-conscious, a function of both self-preservation and pragmatism. I just don't have the energy or the time to worry about what people think of me. Particularly when I'm scrubbing out gross places in the shower at the YMCA.

I lead with this little piece of uncomfortable insight to put this next item in context, I suppose. I'm really not that uptight about locker room etiquette. You can't be at the downtown Y, where the demographic mix makes for an almost anything-goes climate in the Men's Metro. Some of these old guys must have been pretty out there in their day, let me tell you. Wrap the towel around your waist, not your shoulders, pal.

So, in this light, I'm here to log a complaint.

There's a guy at the Y who takes dumps in the shower.

Let me clarify – there’s a guy at the Y who routinely uses the toilet located within the shower area.

I really have no idea why the folks who designed the Y a few decades ago decided to put a toilet and urinal right there in the shower, unless it has something to do with the general incontinence of all those old guys. Was this once considered acceptable? Yet there they are, recessed in the corner a bit but fully exposed for the world – or at least me – to see.

Mind you, there are a ton of toilets in the expansive locker room contained within perfectly civilized stalls. So, nobody – and I mean nobody – uses these vestigial receptacles in the shower area.

Except this guy. He walks into the shower area – he’s not even taking a shower; he has to make a special effort – and with towel wrapped around waist, down he flops on the toilet. The towel stays in place, for which I suppose I should be grateful. A few nerve-wracking minutes later and he’s gone, leaving only a flush and some mental scars for those of us trying to get clean.

He’s done this like five times to my direct knowledge, so it must be part of his routine.

Yesterday, I shared this life-affirming experience with a jovial Y compatriot, who is much less modest than I, I assure you. This fellow tends to use the dry sauna without the benefit of towels, and he’s not slight by any measure – after a few minutes of his jogging and bouncing about, you get the general sense that a sheepdog has just shaken itself dry in the sauna. Yum.

Even this unencumbered soul was at a loss for words when confronted with shower scatology.

“Mannnnnnnnnn…” he lamented in hushed tones. “Use the door, baby.”

I could never make it in prison.

And It's Free -- At Least for Now

Really a flattering pic.

Tech Tripe

I tend to frown on most consumer tech fads -- podcasting? -- but I've got to tell you that the Hello photo IM client and its BloggerBot just about rule the world. After a simple sign-up, you can just IM your photo to your Blogger site and, wham, up it goes. No hosting fee, no fee of any kind.

And people say monopolies are a bad thing. God bless Google and its Nebraska-sized server farm.

By the way, that's the bread van guy from a previous post. My friend Matt is a fine photographer.

Read a Comic Book, Will Ya?

Geeky Movie Tripe

I thoroughly enjoyed Batman Begins; even more than I expected I would, and I was unusually eager to see this one, for some reason I really can't explain. I'd agree with most critics that the film falters in the third act as it gives into the Hollywood penchant for huge set pieces -- but not as horrifically as you'd be lead to believe by the pseudo-intellectual critical masses who feel compelled to compensate for their pleasure at any aspect of a summer blockbuster.

The action editing is too choppy, to be sure. The director and critics have attributed it to an effort – perhaps misguided – to impart a sense of ninja stealth. I'm inclined to think that it's tough for a stuntman to pull off a convincing thrust kick in a stiff rubber suit.

My main complaint with the critics on this one is their insistence in saying the movie draws heavily from the works of Frank Miller, who authored the semi-apocalyptic "The Dark Knight Returns" and the far superior "Batman: Year One." Clearly, many of the story elements and visuals – young Bruce Wayne falling into the cave, the look of the Batmobile, the final Joker allusion – are boosts from Miller's work.

But the central theme of Bruce Wayne trying to channel his fear and anger into positive action owes far more the work of Denny O'Neil, who along with master artist Neil Adams created the fascist Ra's Al Ghul in the late 1970s for that express purpose. No one before had tried to explain why an obsessed vigilante such as the Batman refused to take the final step and kill; the convention originally was introduced simply to make comics more kid-safe.

O'Neil fleshed out this twist on dysfunction, as well as embracing the upper-class arrogance that tells Wayne he not only has the power to make a difference, but that he's entitled too. One of the main things I like about Batman Begins is its open concession that if not for Wayne Industry's weapons research, there would be no Batman; my least favorite aspect of the film is probably the pandering depiction of Wayne's father as a billionaire hippie doctor intent on giving away all his money.

In Miller's "The Dark Knight Returns," the protagonist is consumed with the idea that The Bat – which actually comes bursting through a window to "claim" him – is a elemental spirit of predation that possesses an utter lack of remorse for which Wayne yearns. The mini-series ends with Batman, now decowled, plotting the anarchistic overthrow of a government that has become worse than thieves and murders.

Hardly a guy who would try to hook back up with an old girlfriend in the D.A.'s office.

The idea of The Bat as Wayne's primal fear that must be channeled but not entirely conquered – that's the '70s all the way, man. I mean, the filmmakers used O'Neil's villain, who nobody – including a large number of geeks I know – had ever heard of. Is it that tough to do a little reporting, beyond reading whatever self-aggrandizing pabulum The Times ran with?

