Parler Nucléaire?

Iran is on French radar and - no surprise to anyone that knows them - the French couldn't give a damn what you think.

This is the latest statement from the French government vis a vis Iran's nuclear ambitions: "Ahmadinejad says that the programme is peaceful. Ultimately, we do not believe him. Everyone knows that the programme has military goals."

That's French spokesman David Martinon at a press conference this morning. Pretty bold stuff by today's standards. Someone in the world had the chutzpah to call a dictator a liar.

Ever since French President Nicolas Sarkozy came to power, there has been a decidedly different tone emanating from Paris.
This is Sarkozy on August 27: "A nuclear-armed Iran for me is unacceptable...This approach [dialogue and sanctions] is the only one that would prevent a catastrophic alternative: the Iranian bomb or the bombing of Iran."

That raised eyebrows, and no wonder. You just don't talk like that these days. But French politicians are fluent at speaking in forked tongues. They'd make masterful poker players, if anyone could stand sitting at the same table with them for more than an hour.

In the same "bombing of Iran" speech, Sarkozy didn't say that it would be the French that would do any bombing...but neither did he say they wouldn't. He then went on to add this about Iraq: "France was and remains hostile to this war...There will only be a political solution,” he added.

Iraq equals politics but Iran equals bombs?

Regarding Iran, French Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner said this last week: "We have to prepare for the worst, and the worst is war." When the press freaked out over the W-word, Sarkozy tried to put out the fire: "I would not have used the word 'war." Thanks, Nic, that ought to put minds at ease.

Snakes and ladders, twists and turns. That has been the French modus operandi for the past two centuries. It went on vacation during the Chirac presidency. Now it's back, in the form of Sarkozy.

Anyone that needs evidence of the US drawing all of the anti-West limelight need only look at the public reaction to Sarkozy's words: there isn't any. Nada. You have to Google Sarkozy's name to find out anything the man has to say. Though France is a nuclear power and is more than capable of bombing anybody should they feel like it, the protesters remain strangely silent.

Imagine Bush saying the words "bomb" and "Iran" on the same day, let alone in the same sentence. Imagine the US Secretary of Defence saying, "Prepare for war." The headlines would be ten feet high. People would march in the street. CNN would trot out the analysts and we'd have a fine time hearing how "unhelpful" Bush is.

The French hide in the shadows. If I were the Iranians, that would give me great pause. I'd be very, very careful about the way I played this nuclear game. For the past two years, they have been able to manipulate the world because there was only one man to worry about: Bush. And he was transparently hamstrung by his own Congress, the world press, and the UN. Iran knew that it would take a lot, maybe too much, for President Bush to step in and do something about Iranian nukes before they had them. And once they had them, what then? North Korea put paid to that argument last year.

Then out of nowhere comes this Sarkozy character. The Iranians must be wondering how their luck could turn so sour. The French answer to no one, and never have. They stabbed the US in the back on the streets of Paris during Vietnam. They voted for "extreme measures" on Iraq for not opening their doors to inspectors, then betrayed the US again by calling the war a sham.

Pétain - collaborateur
During WWII, the French showed their colors. It is astonishing to me that people do not remember Vichy France, and the concessions that the French made to the Germans. "France" was not conquered by the Germans. Only part of it was. The French surrendered, formed a rump government, and lived out the rest of the war in peace while waiting to see which way the winds of history would blow.

The Iranians would do well to remember this, were they not so ignorant of history. Beware the man that does you a favor: the French are on the sidelines not because they don't believe in the war on Islamic fascism, but because they don't see anything worthwhile about it. They've been letting others duke it out, and watching for an opportunity.

People that believe the US mission in Iraq is all about oil are stupid or misinformed. The US actually believes what they are doing in Iraq is right, for moral and security reasons both. The French are vastly more cynical. They are the true oil-believers. While the Americans and Brits get killed, France buys the oil, and they don't have to fire a shot. All good. But a nuclear Iran changes the formula. A nuclear Iran will alter the costs of French oil interests in the region. The French aren't going to stand for that. Far cheaper to bomb Tehran then be strangled by Tehran's control of the the entire Middle East.

Interesting days lie before us. While the protesters march against the Americans, and the world sings the blues about Iraq, France has their eyes on a far different target. And nobody's watching.

3:10 to Yuma - Review

Director: James Mangold
Writers: Welles/Brandt/Haas
Starring: Christian Bale/Russell Crowe
Runtime: 1 hr 57 minutes

Christian Bale and Russell Crowe star in a film based on an Elmore Leonard story.

