Movie Review: Superman Returns
Starring: Brandon Routh, Kevin Spacey, Parker Posey, Kate Bosworth
Directed by: Bryan Singer

In a bizarre age where comic-to-film translations are as common as paint, we treasure those few offerings where the film not only turns out well, but helps to bolster the mythology, the spectacle of its larger-than-life characters.

You could say that the trend never really had a beginning. Over the last fifteen years we’ve enjoyed a steady flow of Batman films, and before that we had the first Superman franchise, Mr. Reeves the shining figurehead of the 1980’s take on comic lore.

And then, starting back with the first installment of Spiderman, followed by X-men, we have witnessed a deluge of superhero films, some great, (Sin City, Spiderman 2, Batman Begins) and many who hang their heads in shame. (Hulk, X3, Ghost Rider.)

Superman comes during the most opportune moment of the summer season: the Fourth of July; patriotic spirits are at a fervor and millions of Americans have a few extra days off and are looking to kill some time. Why not take in a movie?

Sadly, the fear that this is nothing more than a summer flick ends up being confirmed. I don’t know if I’ve seen a superhero film that was ever more eager to tip its hand towards us, revealing more plot devices than it knew what to do with.

The Premise: Superman returns from a five-year absence, after having explored the depths of space in search of the remains of his home planet, Krypton. He returns to find things a mess, and gets to the business of rescuing the hapless residents of Earth, quickly finding himself welcomed back into the hearts of Metropolis’ citizens. Lex Luthor, of course, seeks to muddle the waters with various nefarious deeds, which our hero ultimately conquers.

The first question I had when I saw a preview for this film was “why is Superman returning?” Where did he go?
Were they trying to follow a linear aspect from the Reeves’ Superman films?
Was there a massive typo, and Returns was actually supposed to spell “the First Film?”
I was pleasantly surprised to see the film begin with an idea borrowed from the comic lore, which is that Superman does leave to seek out the remains of Krypton.

My spirits brighten, thinking that perhaps we are going to be treated to a faithful retelling from DC Comic’s 60+ year history of the Man of Steel. Unfortunately, after the first thirty minutes, it becomes rather apparent that this film has difficulty moving into second or third acts, but rather, it messes around with a lot of great beginnings, and seems to forget to wrap anything up.

From the very beginning I enjoyed the art direction and set design. Director Bryan Singer comes straight from directing the first two Xmen films, and seems content on building his legacy within the superhero genre, and sets right to work comfortably, setting up scene after scene, allowing us windows into the world of Superman.
Set design as well as cinematography were well-conceived, picturing a world that is deliciously balanced between today’s modern, and Superman’s golden era.
I was pleased to see that, at least in part, the work of comic artist Alex Ross influenced many of the composed shots of Superman flying overhead, surrounded by radiant beams of sunlight.
Also the film has its moments of rather overt, Christian overtones. At one point, reporter Lois Lane is accepting an award for an article entitled “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman,” claiming “we don’t need a savior!” and yet Clark Kent sees nothing but people crying out to be saved. And then later, after Superman’s tantamount struggle, he obligingly assumes the Christ-like pose as he plummets back to the earth.

The acting in this film is varied. Brandon Routh, fresh from the farm delivers a more human, engaging Clark Kent/Superman combo than we saw from Christopher Reeves, switching between the bumbling, awkward Kent to the calm and collected Superman. Routh delivers any scene with a capable piercing stare which commands the viewer’s attention, and his great stature did make him well-suited to – well, the Suit.
Modified slightly, with a textured feel and much smaller “S” logo, the Superman suit is still an American classic.

Kevin Spacey goes face to face with Gene Hackman for the title of the Lexiest Luthor of them all. I have to say I enjoyed Spacey’s performance the most, which is not surprising. Spacey gives Luthor a certain gravity, yet never shies away from the more deranged element of his character. Luthor is a genius, but a mad one, after all.

Much of the film’s action sequences seemed to be borrowed from other Hollywood films in recent memory. Whether it be United 93 (plane crash) or the Day After Tomorrow (floods, earthquakes,) or Poseidon, (shipwreck,) Superman is intent on using every available disaster at its disposal to show off Superman’s muscle. Did we really think Superman couldn’t stop a runaway airliner?
At the end of the day, it would’ve been nice to see something a little more unique and original. Especially since my patience for better-than-implausible disaster has grown thin…we’ve only had a dozen or so films in the past five years dealing with phenomenal ways of dying.

My greatest criticism of this film, as with so many films these days, is the length. And more than the length, it was Singer’s misuse of his time; a luxuriously frustrating slow pace through events which ultimately lead nowhere.
Fifteen years of comic history is thrown about haphazardly, leaping from one vein of story to the next, touching on one long enough for us to be interested, and then unceremoniously moving to the next, leaving the audience jilted.
In my humble opinion, it would’ve been a more constructive use of film time to make a film version of the Death of Superman, a novel-length comic series which chronicled Superman’s titanic struggle with the space-monster Doomsday.
That would be sweet.

At the end of the day, the film expects us to be pleased with watching Superman flying high over the earth, apparently unaware or unconcerned with the fact that we haven’t really seen anything that important happen in the movie.

For a while it works, but eventually the clock catches up with Superman, and this audience begins to wonder when the movie is actually going to start.

The Faster-Than-a-Speeding-Bullet Grade: C+

T.

So, what’d you do this weekend?

…oh, not much of anything, really.

(That is my thinly veiled attempt to be sarcastic, of course.)

I am not the happiest of birthday boys on this, my birthday.

Facebook.com is a wonderful thing. It allows us negligent and forgetful college students the opportunity to say “happy birthday” to our friends, which not only helps us feel better, but it also makes the birthday-ee feel as though he/she actually has friends that would remember his/her birthday. In reality, of course, we never have any idea of when anyone’s birthday is.

This is why Facebook is helpful. It sends us little notices when our friends’ birthdays are approaching, allowing us the false foresight to write them a little note, wishing them a happy birthday. The birthday boy feels happy to have heard from so many of his friends, and the world continues to exist.

Anyway…

This past week has been a struggle as far as the weight loss goes; virtually all of my effort has gone into finding decent menu choices and having the time to get some running in.

What is the reason for this madness?
Well, it is work, actually.
Because of the fourth of July, there have been a lot of extra gigs happening, since everyone wants to share in the patriotic fervor of the season. This means an endless procession of Sousa marches, more than a dozen numbers with the word “stars” in the title, and a goodly number more which feature music written for the silver screen. And if you’re good, we may even throw in some Beatles arrangements.

All in all, not the most stimulating of repertoire, from a musical standpoint, but fun none the less, and it is fun to see the audiences turn out wearing umbrella hats, red,white and blue t-shirts and black socks with sandals. Plus, they really get into it. You’d think it was like they didn’t hear John Philip Sousa ever single year. Over and over again. Ad nauseum. Every. Single. Year.

So there are two orchestras that have conspired to try and destroy my weight-loss efforts. By their forces combined, they seek the destruction of my valiant effort to join America’s Armed Forces.

