I was waiting in line at a McDonald's today and overheard a few kids yapping about their summer vacations. One of the kids said, "We have to go away next week." A girl replied, "We haven't gone anywhere...This is the best summer ever."
You hear it all the time from friends and morning show anchors: "The kids need a vacation...We need some family time...The kids are going to love it."
Hogwash.
Looking back on my childhood, I discover that McDonald's Kid is right. The best summer was a summer without Big Vacation. No sitting in the backseat of a car for ten hours a day. No fighting with your brother every five minutes. No being told to "keep it down back there." No sleeping in the same hotel room as your mom and dad (this was always a rip off – they got the queen size, I got the pull out couch). No posing for pictures in front of yet another statue of some dead guy.
Maxim: Kids don’t go to Niagara Falls because they want to see Niagara Falls. They go because you shove them in the car.
The best summer a kid can have is a summer without their parents. Oh, sure, kids love the free room and board, but they only love their parents until they become a teenager. Up until then it’s all snuggles and kisses and catch. Then puberty hits and for the next eight years parents are lame. When you're a baby, parents are parents. When you're an adult, parents are friends. When you're a teenager, parents are the cops, prosecution, and parole officer all rolled into one.
When I was a kid there used to be these dire warnings about Latch Key Kids. You’d see them on TV all the time. Parents were told that working late and leaving their kids alone bordered on abuse. The commercials would have ominous music and show some kid unlocking the door and entering a big creepy house. Then they’d cut to a shot of the kid sitting on the front porch, despondently looking down the street, hoping for mom and dad to come home and give him a hug.
Yeah, right. I didn't get it. For one, I didn't know what a latch key was. We just called them keys. For another, what was so wrong with being alone in the house? Whenever I got home from school, an empty house meant two hours of cartoons and no homework. My personal nirvana was when my parents would “go out for a while." They'd leave ten bucks on the table, tell me to be good, and take off. I'd jump for joy.
Three whole hours without parents felt like paradise. That ten dollars represented a Whopper and fries, a VHS horror movie, and a few quarters left over for Pac Man. I’d eat my fill at the local fast food joint, play some video games at the convenience store, then scare myself with a copy of The Exorcist, and then – the sound of the car in the driveway. End of the night. Twilight of the Latch Key Kid. Damn.
Whole weekends without parents were beautiful. These came along once you were old enough not be stuck with grandma. Forty-eight hours of solitude. Unbelievable. TV, and macaroni and cheese, and movies, and TV, and frozen pizza, and video games, and TV, and enough soda to kill. All that for twenty bucks. You can’t find deals like that anymore.
You'll never hear it from Dr. Spock, but Family Vacation is overrated. Want a happy kid? Buy them off. Turn the tables and say you're going to give them some peace and quiet. They’ll love you for it.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
The National Felony League
Bear with the quotations for a minute.
Me, on July 24, 2007: The sycophantic sports writers are in quite a dilemma over this. Dog beats athlete for America’s heart every time, and the sports writers are in a pickle. They are, after all, writers, not reporters. There is no such thing as a sports reporter. Like me, emotions run their version of typing. They have steadfastly refused to investigate steroids in baseball (have you seen Jason Grimsley’s name lately), or football. While Barry Bonds cheats his way past Henry Aaron, the sports writers go whistling through the locker room as if nothing’s amiss. Now they have a problem: America likes dogs.
Me, on May 28, 2009: The sports shows are slowly leaning towards a reinstatement of Michael Vick.
He was released from prison a couple of weeks ago and has given no press appearances, but the sycophants that make up the sports media are already bending. Funny, that. He doesn't even have to say "whoops" or "prison sucks," and already they're kneeling.
Yahoo! Sports writer Jason Cole, July 27, 2009: In short, how many people could commit a crime punishable by prison or jail time, lie to their boss and the owner of the business repeatedly, continue to embarrass the employer and somehow think they could return to their job as soon as the sentence ends?
Realistically speaking, that’s a very unrealistic notion.
To be clear, this is not an argument that Vick, who repeatedly lied to Atlanta Falcons owner Arthur Blank and NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell two years ago, shouldn’t play football again. On the contrary, Vick deserves another chance.
Just not right away.
That's a sports writer. Once he has his nose in the backside of an athlete, there's no way he's going to pull it out again.
Cole goes on to say, "In this case, Vick brought more punishment on himself by how he treated his employer along the way."
Cole's either an idiot or insane. Only in the strange world of the shameless sycophant will you find a man describing big pay checks as punishment.
The National Felony League has now proven to be a complete joke and a great home for liars and lowlifes. League commissioner Roger Goodell says Vick will only be reinstated after 5 weeks of good behavior. 5 weeks. What a test of character. Does anyone seriously think Goodell is not going to reinstate Vick once those 5 weeks are up?
It's a thumb in the eye of every hard working fan that goes to work, does his job, and tries to live a decent life. Michael Vick ran a dog fighting enterprise on his own property, admitted to strangling and drowning dogs himself as well as watching his friends electrocute them, broke several laws, lied to the league, and lied to the cops. Outcome? Business as usual and big bucks, baby. Hell of a lesson for keeping kids from wandering off the straight and narrow.
Vick disgusts me, but sports "journalists" and Roger Goodell disgust me more. Roll over and beg, boys.
Me, on July 24, 2007: The sycophantic sports writers are in quite a dilemma over this. Dog beats athlete for America’s heart every time, and the sports writers are in a pickle. They are, after all, writers, not reporters. There is no such thing as a sports reporter. Like me, emotions run their version of typing. They have steadfastly refused to investigate steroids in baseball (have you seen Jason Grimsley’s name lately), or football. While Barry Bonds cheats his way past Henry Aaron, the sports writers go whistling through the locker room as if nothing’s amiss. Now they have a problem: America likes dogs.
Me, on May 28, 2009: The sports shows are slowly leaning towards a reinstatement of Michael Vick.
He was released from prison a couple of weeks ago and has given no press appearances, but the sycophants that make up the sports media are already bending. Funny, that. He doesn't even have to say "whoops" or "prison sucks," and already they're kneeling.
Yahoo! Sports writer Jason Cole, July 27, 2009: In short, how many people could commit a crime punishable by prison or jail time, lie to their boss and the owner of the business repeatedly, continue to embarrass the employer and somehow think they could return to their job as soon as the sentence ends?
Realistically speaking, that’s a very unrealistic notion.
To be clear, this is not an argument that Vick, who repeatedly lied to Atlanta Falcons owner Arthur Blank and NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell two years ago, shouldn’t play football again. On the contrary, Vick deserves another chance.
Just not right away.
That's a sports writer. Once he has his nose in the backside of an athlete, there's no way he's going to pull it out again.
Cole goes on to say, "In this case, Vick brought more punishment on himself by how he treated his employer along the way."
Cole's either an idiot or insane. Only in the strange world of the shameless sycophant will you find a man describing big pay checks as punishment.
The National Felony League has now proven to be a complete joke and a great home for liars and lowlifes. League commissioner Roger Goodell says Vick will only be reinstated after 5 weeks of good behavior. 5 weeks. What a test of character. Does anyone seriously think Goodell is not going to reinstate Vick once those 5 weeks are up?