That sounds like a pitch made in Heaven, doesn't it? Unfortunately, while the movie doesn't turn into Hell, it certainly makes you feel like you're in Hollywood purgatory.

The story follows the Western genre to a T: Bale plays a down-on-his-luck rancher. A railroad executive (the railroad is to Westerns what Big Oil is to today's films) is threatening to run him off his land. If Bale doesn't come up with enough cash to pay off his loans, his family is going to be destitute. Desperate, Bale...

Doesn't do too much.

3:10 to Yuma doesn't work because it's hero doesn't do any. He doesn't make events happen. He watches them, sometimes reacts to them, but more or less goes along with the flow.

After witnessing a stagecoach robbery committed by Crowe and his gang, Bale and his two sons are robbed of their horses. They discover one of the stagecoach victims is still alive, and Bale decides to bring him into town.

Crowe plays one of those "noble villians" that pop up in Westerns: sure, he kills unarmed men, and yes, he's been known to blow up women and children, but at least he's friendly when he does it. He's incredibly smooth and intelligent, and has the aura of man who knows exactly what is going to happen and when.

That's why it's incredible when he gets captured after the stage coach hold-up. He rides into town with his gang. They split up. Crowe knows the Marshal will be returning soon. So instead of high tailing it out of town, he tells his gang that he'll meet them in Mexico, then goes upstairs for a tryst with a harlot. Satisfied, he comes down the stairs and is captured without firing a shot.

Bale, hungry for cash, agrees to help transport Crowe to Contention. This is the town with the closest railroad station, the one that will take Crowe to Yuma on a 3:10 train for his date with a noose. The rest of the film revolves around Bale and the posse getting Crowe on the train before the bad guys can catch up with them.

I tried to enjoy 3:10 to Yuma. The filmmakers wouldn't let me. Bale's character, for one, is frustratingly passive. He's cowed by the railway, cowed by the villians, and constantly insulted by his own teenage son, who rightly thinks that Bale is a chicken.

All of that is okay, however, as we know that cowardly characters are going to eventually break out of their mould and become the "hero." However, in 3:10 to Yuma, it takes forever. Bale follows along with the posse, takes more grief from his son, is volunatrily disarmed and de-horsed on several occassions, needs a handcuffed Russell Crowe to beat off the Apaches, so forth. You will be waiting a long time to like Bale, and in movies, waiting a long time to like a hero is the kiss of death.

A lead character should lead, and Bale's never does. In every scene involving conflict, it is either Crowe or, worse yet, a supporting character that sets things in motion. In one scene, confronted by more bad guys, it is the town veterinarian that saves the day by hitting a man with a shovel. Then the good guys all run away.

The last quarter of the film is quite good. You have to ignore the fact that everyone, Bale included, is the worst shot in Arizona history. That's nothing new in film, but 3:10 to Yuma really makes you wonder what the characters could possibly be aiming at. The ending is also so against character-type that it is hard to take it seriously, but there are still some good moments here.

It's a good idea to judge movies by the genre that they're in. An animated feature meant for children shouldn't be treated like Schindler's List. As Westerns go, 3:10 to Yuma is mediocre.

Short Cuts -- A UN Tuesday

Ahmadinejad

The Iranian President came to Columbia and got them laughing, but not on purpose. He declared, "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country."

The crowd laughed him off. A few booed him. He then called homosexuality a "phenomenon" that didn't exist inside Iranian borders, and said that people seeking nuclear weapons are "retarded."

That drew a smattering of cheers from the anti-nuke crowd, but an uncomfortbale silence from people that don't like the word "retarded."

Can someone tell me the point of Columbia's exercise? President Bush tried to pass it off this way to Fox News:

"If the (Columbia) president thinks it's a good idea to have the leader from Iran come and talk to the students as an educational experience, I guess it's OK with me."

Bush's gambit is the old, "Don't stop your enemy while he is in the process of hanging himself."

Calling Dr. Freud

Another actor has broken bread with Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez.

Chavez is the guy that came to the UN last year and called George Bush the Devil. His opinion of Dr. Condoleeza Rice is that she is an illiterate (Rice speaks English, French, German, Spanish, and Russian) who suffers from sexual frustration. Chavez has also gone on the record as saying that the US is the biggest terrorist in the world. Nothing new there, and neither is his anti-Semitism. For some reason, a dictator must despise America first and Jews second. It's a prerequisite.

Spacey and Chavez
Harry Belafonte was the first star to head down to Caracas and pat Chavez on the back. Fellow career-in-toilet celebrity Danny Glover followed suit. Then it was Sean Penn. Now it's Kevin Spacey, who had a three-hour dinner with Chavez at his presidential palace.