The culprits:

The Lima Symphony Orchestra
The Ashland Symphony Orchestra

Both of these cities reside in South-Western Ohio, a good 1.5 hour drive minimally, a 3.5 hour drive maximally.

The observed conclusion: There is nothing in this gosh-forsaken part of the state.

Nothing.

We saw a Pamida once, but we spooked it, and it ran away into the brush, never to be seen again. Too bad. It had Coke 12-packs on sale for $2.59.

So the past five days had seen me spend nights in two different cities, driving approximately 22 hours, spotting precisely 15,304 corn silos, and playing for audiences whose medium age averages around 93.

The breakdown:

Thursday: First rehearsal with the Lima Symphony. Drive with amiga Lala to forsaken town no. 1: Lima. Over three hours in the car over one deserted country road to the next, sharing a single-lane road with spatially-unaware semis and senile Oldsmobile operators.

We arrive at the lovely theater in Lima, sharing a stage which was once graced by the likes of the traveling production of Bedknobs & Broomsticks and the Second City touring company. It boggles the mind.

Fifteen hours later, having exhausted the complete catalog of Sousa marches, we are freed from our imprisonment, only to discover that we must make the lengthy traverse back to the Land which is Cleve in the dead of night, when were-tractors and their minion stalk the countryside, preying on those foolish enough to travel through their dominion.

Despite the overwhelming odds, we make it home in the dead of night.
Waking up the next morning, we realize we have to repeat the entire ordeal.

At the end of this evening’s rehearsal, the idea of returning home proves too much for Lala, and we instead take a safer route to the land of Bowling Green where we stay with a friend of Lala’s who offers us her couches in exchange for spending the late-night hours awake in various establishments of debauchery and sinister behavior, imbibing beverages and smoking like a chimney. Our hero reluctantly agrees, thinking of how hard running in the morning will be in his flip-flops.

The next day is our first concert. We travel even further into the desolate forsakenness that is Ohio. We see endless carcasses of those who have gone before, unknowing victims of the merciless were-tractors.

Our heroes arrive in the little town of Van Wert, recently devastated by were-tractors, but more relevantly, news that Honda has decided to put its new factory in Indiana, instead of in the basement of the local United Methodist church. The entire parsonage is weeping, and the orchestra is forced to listen to endless diatribes lamenting the loss, yet self-congratulating themselves, yearning to find the silver-lining to the cloud that was pouring acid rain down upon them.

Another night in Bowling Green, another endless vigil at a similar house of debauchery, engaged in pointless conversation about an ex-girlfriend who turned out to be a lot more insane than I ever thought. Our hero is immediately glad that we decided to cut things off with the Amazing Insano.

Saw a most curious example of genetic engineering gone wrong:

In Bowling Green, a local, (or Flatlander, as they’re affectionately referred to by the superior out-of-towners,) will stop for an emergency vehicle. Now this is a normal, conditioned, law-abiding response, but not if you’re a PEDESTRIAN!

What a moron.

We return late Saturday morning to find things quite the way I left them, (i.e. a complete mess) and am curiously disgusted to find my right knee is no longer capable of supporting my flabby frame on long runs. This is not a good development.

Sunday comes, brings my birthday with it. Unceremoniously beats the snot out of it, and leaves it for dead on my doorstep. I unwittingly find my day of birth on my doorstep when I leave the house for my daily run, and decide rather quickly that this is a bad omen.

I race out of the house to Ashland, hopefully evading the deadly Sunday who enjoys killing birthdays, only to find myself stranded in another sinkhole of civilization. There is a Wal-mart here, but its sandwiched between a Tractor Supply store, (probably the same place where those stupid were-tractors are nesting during the day) and a Payless Shoe Source. All tell-tale signs of white trash. Let all who enter beware.

We find ourselves in the four-hour break between rehearsal and concert. In another hour we will begin our set of patriotic tunes, bookeneded by, what else?
Sousa death marches.

May the star-spangled banner be soaked in the blood of were-tractors forever.

And can I please get some sleep tonight?!! Those who are three hours ahead of me on the clock can take notice!!!

T.

Music Review: Lenny Kravitz: Baptism

Lenny Kravitz has become something of a institution in the modern free-for-all known as rock ‘n roll. His cover of the Guess Who’s “American Woman” will have him enshrined in rock lore for a long time, while original tunes like “Fly Away” showcase his ability for assembling a great hard rock song.

When Lenny Kravitz is on, he’s classic.

However, try as he might, Kravitz can never seem to come away with more than two great songs on any given album. I fear his attention is mostly given to creating his hit singles, and the rest of the tracks he spends time baring his soul with limp-legged uninspired tunes.

When Lenny Kravitz is off, he’s forgettable.

Baptism is proving to be no exception to the rule. Blasting on to the charts powered by his lead-off single “Lady,” it was then followed up with the more impressive “Where Are We Runnin’?” which then proved to be the last we heard of Lenny for the meanwhile.

The other eleven tracks on this album prove to be easily skipped over on the CD, because there just isn’t anything there which is that inspired.

The one late highlight to the disc is Kravitz’s duet with Jay-Z who makes a notable guest appearance.

Aside from “Lady” and “Where Are We Runnin’?” I fear this album will slip into the $4.99 bin at Wal-mart soon enough, joining many of his other works like Lenny, Mama Said and Are You Gonna Go My Way?

Kravitz has a phenomenal persona. His image and his style add up to being truly larger than life. Sadly, I just don’t think his talent or vision is capable of keeping up.

Final Grade: C-

Movie Review: A Prairie Home Companion

Starring: Garrison Keillor, Kevin Kline, Maya Rudolph, Meryll Streep, Lily Tomlin, Lindsay Lohan, John C. Reilly, Woody Harrelson, Virginia Madsen, Tommy Lee Jones, the Guys All-Star Shoe Band
Directed By: Robert Altman

This is a film that will be on the must-see list for any fan(s) of:

Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor, Meryll Streep, Kevin Kline, St. Paul, MN, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tommy Lee Jones, Virginia Madsen, Cowboys, Film Noir, Lindsay Lohan, Bluegrass Music, NPR, Robert Altman,The Guys All-Star Shoe Band, Tim Russel, Radio, Dirty Jokes, Old Theater Buildings, Lily Tomlin, Maya Rudolph, Spaguetti Sauce, Minnesota, the Midwest, or Gym Socks.

I don’t know how big of a fan of NPR’s Prairie Home Companion Robert Altman is, but judging by the way he crafted this film, you would think it was a labor of love for the veteran director.
Altman, having achieved legendary status as a director with such classic films as M*A*S*H* and Gosford Park turns his eye to the world of public radio, and a beloved radio program which still broadcasts most Saturday evenings from the F. Scott Fitzgerald Theatre in downtown St. Paul, Minnesota.
Featuring a A-list roster of actors, many of whom play characters which regularly appear on PHC, the show is stuff to the rim with an endless variety of things for the eye and ear to take in.

The Premise: We follow the events at what proves to be the very last broadcast of a Prairie Home Companion on WLT because of a recent corporate buy-out, and the current owners feel the show has outlived its time. Various characters react in different ways, but it is, despite their resistance and struggle, the last time a broadcast airs from the Fitzgerald stage.