Personality Goes a Long Way ...

Hey, hey, hey ...

This gentleman was one just one of the charmers we ran into at a local karaoke bar in Bloomington during recent bachelor festivities. Even more fetching – at least to my way of thinking - was a gnarled fellow driving the rusted-out shell of a bread delivery truck.

Neither of these characters asked us for money – either they were too proud or too far gone. They were both smitten with a very pleasant, but a little rough, biker chick. The bread truck man kept telling her that they had a lot in common, given that he had three classic Harleys back at his home.

I don't think she was taking.

The Best Picture Ever Taken of Me

Full of and surrounded by hot air.

Serendipitous tripe

This photo was not posed. It was snapped by a friend of mine, Matt Stone, who was married a couple weekends ago near Bloomington, Ind. I had the pleasure of being the best man. It was a fine wedding. The reception featured opera grad students singing karaoke.

Matt is a professional photographer, as were two of the groomsmen. At various points, there were four professional cameramen snapping each other as they snapped the festivities.

I do not usually chew gum, but big, fat gumballs are a routine menu item when I'm on one of my caloric benders, which was surely the case this day. I suppose the surroundings sparked some subconscious urge to blow the bubble, but I can't imagine the odds of my gum perfectly matching the color of the wedding decorations.

I say it's the best photo of me ever because there's so much else to look at.

The Ultimate Irritation Machine

Self-aggrandizing tripe

I am tempted to urinate on the only other car parked on the sixth floor of my garage.

Problem is, I don't imagine the owner would notice, given that the ugly little BMW's color could best be described as "piss."

Please understand -- I park on the sixth floor every day because I am old and will surely lose my little Sonata if I don't. Really, I've been known to drop 30 minutes at the mall looking for my car. I have a lot on my mind. Like 37 years of deposits from cooking in aluminum pans.

Anyway, this ass -- I've seen his squirrelly little carcass leaving at 4 or so -- parks his BMW M3 across two spots in what is an otherwise vacant floor of a large gargage. (The facility was built in anticipation of an e-boom commercial district that obviously did not happen; after the third floor, it's clear sailing.)

I checked -- the M3 lists for $47,000 or so; in general, the thing reminds me of a mid-'80s Dodge Charger rehash. It packs a whopping 3.2 liter V6; my '03 Sonata pulls a 3.3 and cost me a cool $16,500. Of course, this thing is so ugly they probably had to throw in a couple UK football tickets to get some clown to drive it off the lot.

I'm a mess, to be sure. But I'd hate to have such a low opinion of myself that it was wrapped up in such a lame status item.

This is just gross

Confessional tripe

My jeans are digging in more than just a little bit after a day-long eating binge. I get like this about three days a month; it takes me the other 27 days to work off the pounds I pack on during these caloric rampages.

Adjectives fail; only a catalog can fully describe my shame.

Today, I ate:

4 Balance bars. I have to quit buying those in bulk; the bag lasts only a couple days, at best.
A regular Coke. I keep them for freinds, but it's a special day.
About four gum balls
4 or 5 steamed dumplings
An ample lunch of fried tilapia and Asian risotto. I cleaned the plate in like five minutes. Wasabi-miso sauce, yum.
An 8-ounce frozen yogurt
A Reese's Cup ice cream bar
A whole bag of black pepper Doritos. A big old bag. It said "No Trans Fat," so what the hell.
4 antacid tablets
A small Cold Stone Creamery sweet cream, with a brownie thrown in.
2 KFC Snacker sandwiches
A piece of Cappuccino cheese cake
An order of pancakes and eggs. Actually, I didn't finish these – they were not good, and even I have my limits.

My repentance begins tomorrow, when all I'll have to eat is a Big Salad for dinner.

I am so ready.

Up yours, Uncle Walt

A young friend of mine just showed me a handsome scar he earned this weekend thanks to a swan. Seems that he has playing fetch with a Labrador puppy in the pond on his family's farm when a swan took umbrage at the canine intrusion. The swan – as most large birds are want to do – rushed and pecked the much smaller dog. My friend jumped in to the save the puppy – who wouldn’t? – and in turn got a stout pecking himself, resulting in a nice gash on this thumb.

Having grown up as the victim of frequent geese attacks at Cave Hill Cemetery, I was a little unnerved by the whole story.

Animal lovers don't know much about animals.

Journey to the End of South Nevada ...

Time-killing tripe

I'm sitting in the Las Vegas airport, which has always been a little underwhelming to me, given the city’s fixation on image. But it does have free and fairly encompassing wireless -- I’m down in the corner at C8, where flights back to Louisville always seem to board, and the throughput is quicker than at my house. So it’s as good a time as any to commit ruminations of my journey to the blog-o-verse, or whatever they are calling it these days. Because, after all, you need to know.

I’m now looking for a criminal enterprise of some sort to facilitate the purchase of a waterfall shower for my home. Of course, I imagine the criminal enterprise will also need to cover a new home capable of hosting such a fearsome beast of luxury and hygiene. I must have taken 15 showers at the hotel’s spa. The platter-sized shower head was at least 10 feet from the clay-tile floor, and there was plenty of room to disco in that stall, let me tell you. Shamu could drown in the water I wasted over a long weekend.