It is traffic-collision interesting to watch these rich celebrities bathe themselves in guilt and self-abasement. The fact that they can't see how they're being used would be sad, if it weren't so funny.

Welcome to Columbia, Adolf

The news out of Columbia University gets more bizarre by the day. On the heels of inviting Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Iranian anti-Semitic tyrant, to their grounds for a "robust debate," a Dean of the University has come out with this as their defence: if Hitler were willing to have a debate with Columbia students and faculty, then the Fuhrer would be invited, too.

When you have to use Hitler as an attempt to quell outrage, you know you've lost your grip on reality.

John Coatsworth is the Dean's name. You can see this clown's views on Hitler here.

Coatsworth's name is worth remembering, as he might be canned sometime in the very near future. Then again, probably not. Columbia University is a lunatic asylum, and it's quite obvious that the crazies are running the place.

I know what Coatsworth's game is. He's implying that Columbia is a bastion of free speech, and that every man should get his day in court. But what possible purpose can it serve to invite hate mongers to the floor? If Coatsworth and the morons at Columbia truly believe this, they would invite guest speakers from the Ku Klux Klan.

The invitation to Ahmadinejad is purely political in nature. He despises the United States, and he is an arch enemy of George W. Bush. In other words, he's Columbia's kind of people. Never mind that Columbia is "liberal," yet Mahmoud thinks women should be killed for adultery, and gays hanged in the street for sodomy. Mahmoud's hatred of the United States trumps all of this.

Robust debate? Gimme a break. What are you going to learn that history hasn't already taught you? Debating Hitler and Ahmadinejad about their views is like holding a debate on whether dog crap tastes better than chocolate chip cookies.

Laughing Stock

The Unserious are at it again, with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad set to appear at Columbia University. The school states that this is another example of "Columbia's long-standing tradition of serving as a major forum for robust debate."

Ahmadinejad isn't coming to NY specifically to visit Columbia. He's all set to go to the UN and speak his mind to the UN General Assembly. It will be another chance for him to laugh himself silly, too. He can sponsor state terror, sanction the execution of homosexuals for the crime of being gay, be a Holocaust denier, and say that Israel should be wiped off the map, then visit NY and ask to lay a wreath at the site of the World Trade Center. Denied that visit, he took up Columbia on the offer to swing by and spew more vitriol to a crowd of fascist worshipping students and faculty.

It's no wonder that the mad bomber-types have a problem taking the West seriously. From their point of view, we must be the biggest bunch of suckers since Neville Chamberlain. Ahmadinejad would like nothing better than to watch the United States go up in smoke. He was a member of the 'students' that held Americans hostage in 1979, and he learned early on that the West can be pushed around without too much trouble.

Picture how stupid we look, the West in general and the United States in particular. Canada and the US have been arguing themselves silly about legalizing gay marriage, yet Iran stages public executions for gays. To show our outrage for these heinous acts, he's flown to NY to speak on the world stage, then invited to a pretty little college campus.

Imagine the conversations Ahmadinejad and his thugs must have in the back seat of the limo.

"Good speech, boss. A very 'robust' debate."
"Yes, useful morons. And did you see the robust hooters on that sophomore in the front row?"
Hardee-har-har.

Trouble is, no matter how much I despise everything this man stands for, I can't blame him for laughing.

At us.

Superbad - Review

Superbad reminded me of Fast Times at Ridgemont High: an in-your-face film about teens that was aiming to make a modest sum and bam: the producers had a hit on their hands.

The premise of Superbad is simple. Three sex-starved high school misfits want to go to a year-end party. One of the trio owns a fake ID. When a girl asks them to get booze for her bash, one of the boys says sure, no problem.

The rest of the film is an attempt to get the booze by hook or by crook, and to make it to the party for a chance to score some babes.

There's your movie. And you know what? It's great.

It's also raunchy. Writers Seth Rogen (who also stars) and Evan Goldberg don't pull any punches. All of the things you talked about in high school are writ large. If you've seen any of Rogen's recent films (40 Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up), then you'll know what you're in for.

Rogen takes a backseat in this picture. He co-stars as part of a cop duo that feigns respect for law and order, but still understands the importance of pot, booze, and scoring as a teenage loser.

He and his partner (Bill Hader, also from Knocked Up), are excellent at drawing laughs, but it's Rogen's delivery that really shines. Like Will Farrell, there is something about his voice that lends itself to a crack up. If he read a cook book and shouted out the ingredients, you'd be on the floor.

