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?

generic tripe

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.