I remember being a little weirded out a few months ago when Kia ran an offer to give away one of its Rio models with the purchase of another new car. Now I know why. That thing was the biggest P.O.S. I have ever driven, and I paid $300 for a ‘73 Grand Torino back in college. I had to stand on it to hit 60. I’m dead serious.

I always feel a little guilty when I stay at a nice place, in this case the Green Valley Ranch, about seven miles from the Strip. I’m sure I could have feed several Indonesian children for many years with the money I blew on this jaunt. Having made that little confession, nothing makes the Shively in my blood boil like kids of privilege who don’t have some small inkling of how fortunate we all – and especially their sorry asses – are to enjoy the lifestyle we do. At least I work. On Monday morning, I was trying to nurse my third Knob Creek neat ($11, thank you) when these two 20-somethings came down to my solitary end of The Whiskey, the glam outdoor pool bar at Green Valley. They attempted to engage me in conversation, and being a wee bit tipsy, I obliged. Being a wee bit tipsy, I shortly told one of them he should kiss my fat white ass. I had listened patiently for at least seven minutes about how his parents were pushing him to take an extra month in Milan after graduation, instead of the four he has planned now, in lieu of his own scheme to get back to Vegas for an extra month in the early fall to “tap some more of this ass.” Not mine, the girls’, I’d suppose.

I’m always a little surprised at how scared young men are of a genuine threat from someone older and still semi-mobile. I get away with murder.

You will be hard-pressed to find an indigenous B-cup in Las Vegas, and if you do, it’s attached to a tennis pro’s physique. My acquaintance who I often visit as part of these little trips has always told me this, and it became clear to me this weekend just how prevalent plastic surgery and the all-around glamour ethic is in this town. The huge (DD and higher) boobs usually come attached to a straw cowboy hat this season.

Despite a population that “encompasses 1.7 million people” – I understand that Vegas actually accounts for the perpetual flood of hundreds of thousands of tourists in its census figures, as we in Louisville do a few thousand homeless folks – this city is still built around the hotels, which vie not only for the affections of tourists but of locals, as well. Hence the “pool party” that shattered my otherwise idyllic Sunday. It was about 11:30, I guess, when these insanely attractive women – I note the prevalence of DDs, not condemn it outright – started pouring into the pool area wearing swimsuits that I know cannot be comfortable. Turns out the hotel had invited several local models and adult dancers to come over and spice up the scene a bit; I know this because I asked one of the event hostesses, an insanely built brunet who may have been pretty under all that makeup, I couldn’t tell. Literally, it was all to much for me – I had to beat a retreat to the spa, and then ultimately to the waterfall shower when the club mix of Clapton’s “Forever Man” came billowing out from the DJ stand.

I read much of Celine’s “Journey to the End of the Night,” at the suggestion of a co-worker. Kind of Camus meets Animal House. I have to admit to chuckling at the brief interludes between the larger, preachier movements. I also was struck by the irony of reading French nihilism on the same weekend the French people killed the European Union constitution. And Memorial Day weekend, at that. It also occurs to me that some of this post sounds a bit like Celine (I don’t mean to flatter myself – I think most people write a bit like the last thing they read.)

An information operator could not understand my pronunciation of “Louisville,” and when I spelled it for him, he did not know where it was.

I’m more committed than ever to my moral of getting the cheapest room at a nicer place and then taking embarrassingly full advantage of amenities designed to lure in the upper crusts, who in all likelihood find these goodies trite, anyway. I sprang for a “petite suite” this go-round, with the direct promise of a balcony view of the pool. My balcony had a direct view of drywall – I was stuck in the corner of the complex, behind one of the faux-turrets you find in all Vegas construction. A complaint – not my last, mind you – got a shrug at the front desk. I felt like Icarus, flying too close to the Jessica Simpson sun in my “petite” pretentions. I did have a lovely lunch on that balcony, but I’ll chock that up to the company, not the accommodations. The $75 three-day pass to the spa and that magic showerhead, now that’s a different story.

I am on the plane now, and there is a thunderstorm to our left. Folks are taking photos. It really is beautiful. I am mostly over my crippling fear of flying, it seems.

I think I had a moment with a semi-famous person. I was waiting at the pool bar on the day of the big “party.” I had been cut inline by no less than three bimbos – really, DDs aside, these girls weren’t that cute, and meanness just is never attractive – when this young woman stepped up to the bar. The ho waters parted, let me tell you. She was very pretty and wearing a skimpy suit, to be sure, but she still had a decent air about her. She got her drink and then motioned to the bartender to take my order, which was a little more grandiose than the moment called for, certainly. I've been ugly for 37 years; I can hack it. I think she was trying to stick it to one of the more ghastly of the straw cowboy hats. And she didn’t pay for her drink, which surprised no one. The staff called her Emma, and it seemed to please her enormously that she let them do so.

We need an Original Pancakes House. Now. Oven-baked, four-egg Irish omelet, stuffed with corn beef hash, three cakes on the side. $8.95. I can’t write no prettier than that.