From the first few moments this film was such a joy for me to watch. Often times studios will find it much easier to recreate a location inside a massive sound stage in Hollywood, which allows their camera and lighting crew a much easier task, not to mention not having an entire cast and crew displaced to a new city for the duration of shooting.
But it becomes very clear quickly that the F. Scott Fitzgerald theatre itself is going to be a main character in this film, which ends up being of the great delights of the picture.

The theatre, (particularly the backstage area) is not large, so the camera is never far away from its subjects, often pressing you into the midst of their conversation, almost by accident. The surroundings become part of the story, not only because of their uniquely individual architecture and decorations, but because it forces you to stay close to the character, to the story by not letting the camera ever take a wide-angle shot.
Even in the main theatre, (which is not a very large auditorium) you never swing away to a dizzying height on a crane shot, showing you the grandeur of the hall. We are meant to feel close to the cast, as though they were old friends who have come for dinner, and they all brought banjos.

Most dialogue scenes are filled with Altman’s signature overlapping dialogue, which some would argue is an attempt to have more seemingly organic conversation, but in the case of the mayhem of a concert backstage, it helps to heighten the chaos and confusion, allowing the individual’s ears to choose what it wants to listen to.

As I mentioned before, many of the characters that have been created during PHC’s tenure on the radio are characters in the film. The casting for this film was really excellent. Chosen are a roster of actors whom share many Oscars between them. Whether it be an honor to work with Altman, or belief in the story they’re telling, or perhaps its just love of the game, but the actors all seemed to be having a great time working their craft.

Guy Noir, the radio detective in the vein of the Shadow, is played by Kevin Kline, who heads up security for the Fitzgerald, and spends his time in the movie searching for the elusive Virginia Madsen, who turns out to be the death angel. Kline definitely got to play the most comically with his character. It was fun to see his impressions of Guy Noir, probably having listened to the entire recorded history at least once to get an idea of how Garrison Keillor made him talk, which in turn gave him an idea of mannerisms and level of basic intelligence. (Which as it turns out, is rather low.)

Dusty and Lefty, the trail hand cowboys are played by John C. Reilly and Woody Harrelson. The radio PHC usually depicts them on the lonely dusty trail somewhere herding cattle somewhere in Minnesota or Iowa, but for the purposes of the movie, Dusty and Lefty wander around backstage in full regalia, looking reminiscent of the Marlboro man, complete with faces that looked like they haven’t seem soap in weeks.

Meryll Streep and Lily Tomlin play fictional characters created for the film. The Johnson Sisters are gospel-singing sisters from Wisconsin one of whom has a history with Mr. Keillor (or as the film refers to him, GK.) They perform on the show (using their real voices) and try to crash-land one of the faux-commercials involving duct tape. All in all their presence is a lot of fun, and Streep again accomplishes the task of creating such an organic character, that you feel as though you have known her your whole life.

Garrison Keillor really does steal the show, however. It is his ship, after all.
I wondered how they were going to handle his role in the movie. PHC is a one-man show in many respects, and it was comforting to see that they did very much keep him in the center of attention.
He took on all the responsibilities we’re used to hearing him do on the radio, singing, hosting, monologuing, and quite surprisingly, being exactly the same person on screen that we hear on the radio.

This begs the question: is Garrison Keillor ever not Garrison Keillor?

In the film, GK is constantly being distracted by one conversation or another, a seemingly bottomless well of subtly humorous stories, usually involving “pants around his ankles” as a punch line.

It is true: Garrison Keillor is an ugly man. He looks sort of like a carp. An old carp.

(Side Note: Saturday Night Live’s Maya Rudolph makes her most impressive and human performance with this film – too bad she doesn’t get to do this on SNL.)

This film is worthy of remembering come Awards Season again. Altman should get a nod, as well as art production, set design and a slew of other technical awards for the work accomplished filming inside the F. Scott Fitzgerald.
As far as acting goes, we have a long year ahead of us, so it’s too early to tell.

The Grade: A+

Movie Review: Nacho Libre
Starring: Jack Black, Hector Jimenez, Ana de la Reguera
Directed by: Jared Hess

If any of you have read this blog for a while you’ll remember my first reaction to hearing of this film’s production. I believe it went something like this:

“The greatest idea for a movie. Ever.”

Perhaps I am paraphrasing slightly.

I had the honor of watching an early screening of this film with my mother (the poor girl) the night before it was released.
I’m afraid I have to say that this film joins a growing category of films where my concept for the film ends up being funnier than the film produced.

This film has been anticipated by millions for two different reasons:

1. The return of Jack Black. Ever since School of Rock, audiences have fed out of Mr. Black’s hand. The promotions for this film looked beyond ridiculous, and finally gave reason for any comic’s coup de grace: wearing tights. (Think Elf.)

2. The return of Jared Hess. The now infamous director of Napoleon Dynamite, 2004’s cult comedy hit makes his sophomoric return with Nacho.

2(a). Mike White, writer of School of Rock and Orange County reunites with School alum Jack Black for both a writing and a producing credit.

The premise: Black plays a monk (Nacho) in a Mexican monastery who tries to fulfill his childhood dream of being a Luchidore, even despite the warnings by the head priests that wrestling is evil, and he would certainly be dismissed from the monastery for his actions.
Despite the warnings, Black’s character begins an adventure to become the greatest luchadore that Mexico has ever known.
Oh, and Nacho falls in love with a nun, Sister Encarnacioin, (de la Reguera.)

Simple plot, and for a director such as Hess, whose success was entirely based upon his ability to point the camera at his actors and let them do the work.
The reciepe worked wonderfully, and it should be a formula that works again if Mr. Hess gets the right combination of tools to work with.
I say it should work again, because sadly, just like Nacho, this film falls flat on its rear several times.

Jack Black single-handedly attempts to carry this film from start to finish. From opening sequence to finish, he is rarely out of sight of the camera, and sadly, when he is, the film often falls flat on its face.

Jared does try to follow the same formula for success he found with Napoleon, choosing unique and bizarre looking characters, surrounding them by sometimes obscene and hilarious surroundings, trying to let what sits in front of the camera do most of the work for him.
For one reason or another, however, the film staggers across the finish line, dragging its feet behind itself.
There are numerous sequences which I laughed out loud at, but sadly, these parts were too few and far between to consider the film cohesive.

On another note, the writer's obsession with making Nacho fall in love with a nun is both alarming and against all logic. Nacho may want to be a wrestler, but would he really desire the love of a woman as well? Perhaps he didn't pay attention in any of the monastery classes. Either that or the Mormans have an axe to grind with the Catholic church.

Jack Black’s performance is memorable for many different reasons, and it will certainly go down among his funniest, but Nacho Libre will be shelved next to other films whose potential exceeded the product.

Grade: C

T.

Music Review: Red Hot Chili Peppers: Stadium Arcadium

This is a little late in coming. The Peppers’ new album has been on the shelves for well over a month now, but I am only now getting around to talking about it. Why is that?
Lazy?
Disinterested?

Well, it could be that the whole album is 28 songs long!
It has officially been released as a two-disc album, which of course means you have to pay more for it, which could very well translate to being more Chili Peppers than you ever thought you could’ve wanted.