It's a thumb in the eye of every hard working fan that goes to work, does his job, and tries to live a decent life. Michael Vick ran a dog fighting enterprise on his own property, admitted to strangling and drowning dogs himself as well as watching his friends electrocute them, broke several laws, lied to the league, and lied to the cops. Outcome? Business as usual and big bucks, baby. Hell of a lesson for keeping kids from wandering off the straight and narrow.
Vick disgusts me, but sports "journalists" and Roger Goodell disgust me more. Roll over and beg, boys.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Short Cuts
Some more quick reviews of movies I either didn't have time to write about before, or just couldn't be bothered to review because they were lame.
The Watchmen: A bunch of has-been super heroes comes out of retirement to save the Earth. Good effects, stupid ending.
Horsemen: Dennis Quaid plays a cop. Guess what? His wife's dead. Guess what? He's estranged from his kids. Guess what? There's a serial killer about town. Guess what? Quaid is morose and will catch the killer at any cost. Guess what?
Push: A guy has the power to 'push' people through the air, through walls, through plate glass windows, through anything. It's an X-Men rip-off in the sense that there's more 'mutants' like him around, and there's another group of mutants that want to kill the good mutants and take over the world. Now that I've written that, I see that it is exactly an X-Men rip-off.
The Haunting in Connecticut: Lame horror flick about a haunted house. You've seen it a million times before.
Knowing: Nicholas Cage plays a guy whose son finds a piece of paper that prophesies disasters like plane crashes and train wrecks. Nic Cage has been in some real flops over the past decade, but this one is surprisingly good. I was totally prepared for it to stink, but it didn't.
International: Clive Owen is an Interpol agent investigating a dirty bank that has ties to arms dealing. Pretty good movie, and it feels relevant for the times, too. The shootout scene in the Guggenheim is the best shootout scene in a while.
Killshot: Mickey Rourke and Diane Lane in a movie based on an Elmore Leonard novel. This was shot before Rourke did The Wrestler, and it was scheduled and rescheduled for release a ton of times. Not a great sign, as that means it was hacked to death in post-production. It got a limited release, then got dumped into the video store. It deserved it. It's not terrible, but not good. Just run of the mill shoot-'em-up.
The Watchmen: A bunch of has-been super heroes comes out of retirement to save the Earth. Good effects, stupid ending.
Horsemen: Dennis Quaid plays a cop. Guess what? His wife's dead. Guess what? He's estranged from his kids. Guess what? There's a serial killer about town. Guess what? Quaid is morose and will catch the killer at any cost. Guess what?
Push: A guy has the power to 'push' people through the air, through walls, through plate glass windows, through anything. It's an X-Men rip-off in the sense that there's more 'mutants' like him around, and there's another group of mutants that want to kill the good mutants and take over the world. Now that I've written that, I see that it is exactly an X-Men rip-off.
The Haunting in Connecticut: Lame horror flick about a haunted house. You've seen it a million times before.
Knowing: Nicholas Cage plays a guy whose son finds a piece of paper that prophesies disasters like plane crashes and train wrecks. Nic Cage has been in some real flops over the past decade, but this one is surprisingly good. I was totally prepared for it to stink, but it didn't.
International: Clive Owen is an Interpol agent investigating a dirty bank that has ties to arms dealing. Pretty good movie, and it feels relevant for the times, too. The shootout scene in the Guggenheim is the best shootout scene in a while.
Killshot: Mickey Rourke and Diane Lane in a movie based on an Elmore Leonard novel. This was shot before Rourke did The Wrestler, and it was scheduled and rescheduled for release a ton of times. Not a great sign, as that means it was hacked to death in post-production. It got a limited release, then got dumped into the video store. It deserved it. It's not terrible, but not good. Just run of the mill shoot-'em-up.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Make It A Ford
I wrote this back on March 30:If a free market fan wanted to show the government that they didn't want politicians in their lives (not to mention cars) then there's one thing they should do: make it a Ford.
It looks like it's become a popular idea. Here's some news from today's Washington Post:
Ford Motor on Thursday posted a surprise profit of $2.26 billion for the second quarter, ending a streak of four straight quarterly losses.
In recent months, the carmaker has claimed market share from its American rivals, General Motors and Chrysler, while those companies struggled to restructure their operations in bankruptcy court.
The article doesn't mention it, but GM and Chrysler took government cash while Ford didn't. GM immediately found out what it means to dance with the devil when the President of the United States canned the president of their company, instantly making GM stand for Government Motors.
Result? The only US automaker not to take government cash is making money.
The Salesman in Chief is having a splendid month, isn't he?
Perfection
I'm still not sure what a perfect game means. Sure, sure, no hits, no walks, but is that all the pitcher's doing?
In last night's Sox/Rays game, Larry Wise caught a would-be homer in the ninth inning to save Mark Buehrle's perfect game. As with any pitcher's "win," a perfect game depends a lot on the other eight men on the field. So did Buehrle pitch a perfect game or did the White Sox win a perfect game?
When you get down to it, the only way a pitcher could possibly claim a perfect game for himself would be to throw 27 strikeouts, making the rest of the team not players but bystanders. (Take the 27 strikeouts at face value for argument's sake; it is possible for a pitcher to strike out 4 guys in an inning if the hitter swings, the catcher misses the ball, and the hitter beats the throw to first. The hitter still "struck out," and the pitcher has to face the next guy. But the perfect game would be shot, too).
Roger Clemens came close twice: he struck out 20 batters apiece in two separate games. Kerry Wood and Randy Johnson both struck out 20 guys in a single game. The only pitcher to ever strike out 27 batters in a single game was a guy named Ron Necciai. He played minor league ball back in the '50s. It wasn't a perfect game, but a no-hitter, and Necciai needed to strike out four men in the ninth because of a catcher's passed ball.
So has there ever really been a "perfect game" by a pitcher? Depends how you look at perfection.
You can argue it till the cows come home. A perfect game is either a fantastic feat done by a very good pitcher, or a statistical anomoly (there's only been 18 perfect games in the history of baseball) compliments of a good - and lucky - team.
In last night's Sox/Rays game, Larry Wise caught a would-be homer in the ninth inning to save Mark Buehrle's perfect game. As with any pitcher's "win," a perfect game depends a lot on the other eight men on the field. So did Buehrle pitch a perfect game or did the White Sox win a perfect game?
When you get down to it, the only way a pitcher could possibly claim a perfect game for himself would be to throw 27 strikeouts, making the rest of the team not players but bystanders. (Take the 27 strikeouts at face value for argument's sake; it is possible for a pitcher to strike out 4 guys in an inning if the hitter swings, the catcher misses the ball, and the hitter beats the throw to first. The hitter still "struck out," and the pitcher has to face the next guy. But the perfect game would be shot, too).
Roger Clemens came close twice: he struck out 20 batters apiece in two separate games. Kerry Wood and Randy Johnson both struck out 20 guys in a single game. The only pitcher to ever strike out 27 batters in a single game was a guy named Ron Necciai. He played minor league ball back in the '50s. It wasn't a perfect game, but a no-hitter, and Necciai needed to strike out four men in the ninth because of a catcher's passed ball.