I had a fine time. I am very relaxed – that last bit of turbulence really didn’t get to me at all. I didn’t do a lick of work, despite my schemes to knock out some tedium on this flight. I am old, and I need to rest, damn it. I was so refreshed that today when I couldn’t find my rental car key only two hours before my flight, I refrained from the usual string of blasphemy that would come pouring from my gullet. It all worked out.

I am feeling so well, in fact, that I pounded out this mess of tripe in only an hour or so. These days I usually just find myself too bleary to write.

Lucky you.

Sith Sith Sith ...

Movie tripe

Because I imagine everybody else is doing it, my thoughts on "Revenge of the Sith," which I saw today.

I'd agree that this is solidly the third-best of the Star Wars films, well ahead of "Return of the Jedi" but still far behind the Big Two. I could see a straight-through viewing of episodes III-VI as a fine way to blow a Saturday (particularly since you could revel in the fact that you are not watching I-II).

Having started off with well-earned praised, I have to say that the movie is not as good as many fans are saying – I'd chalk that up to a collective sigh of relief after the last two stinkers.

Strong points:

The Droids are perfect. Best use of those characters since the original film 28 years ago.

The special effects are the most technically perfect ever committed to film.

The love scenes are gracefully short.

The story is really, really strong. You get a sense of the moral conflict that drove Vader over the edge.

Only two parallel climaxes this go-round.

The movie does of good job of wrapping up/setting up most plot points heading into Star Wars. (see exceptions below)

Weak points:

Hayden Christensen is an unusually bad actor. The weird, disingenuous vibe that worked for him in "Shattered Glass" is apparently all he's got. He's awful. The movie would be a half-star better with me as Anakin. Really. He stinks.

A little too much from Lucas. Bad dialog is a given. Lucas can’t resist a couple times and drags scenes out a bit. Vader's painful epiphany ends with him yelling "nooooooooooooo…;" a much cooler and creepier moment preceded this unfortunate silliness.

Man, is this movie dark. After the pandering comic relief and kid-friendliness of I-II, this movie is a balled-up fist of rage. Harm comes to children in a big way.

The Wookie thing just didn't do it for me. Ultimately the main problem here is that Lucas is not a very deft storyteller. The first three films are very simple: good guys v. bad guys. The storyline of I-III is actually quite complex, with the duplicitous Sith working both camps against each other. Lucas has trouble pulling that off. I'd assume the underlying story element of the Wookie movement is that the Sith orders the Separatist attack on this backwater planet of monkey-men expressly for the purpose of getting Yoda, who happens to know them, away from the Jedi temple. But Lucas never bothers to impart that, so it just comes off as a totally random action sequence. Like most of these three movies.

There are too many special effects, particularly in the final fight between Obi-Wan and Anakin.

All the lightsaber battles. In many ways, for me they are the biggest problem in this series of films. Not among the Sith and Jedi, mind you – just the idea that lightsabers are an effective military option. Nobody ever hear of a bomb around here? The Jedi themselves say that they are simply peacekeepers in what has been an inherently peaceful Republic for millennia – they are not soldiers, hence the creation of the Clone armies for the purposes of military conquest. And yet every military battle is driven by Jedis chopping on stuff. Oddly enough, that's the main complaint I've heard from non-Star Wars fans, and it sticks. I'm far more comfortable with the idea of the Jedi acting as a super (and somewhat independent) spy organization, thematically in contrast to the military as opposed to leading it. A little light-saber goes a long way.

Apparently, the galaxy far, far away is a very small place. The Emporer senses that Vader is in trouble on an outlying system, and he's there in a matter of minutes. Like that through the whole movie.

No one has explained to me how placing a baby with its one living relative is "hiding" it, particularly when the person looking for it is its father. And apparently pre-natal ultrasounds are not covered by Nabu insurance. Maybe Padme is just lying to her husband about the twins because she's uncertain, as he's so pissed off and Dark Side that he can't listen to his feelings? Write a little.

Enough with the Bush-bashing, already. A universe where genetically super-powered warriors establish their own pseudo-government, complete with marshalling powers, is hardly the platform for lectures about democracy – particularly coming from a princess/senator who is being stripped of her office by her planet's Queen for getting knocked up. The whole vibe with the Separatists wanting "peace" – a couple movies ago they were greedy bankers attacking a helpless planet, as I recall – is Jane Fonda-weak, to boot. Wisely your pulpits you must pick.

I'll see the movie again this weekend.

One of those moments

I was driving on Magnolia yesterday, on my way to a student newspaper board meeting at U of L, when I saw a woman running to catch the Fourth Street bus as it pulled away from its stop and headed downtown.

I almost typed “running frantically” just now, except for the fact that she had this enormous smile on her face. A smile so huge and glowing that it made me stop and take notice of her well beyond a glance from the corner of my eye. She was in her mid-40s and really quiet lovely, dressed in a very smart business suit, complete with high heels. If I were running in heels, there’s no way I’d be smiling like that. If I were catching a bus to go to my office job – instead of sliding into my comfortable mid-level four-door for a mile-long drive to work – I’d be less inclined to smile, as well.