The real reason that its taken me this long to mention it is simply that I didn’t feel ready to say anything about it. Due to the mystical forces of the internet, I did have this album in my iPod before it was released to the public. A few listen-throughs and I knew that this was going to require more attention than I have given other albums.

Most reviews of this album by real critics have largely been glowing. Not only citing a forward-looking, cutting-edge Chili Peppers, but because of its length, calling it a “milestone” and a “tantamount achievement.”

No offense, but most of this seems that someone's trying to blow sunshine up someone's......

I am a huge fan of the Chili Peppers’ more recent works, including Californication and By the Way, and have recently fallen in love with their earlier (and arguably finest) album, BloodSugarSexMagik.
The Chili Peppers blasted onto the scene in the 80's with a unique blend of funk, punk and rock sautted with just a pinch of hard metal. Their more recent works have shown a softer, more melodic side, showcasing frontman Anthony Keidis’ ear for tuneful melodies and heart-felt lyrics.

Stadium Arcadium is the Chili Peppers’ most important effort to marry their two personalities together, coupling songs that recall their early funk-rock years with their more recent style.
Being a real fan of their music, and with so much going on in this album, I had to be sure I gave as fair a review as I could.
Because my readers deserve nothing less. Awww...

The album is separated on two discs titled Venus and Mars. As I mentioned before, this album is the Chili Peppers’ most obvious and blatant attempt to have some sort of marriage between their songwriting styles.
The first single off of the album, Dani California,represents their older style, while potential future singles like Slow Cheetah or Torture Me showcase a milder, more contemplative style.

The lowdown: All of the songs on here are as interesting and intriguing as any the Chili Peppers have ever written.

The problem: With 28 songs, after a while, you just don’t care. Several songs could flash by before you finally come across something that actually catches your ear again.

I can honestly say that as stand-alone tracks, these are finely written, crafted and produced tracks, but I do wish the Chili Peppers had chosen another way of releasing this material. They could have followed System of a Down’s example, and released their material in two separate albums at two different times. (In contrast, both of the Peppers’ albums would be worth listening to.)
After having been in the game for so long, I think it would’ve been better to have a different strategy in seeing this material released. At two solid hours of music, perhaps even the Peppers should know when enough is enough.

Key Tracks: Dani California, Torture Me, Hard to Concentrate, Desecration Smile

The Inevitable Grade: Because of its length, Stadium takes a step down to a C+

Movie Review: United 93

Seldom does a film that is required to say so little or so much say only exactly what it must.

The subject of this matter of this film was the subject of a previous post where we debated the need of this film, but mostly focused on the artistic merit of such a project.
I was fortunate enough to find myself in a theater that was still showing this film. I imagine the number of screens showing this film has shrunken to almost none by now, since it has been months since its initial release.
This film was written and directed by Englishman Paul Greengrass, and most of the production took place in London. For such a uniquely American story, it is frustrating that the work had to fall into the hands of an ally just to be done with dignity and clarity.
This film was shot using a great deal of hand-held camera shots. Popularized by documentary filmmakers, the practice has been adopted by studio pictures as a way of heightening reality. We are used to seeing grainy, wobbly news footage on CNN, and filmmakers do their best to recreate that sense of uncertainty using a very basic and primitive camera method. Sadly, this technique was really over-used, and I left the theater feeling nauseous just from the jerky camera.

I am pleased to report that this film is everything it should have been. Obviously a hot-button topic for a film, I was pleased to see that the story was the star of the show. All of the actors in the film were unknown, which was an essential choice to make, since any well-known actors would act in counterpoint to the story’s impact. This film’s greatest success is how it allows you to be a fly on the wall in all of the different locations affected that day. Whether it is the air traffic control room, where you hear the confused and chaotic chatter of a dozen controllers shouting commands, or the Air Force’s command center when orders and being hurled right and left, you are left to hear what you choose to hear, to pay attention to what you find intriguing. I think this is a large part of the film’s success, because it simply allows for us to watch the story unfold in as natural a re-creation as I could imagine.
The film wastes no time in throwing you into the middle of the action. The passengers are quickly boarded, and then shortly after that, air traffic controllers begin to lose contact with several airplanes. You watch helpless as the first two planes crash into the World Trade Center, angered and enraged at being unable to help. The pace of the film doesn’t let up until the very end. With mounting confusion we follow the actions taken by hundreds of air traffic controllers and military personnel as they seek to understand what is happening, and then seek to react to it. Numerous members of the cast were actually playing their real-life roles on the screen, which not only demonstrates their character, but also the urgency and importance of their decisions. It also made me feel encouraged to see these men and women so carefully tend to their duties even in the midst of an absolute chaos, they never forgot their jobs, and never abandoned their posts.

The story of the passengers aboard United 93 only emerges later in the film, after three of the planes had already hit their targets and the terrorists aboard United 93 finally made their move. It was inspiring and heart-wrenching to watch a group of men begin to organize and plan their assault on the cockpit, knowing full well that the chances of survival were slim. One by one any able-bodied man collected their minds and finally launched their assault up the narrow aisle, bodies tumbling and churning as the pilot dove and spun in effort to throw them off their feet. Finally though, as we all know, they made it to the cockpit, and the final seconds of the movie are an insane flurry of flesh and cloth as hands struggle for control of the aircraft; all the while, the sunny Pennsylvania landscape rushes towards the audience.

I believe this is a film all American should see. It is constantly chastised for being “too soon” and “insensitive” to those who mourn the loss of loved ones, but at a time when most Americans have seemingly already forgotten why we fight a war, this is an essential tool that we must use to remind those who would dismiss the evil against which we struggle.
I will buy this film on DVD the day it is released, and I will share it with as many as will watch it.
Overall Grade: A+

T.

Movie Review: Cars
Starring: Owen Wilson, Paul Newman, John Ratzenberger, Larry the Cable Guy, Cheech Marin
Directed by: John Lasseter

Pixar’s first film under their new marriage with Disney has been anticipated since their last film was in theatres. In the dawning age of CGI garbage, Pixar has stood as a lone bastion of quality entertainment, innovated story-telling and above all: creativity.
The early reviews for Cars promised that the highest of expectations would be filled. Pixar had created yet another classic. I must admit, I was hoping it to be the case.

Cars is a technological triumph in and of itself. Now that every movie studio who seeks to make family films has converted to CGI animation, Pixar has had to raise the bar every film to prove why they remain the standard-bearer. Many of the lighting effects are stunning, and the dozens of different stages of dirt that gets caked onto the cars’ bodies would’ve made animators cringe even a few years ago.
Yet the measuring stick for Pixar is not only for their technological prowess, but also for their care of a great story line. Pixar films have been one of the few places where stories are the only reason a film is made. Films like Toy Story, Monsters Inc. and theIncredibles mix the fantastic with the mundane in such a real way that we can see the possibility in our own lives of the toys coming alive behind our backs, or that there really might be a monster in our closet. (Benevolent, of course.)
That being said, Pixar has raised the bar for so long that it begins to be an impossibility that they will continue to astound and amaze us. Sadly, Cars is a step back for Pixar.
Alike Bugs Life, I believe it will be a film worthy of the Pixar name, but overshadowed b those who came before and (hopefully) those who follow.