Jonah Hill, as Seth, plays his part with reckless abandon. He is the "brains" behind the operation, and we all knew someone like him: loud, obnoxious, funny to everyone but your parents. He has a plan, and come hell or high water, he is going to achieve it.

His buddy Evan, played by Michael Cera, is the moral compass of the film. It's funny how friendships always work out like that. Whenever you find a loud, boisterous dude, you always find an upstanding buddy.

The third member of the trio is newcomer Christopher Mintz-Plasse. If the film is called Superbad, then Mintz-Plasse's character could be called Supergeek. He is completely oblivious to the fact that he is a total loser, and revels in his imagined prowess with women. The scene in the liquor store where he tries to buy booze with a bogus ID is very well done. He's also excellent in his scenes with Rogen and Hader. My only worry for Mintz-Plasse is that he'll take another role like this one, and instantly be type cast as a geek-buddy for the rest of his career.

Superbad isn't all raunch and mayhem. Most of the raunchiness is contained in the dialogue and not the actions, and it beats out others in the teen flick genre by remaining a story. It doesn't reach for gross out joke after gross out joke. Towards the end, it even finds some form of poignancy. You'll see it coming a mile away, but find it satisfying nonetheless.

The chemistry amongst the cast is very good. Mix that with a decent script full of good one-liners, and you have yourself a shot at a hit, which is exactly what Superbad is.

All the above being what it is, there is only one thing producers have to worry about when making a comedy. Critics that over analyze comedies always miss the point, as there is just one criteria the film has to meet: did you laugh, or did your not? If you laughed, then in worked.

I laughed.

Cosmo Girls

I was leafing through a Cosmopolitan magazine this afternoon. I've now discovered that it's a good way to gather intelligence on the fairer sex to see what the NY editors are telling them to think, do, say.

Cosmo gives me a good laugh. Most of their stories are made up, and virtually none of them are based on fact. That doesn't stop them from spewing all kinds of random drivel about important topics like prom dresses, hair dye, and orgasms.

Cosmo is the answer to any question involving the battle of the sexes. Women may claim that men are pigs and that we only have sex on the brain, but one look at Cosmo puts this argument to the test. Men may have Playboy and a few skin mags, but women have an entire magazine library to choose from when it comes to questions involving the libido.

Here are the headlines from Cosmo's most recent issue. See what you think each has in common, then tell me if women don't think about sex once every ten seconds.

THE BLENDED ORGASM: So Deep, So Strong. How You Can Have One Tonight.

WHAT MAKES A MAN FALL IN LOVE.

YOU SEX GODDESS! Crazy-Ass Moves He Wants You to Do to Him There.

4 THINGS ALL GUYS KEEP PRIVATE.

YOUR GYNO'S SECRET THOUGHTS ABOUT YOUR SEX LIFE.

HOW TO STAY SAFE: 5 PLACES SEXUAL PREDATORS LOOK FOR WOMEN.

Excuse me? According to Cosmopolitan magazine, the women are the predators.

Now, before Gloria Steinem writes in to tell me that it's men who have forced women to write and talk about this stuff, give me a break. It's women that write the magazine and women that buy it. If they truly didn't like what was in there, they wouldn't buy the thing. The way publishing is these days, 3 months of low sales would close Cosmo down. But it doesn't happen, and so the presses keep churning it out.

Men don't force women to look at themselves as sex objects. I have never told a woman to call someone 'trashy' for wearing a short skirt, nor have I ever agreed with a woman that she should go home and change if she sees someone at a nightclub wearing a similar sweater. These are female thoughts and female decisions. It is mothers and sisters that reinforce these opinions on growing girls. Last time I checked, mothers and sisters are women.

Anyway, I leafed through the latest Cosmo and found this bit:

"Scientists recently have discovered that men thrust deeper when they suspect infidelity. The move dates back to prehistoric times, when men spent their days hunting, meaning another dude could move in on their mates. Deeper thrusting was their way of trying to squeegee or vacuum out a rival's sperm."

Huh?

Whoever wrote this needs to have their head examined. Apparently the source was some egghead at Florida Atlantic University, with "analysis published in BJU International Journal."

All right, somebody's kidding somebody. I don't know what BJU stands for, but with analysis like this, I can guess where the B and the J come from. Playboy might seem too sexual for the feminists amongst us, but at least you don't find the word "squeegee" anywhere near the centerfold.

Let's dissect this breaking news. First, the part about scientists "discovering" that men thrust deeper when they suspect infidelity. I don't know what kind of grants they're handing out at Florida Atlantic University. I only know that if enough teenage boys read this article while waiting at the dentist's office, FAU's enrollment is going to skyrocket.