I forced myself to be in a better mood than usual at the board meeting.

Only what I take with me ...

I dreamt last night that I was on a boat, but not a real boat – the kind of floating car found in the ‘70s Hanna-Barbera TV ride at King’s Island. Everything was pretty cool, except when we approached an ominous door. It seemed to be set back in swamp or some other secluded corner. It was a place of looming evil; I had just talked extensively with a 9-year-old about Star Wars, so maybe it was the duality cave on Dagoba. Hell if I know. I think I remember some visage of a wet ghost child, a la Ringu, popping into my peripheral view just as fright jolted me from sleep.

This happened at least 10 times over the course of evening. The dream would change a bit – in one sequence some wrestling T Rexes ran up and grabbed children off this amusement park tram I was riding with Clint Eastwood. I think Mr. Eastwood was directing some film to which much of the surreal landscape could be attributed. A purple whale jumped from the sandy landscape and breached right on the tram, but I never woke from these calamities. Only that swampy door creeped me out that bad.

Each time I woke, I was sitting up in bed starring at the door to my little-used office in the corner of my bedroom.

I gotta turn off the TV at night.

It would be funny if it weren’t true

vengeful movie tripe

In my lonely quest to find others who dislike Sin City as much as I do, I found this gem at the site One Man's Opinion, via the nexus Rotten Tomatoes:

“It’s the bad-boy equivalent of Francis Ford Coppola’s One From the Heart.”

Really, this is on the cusp of unhealthy obsession for me. I pulled out my trade of the original Sin City storyline and re-read it last night, to see if I’ve just gotten older than even I suspected, and consequently less patient with hysterical exercises of form over substance.

It’s a little bit of that, to be sure. It also occurs to me that comic books – apologies for not adopting “graphic novel” or the more ludicrous affectation “graphic journalism;” if it was good enough for Will Eisner, it’s good enough for Harvey Pekar, damn it – are just a more palatable media for self-indulgent hyperbole.

There’s wrong, there’s wrong, and then there’s this

movie tripe

I’ve just rented Stray Dog, Akira Kurosawa’s masterful 1949 homage to American noir film. I did so because I feel compelled to rinse the taste of Sin City, which I saw this afternoon, from my mouth. Better Kurosawa than M&Ms.

I’m at a loss to describe how much I disliked Sin City. I would have disliked it more, I’d imagine, if not for the fact that I found the comics trite and soulless in their initial run, so I was prepared, to some degree. I’ll always owe Frank Miller for Batman: Year One, but this Sin City film is the perfect storm of Miller’s punch-line driven writing and the Rodriguez/Tarantino fetish for overlapping story arc. Yuk.

I’m big on suspended disbelief, so I can run with a 60-year-old man with angina getting shot seven or so times and surviving somehow. I had forgotten, however, the agonizing self-importance and jarring stupidity. Semi-spoiler warning: So, a completely corrupt senator wouldn’t be interested in killing a stripper who knows his dirty little secret, regardless if Hartigan is dead or alive? But hey, it makes for some tidy plot looping and ponderous self-sacrifice to gratify the 15-year-old martyr in all of us.

And don’t get me started on the ninja hookers. Hard to swallow when drawn on a comic page; even more embarrassing when depicted by actual, breathing human beings.

This one is destined to join the Kill Bill ranks of crappy films that are initially heralded by critics but quickly fade into the anonymity they deserve. For Sin City, not quick enough.

For those of you who are interested, here’s a look at how the film adapts Miller’s art in an almost storyboard model.

The Internet Horror

Internet tripe

I have been drafted to see the upcoming remake of The Amityville Horror with the Almighty Twinkie; I have been nominated, and I choose to serve. Expect a full report in the next few weeks.

At any rate, in knocking around the Internet, I found this site, which I find far more disturbing than any film adaptation of an alleged haunting. These guys have way too much time on their hands, and they’ve decided to devote it to dissecting every aspect of the Long Island home where the DeFeos family was brutally murdered and where flies allegedly gave a meddling priest the diabolic business.

Here, you get a dissection of photos of baseboards and shoes. There’s also a forum and a weekly chat. You can marvel in an in-depth interview of the father who’s sticking to his story of a levitating wife, and revel in some harsh words for an author who “flip-flopped” in his support for the veracity of the whole business. And there’s a freakish pig photo, for good measure.

Springsteen was right: People find some reason to believe.

Leftover “spA-GHET-tie”?

lifestyle tripe

I tormented myself last weekend by watching The Food Network; this Dimsdale act always ends up with me devouring a 1,700-calorie sack of almond M&Ms. At any rate, I was lying in bed when my least-favorite show, Everyday Italian, promised me some creative uses for leftovers.

For those of you who have never seen Everyday Italian, it stars rail-thin Chef Giada De Laurentiis, who obviously eats very small portions of her cheese-encrusted concoctions and says obnoxious stuff like “spA-GHET-tie.” You’d just have to hear her to get it. De Laurentiis’s definition of “everyday” doesn’t quite synch up to my reality, either, in so much as I don’t have $20 bucks and two hours to spend on making a sandwich every day.