The story follows Lightning McQueen (Owens) a rookie race car who is poised to win the Piston Cup, the highest accomplishment for any race car. He seeks to take the crown away from the King, long-time veteran of the race track (voiced appropriately by Richard Petty.) However, en route to a tie-breaker race in California, Lightning is lost in the desert of Arizona where he accidentally destroys the main street of a little town called Radiator Springs. He then finds himself trapped there until he repairs the road. In the meanwhile, he not only falls in love with the tiny little town and its inhabitants, but also with a Porsche.

This film ultimately has a very uplifting and charming moral. The appeal and value of small-town life is far more important than getting somewhere fast. Aside from the friendships that Lightning makes with the residents, he also falls in love with the land and the history of the region. It is eventually learned that everything we think we need may be right under our noses the whole time.

The downfalls with this film lie in the very nature of its characters. Automobiles are often anthromorphic and are projected with various human characteristics, but even from the first preview I had certain reservations about all of the characters of this film being cars. I hoped that the film would change my mind, but I’m afraid I left feeling unsatisfied with the whole affair. I raced my Hot Wheels as a kid, and then had a fantastic crash. But I never made them talk to one another.
This point aside, I can’t say that this story has been their strongest. There are timeless elements to the story, but overall, I can’t say I feel this movie will achieve the same legendary status as their other films. I just don’t feel it’ll be as memorable.

One of the funniest moments in the film occurs when Lightning and Mater (Larry the Cable Guy) go Tractor Tipping, a vehicled version of cow tipping. The other moment that really stands out is when John Ratzenberger’s character finally confronts the other several characters he has played in the other Pixar films.

Overall Grade: C+

T.

CORVALLIS, Ore. — A main ingredient in beer may help prevent prostate cancer and enlargement, according to a new study. But researchers say don't rush out to stock the refrigerator because the ingredient is present in such small amounts that a person would have to drink more than 17 beers to benefit.

Oregon State University researchers say the compound xanthohumol, found in hops, inhibits a specific protein in the cells along the surface of the prostate gland.

The protein acts like a signal switch that turns on a variety of animal and human cancers, including prostate cancer.

Cancer typically results from uncontrolled cell reproduction and growth. Xanthohumol belongs to a group of plant compounds called flavonoids, which can trigger the programmed cell death that controls growth, researchers say.

Xanthohumol was first discovered in hops in 1913, but its health effects were not known until about 10 years ago, when it was first studied by Fred Stevens, assistant professor of medicinal chemistry at OSU's College of Pharmacy.

Last fall, Stevens published an update on xanthohumol in the journal Phytochemistry that drew international attention.

Stevens says it possible for drug companies to develop pills containing concentrated doses of the flavonoid found in the hops used to brew beer.

He also says researchers could work to increase the xanthohumol content of hops.

There are already a number of food supplements on the market containing hops, and scientists in Germany have developed a beer that contains 10 times the amount of xanthohumol as traditional brews. The drink is being marketed as a healthy beer, but research is still under way to determine if it has any effect against cancer.

The latest Oregon State University research was published in a recent issue of Cancer Letters.

A New Record...Faster, Stronger...

Today I ran five miles in 39:40

Mile average: 7:56

yay!

I'm quite happy with this. My diet is stalling on me again, but we'll get it figured out.

T.

The Fitness Plan Week 7....

Progress Made:

Weight Lost: 21 lbs

Fastest Mile: 7:30 min

Fastest Average: 8:30 min

Fastest 1.5 Mile: 10:40 min

Average Rate: 9 min

Average Distance: 6-7 miles (5 in morning, another 1 to 2 in the evening)

Sit ups: 50 (one set)

Push-ups: 34 (one set)

Caloric Intake: 1200 - 1300 calories daily

The trick is proving to be to choose the most pure forms of fuel to put in, since I only get so many calories, what is going to give me the biggest bump in nutrition, energy and satisfaction? It's become something of a game. I don't crave too many junk foods any more. Average meals: 5-6 throughout the day, although its a bad idea to eat anything after 8 o'clock.

How will this change over the next few weeks as my routine is interrupted? I will simply have to find a new routine, and not make any compromises. Especially on the diet.

Tomorrow's my light work-out day. I'm going to help my friend move instead of going to the gym... Carrying a desk down seven flights of stairs should prove to be adequte.

T.

P.S. Secret bonus: The veins running the length of my biceps are reappearing. I find it terribly exciting. Testosterone at all time highs.

Music Review: The Black Keys: Chulahoma EP: the songs of Junior Kimbrough
Junior Kimbrough was a bar owner in Mississippi and died in the 1970’s. In addition to fathering an enormous family, he was also a blues song-writer. This homage by the Black Keys features six of his songs.
I must confess that I had not previously heard of Junior Kimbrough, nor any of the songs that are featured on this EP. Being very familiar with the Black Keys’ signature sound, I was curious to see how the Keys took on another artists’ songs, since most of their work is original material written by guitarist/singer Dan Auerbach. It was pretty apparent that they had a deep respect for these songs, so it was interesting to see how carefully (or carelessly) they decided to handle these songs.
Knowing these songs would’ve originally been played on acoustic guitar and voice, the Black Key’s recipe of voice, electric guitar and drums would seem a drastic change. And indeed, it has taken several listen-throughs for me to become comfortable with the adaptation of their sound. The Keys’ original tunes usually are built around Pat Carney’s funkified drum stylings, so the scaled-back approach to his playing on this project was a little surprising. Indeed, if there is a weak point to this project, I would have to say it is the drum line, which at times I feel was a little tacked on. The other elements, (voice and guitar) were already written. The only truly concocted part of this project was the drum beats, and Pat Carney’s decision to play down his presence is understandable, but it is a sad misuse of his unique drum stylings.
The songs themselves are sprawling, relaxed and slow-paced. It is an easy picture to envision Junior sitting outside his bar in Mississippi singing these songs. Obviously Junior didn’t have anywhere to go real quickly, but the Keys’ interpretation adds a restrained intensity. In part to the drum’s insistence, but also Auerbach’s fingers seem reluctant to let go of any note, giving a great tension to the songs.
I would not consider this the Black Keys’ greatest work. In fact, I would put it last on the “need to own” list for the Keys’ works. But it is obviously a labor of love for the boys from Akron – a project that they felt very strongly about doing, and in honoring one of their favorite songwriters. And as the band's final release under their contract with Fat Possum records, it is a fitting swan song. The Black Keys have moved to Nonesuch and are opening for Radiohead in the next several months. Now there's a weird concert to go see...
Grade: B-

Music Review: The Raconeurs Broken Boy Soldiers

Lauded as "Jack White's other (insert 'better') band," stands poised to take the title of rock supergroup of the year. Who they're taking it from is another less interesting story.

Jack White (of the White Stripes) teams up with fellow Detroit native Brendan Benson for this collaborative effort which also features rhythm being provided by members of the Greenhornes, their personalities and names inconsequential. All we are concerned with is the genius of Jack White and the melodic wanderings of Mr. Benson.