So has there ever really been a "perfect game" by a pitcher? Depends how you look at perfection.
You can argue it till the cows come home. A perfect game is either a fantastic feat done by a very good pitcher, or a statistical anomoly (there's only been 18 perfect games in the history of baseball) compliments of a good - and lucky - team.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Outrageous Outrage
An absolute beauty of a statement from Eliot Spitzer's lawyer. Spitzer was the New York governor who got busted sleeping with a high price hooker, forcing his resignation:
In March, we told you about a high-end escort who claimed that former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer had gotten overly aggressive during some kinky role-play (a charge Spitzer's lawyer called "outrageous and defamatory").
Cheating on your wife with a hooker while serving as governor? A mistake. Getting kinky? Outrageous lies!
In March, we told you about a high-end escort who claimed that former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer had gotten overly aggressive during some kinky role-play (a charge Spitzer's lawyer called "outrageous and defamatory").
Cheating on your wife with a hooker while serving as governor? A mistake. Getting kinky? Outrageous lies!
Don't Anther
When it comes to living in the "natural world," we're pretty pathetic. Centuries of campfires, houses, streetlights and DVD players have turned us from robust rulers of the world to so much Spam on the hoof.
Take your average person. Place a blindfold on him, walk him five miles into the woods, and then leave him behind. There's a very good chance that the guy will wander around and die before he ever finds his way out of there. Fire building and spear making have been replaced by compasses, GPS units, and Meals Ready to Eat. Without a handy supply of food and electronics, we're toast.
That's why a story like this amuses me:
In one attempted attack, a Princeton resident spotted a cougar stalking two young children who were swimming in a river, but was able to shoot the cat before it pounced, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police said.
"Given the young age of the children the chances of surviving the pending attack would not have been great," police said in a statement.
Another cougar was killed while prowling in a campground and another near a park swimming pool, where children were playing.
Princeton is a rural community in the mountains about three hours drive east of Vancouver.
Wildlife experts say that cougars seem to be attracted to young children, possibly by their high-pitched voices and erratic movements, and that the cats may confuse them with the wildlife prey they normally seek.
I figure most wildlife experts are crackpots. They're forever rolling out the "mistaken identity" excuse. Since wildlife experts love animals, and want everyone else to love them too, they constantly preach that tigers, bears, sharks and cougars never really mean it when they rip our heads off. It's all a tragic accident. If the bear or tiger only knew a little better, he'd be a pet. But, since it was dark out or I was acting like a deer, the animal attacked me. Poor Fluffy, he's so confused.
Hogwash. Take the above story about the cougars: the cats may mistake children with "the wildlife prey they normally seek." Say what?
Can someone tell me one animal that acts like a child at a swimming pool? "Marco...Polo..." Splash, splash, splash! "Got you!" "Did Not!" "Mom, I want a hot dog!" "Billy's a jerk!"
I was out for a walk in the woods the other day and I was struck again by a) how quiet the woods are, and b) how loud we are. We're the stupidest animals going. We crash through the bush with reckless abandon, slather ourselves with mosquito repellent and sunscreen, yap at the top of our lungs, and never once look around to see if we're being hunted. If a cougar attacks us, it's not a mistake. It's easy pickings.
You can't blame the cougar for taking advantage. But don't hide it under Mr. Nice Guy stuff. The cougar population is exploding, they're looking for food and bingo: a bunch of defenseless, small animals running around a watering hole without a care in the world, or a small animal pointing and giggling as daddy trips over a log. To a cougar, that's called lunch.
Our human ego makes me laugh. "Mistaken for prey they normally seek." We are prey. We always were.
The panther is like a leopard,
Except it hasn't been peppered.
Should you behold a panther crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, if called by a panther,
Don't anther.
-- Ogden Nash
Take your average person. Place a blindfold on him, walk him five miles into the woods, and then leave him behind. There's a very good chance that the guy will wander around and die before he ever finds his way out of there. Fire building and spear making have been replaced by compasses, GPS units, and Meals Ready to Eat. Without a handy supply of food and electronics, we're toast.
That's why a story like this amuses me:
In one attempted attack, a Princeton resident spotted a cougar stalking two young children who were swimming in a river, but was able to shoot the cat before it pounced, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police said.
"Given the young age of the children the chances of surviving the pending attack would not have been great," police said in a statement.
Another cougar was killed while prowling in a campground and another near a park swimming pool, where children were playing.
Princeton is a rural community in the mountains about three hours drive east of Vancouver.
Wildlife experts say that cougars seem to be attracted to young children, possibly by their high-pitched voices and erratic movements, and that the cats may confuse them with the wildlife prey they normally seek.
I figure most wildlife experts are crackpots. They're forever rolling out the "mistaken identity" excuse. Since wildlife experts love animals, and want everyone else to love them too, they constantly preach that tigers, bears, sharks and cougars never really mean it when they rip our heads off. It's all a tragic accident. If the bear or tiger only knew a little better, he'd be a pet. But, since it was dark out or I was acting like a deer, the animal attacked me. Poor Fluffy, he's so confused.
Hogwash. Take the above story about the cougars: the cats may mistake children with "the wildlife prey they normally seek." Say what?
Can someone tell me one animal that acts like a child at a swimming pool? "Marco...Polo..." Splash, splash, splash! "Got you!" "Did Not!" "Mom, I want a hot dog!" "Billy's a jerk!"
I was out for a walk in the woods the other day and I was struck again by a) how quiet the woods are, and b) how loud we are. We're the stupidest animals going. We crash through the bush with reckless abandon, slather ourselves with mosquito repellent and sunscreen, yap at the top of our lungs, and never once look around to see if we're being hunted. If a cougar attacks us, it's not a mistake. It's easy pickings.
You can't blame the cougar for taking advantage. But don't hide it under Mr. Nice Guy stuff. The cougar population is exploding, they're looking for food and bingo: a bunch of defenseless, small animals running around a watering hole without a care in the world, or a small animal pointing and giggling as daddy trips over a log. To a cougar, that's called lunch.
Our human ego makes me laugh. "Mistaken for prey they normally seek." We are prey. We always were.
The panther is like a leopard,
Except it hasn't been peppered.
Should you behold a panther crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, if called by a panther,
Don't anther.
-- Ogden Nash
Friday, July 17, 2009
"Bound and Gagged, Given Talking Points"
Another beauty from The Onion:
Human Rights Group Campaigns To End Use Of Child Politicians In Africa
Human Rights Group Campaigns To End Use Of Child Politicians In Africa
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Intellectual Alert - Peggy Noonan (Again)
I haven't posted an Intellectual Alert in a while, mainly because there's so many that I can't keep track. However, Pegs never fails to disappoint in the condescension department. As a hack of towering conceit, she warrants another highlight. So here goes:
Here's why all this matters. The world is a dangerous place. It has never been more so, or more complicated, more straining of the reasoning powers of those with actual genius and true judgment. This is a time for conservative leaders who know how to think.