At any rate, she advertised a nice-looking “spA-GHET-tie” pie, so I thought why not? I’d have to burn about half a calorie to change channels, anyway.

Come to find out, her “leftover” ingredient was dried spaghetti. Not already boiled, mind you – the dry stuff, right there in her $100 Pyrex pasta cozy. What the hell is leftover spaghetti? It goes bad? That’s like saying you have leftover gas in your tank after driving to the grocery. No such animal.

Her second dish was based on leftover cookies. Huh? At my house, that’s breakfast, sister. The recipe called for some kind of imported yak cheese and, of course, the use of a $2,000 table mixer.

These shows baffle me. Do people really have this much energy, time and money to spend on routine meals?

Here’s an “everyday” recipe from the MeanOldMan archives. I came across this in college, and my old roommate Greg and I still toast its memory, from time to time. I also published it in a daily newspaper where I once worked as my favorite recipe. In many ways, that’s still true.

Bachelor Goulash

Ingredients
1 box store-brand macaroni and cheese dinner
1 can Hormel chili, no beans
Pete’s Texas hot sauce, to taste
NO MILK, darn it

Directions
Figure it out

Cost
About two bucks, depending on sales

Calories
1,200 or so, assuming you can hold this stuff down

What did I do to deserve this?

philosophical tripe

I'm sitting here with the makings of a terrible cold, waiting for my pal Joe to show up so we can start our five-hour road trip to St. Louis for the Cards' Final Four showdown with Illinois. Yep, for the first time in my ill-begotten career as a basketball duffer and fan, I'm going to the Final Four.

Only a rush of completely undeserved good luck – some friends stumbled across a pair of great tickets and offered them at a ridiculously reasonable price – landed me in this most enviable spot. So now it's five hours of good (but somewhat grumpy) company on I-64 to the games, with an estimated return time of about 5 a.m. tomorrow morning, I'd guess. No rooms to be had in St. Louis; one character wanted $500 a night for a last-minute B&B vacancy that listed for $125 on her Web site. Ah, no.

The only thing in my craw at the moment is this cold, which is gonna get nasty, I can tell. And the fact that I am just hammered at work right now – much of the trip is going to be spent with my laptop on my knees, whacking away at newsletters (and a stray blog post or two, I'd imagine). Why is it that even flashes of good fortune always come with some kind of irksome bill?

Now I'm complaining about not being able to complain.

"It's his arms"

sports tripe

I really like Larry O'Bannon, and I'm not alone – the strapping senior guard has a growing cult following here in Louisville, as evidenced by this feature article in today’s Courier-Journal. For the indoctrinated, he’s known as "Lar-ree," a weird turn on the old “Day-rel” chant that so irked Strawberry. Go figure.

Larry appeases the underlying guilt so many of us feel for being fans of college basketball, an ethically dubious system at best. He just seems like a good kid: makes the honor roll, speaks to community groups, works hard, wears glasses. The whole works. Not to say other players are “bad” kids, per se – Larry just seems to be extra good. And he’s a hometown product, which tickles us townies who secretly (or in my case, overtly) fear that the Cards are losing their local flavor.

Larry has another appeal not spelled out in the Courier feature, outside a “1.8 percent body fat” nugget. Ladies like Larry. Lots.

I know of at least one young woman at U of L who has a photo of she and Larry as her desktop wallpaper. A server at the BW3 near my home announced that Larry is her cousin (I’d imagine the ranks of Larry’s extended family are growing daily), but added that if he weren’t – we’ll, you know. Even a lesbian friend of mine is on the bandwagon; “It’s his arms,” she explained in an e-mail.

Go get ‘em, Larry.

I couldn't (and didn't) say it better

sports tripe

ESPN.com’s Pat Forde – late of The Courier-Journal – sums up the UK-U of L rivalry probably better than anyone I’ve read for a while.

I imagine that only living here for several years as Pat did can engrain fully into a writer how deeply pathological and incurable the rivalry is, no matter what a Courier poll says. Polls have shown that figure skating is the most popular sport in America. Un-uh.

Our blood feud seems somewhat civil to outsiders, I think, because we HAVE to live together – we don’t have the state-line tidiness of Ohio State/Michigan or Texas/Oklahoma. And whether we like it or not, the rest of the country views us all as hilljacks – even if you live in the Highlands, mister – and we are bound by that common derision.

But the fever runs deep.

Not that anybody cares ...

generic tripe

I was interviewed by a Courier-Journal reporter of my acquaintance today about this self-same blog. Seems The Courier is interested in bloggers who are writing about NCAA hoops. I can’t help but feel that I’m poor subject matter. Certainly, I’ve been running my mouth about hoops for the better part of 37 years, but I started blogging about a week ago. Seems like cheating, in a way.

At any rate, the reporter – a passionate journalist, Louisville Cardinal alum, lover of fine barbeque and fledgling blogger in his own right – asked me why I started this Web log anyway, and who I hope will read it. Of course, the real answer is that I aspire to emulate the almighty Twinkie in all that I do. As to who will read this thing, I could say only that I’ve really never thought about it, and now that I have, I don’t care so much.