How did the scientists go about testing this theory? "Bob, your wife's in the next room. Go to it. By the way, the mailman just left out the back door."

Are we to believe that Bob then walked into the bedroom, banged his wife six ways from Sunday, and that his wife later reported, "He whispered that he thought I was cheating. It was the best I ever had."

When I was studying anthropology back in the old days, we discovered a lot of things about preliterate cultures, but never did we hear this kind of trash. There is absolutely no way that anyone can prove that this bunk is true (that's what prehistoric means: pre-history; nobody was writing things down, in crummy magazines or anything else). Yet the editors of Cosmo throw it in as a stunning revelation, complete with footnotes.

Think about that: first, they're saying that prehistoric women sat around waiting to screw the losers that weren't invited on the hunting trip. Then they're saying that prehistoric man knew that sperm had anything to do with sex (a sophisticated leap, not quite believed by many island populations in the early 20th Century). Then they're saying that prehistoric man thought his penis was a sponge, and that he could use it to soak up another man's semen. Leap forward a few thousand years, and Cosmo tells every wife in America that if their husband gives them the apocalyptic sex they've always dreamed of, it means he suspects she's running around.

Great. Thanks, Cosmo. We try to show our ladies a good time and you turn it into another chance for "open dialogue."

A little further on in the article, Cosmo throws in a doozy:

"Men aren't sizing up their partner's body flaws in bed; they're looking at her face to gauge enjoyment."

Since when?

Look, there might be a little truth to that, but don't take it too far. Yes, a man will look at a woman's face to see if she's having a good time, but this is usually when he's down there. Guys can climax in about twenty-five seconds, but it can take women the better part of a baseball game. The guy may be looking at your face to "gauge your enjoyment," but he's probably wondering if you'll reach your magic O before his tongue falls off.

I wonder if the writers and editors of Cosmo ever talk to guys when they're handing out all of this guy-advice. A few pages further into the magazine, Cosmo tells the ladies to "Give him a job. Ask him to fix or build you something. Performing concrete tasks is a way of bonding that enhances his sense of success."

Yeah, right. Thanks again, Cosmo! You've just made everyone's girlfriend the Insta-Nag. For the men reading this, relax. If your girl has asked you to build a desk, paint the kitchen, tune up the car, fix the porch, and mow the lawn all in one afternoon, she's not being a nag. She's just a Cosmo Girl.

Cosmo Girls are incredibly fearsome creatures. Here's another couple of tips from the Cosmo Girl Bible:

"A physical space that's totally his is a huge symbol of independence to a man. Signal that you respect that by, say, staying out of his desk drawers and not peeking at his caller ID when his phone rings."

In other words, don't be a headcase.

"Guys are good at left brain stuff, like sales and sports, but can get awkward when it comes to social graces. Take the lead and charm the people you meet and he'll be extra grateful to you. But he may take credit for making those new friends...whatever."

Yup, poor dumb me. I hope my girlfriend will drag my shy, unsophisticated ass around at the next cocktail party. After I'm done slurping soup and taking the toilet paper off my shoe, maybe she'll even make me some new friends. Lucky to have her.

Cosmo Girls. Heaven help us should they create too many.

Death Proof - Review

Death Proof is the Quentin Tarantino segment of The Grindhouse, and it is a waste of time and talent.

I have never looked forward to a film when I hear words like, "This is a real Spielberg film," or "De Palma film," or "Tarantino film." Statements like that let me know that the film is not the story; instead, it's the director.

Death Proof is a good example. It is chock full of Tarantino quirkiness, and there are plenty of links to his past projects. But this time, none of the gags are funny, and the dialogue is flat and boring.

Tarantino has been breaking the rules for a long time. Usually he gets away with it, with spectacular results. I loved both volumes of Kill Bill, and I thought Pulp Fiction was damn fun. Both of those entries broke the rules of screen dialogue.

Rule number one states that no dialogue should be written in a scene unless it is absolutely necessary. Further, dialogue should not be "on the nose." That is, if the character wants a chicken sandwich, the last thing he should say is, "I want a chicken sandwich."

Tarantino
Story is supposed to be subtle, and dialogue should not cram ideas down the audience's throat. Tarantino has always shunned this convention. He lets his characters wander through a forest of dialogue before they ever get to the point, if they ever do. Tarantino's characters are simply sounding boards for his own thoughts. When Travolta is talking about eating at a McDonald's in France, we know these are Tarantino's memories of the country, not Vincent Vega's. All of his characters sound the same because they are the same: they're Quentin Tarantino.