That is an Intellectual Alert in a nutshell: it's not that you think disagreeable thoughts, it's that you don't know how to think. Noonan's Intellectualism folows the old elitist maxim that people who disagree with you aren't wrong. They're insane.
Actual genius and true judgement vs. lunatics and morons. It goes without saying which group Pegs thinks she's in.
Here's why all this matters. The world is a dangerous place. It has never been more so, or more complicated, more straining of the reasoning powers of those with actual genius and true judgment. This is a time for conservative leaders who know how to think.
That is an Intellectual Alert in a nutshell: it's not that you think disagreeable thoughts, it's that you don't know how to think. Noonan's Intellectualism folows the old elitist maxim that people who disagree with you aren't wrong. They're insane.
Actual genius and true judgement vs. lunatics and morons. It goes without saying which group Pegs thinks she's in.
Badger Bombed
I can never pass up a drunk animal story:
BERLIN (Reuters) - A badger in Germany got so drunk on over-ripe cherries it staggered into the middle of a road and refused to budge, police said on Wednesday.
A motorist called police near the central town of Goslar to report a dead badger on a road -- only for officers to turn up and discover the animal alive and well, but drunk.
BERLIN (Reuters) - A badger in Germany got so drunk on over-ripe cherries it staggered into the middle of a road and refused to budge, police said on Wednesday.
A motorist called police near the central town of Goslar to report a dead badger on a road -- only for officers to turn up and discover the animal alive and well, but drunk.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
A Fitting Memorial
Not to be a killjoy over the whole thing, but after flicking past the Greatest Funeral On Earth for the umpteenth time, I have to wonder: are the families of the kids that Jackson settled out of court with watching this parade of sanctimony? I wonder what they're thinking.
There's something creepy about watching a basketball stadium full of people stare at a coffin while the dude's brother wears a glittering white glove - glove, not gloves - and sings Smile. Freaky. It only get freakier when you hear the person in the coffin is missing his brain:
Michael Jackson will be buried this week – without his brain. As his family tries to finalise details for the King of Pop’s funeral on Tuesday they have been told it will be held back for tests.
They faced the grim choice of waiting up to three weeks for Jackson’s brain to be returned to them or go ahead and bury him without it – which they have decided to do.
A funeral-cum-freakshow. Somehow apt.
I found a fairly funny live blog over at THR. It provides some reality. Here's James Hibberd's take:
11:30 a.m.: A low-key (for him, anyway) Al Sharpton [What? You thought he wouldn't be there? - SB] gets an ovation with this line: “I want his three children to know: There was nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with, and he dealt with it.” Young Prince Michael looks nonplussed, chews gum. Somehow you get the impression that kid is never going to have to clean his room. As for Sharpton's sentiment, it's nice and all. But Jackson's various seeming addictions (drugs, debt-chasing overspending, the surgeries, hanging with kids) were the very model of somebody who was unable to deal with his issues.
There's something creepy about watching a basketball stadium full of people stare at a coffin while the dude's brother wears a glittering white glove - glove, not gloves - and sings Smile. Freaky. It only get freakier when you hear the person in the coffin is missing his brain:
Michael Jackson will be buried this week – without his brain. As his family tries to finalise details for the King of Pop’s funeral on Tuesday they have been told it will be held back for tests.
They faced the grim choice of waiting up to three weeks for Jackson’s brain to be returned to them or go ahead and bury him without it – which they have decided to do.
A funeral-cum-freakshow. Somehow apt.
I found a fairly funny live blog over at THR. It provides some reality. Here's James Hibberd's take:
11:30 a.m.: A low-key (for him, anyway) Al Sharpton [What? You thought he wouldn't be there? - SB] gets an ovation with this line: “I want his three children to know: There was nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with, and he dealt with it.” Young Prince Michael looks nonplussed, chews gum. Somehow you get the impression that kid is never going to have to clean his room. As for Sharpton's sentiment, it's nice and all. But Jackson's various seeming addictions (drugs, debt-chasing overspending, the surgeries, hanging with kids) were the very model of somebody who was unable to deal with his issues.
Public Enemies - Review
Director: Michael MannWritten by: Mann/Bennett/Biderman
Starring: Johnny Depp
Runtime: 2 hours 23 minutes
If you put people in fedoras, they are legends.
Think about your average bank robber from today. Some stick up guy at a gas station or a liquor store. When you see the security camera footage on the nightly news, all stick up guys look like bums. Eventually they get caught and put in prison and you find out - if you find out - that their life story is the ho-hum stuff of juvenile delinquency: raised poor, stole some cars, busted for assault a few times, and finally nabbed knocking over a five and dime. None of them are hailed as heroes. More often than not, they're described as scum bags and losers.
That isn't the way bank robbers were back in the day. Or at least that's not the way Hollywood and our minds project them. Back in the time of fedoras and Thompsons, they had great names: Pretty Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, Machine Gun Kelly. John Dillinger isn't remembered by a nickname because he didn't need one. How can you have a better nickname than Public Enemy #1?
Why did I just write that? How can you have a better nickname than Public Enemy #1?
It's funny how we look at robbery when it has the sepia tint of memory. Armed robbery in black and white looks so cool, so interesting, so fun, so glorious. Who wouldn't want to be a bank robber in the 1930s? And now that I think about it, it works both ways: back then, FBI agents were "G-Men." Now they're "Feds." How boring.
These were some of my thoughts while watching Public Enemies, a slightly wonky title given that the movie revolves around one Public Enemy. Though Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson make an appearance, the movie centers on Dillinger. He's played by an always good Johnny Depp, who looks perfect for the role.
The movie takes some liberties with history. Doesn't matter much. If you're looking to films to give a history lesson, then you are setting yourself up for disappointment. Truth might be stranger than fiction, but truth can be a bitch when you're making a movie. So tack a "based on" credit to the opening and let fly.
This is a Michael Mann movie from the word go. He still likes to go handheld most of the time, and there's plenty of extreme over-the-shoulder camera angles. Guns blaze and sound like guns, and when people get shot they are punched full of holes. The Thompson submachine gun is a co-star of this movie, and when it goes off there's a muzzle flash five feet long. (Halfway through the movie, watch as one character gets blasted; the way he goes down will remind you of DeNiro's character's demise in Heat, another Mann film).
This movie isn't all cops and robbers. It tries for some kind of humanity, which could have been fatal. Dillinger is not the savvy, fearless man we've come to dream about. Depp plays him as tough and slick in the early going, but as the pressure mounts and his friends are gunned down, he begins to get paranoid and frightened.
That's normal. That's how life works: pressure grinds down the toughest of us. But showing this can kill a movie about a tough guy and turn it into melodrama. This movie doesn't do that because the script doesn't allow a long winded soliloquy about "getting out of the life," and Depp doesn't become a caricature of robber-with-a-conscience.
I don't know how Mann does it, but he always makes a movie that's either pretty good or very good. Public Enemies is just all right, but it's Michael Mann's just all right. Which means you'll enjoy it even if it is uneven and sometimes a yawn. (Miami Vice was terrible. Terrible. But it was shot by Michael Mann, so for some reason I quite liked it. Weird, I know. The man just makes things look like you want to enjoy them).