I speak tongue-in-cheek, of course. Reading reviews over the last few months about this anticipated release has allowed music critics to let it slip that they would've always much preferred the White Stripes had it actually had a better drummer and a bass line. Shame on you all.

But we are here to discuss the Rac Pack...

Benson and White take a total 50/50 credit on the writing of these songs. Listening through the whole album, each of their hands is very clear. Knowing Benson's Alternative to Love and virtually all of Jack White's output, it is fairly apparent when one songwriter takes the helm from the other. Their styles are vastly different, but do work together to create a genuinely unique and unusual sound. Some of the songs harken back to an older generation, such as Store Bought Bones which recalls early psychadelia, or the closing track Blue Veins which is straight-foward blues.
The majority of these tracks, however, are truly a hybrid style of White's growling guitar riffs and howling vocals and Benson's melodic turns. Add to it the solid but never over-powering backbone from the Nameless Ones, and you have a collection of songs that really doesn't sound like anything else on the shelves right now.
On the track Broken Boy Soldiers, Jack White shows why he is still one of the best blues rock singers going at it right now. But this time, enough vocal damage has occured so that White sounds more like an old woman than a 31 year old man.
On the track Yellow Sun, Benson's ability to create a captivating melodic/chordal combination plays out nicely in a chorus that catches the ear every time.
Oddly enough, only three of the tracks on this disc start without any sort of weird ambient lead-in or studio noise. What's the deal? Also, the art design for the CD case is decidedly disappointing. The photograph on the front cover looks as though the band took a cheap polaroid photograph of themselves in poorly done makeup, with no attempt made to clean up the photograph, sharpen the image or to deify them in any way. The disc itself as well as a border around the photograph features a great deal of golden script filagrie which seems to have no pattern. In short, it's confusing to the eye and I found it more of a distraction. Often times I'm able to tell what sort of design influence a package has had, but with this album, I am confused. There seemed to be little thought put into the look of the bands image. Even looking at the band's publicity stills I get the sense of four men standing in frame together, but there isn't a cohesive sense of uniformity between the bandmates. If the band's intent is to remain a coalition of individuals, that is fine, but at least shoot the photographs in black and white so we don't have to enjoy your clashing choices of clothing.

The Grade: Music: B+ (Because of a few weak tracks)
Art Design: D

The T. has spoken.

I've Realized There are a Few Things I Could Do Now...

...now that I have the time...


...there are a few things I would like to try my hand at:

Learn Karate
Learn to Dance
Knife Fighting
Learn Guitar
Learn Drums
Learn the Stock Market
Juggling Axes
Raquet Ball
Bull Fighting

...I think I might keep myself pretty busy...

This is my sister...

...and she is worried about climbing on an airplane?

The First Taste of Summer...
I felt it today as I was moving through my house.

You usually have to be moving in order to sense these sorts of things. If you sit still, the air itself can't breathe.

I felt it as I was going up and down my stairs. It was there.

That humidity. That sticky resistance between the skin of my foot and the wooden stair.

And I could feel it when I stood still.

The heavy stillness of air laden with summertime rain, waiting for the right moment to soak the earth.

I could smell it as I moved through my house. Flowers smell differently in the summer.

I enjoy it now because one day I will realize it is summer. It will be too warm and still, and I will go around with the perennial moist spots beneath my arms and between my shoulders.

I can enjoy this stillness now. I can enjoy it and I can see ahead.

T.

In effort to memorialize my current circumstances a little bit
...I ran around the house with my camera and snapped these pictures. Some of them turned out pretty well... the sum is more interesting than the parts. Enjoy

T.

I'm Still Rather Proud of Myself...

Movie Review: Mission Improbable III

When will the super-spies learn? The minute you have a wife, girlfriend, children, puppy, sportscar, or a goldfish, your nemesis will exploit it and seek your downfall by holding your beloved hostage.
You would’ve thought that any of the other spy/thriller movies where the hero’s lover is taken prisoner and held hostage at the hand of some diabolical and fantastic instrument of death would begin to be a roadmap to destruction for the spies who would follow later. But as smart as they are, they don’t seem to learn. This leaves the helpless movie-going audience no choice but to shout out advice to the characters on the screen hoping they’ll learn from others mistakes.

Interestingly enough, this movie managed to be just as entertaining as MI: II with only a fraction of the plot.

Thinking back, I can’t even remember what the plot was intended to be. Quite obviously, it was inconsequential. What was important was the elaborately conceived action sequences which effectively destroyed one-quarter’s worth of the gross national product. And then when they blew up all they could, they went to Shanghai and started chipping away at the Chinese industry.

The Premise: Tom Cruise revisits the ready-made American hero Ethan Hunt, star agent of the IMF (“Impossible Mission Force”? Does that really sound as retarded as it looks?) who is now training other agents to go out into the field. Apparently battling John Voigt inside the Chunnel just adds a few too many grey hairs. Know what I mean?
This time around Ethan has found a nurse that he wants to marry, so the early scenes are spent establishing Ethan’s relationship with her family at an engagement party. Ethan is eventually convinced to go back into the field to rescue an agent he trained. She dies in his arms (how poetic) and sends Ethan on a hunt to find the black market wizard Davien (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman before he got his Oscar) who is set to make a $800+ million dollar sale of something elusively called the “Rabbit Foot”, which we frustratingly never learn what it does. Since Ethan has disturbed Davien’s nefarious going-ons, Davien uses Ethan’s wife as leverage to get Ethan to find the Rabbit Foot for him.
The fact that this is the extent of the plot should give you a sense of how important probability and plausibility is in this film.
The first MI film was accused of being too confusing and too hard to follow, so director John Woo’s second installment was the antithesis, featuring an abundance of slow-motion shots of Tom Cruise walking amongst flames with doves slowly flying from beneath his feet…truly a poetic chaos.
The third film exchanges Woo’s graceful choreography for the currently popular hand-held camera use, which makes for grainy, out-of-focus and unsteady footage. Obviously meant to de-stabilize the film and add to the tension of the scene, it has been over used. Filmmakers need to uncover new techniques.
Early criticism of this film said that the character-building scenes were weak and just strung between one action sequence and the next. I didn’t feel that to be the case, though. You don’t sit down in this movie expecting to delve into the psyche of Ethan Hunt, we want to watch him blow stuff up. And on that bill, the film delivers.
To its credit, the action scenes did stay rather creative and memorable, and I could probably recall most of the individual scenes and mention something cool about them.

As far as the acting goes, we haven’t seen any new tricks out of Tom Cruise since the Last Samurai, (a good film) but now whenever Tom feels it necessary to truly be emotional, he puts on the same waterworks show combined with a heavy breathing. By this point, its not effective any more. Knowing Tom Cruise’s pride at doing all of his own stunts, and knowing his recent bizarre behavior, I found myself wondering if he ever took a nose dive off the roof of the Chinese skyscraper and the film crew just watched him go ‘splat’ on the ground 400,000 feet below. Everything we’ve seen at the film’s promotion is actually a cyborg, built out of state-of-the-art bionics and what they managed to scrape off of the sidewalk.
Philp Seymour Hoffman’s character has obviously been examined closely since his win for the film Capote, but I would have to say you would be disappointed if you were looking for a great film character to be born here. Hoffman’s character is sadly one-dimensional. The film knows that he’s there for us to hate, and we need not know anything more about him than that. His character actually devolves through the course of the film. His dialogue is more revealing and lengthy early in the film, and then by the end of the film he is reduced to the evil mastermind clichés including kicking Ethan Hunt in the face while he’s laying on the ground.