Blogging, I think, is a purely egocentric – to be more forthcoming, narcissistic – proposition. So far, I’ve written only about my tiresome personal biases and irrelevant observations. That’s about as far as I plan to take it, really. As a writer (at least of sorts), it pleases me to do this. It’s far more fun than spending an hour on an e-mail about a potential content licensing deal.

I don’t imagine that I’ll change anybody’s mind about anything. Not really trying to. Those few folks who choose for some strange reason to follow this little blog will probably get tired of reading it before I get tired of writing it. Except, of course, any UK fans I may offend – Capt. Ahab, Khan Noonian Singh and the bunny lady from Fatal Attraction have got nothing on those guys when it comes to fury scorned.

Well, that’s pretty much my vision.

And, oh yeah, it’s free.

I'm only hurting myself

sports tripe/hollow confession

meanoldman note: I composed this little salvo in all good faith, but just as I was about to push "Publish," I remembered my good friend Keith, a rhetoric professor from Grayson and, of course, a Cat Fan (capital letters).

I don't know if I should feel relieved that I'm not singulalry guilty of the woeful malice described below, or worried that I'm so far gone I blocked Keith out of my mind as I wallowed in the ill-gotten pleasure of a UK loss.

Hope is so ellsuive.

__________

Right after Kentucky fell to Michigan State in double overtime, my friend, who grew up in Chicago, asked me if I had any UK friends who I needed to call and razz about the tough loss.

First, I said, only a Yankee could be oblivious to how deeply painful tournament losses are to lifelong college basketball fans, particularly the nutbags who live around here. I wouldn’t do that, not even to a Kentucky fan.

And then it dawned on me that I don’t have any UK fans as friends.

Really – not a single one.

Sure, I have friendly acquaintances from work and the like who may have a Wildcat or two in their closets. That I can live with. And as I think a little harder, there may be a couple folks to whom I apply a “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy, just to be on the safe side. Many of my friends simply don’t care much about sports, and some claim to cheer for both teams, which of course is so lame as to not warrant either the respect or contempt of a true fan.

I’m talking about honest-to-gosh, “Cats gonna beat the spread tonight, Cawood?” UK fans. I could never sit across from someone in a true spirit of friendship and talk about how much they love Patrick Sparks or Melvin Turpin or Rick Robey. Basketball is a big part of my life, and if I’m going to share that with somebody, they can’t bleed Blue. And real UK fans feel the same way I do. So there you have it.

I realize this is about as absurd a prejudice as a person can hold, but by virtue of that absurdity perhaps it's also one of the more harmless. As least I know I’m being an ass when I cheer against UK and its fans.

And it’s been a good weekend. Two dramatic wins by my favorite teams: U of L and whoever’s playing UK.

Even a man who is pure in heart ...

hollow confession

I’m sitting here two hours before U of L’s bid for its first berth to the NCAA Final Four in 19 years, gnawing on almond M & M’s (chilled, of course) and patting my upset stomach in nervous anticipation.

This is, obviously, pathetic. I am 37 years old, and I am half sick over the possible outcome of a game between kids who could be my own children. Well, only in a temporal sense, of course – I don’t have the genes to whip up a Larry O’Bannon, even if I were able to trick Lisa Leslie into letting me make a deposit, as it were.

I’m increasingly embarrassed about my antics while watching U of L basketball. Today, for this momentous game (and it really is a big deal 'round here), I’m just going to sit here by myself and scream insanely at the T.V. I’m resigned to it – I feel like Oliver Reed in Curse of the Werewolf, locking himself into a jail cell as the crimson moon looms.

And we all know how much good that did.

Doctor, catch something incurable

petty tripe

I went to a new doctor this afternoon.

I haven't had a regular physician for a few years, since my general practitioner quit active practice to go full-time into hospital administration. I generally don't like doctors, and I certainly don't like going to doctors, for the obvious reasons.

I began shopping for a new doctor about a week ago, after a spell on an airplane gave me a case of the cardiac heebie-jeebies. After being rebuffed by about 10 practices that weren't taking new patients, I finally just ran across the river to get an EKG at an urgent care center; well worth the $25 extra bucks.

Just to cover the bases, I did make an appointment with a GP about two blocks from my house. The booking was for 2:45. I got into the examination room about 3:45. Our initial session lasted about 15 minutes, and the guy asked me all of four questions. My posture is only slighty better than Marty Feldman's, and the guy didn't even notice. I had to force-feed him any information about me, and he must have checked his watch 10 times -- had to get to those five other overbooked patients, I guess.

Makes the urgent care center look better all the time.

Why do we put up with this?

Nausicaa Update: A Real Review at DAM

better movie opinion

My longtime pal Greg Harris has posted a comprehensive review of Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind at Destroy All Monsters. It's far more informed than anything you might expect to find on this blog; Greg has even gone to the effort of properly punctuating the title character's name, which of course is more diligence than you can ever expect to see from yours truly.