Public Enemies won't win any prizes, but it won't waste your time, either. See it.
Movie Poster: Yahoo Movies
Monday, July 06, 2009
Palin Hangs Them Up
Sarah Palin's resignation as governor of Alaska comes as a bit of a surprise. I'm hoping that she didn't pull the plug in order to contemplate a run at the presidency in 2012. If that's the case, then her goose is cooked and the resignation was a move of sheer political folly: you can't quit a governorship claiming lame duck status and then ask people to elect you president. Still, I wouldn't put anything past her. When you get down to it politically-speaking, she has nothing to lose.
If she resigned because of the beating that she and her family took over the past year, then I can't blame her. I wonder how I would feel. One day I'm just sitting around running a sparsely populated state, going hunting, trying to build an oil pipeline. The next, people are making fun of my handicapped kid, calling my 14-year-old a slut, calling me a slut, scrutinizing my religious beliefs, and dragging my name through the mud at every turn. Sooner or later, you might want to sit down and say, "You know what? Screw them and screw this."
Palin was vilified for being a woman and being a conservative. If she had been in favour of abortion, she would have been fine. That is the only test of Modern Feminism: are you pro-abortion or not? If not, then 'feminists' will destroy you. Gender has nothing to do with 'feminism.' Abortion is all.
For me, the most memorable hit piece on Palin comes from a 'feminist' named Cintra Wilson. I read it from time to time just to remind myself of the hypocrisy that is rife within the halls of Big Media and Modern Feminism:
I confess, it was pretty riveting when John McCain trotted out Sarah Palin for the first time. Like many people, I thought, "Damn, a hyperconservative, fuckable, Type A, antiabortion, Christian Stepford wife in a 'sexy librarian' costume -- as a vice president? That's a brilliant stroke of horrifyingly cynical pandering to the Christian right. Karl Rove must be behind it."
Palin may have been a boost of political Viagra for the limp, bloodless GOP (and according to an ABC/Washington Post poll she has created a boost in McCain's standing among white women to a 53 over Obama's 41). But ideologically, she is their hardcore pornographic centerfold spread, revealing the ugliest underside of Republican ambitions -- their insanely zealous and cynical drive to win power by any means necessary, even at the cost of actual leadership.
Sarah Palin is a bit comical, like one of those cutthroat Texas cheerleader stage moms. What her Down syndrome baby and pregnant teenage daughter unequivocally prove, however, is that her most beloved child is the antiabortion platform that ensures her own political ambitions with the conservative right. The throat she's so hot to cut is that of all American women.
I am willing to bet everything I own that Cintra Wilson didn't give a passing thought to Sarah Palin before she was named as McCain's running mate. It's almost certain she had never heard the words "Sarah Palin." But when Wilson saw Palin for the first time, her first thoughts were those written above.
How's that for feminism? Having a handicapped child unequivocally proves that you're an anti-abortion crusader. Cintra's message to mothers of handicapped children: you love your politics more than your baby. And allowing your teenage daughter to have a child? Why, you're nothing more than a deranged political zealot.
Some support. Some feminism.
Wilson's arrow is just one from the quiver of Palin Hate over the past year. I wonder if I could handle that much hate, especially when it was aimed at my kids. I remember one feminist commentator saying that Palin should stop "dragging out the handicapped baby" during the campaign, and another lamenting that Palin is not, in fact, a woman. Jay Leno joked about the names of Palin's kids - one of them should be named Rifle - and David Letterman bashed Palin so often it was pathological. His last attempt, saying Alex Rodriguez had slept with her 14-year-old daughter, was just the latest in a long line of slander. Andrew Sullivan, a writer at The Atlantic, spent a ton of time and filed more than a few pieces asking Palin to release her medical records so the world could find out if her youngest child was hers or her girl's.
10 months ago, nothing. Ten months later, enough slime to fill all the buckets in America. Could you hack it?
Politics is a tough game. Politicians deserve tough questions and scrutiny. They should expect bitter jabs and gossip. But let me ask you this: tell me the names of George W. Bush, Joe Biden, Barack Obama, John McCain, or Dick Cheney's children. No? Can't do it? No surprise. These men are attacked for their philosophies and their political ideology.
Family, sex, and religion were fair game for Palin alone.
It's been a tawdry, disgusting, disturbing ride. Now maybe we can hop off the bus for a while. But a quick note to young, pretty girls, compliments of the media and Modern Feminism: know your place, baby, and know it well.
If she resigned because of the beating that she and her family took over the past year, then I can't blame her. I wonder how I would feel. One day I'm just sitting around running a sparsely populated state, going hunting, trying to build an oil pipeline. The next, people are making fun of my handicapped kid, calling my 14-year-old a slut, calling me a slut, scrutinizing my religious beliefs, and dragging my name through the mud at every turn. Sooner or later, you might want to sit down and say, "You know what? Screw them and screw this."
Palin was vilified for being a woman and being a conservative. If she had been in favour of abortion, she would have been fine. That is the only test of Modern Feminism: are you pro-abortion or not? If not, then 'feminists' will destroy you. Gender has nothing to do with 'feminism.' Abortion is all.
For me, the most memorable hit piece on Palin comes from a 'feminist' named Cintra Wilson. I read it from time to time just to remind myself of the hypocrisy that is rife within the halls of Big Media and Modern Feminism:
I confess, it was pretty riveting when John McCain trotted out Sarah Palin for the first time. Like many people, I thought, "Damn, a hyperconservative, fuckable, Type A, antiabortion, Christian Stepford wife in a 'sexy librarian' costume -- as a vice president? That's a brilliant stroke of horrifyingly cynical pandering to the Christian right. Karl Rove must be behind it."
Palin may have been a boost of political Viagra for the limp, bloodless GOP (and according to an ABC/Washington Post poll she has created a boost in McCain's standing among white women to a 53 over Obama's 41). But ideologically, she is their hardcore pornographic centerfold spread, revealing the ugliest underside of Republican ambitions -- their insanely zealous and cynical drive to win power by any means necessary, even at the cost of actual leadership.
Sarah Palin is a bit comical, like one of those cutthroat Texas cheerleader stage moms. What her Down syndrome baby and pregnant teenage daughter unequivocally prove, however, is that her most beloved child is the antiabortion platform that ensures her own political ambitions with the conservative right. The throat she's so hot to cut is that of all American women.
I am willing to bet everything I own that Cintra Wilson didn't give a passing thought to Sarah Palin before she was named as McCain's running mate. It's almost certain she had never heard the words "Sarah Palin." But when Wilson saw Palin for the first time, her first thoughts were those written above.
How's that for feminism? Having a handicapped child unequivocally proves that you're an anti-abortion crusader. Cintra's message to mothers of handicapped children: you love your politics more than your baby. And allowing your teenage daughter to have a child? Why, you're nothing more than a deranged political zealot.
Some support. Some feminism.