Overall, the film entertains. It’s a popcorn muncher, and if its any indication of what the summer season will look like, then we’re in for another high-octane low-content season.
Yippee!
Eventual Grade: C+

T.

Quick Reviews of Music I’ve Chewed Through Recently
A lot of classic bands and their recordings that I really knew nothing about, and my valiant effort to try and rectify that.


Talking Heads: 77
I was attracted to the Heads’ music because of their place in the lexicons of rock ‘n roll. I kept running into their names and images during a casual flip-through of any “history of” book that I might find on a shelf.
So I get a hold of a copy of 77, which I didn’t purchase, thankfully, and I have to say, I just don’t think this is my bag, baby.
As I often tell myself, “as important as knowing what you like, is knowing what you don’t.”
I think I can safely say that I don’t find the music of the Talking Heads all that appealing. So this isn’t so much a review of the album as it is an impression of their music all together. Sorry Talking Heads…
Grade of all things Head Talking: D


Black Sabbath: Paranoid
Discovering the classics is so much fun.
For those of you who read my luke-warm review of Wolfmother a few days ago, we all have this album to blame. Had I encountered Wolfmother a week before I discovered Sabbath, Wolfie might’ve been spared its C+ songwriting.
From the authoritative and extensive search I did to find the greatest Sabbath album I was lead to Paranoid, which was the first release by the band with a younger, more entertaining Ozzy Osbourne on lead vocals. Guitarist Tommy Iommi created some of rock’s most memorable and inextinguishable riffs on this album, and he did it with only two actual working fingers.
The story behind Sabbath’s sound is really a fun one to tell, but its too long for this moment, so if we ever get really bored on this blog, perhaps I’ll endulge you all…
As with any study, its important to know your historical timeline, so that the beginnings and endings of things can be traced.
Knowing that Sabbath was the first in so many musical styles and tastes really makes you appreciate their altering of musical taste all the more. So many bands owe their sonic palette to Black Sabbath, its amazing.
Aside from their inventive stylings, the thing that stands out was how quickly they mastered their new-found toys. These songs are really fun to listen to and despite an obviously limited style, their songs never get old.
Grade: A+


The Yardbirds: Roger the Engineer
More classics…
I mostly picked this one out because it’s the Yardbirds. Another band that has its place held in history for them. If for no other reason, than certainly to be known as the starting place for the likes of Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck
Of course this record has their hit Over, Under, Sideways, Down, but what I found myself listening to the most was the stylings of guitarist Jeff Beck on songs like Jeff’s Boogie and the Nazz are Blue which really showed off the young guitarist’s ability, and ultimately foreshadow music’s departure from the Beatles formula of song-writing.
Entertaining, yet does not engage you song-for-song the way even an early Beatles album still can.
Grade: B-


Jamiroquai: Emergency on Planet Earth
Hands-down the best name of any band I’ve listened to recently. (Pronounced Jam-ear-o-kwai)
Known for back-to-the-roots funk stylings, Jamiroquai has been turning out dance hall hits for quite a while now. This album, released in the earlier ninties is perhaps one of the better samplings of Jamiroquai’s talents and abilities. Even jogging to this music made me step a little bit faster and higher. Reminiscent of the by-gone days of the discotheque, Jamiroquai has perfected a recipe for funked-out disco that combins the Bee Gees with James Brown. Not a bad idea. . .
Grade: B


Motion Picture Soundtrack: The Life Aquatic
A musical supervisor has one of the most overlooked yet influential roles in a movie’s construction. Pick the right tunes, and a simple scene of dialogue can have unexpected tensions or emotions that would otherwise never be explored.
Wes Anderson’s Causteau-esque comedy about washed-up and washed-out oceanographic explorers features some of the most unique music I’ve heard in a while. What attracted my ear most was the tracks contributed by Mark Mothersbaugh, who wrote all original tracks for this film. Mostly of narrative nature, his tracks have titles like “Let Me Tell You About My Boat” or “We Call Them Pirates Out Here” and are used in specific moments throughout the film. His signature use of electronic sounds used with great restraint and control makes his music feel very controlled and tense, even though they are tremendously fun to listen to. Round out the soundtrack with several selections from Seu Jorge, a French singer who covers only David Bowie sung in French, and you have a zany collection of familiar and not-so to accompany perhaps Anderson’s best film.
Grade: A

T. out...

Music Review: Wolfmother

I mentioned this band a few months ago as the greatest thing to come out of Australia since kangaroos or something, but I wish now to make ammendments to that statement.

They are almost the greatest thing to come out of Australia in a while.
Today is the release date of Wolfmother's first full-length album in the U.S.
If my information serves me correctly, they've already had one release overseas, which received warm reviews. This U.S. release is a lot of reassembled materials from that first album, plus a few tunes from their already released EP.

Now that we've covered their history, its safe to say that Wolfmother is still a relatively new band. We're not talking about a band that has had three albums cut already. This is why I have great expectations for Wolfmother in future years. I expect their songwriting to only improve and their music to gain depth and breadth.
This is a fun, easy to listen to taste of retro-rock, but all of this is said to imply that this album falls short on a few key areas. Mostly, that of creativity and exploration.

Wolfmother has a built-in fan base by choosing to make music in a style alike Black Sabbath or the Who or Led Zeppelin or any other number of bands that have enjoyed a resurgence in popularity in recent years (partially due to crummy contemporary music, and partially because everyone's been wearing Stones' t-shirts, someone finally decided they should actually know what their music sounded like.)
This being the current trend, Wolfmother could very easily play off as opportunistic and kitschy if they're not careful.
The problem with this album is that the songs don't show the musicians actually having any fun with what they're doing. The songs all sound formulaic and scripted. It's a fun ride, but in another year or so, I doubt many people will be listening to this, simply because its not that creative or interesting.
I will look forward to their next release. If the trio is going to stretch it legs at all, this will be their opportunity to show us what they're capable of. But if they stick with the reciepe-for-success formula, watch their album end up in the $5.99 bins within 12 months.

Final Grade: Catchy, bubble-gum rock with no bitter after-taste: B

So here I am a week into my physical make-over.
And dad was worried....hah!

Of course these pills are making me feel a little weird.

I ate steel wool today for breakfast. Is that weird?

I have a craving for more...

It's been going great! These shots I have to take every day are expensive, but whatever. The 14 pounds of muscle I've managed to put on in the last 72 hours is worth it. Of course it'd be better if it wasn't all in one leg, but hey, you gotta start somewhere, right?



I'm packing up right now.