And that's okay, as long as it works. Tarantino has become a Name, and his fanclub buys movie tickets in order to see that Name. They don't care who the stars are, and in fact, they're happy if no contemporary stars appear on the screen (contemporary by Hollywood standards means within five years or so). Since Pulp Fiction, Tarantino's fan club has pumped up the myth that he resurrects "old" actors and gives them new careers.

Unfortunately, it isn't completely true. I'm not a big Sean Penn fan these days, but Penn is correct when he says what hogwash it is that directors draw great performances from actors. Directors don't draw the performance. The actor gives it to them.

So yes, Tarantino gave Travolta a chance to make a comeback in Pulp Fiction, just as he gave Pam Greer a comeback bid in Jackie Brown. But that's all he gave them: a chance. And lucky him, they were good enough actors to make hay out of it, rather than a flop.

I will tell you why John Travolta was in Pulp Fiction: he's all Tarantino could get. Because that's the way it works with new directors who have a lot of talent, but not much money and even less confidence from a studio. Directors such as these go looking for a Name, and they hope it will put their project over the top.

It seems like Pulp Fiction was released just yesterday, but think back for a moment about that cast from thirteen (yes, thirteen) years ago: Samuel L. Jackson was a virtual nobody, and John Travolta was a has-been. Uma Thurman was second fiddle in everything, no one had heard of Ving Rhames, and Tim Roth was kinda-sorta well known (from Reservoir Dogs, another Tarantino film). The hottest actor in Pulp Fiction was Bruce Willis, and he was known as the guy from Moonlighting who was pretty good in Die Hard. And that was your cast.

So what made them great? Tarantino, but not because he drew anything out of them; he gave them an incredibly good script which they sank their teeth into, and he had a damn good crew to develop it. The writing was superb and the film was like nothing anyone had seen in years.

So what happened to Death Proof?

Uma Thurman in Kill Bill Vol. 2
First, the writing: it's tired. Kill Bill was so well written that we know Tarantino's still got the goods, but with this difference: Kill Bill is not about Quentin Tarantino, while Death Proof is nothing but. It has ten-minute lunch room conversations, but only a passable cast saying the lines. Reservoir Dogs it isn't. Tarantino is horrible at writing teenage girl dialogue. He should stick to bank robbers and assassins. Teenage girls talking about boyfriends for an entire scene is the stuff naps are made of, especially since none of these boyfriends are ever going to appear in the movie. In other words, who cares?

The Quentin Tarantino symbolism stuff has also got to go. I could feel him elbowing me in the ribs throughout the film: get it, get it? I said Big Kahuna Burger, like in Pulp Fiction! Get it, get it? I'm using 70's music and old film stock, but I'm also using cell phones. Pretty cool, huh?

I was amazed that Kurt Russell agreed to be in the film. Maybe he fell prey to the Tarantino mystique, that this movie would be a cult classic, not to mention getting Kurt rich. In any event, he's utterly wasted. In his first few scenes, you think he might save the film, until you realize that Tarantino is going to stab him in the back. Russell's serial killer character turns out to be a wimp, and the film ends so suddenly, and so unsatisfactorily, that you have to think Russell didn't see this coming. The film feels about ten scenes light, scenes where Russell might have made a difference, seeing as he is the only truly professional actor in the movie.

Tarantino may have been reading his own headlines this time around. Time for him to write some new ones.

Short Cuts -- Delay at Gate 54

Hanging out in the Denver airport, waiting for a delayed plane. Here's a few things that I've been mulling over.

Smoking Lounge

Not just for adults anymore. Have you seen those reverse knapsacks that parents wear so they can keep a child strapped to their chest? I just saw another one, and it was in the Denver airport smoking lounge. The place was filled with smoke, the large mama was puffing away, and the infant's head was six inches from mama's mouth. The world is never short of morons.

Tower Envy

Looks like Toronto's CN Tower has come up short. The Burj Dubai Tower is still under construction, but has already reached a height of 555 meters. That beats the CN Tower by 2 meters and counting. The Dubai developers say that this breaks the record for the tallest freestanding structure in the world, a record that the CN Tower had held since 1976.

We'll see what Guinness has to say about it when construction is complete. The Tower looks like a tower, but the Dubai thing looks like a stack of Leggo.

McCanns

Who knows what is going to come out of the Madeleine McCann kidnapping case. I was surprised to see the cops take so long to get around to browbeating the parents. That isn't cynicism on my part, nor do I have any evidence that the cops are just reaching at straws and want to smear the McCanns. Fact is, the stats say that a child is very, very rarely kidnapped and killed by someone who does not know the child. That means relatives and friends. Sounds awful, but it's true, and therefore a natural suspicion. When this whole thing started, I said to a couple of people, "They should take a hard look at the parents."