Wilson's arrow is just one from the quiver of Palin Hate over the past year. I wonder if I could handle that much hate, especially when it was aimed at my kids. I remember one feminist commentator saying that Palin should stop "dragging out the handicapped baby" during the campaign, and another lamenting that Palin is not, in fact, a woman. Jay Leno joked about the names of Palin's kids - one of them should be named Rifle - and David Letterman bashed Palin so often it was pathological. His last attempt, saying Alex Rodriguez had slept with her 14-year-old daughter, was just the latest in a long line of slander. Andrew Sullivan, a writer at The Atlantic, spent a ton of time and filed more than a few pieces asking Palin to release her medical records so the world could find out if her youngest child was hers or her girl's.
10 months ago, nothing. Ten months later, enough slime to fill all the buckets in America. Could you hack it?
Politics is a tough game. Politicians deserve tough questions and scrutiny. They should expect bitter jabs and gossip. But let me ask you this: tell me the names of George W. Bush, Joe Biden, Barack Obama, John McCain, or Dick Cheney's children. No? Can't do it? No surprise. These men are attacked for their philosophies and their political ideology.
Family, sex, and religion were fair game for Palin alone.
It's been a tawdry, disgusting, disturbing ride. Now maybe we can hop off the bus for a while. But a quick note to young, pretty girls, compliments of the media and Modern Feminism: know your place, baby, and know it well.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
That Was A Wimbledon
Two great players. Roddick gutted it out to take Federer to the brink, and Federer came out on top to become the winningest Slam tennis player of all time.The best part: neither of them needed to grunt and scream like an idiot every time they swung the racket, something which has driven me away from tennis over the past ten years.
Congrats to Federer and Roddick both.
Photo: ADRIAN DENNIS/AFP/Getty Images
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
"I Just Told Her To Hang On Tight. I Won't Let Go."
This has to be the picture of the year, compliments of Andrea Melendez from the Des Moines Register.
After a boat went over a dam, a man and a woman ended up in the water. The man drowned. A rescue crew tried several times to get her out of the water. No go. So the construction crew did it.
"They just harnessed me up and dipped me down in the water and I grabbed her and the crane drug her to the boat and that's it," Oglesbee said. "What are you going to do if she's like that? It's no big deal. The whole crew did it."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Last House On The Left - Review
Director: Dennis IliadisWriters: Alleca/Ellsworth
Starring: Sara Paxton
Runtime: 100 minutes
I don't know what it would take for a movie to get an X rating these days. The Last House on the Left proves that violence won't do it.
This is a remake of an old Wes Craven horror flick by the same name. In many ways, this new treatment harkens back to the exploitation horror flicks of the '70s. The lighting is blue, the colors are muted, the characters don't have neatly primped hair, and marijuana makes an appearance as "grade A" stuff for teenagers. One of the evil characters is named Sadie, a name that always reminds me of Sadie Mae Glutz, a member of the Manson "family," so this added to the '60s/'70s vibe.
The movie's about the Collingwood family. Daughter Mari (I looked it up - in this movie it's Mary-with-an-I), is having trouble connecting with her parents because she's a teenager and because her brother has died. So the trio go to a house on the lake to enjoy some family time. Ten minutes after arriving, Mari wants the keys to the car so she can go visit a friend (this is probably the truest part of the movie - teens on family vacations don't wait three seconds before taking off from the family). Mari joins up with her friend, they meet a stranger, smoke pot, and then meet the stranger's homicidal lunatic family.
I just noticed there's a lot of the word "family" in the above paragraphs. Maybe the movie's going for a social statement.
In any event, Mari and her friend Paige are brutally assaulted and one of them is brutally raped. I mean brutally. And here's where I figure you can't do anything to get an X rating anymore. The viciousness of the assaults and rapes is cold and dreadful. This is probably the grimmest movie I've seen in a while, and it got me thinking about a line from a movie critic some time back: "What's the point of all this shit, anyway?" I guess the gore movie fans would say, "Well, it shows that raping young girls is brutal and mean." Okay. Fine. But was there ever any argument about that?
The final scene between the father and the lead killer is the definition of gratuitous. The movie is already over, nothing more to see here, folks, and then out comes the microwave. For what?
If you're a horror junkie, you might like this movie. But then, this movie isn't really a horror flick. It's a violence flick. Mari is raped, and after that it's a just battle between two families to see who can mutilate each other the worst. There's no suspense or horror, but there's plenty of gore. Since that doesn't turn me on, I was just left saying, "Gross. But who cares?"
Terminator Salvation - Review
Director: McGWriters: Michael Ferris/John Brancato
Starring: Christian Bale/Sam Worthington
Runtime: 114 minutes
For weeks I heard that this movie wasn't worth seeing. I had accidentally-on-purpose stumbled across some movie reviews and the majority of them were bad. The complaint seemed to be that the movie had no story, sacrificing plot for effects and gimmicks.
I mulled over waiting for it to come out on DVD and finally decided to see the thing. It was, after all, a Terminator movie. I wasn't in the mood for a story. I was in the mood to see things get blown sky high. So I went and saw the movie and I came out thinking, "What was so wrong with that?"
Not much. If you haven't seen it, it's better than you think. The no-story complaint is one of my favorite hobby horses, but I wasn't expecting a decent story from Terminator Salvation. For one, it's a story about time travel and killer robots. For another, it's sequel number 4 in a franchise that will probably have sequel number 5. Story? From that?
Well, okay, here goes: the year is 2018. John Connor is finally all grown up. In the first three Terminator movies we had to watch him grow from an embryo in Linda Hamilton's womb (Terminator - she finds out she's pregnant), to a teenage smart ass (Terminator 2 - he befriends the Terminator and has a good cry when Arnold bites the dust), to a twenty-something loser trying to save the world but can't (Terminator 3 - where he hooks up with his high school crush and watches the world get nuked).
That's a pretty hectic childhood. Anyway, Connor is now a weathered adult and he's played by Christian Bale. The world is a vast wasteland and the machines have taken over. The machines hold dominion over everything and are hunting down the last remnants of mankind. This shouldn't be hard to do because the humans still have fighter jets and airline hangars, but what the hell. Maybe they're taking their time.
Connor is a general of sorts in the Resistance. He knows that he has to save his father's life, otherwise his father will never go back in time and get Linda Hamilton knocked up so that Connor will be born, grow up to watch the world get nuked, and be around to save his father's life so that his father can go back in time...so forth.
Story?
Thrown into the mix is Marcus Wright. He's a newbie resistance guy and he steals the show. In fact, Bale shouldn't really be listed as the "star" of the movie, since Wright (played by a very good Sam Worthington) has 75% of the scenes. But Bale's got a bigger name and that's life.
I found Worthington's character interesting. Some time in the writing stage of this movie, someone decided to throw Connor's character under the bus. That's interesting because the entire franchise has been about Connor. Yet in the one installment where we should see Connor in action, he takes a back seat to a newcomer. This seems suspicious, as if there were arguments over who would play Connor, and whether or not Bale even wanted to play Connor. It smells of a rewrite. I'll never know the truth of that, but it turns out that the producers made the right call either way: Worthington is good and his character makes the movie fresh and watchable.
I can't go into Worthingon's character or I'll blow the whole movie, but I will say that he is Terminator Salvation's salvation. I found myself wishing that Connor had been deleted from the script entirely in order to spend more time watching Marcus Wright.