Garcia changes Bluegrass basketball – so sayeth The New York Times

sports tripe

An acquaintance was kind enough to pass on this link to a NY Times story on junior forward Francisco Garcia and his announced plans to leave the University of Louisville early for the NBA draft. (Excuse me if I don’t adopt the Times' preening affectation of delineating N.B.A. with periods – yes, I know the rule on acronyms, but give me a break.)

Two thoughts here:

Firstly …

I was scolded by Sporting News columnist Mike DeCourcy – who I think is about as with it as any national sports writer today – for complaining that Garcia, a junior, was honored at Senior Night (which I attended, of course). Don’t get me wrong: I hope the kid gets as much money as he can out of the draft and is able to move his mother to a nice safe neighborhood. He’s in a tough situation, and I don’t begrudge him leaving school if that’s the decision he needs to make for his family. I’m pretty sure this is exactly what they had in mind when they coined the phrase “hardship entry.”

But to me, Senior Night is for seniors. It’s a recognition of four years of commitment to the program, both in and out of the classroom. DeCourcy contends that “Garcia has done enough for Louisville basketball that he deserves whatever honors Pitino wishes to bestow upon him.” I disagree. Make him a captain, hang a banner with his number on it – a ton of honors are reserved for standout players. Senior Night simply shouldn’t be one of them. That’s for the four-year guys, even the ones who never make a big shot or sign an NBA contract.

Secondly …

Where does the Times get off with this dramatic closing?:

“It has taken only three years for Garcia to change bluegrass basketball. There is Spanish spoken during games, there is a junior speaking at senior night, there is a coach advising his star player to turn pro, and there is the growing realization that an early exit can still be a sweet one.”

Well, of course, that’s a rhetorical question. The Times gets off doing this because after two or three hours of interviews for any given story, Times reporters become subject matter “experts” who feel no compunction whatsoever about inserting themselves as sources into a story. As an old fart who works with student journalists, this widely embraced “journalistic” practice makes me even meaner than usual.

There’s Spanish spoken in games simply because a couple of Spanish-speaking players happen to be on the team. There’s no evidence of some new focus on recruiting Spanish-speaking players, or that prior to Garcia’s arrival there was some hesitance to recruit international players in general – we’ve had (or at least tried to have) kids on the squad from Africa and Europe for years now. But it makes good copy, and it plays to the Time’s audience demographic, so run with it. Besides, I'm the reporter, and I know everything about this topic anyway, so what's the harm?

Grumble.

It's the little victories ...

sports tripe

Just had to record a moment:

In the opening minutes of the Memphis-Vanderbilt NIT game this evening, the third-string ESPN commentator made this proclamation:

"Darius Washington, the talented freshman who missed two dramatic free throws against Louisville -- we'll be talking about that throughout the night."

It's good to be mean.

Nausicaa: Better than Mononoke, I’d say

movie opinion

I just watched in its entirety, for the first time, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, Hayao Miyazaki’s 1984 sci-fi/eco-parable available now broadly for the first time in U.S. DVD release.

I’m fairly well-versed in Miyazaki after a few years of catching up; my first screening was the Miramax U.S. theatrical release of Princess Mononoke, I’d guess about 5 years ago. Since then, I’ve repeatedly rented and watched much of the Studio Ghibli box set; I’d seen bits and pieces of Nausicaa in the original Japanese prior to this week.

All in all, Nausicaa is an engrossing watch, if a little simplistic in its morality. It’s an obvious precursor to Mononoke; the central theme of man’s self-defeating war on Nature is inescapable, as is Miyazaki’s mildly disquieting (at least to my occidental sensibilities) fixation with 14-year-old heroines on the verge of sexual awakening. Not that Nausicaa is in any way lurid; there’s blood and dead people, not quite so much as in Mononoke, but enough to be confusing – probably not terrifying – to younger children.

But the sexual tension is there. As are the tentacled giant bugs and amorphous humanoid monoliths you’ll find in virtually all Miyazaki’s work. It’s visually stunning, and his omnipresent metaphor of transforming flight (again with the sexual awakening) is pulled off here perhaps as well as in any Miyazaki film, save his masterwork Spirited Away.

Nausicaa stands out for me because it avoids Mononoke’s moral tidiness. The bad guys (as in Mononoke, embodied in a powerful but distant female leader) aren’t summarily killed off, but they also don’t reform – they just go away when there’s nothing left for them to gain. It may seem like a minor distinction, but for me, it was a highly satisfying change of pace.

I don’t necessarily agree with this review’s comparison of Nausicaa and Mononoke, but it’s well worth a read.

Why meanoldman?

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When I announced this blog to one of my dearest and wisest friends, he replied simply:

"Why not angry old man?"

The answer should be obvious. More often than not, I am mean for the pure joy of it, not because of any real anger I feel toward the object of my contempt.

It's all about motive.

Cadbury Eggs – the Devil’s goodness

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I have eaten at least seven portions of wonderful/demonic Cadbury chocolate eggs this afternoon. I’m not hungry; in fact, I’m quite full. Nauseously so. Obviously, I hate myself and subconsciously long for some kind of self-prostration associated with the Christian holiday.

Will I use this blog only for this kind of hollow public confession?

Perhaps.