I was met with scorn for saying that. One guy looked pious and shocked. He said to me, "Why would the parents do that?"

To which you can only answer, "Who knows?" That's the same answer you have to give every time a case of infanticide makes the front pages, which it all too often does.

Petraeus

The General went before Congress, and things played out as I knew they would. The Republicans helped him out a bit, and the Democrats tried to discredit him.

You can say the Republicans are jerks for liking war and what have you, but the Democrats have a lot of explaining to do. One, why they want their country to lose the war and get booted out of Iraq. Two, why they voted for funds to keep the military in Iraq, then continue to scream for a troop withdrawal timetable. Three, how they expect to win elections when their MoveOn.org crowd calls General Patraeus a traitor. Four, how they'll live with the slaughter of Iraqi civilians should the US depart within the next 12 months as the Democrats wish they would.

While we're at it, what's up with the NY Times and CNN asking if we should stop having commemorations on September 11th -- during commemorations of same? I imagine they'd like to erase Veterans Day from the map and take a leak on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but news to them, the American public will stop commemorating 9/11 when they feel like it, not when the NY Times tells them to.

Most Valuable Prescription

I went on the record a couple of weeks ago and said that the Rick Ankiel comeback story was a great thing for baseball. In fact, I thought it was a great thing for life: the story of a pitcher that loses his stuff, then re-tools himself as a superb hitter. As Charles Krauthammer pointed out, it's a real life version of The Natural.

With everything I've seen from baseball in the past ten years, how could I have been so stupid?

All of Ankiel's greatness now comes crashing down with the news that he used human growth hormone (HGH) all through 2004. That year was early days for his comeback quest, when he was just so-so at the minor league plate. Then Ankiel got good. In only 23 games this season, he's hit 9 home runs, 29 RBIs, and owns a .358 batting average with 22 runs scored.

Those are impressive numbers. The problem with baseball today is that anything impressive must be looked upon with deep suspicion. Too many times we have found out that these guys are cheating via the pharmacy. It places every player under suspicion, because time and again, we find out that the players are juiced.

According to the Daily News, Ankiel purchased 8 shipments of HGH between January and December, 2004. Ankiel's defence will be that he quit using HGH before Major League Baseball banned the substance in 2005. This sounds shady. It may just be coincidence that Ankiel stopped purchasing HGH moments before the league banned it, or it may be he heard the news on the wire and got out while the getting was good.

It's not like he was dealing with reputable physicians. The pharmacy where he purchased HGH is under investigation for illegally distributing prescription drugs. This brings up an interesting question that no one has yet asked: if Ankiel stopped purchasing HGH from these Florida quacks in 2004, what's to say he didn't start buying them somewhere else in 2005? Or '06? Or yesterday?

There is no sure way to test for HGH. ESPN had a spot the other night where a doctor said you'd have test a man within minutes of his taking HGH in order to find the stuff. A 100% test for HGH does not yet exist, which is why Ankiel was discovered the old-fashioned way: paperwork. His name appeared on some reports recently obtained by the Daily News. They saw that he purchased Saizen and Genotropin, two forms of HGH. Then they exposed him.

La Russa
Ankiel's manager, Tony La Russa, must be ready leap from a cliff. First he has to go through the whole Mark McGwire fiasco. Then he sends Ankiel down to the minors because the kid lost his stuff. Then he brings Ankiel back on a wing and a prayer, hoping he'll do well as a fielder. And man, does he ever. At a press conference, La Russa was reduced to tears just thinking about the recovery this amazing player had made, right before his eyes.

And now this. If La Russa is not a cynic yet, then he is not a human being.

Today, another player got hit on the nose by a different publication. Troy Glaus. This one hits close to home, as the Blue Jays are my club. SI.com reports that Glaus received steroids from an allegedly illegal internet drug distributor between September 2003 and May 2004. SI.com points out that their information deals only with the receipt of the drugs, and that they don't have evidence of actual use.

So if the allegations are true, Glaus is either a steroid dealer, or a juicer. Wonderful.

The dates of Glaus' steroid purchases is interesting. They match the time that he was out with a bad rotator cuff and shoulder surgery. It's not a stretch to imagine that he wanted the juice in order to help him through the recovery process.

Jose Canseco released a book a couple of years ago. In it, he fessed up to his steroid use, and said that while he was in the bigs, approximately 80% of the league was juicing. He was lambasted by sportswriters, players, and fans as a dirty rat.

It's turning out that he's likely the most honest man this league has produced in decades.