The effects in this movie are good, and the cast does a reasonable job. It was nice to see Michael Ironside again, though his character is meaningless. Like the other Terminator movies, the film is ultimately preposterous: time travel, people surviving a punch in the chest from a machine (picture being hit by a crowbar compliments of Barry Bonds; think you'd get up?), open heart surgeries being practiced by MASH units in the middle of the desert. But still...it's fun.
That's what I wanted from this action movie and it's what I got. If you're in the mood for that, then this movie is up your alley. If you want high brow sc-fi, then good luck. You won't find much of that these days.
Photo: Rotten Tomatoes
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Foreign Oil
The US House of Representatives, determined to obliterate the American economy, passed their whacko "green bill" by a close vote yesterday. Time and again I heard the words, "To keep us from being held hostage by foreign oil."
Neverminding most of the junk in the bill, and all of the lunacy that comes from trying to scale back an economy during a recession, the one thing that bugs me is the "foreign oil" bit. McCain and Obama both harped about it during their campaigns, and many politicians have used the, "Importing oil from people that don't like us very much" excuse, or as one guy said yesterday, "People that fly airplanes into our buildings."
For the record: Canada is the number one provider of US crude and petroleum imports. Nobody else even comes close. Though the numbers fluctuate for imports from other countries, Canada always tops the list. Mexico generally comes in second, with Saudi Arabia around second or third. Last year, the US imported 2.532 million barrels of petroleum per day from Canada. That's more than double Mexico and Venezuela combined, and roughly 1 million more barrels per day than Saudi Arabia. That's a lot of petroleum. And a lot of money for Canada.
So I'm guessing that by "people that don't like us very much," the American politicos mean Canadians. Which, if you read a Toronto Star op-ed, is understandable. But it's time to give it a rest on the Middle-East-Oil-Bogeyman.
It's also time for Canadians to give it a rest on the Obama Love. Every time you turn around, the guy's trying mess up the Canadian economy. Buy American came first, now it's "Wind over foreign oil."
Canada is the foreign oil.
Neverminding most of the junk in the bill, and all of the lunacy that comes from trying to scale back an economy during a recession, the one thing that bugs me is the "foreign oil" bit. McCain and Obama both harped about it during their campaigns, and many politicians have used the, "Importing oil from people that don't like us very much" excuse, or as one guy said yesterday, "People that fly airplanes into our buildings."
For the record: Canada is the number one provider of US crude and petroleum imports. Nobody else even comes close. Though the numbers fluctuate for imports from other countries, Canada always tops the list. Mexico generally comes in second, with Saudi Arabia around second or third. Last year, the US imported 2.532 million barrels of petroleum per day from Canada. That's more than double Mexico and Venezuela combined, and roughly 1 million more barrels per day than Saudi Arabia. That's a lot of petroleum. And a lot of money for Canada.
So I'm guessing that by "people that don't like us very much," the American politicos mean Canadians. Which, if you read a Toronto Star op-ed, is understandable. But it's time to give it a rest on the Middle-East-Oil-Bogeyman.
It's also time for Canadians to give it a rest on the Obama Love. Every time you turn around, the guy's trying mess up the Canadian economy. Buy American came first, now it's "Wind over foreign oil."
Canada is the foreign oil.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Fade to Black - Michael Jackson
When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. Before his descent into madness, me and my friends thought he was not just the King of Pop, but the King of Everything.
I have a few very distinct memories of Jackson back in the day: me, Phil, and Sean, choreographing a routine to Billy Jean for the elementary school play. I think I remember rousing applause. Then there was me, Timmy, and Sandy choreographing more than a dozen routines in Timmy and Sandy's backyard. We were playing "music video," complete with a director (Tim), choreographer (all three of us), and an audience (Sandy's dog and - for thirty seconds - Sandy's older brother).
We didn't have a malt shop when I was kid. Instead we had a variety store that held two video games. We used to go there, hang out, and play video games all the time. There was this one guy who was the best video game player in town. He was a few years older than me, had a beard, wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans, sported an earring, drove a dented Camaro, and looked mean. His last name was Roc and it wasn't made up. He scared the hell out of me. One time I was watching him play Galaga or Pac Man and we got to talking about music. He told me, "You know who my favourite entertainer is? I bet you'll never be able to guess."
I tried the usual skid suspects ("skids" were people with long hair that listened to heavy metal; I don't know if they're still called that): Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Judas Priest, so forth. He said, "Nope. My favourite entertainer is Michael Jackson."
I was floored. This was heavy stuff. Not only did he like Michael Jackson, but he was willing to admit that he liked Michael Jackson. To give you an idea of why this was a big deal, fast forward a few months. I was hanging out in the smoker's pit of the high school. Someone brought up Roc. I was stupid enough to say that Roc's favourite entertainer was Michael Jackson. One skid girl told me that Roc was going to kick my ass for saying that, and another guy threatened to do it himself. For a week I walked around wondering when Roc was going to descend and beat me to a pulp. Never happened. That's character.
It occurs to me now that I think that was the first time I heard someone described as an "entertainer" in the true sense of the word. Roc had brains. He knew the difference between heavy metal entertaining and pop entertaining, but he knew that they were both entertainment. I wonder if Roc became a critic.
One other childhood memory: Sandy and Timmy were the first kids in the neighbourhood that had a copy of the Thriller video. I waited and waited for them to invite me over to see it. But, like kids with a pool, they knew they had a trump card. They would mention the video now and then, or talk about their favourite parts, and I would be left standing there, wishing.
Two or three weeks went by. I wished and I wished. This was in the days before 34505 channels on TV, and the only showbiz show was Entertainment Tonight. So I had probably seen only three or four Thriller previews and commercials, leaving the thing a big mystery rolling around in my head. I wanted to see it so damn bad.
Finally they showed me the video. They sat on the couch and feigned boredom while I watched in wide eyed wonder. It scared me. It thrilled me. I loved it.
Everybody did. Anyone who said that they didn't like Thriller was a liar. And Roc was right: Jackson was a great entertainer.
I lost touch with Jackson and his music after that. Black or White was the last song I really paid attention to, and that one only because an English teacher wanted to dissect it during a writing class. Jackson had begun to turn weird. Freaky weird.
Years later I was watching a Michael Jackson concert on DVD. I had wandered into a girl's room and she and her friends were loving it. I didn't get it. He was a freak. His face was a mask, his body a stick. He looked ill. While watching the video I made some comment that he looked like a freak. I got kicked out of the room. So Jackson still had it, but he didn't have me.
It takes a lot to overcome child molestation charges. Jackson settled out of court with a teenage boy to the tune of millions, but people still loved him. So who's more weird? The fans that were ready to line up for his "comeback tour," or Jackson? American Idol recently had a "Michael Jackson night," where the singers had to perform Michael Jackson songs. You kept hearing the word "legend," as in, "Michael Jackson's a legend, so it was hard to pull that song off."