Short Cuts -- From the Porch

The Beckham Bust continues, as the man who would save soccer in North America is now out for 6 weeks. He sprained his MCL in a game against Pachuca, a team from Mexico.

The AP's Beth Harris points out that Becks has made a little over thirty grand per minute in the games that he played this season (his yearly contract is worth 6.5 million dollars). Total playing time: 198 minutes. Total goals: Zero.

For the first time in a while, I can say the words, "Hell, even I can do that," and mean it with absolute certainty.

The English team can't be too thrilled with Beckham's Hollywood lark, either. He's due to play for them in upcoming international games, and now he's got a bum knee from playing soccer against a third-rate Mexican club.

King Edwards

I was channel surfing the other night and happened across a Battle of the Bloggers on CNN. Two ladies were representing the right and left, and the anchor was tossing softball questions for each of them to hammer out of the park.

I'm always struck by how pious and arrogant news guests can be. The entire time the right-wing lady was talking, the left-wing lady looked like she was sitting on a broomstick and eating glass.

Anyway, the left-wing lady sat munching and squirming while the right-wing lady blathered on about something dealing with presidential hopeful John Edwards. She was calling Edwards a hypocrite because he's been telling people to stop driving SUVs even though he's been seen in an SUV on the campaign trail. Seemed pretty straightforward to me: the lawyer is full of it. Wouldn't be the first time.

When it came to her turn, the left-wing lady defended Edwards by saying, "John Edwards was the first to declare a carbon-neutral campaign."

I swear it. That's what she said.

I have a liberal buddy in California. A couple of weeks ago he blew me away by saying he was probably going to vote Republican in the next election. It floored me. He's a California liberal, and he hates George Bush. He'd feel right at home living in a rain forest, or the parking lot of UC Berkley. I didn't have time to ask him why he was planning on voting for the other side, and now I don't have to.

There's a war going on. People are blowing things up. Soldiers and civilians are dying. Iran wants nukes, and North Korea already has them. At any moment, some maniac might blow up another building or airplane. Yet a presidential candidate has the time to spout off about a "carbon-neutral campaign."

My buddy in California might be a liberal, but at least he's a serious liberal.

Brand New Season

College football is back on the airwaves, and not a moment too soon. I was missing football quite a bit over the summer. Having overdosed on baseball, I needed something new to occupy the sports-side of my brain.

Here's a couple of quick takes from the first day:
(Photo: AP/John Raoux)

Virginia Tech beat East Carolina 17 - 7, and they needed the victory. A little good news on campus might go a long way. The school had a mass murder 4 months ago, and their hero alumnist Michael Vick just pleaded guilty last week to killing dogs.

I enjoyed the game, but the constant references to 'tragic events' was irritating. They even threw up a graphic of the number of killed and wounded, plus the major (English) of the mass murdering student. I found this a bit weird in the middle of what they were calling a 'healing' football game. Dead students aren't football stats, and the murderer wasn't a wide receiver; who cares what his major was?

For the record, mass murder is not a tragic event. It's murder. 9/11, 7/7, the Virginia Tech shootings, all of them have been labelled 'tragic.' They're not. Tragedy is a 3-year-old girl fighting leukemia, or a church roof collapsing on a wedding party.

Murder is murder. To call it a tragic event makes it seem accidental, and that the murderer was merely on the scene. It does a disservice to the victims: they were not victims of accident or circumstance. They were victims of a scumbag lunatic, and we need to remember that lest we let it happen again: "Oh, dear. Another tragic event. What can you do?"

Another thing I noticed during the game was a camera shot inside one of the athletic buildings. There's a room named after Michael Vick. His name is emblazoned on the door. I wonder how long it will stay there. It could remain there forever for all I care; I'm just interested to see which way the school goes.

Michigan lost to Appalachian State, 34-32. Appalachian who? I had to Google the school to find out where it is on the map (Boone, North Carolina; apparently they have quite a music program).

It was a hell of game. It's the first time in college football history that an under-division school has beaten a top-25 ranked team (Michigan was ranked #5). Further, Appalachian State won on Michigan's home field. This pretty much assures that Michigan will be knocked out of the top 25. The rest of their season will be a fight for pride. A conference championship is remote at best, and as for the national championship, you can forget it.

This game is the epitome of the old saying, "That's why you play the game." The game was played in Michigan, and it should have been a walk. The only people more embarrassed than the Michigan coaching staff are probably the gamblers in Las Vegas.

I'd write more, but I'm now busy watching Wake Forest and Boston College kick the hell out of each other.

It's a brand new season, and I love it already.