Legend? Really? I don't think so. Not anymore. If his career had ended at Thriller, his legendary status would be undeniable. Instead, I think his legacy will be one of a strange celebrity that couldn't handle it. Endings mean more than beginnings. Jackson's ending sucks. A man that liked to sleep with teenage boys, wear surgical masks everywhere he went, and had his face chopped into something unrecognizable to a mother. He didn't release any studio albums in the last eight years, leaving the public to judge him not by his music, but by what he did with his life. Over the past decade, the music stores have been flooded with Jackson "greatest hits" albums, the last of which was the "Celebrating 25 Years of Thriller." Man how the time flies. 25 years since he looked normal. 25 years since I thought he ruled the world.
The old line says that poor people are crazy, rich people are eccentric. Jackson certainly proved that. If he had been a door-to-door salesman, nobody would have wanted to be within 100 yards of him. But he was a celebrity, so dangling babies from windows and sleeping with boys wasn't such a big deal.
Weird. That will be Jackson's legacy. I'd say it's sad, but it's not. Again, if a door-to-door salesman acted the way Jackson did in the latter part of his life, you'd shed no tears for him. So I guess I'll give you a very slight pass if you say, "It's about the music," but you won't get much from me if you say it's about the man. Or what was left of him.
I have a few very distinct memories of Jackson back in the day: me, Phil, and Sean, choreographing a routine to Billy Jean for the elementary school play. I think I remember rousing applause. Then there was me, Timmy, and Sandy choreographing more than a dozen routines in Timmy and Sandy's backyard. We were playing "music video," complete with a director (Tim), choreographer (all three of us), and an audience (Sandy's dog and - for thirty seconds - Sandy's older brother).
We didn't have a malt shop when I was kid. Instead we had a variety store that held two video games. We used to go there, hang out, and play video games all the time. There was this one guy who was the best video game player in town. He was a few years older than me, had a beard, wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans, sported an earring, drove a dented Camaro, and looked mean. His last name was Roc and it wasn't made up. He scared the hell out of me. One time I was watching him play Galaga or Pac Man and we got to talking about music. He told me, "You know who my favourite entertainer is? I bet you'll never be able to guess."
I tried the usual skid suspects ("skids" were people with long hair that listened to heavy metal; I don't know if they're still called that): Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Judas Priest, so forth. He said, "Nope. My favourite entertainer is Michael Jackson."
I was floored. This was heavy stuff. Not only did he like Michael Jackson, but he was willing to admit that he liked Michael Jackson. To give you an idea of why this was a big deal, fast forward a few months. I was hanging out in the smoker's pit of the high school. Someone brought up Roc. I was stupid enough to say that Roc's favourite entertainer was Michael Jackson. One skid girl told me that Roc was going to kick my ass for saying that, and another guy threatened to do it himself. For a week I walked around wondering when Roc was going to descend and beat me to a pulp. Never happened. That's character.
It occurs to me now that I think that was the first time I heard someone described as an "entertainer" in the true sense of the word. Roc had brains. He knew the difference between heavy metal entertaining and pop entertaining, but he knew that they were both entertainment. I wonder if Roc became a critic.
One other childhood memory: Sandy and Timmy were the first kids in the neighbourhood that had a copy of the Thriller video. I waited and waited for them to invite me over to see it. But, like kids with a pool, they knew they had a trump card. They would mention the video now and then, or talk about their favourite parts, and I would be left standing there, wishing.
Two or three weeks went by. I wished and I wished. This was in the days before 34505 channels on TV, and the only showbiz show was Entertainment Tonight. So I had probably seen only three or four Thriller previews and commercials, leaving the thing a big mystery rolling around in my head. I wanted to see it so damn bad.
Finally they showed me the video. They sat on the couch and feigned boredom while I watched in wide eyed wonder. It scared me. It thrilled me. I loved it.
Everybody did. Anyone who said that they didn't like Thriller was a liar. And Roc was right: Jackson was a great entertainer.
I lost touch with Jackson and his music after that. Black or White was the last song I really paid attention to, and that one only because an English teacher wanted to dissect it during a writing class. Jackson had begun to turn weird. Freaky weird.
Years later I was watching a Michael Jackson concert on DVD. I had wandered into a girl's room and she and her friends were loving it. I didn't get it. He was a freak. His face was a mask, his body a stick. He looked ill. While watching the video I made some comment that he looked like a freak. I got kicked out of the room. So Jackson still had it, but he didn't have me.
It takes a lot to overcome child molestation charges. Jackson settled out of court with a teenage boy to the tune of millions, but people still loved him. So who's more weird? The fans that were ready to line up for his "comeback tour," or Jackson? American Idol recently had a "Michael Jackson night," where the singers had to perform Michael Jackson songs. You kept hearing the word "legend," as in, "Michael Jackson's a legend, so it was hard to pull that song off."
Legend? Really? I don't think so. Not anymore. If his career had ended at Thriller, his legendary status would be undeniable. Instead, I think his legacy will be one of a strange celebrity that couldn't handle it. Endings mean more than beginnings. Jackson's ending sucks. A man that liked to sleep with teenage boys, wear surgical masks everywhere he went, and had his face chopped into something unrecognizable to a mother. He didn't release any studio albums in the last eight years, leaving the public to judge him not by his music, but by what he did with his life. Over the past decade, the music stores have been flooded with Jackson "greatest hits" albums, the last of which was the "Celebrating 25 Years of Thriller." Man how the time flies. 25 years since he looked normal. 25 years since I thought he ruled the world.
The old line says that poor people are crazy, rich people are eccentric. Jackson certainly proved that. If he had been a door-to-door salesman, nobody would have wanted to be within 100 yards of him. But he was a celebrity, so dangling babies from windows and sleeping with boys wasn't such a big deal.
Weird. That will be Jackson's legacy. I'd say it's sad, but it's not. Again, if a door-to-door salesman acted the way Jackson did in the latter part of his life, you'd shed no tears for him. So I guess I'll give you a very slight pass if you say, "It's about the music," but you won't get much from me if you say it's about the man. Or what was left of him.
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Proud City
There's a commercial making the rounds about the 29th Annual Pride Week. At the end of the commercial, an actor (posing as 'some everyday guy,' but they're always actors) bleeds euphoria and says, "Look how far we've come. Look how far this city has come."
Indeed. 29 years ago, Toronto was an epicenter of racism and bigotry, chock full of knuckledragging Klan members. You couldn't move without running into a bigot or being assaulted by a neo-Nazi. 29 years later, the city has parades. Look how far we've come.
In other news: About 24,000 unionized city workers walked off the job this morning, setting the stage for garbage pile-ups, closed daycare centres, cancelled summer programs and even the postponement of weddings.
I guess the city union guys ain't so proud of how far the city has come.
Indeed. 29 years ago, Toronto was an epicenter of racism and bigotry, chock full of knuckledragging Klan members. You couldn't move without running into a bigot or being assaulted by a neo-Nazi. 29 years later, the city has parades. Look how far we've come.
In other news: About 24,000 unionized city workers walked off the job this morning, setting the stage for garbage pile-ups, closed daycare centres, cancelled summer programs and even the postponement of weddings.
I guess the city union guys ain't so proud of how far the city has come.
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