Everything I've managed to assemble over the past six years is once again being boxed up and set aside. I decided to organize a few things this time, though. Like all of the bills and what not that I've been getting in the mail for a while. (There are a lot of them too! It's like they send this crap every month or something.) A great deal about student loans and what not, but I just decide it's best to continue using those as toilet paper, as I have been for the past couple of months.

Crazy, isn't it? You get a job, and you're poorer than ever. Oh well. I'm getting by. I found an old toothbrush I thought I threw out behind the toilet yesterday. It didn't look quite as worn out as the one I had, so I started using it again.

The word "toilet" turns a lot of people off. As though some people think its something dirty. More girls have stopped talking to me when I start talking about the toilet. What's the big deal?!! If it was dirty, it would be something we cleaned all the time! But look at mine! I haven't cleaned it in months and it still works just fine!

Stupid girls.


One of the things I've encountered in packing up is my box of photographs which has been collecting all of the photos I've snapped since freshman year. There were a few things I'd forgotten... like how bad a photographer I am. How much happier I am with the digital camera that allows me to make mistakes and not find out about them until AFTER I have the pictures developed...
anyway, I was rather revealingly able to track my weight gain over the past six years through these photographs. Here's a breakdown:

Freshman year: Skinny little do-gooder kid from the farm. High and shining aspirations, even shinier forehead. Acne control a thing of the future. Slim, but no threat to the ninjas which regularly stalk the hallways of my dormitory.

Sophomore year: The pinacle of good looks and fashion. Have crazy roommate and crazy girlfriend who school young farm boy in the ways of fashion and stupid behavior. Student proves to be a remarkably quick study. At least in one of the lessons.

Junior year: Sad times, and the aspiring violist turns to late night snacking to fill the void once occupied by studying. Times are rough, but so are the gastro-intestinal episodes. Student's body responds to emergencies by calling in reserve forces which set up camp next to the student's existing chin, reinforcing this position. Waistline at this point decides to abanon all hope of finding the 32-inch pants that it lost, so decides theres no longer any reason to wait around for them any more. Time to grow up(out) and throw out the childish notions of svelte good looks and atheletic prowess. Buttockular region decides this is phenomenal idea and alligns its efforts with the waist and forms a coalition to fight against all clothing the student owns. Eventually, victory is assured.

Senior year: Student convinces family and friends that "weight training" has added to his girth and bulk, and he is now in a stronger place than ever before. The flesh on his shoulders laughs (behind his back, of course.)

Graduate years: Buys couch, and it is the end of existence as we know it.

This pretty much brings us up to date.

I've taped some photos of sophomore year to the wall of my room for inspiration. I know this is what I'll have to get back to in order to take the job with the Air Force, and I will get there. It's just been a long ways since that time. God grant me strength.

(I know I'm gonna hear about that "crazy girlfriend" thing in a while...)

T.

...The Next New Nextest Thing I'm Waiting For...
Jack White refuses to get bored. Whether it be the gradual 180-degree turn from blues-rock (which has not been entirely abandoned) to bizarro-songcraft, or his newest venture, the Raconteurs, his fingers and mind are continually find ways of keeping busy. And also keeping the music world buzzing. If negative press is still good press because of the attention, then there's been no lack of attention thrown Jack's way these days. Not to say the press has been negative about the music, but we're getting a glimpse at the true feelings behind many music journalists plastic exteriors. More than once has it been said (in some form or another): "finally! Jack White is stepping out of the White Stripes to pursue music-making with other minds besides his own!"
I.E. "We haven't really liked what he's been doing since the release of White Blood Cells, but it would've tarnished our hipster appearance to backpedal on any band we once worshipped. So we'll swallow down Elephant and Get Behind Me Satan for solidarity, but really...thank god!!"

You'll not hear such rubbish spewing from this mouth. I'll admit I was hesitant and scared when I heard that Jack was beginning his side project. (Traditionally this can mean the end of an era for many bands; a sign that someone has gotten bored.) Yet I have enough faith in Mr. White's enigmatic, fish-in-a-fruitcup mentality that leads me to rest assured that the daring and dynamic dynamo that is the White Stripes will resurface to obliterate musical conceptions once again.

For the meanwhile, we are left to muse over the aural offerings of the Raconteurs, the shotgun marriage of Jack White and Brendon Benson, the power-pop songsmith from Detroit. Apparently Jack and Brendon used to share diapers or something. In any event, we are led to believe that the connection between the co-songwriters is deep and mystical.
The quartet is rounded out by two people who no one seems to notice or care about because they only play drums and bass in another band, the Greenhornes which hails from Cinncinati. They also don't offer much in interviews, so they're generally disregarded as furniture.

Usually such supergroups (in the "I've never heard of any of these guys" category) end up leaking a great deal of their bounty over the internet long before the album is released. My own personal research can testify to the fact that the vault has remained securely locked on this project, and the only tastes of Raconteuristicisms that we will be allowed to have come from their already-released single, Steady as She Goes and the far more intriguing Store Bought Bones which recalls dark psychedelia and sensless mumblings in the stead of lyrics. Awesome.

The claims that the songwriting remains absolutely "50-50" between Benson and White seems fairly aparent, although oxy-moronic (the idea that they should exchange letters of the words and still come up with a coherent sentance? Impossible!) alternating between Benson's talent for hooky melodies and riffs that you later try to remove from your head with a board, and White's confounding ability to still find sounds in an electric guitar that I've never heard before. And be a eccentric weirdo, of course.

So despite the copious amount of verbage being slung around this column, I am anxiously awaiting the proverbial dropping of this album on May 16 (US.) It should prove to be one of the more interesting records that will be released in recent months. (That is right after the special anniversary re-issue of Captain Beefheart and the Spider Monkeys.)
The only bone I'll pick with the boys is how a "full-length" album can constitute only ten tracks (which isn't the big deal) but can clock in at only a shade over thirty-four minutes! This album had better sell for about $5.86 at Wal-mart to ensure we actually get our money's worth.

T.

This is excerpted presumeably from a German newspaper. Its original home is not really of consequence. What's important is how loudly this column screams the truth. We are much closer to repeating recent history than we think. European Jews have known this for some time.

"German news commentary
March, 2006

It's fascinating that this should come out of Europe. Mathias Dapfner, Chief Executive of the huge German publisher Axel Springer AG, has written a blistering attack in DIE WELT, Germany's largest daily paper, against the timid reaction of Europe in the face of the Islamic threat.
This is a must-read by all Americans. History will certify its correctness.

EUROPE - THY NAME IS COWARDICE (Commentary by Mathias Dapfner CEO, Axel Springer, AG)

A few days ago Henry Broder wrote in Welt am Sonntag, "Europe - your family name is appeasement." It's a phrase you can't get out of your head because it's so terribly true.

Appeasement cost millions of Jews and non-Jews their lives, as England and France, allies at the time, negotiated and hesitated too long before they noticed that Hitler had to be fought, not bound to toothless agreements.

Appeasement legitimized and stabilized Communism in the Soviet Union, then East Germany, then all the rest of Eastern Europe, where for decades, inhuman suppressive, murderous governments were glorified as the ideologically correct alternative to all other possibilities.

Appeasement crippled Europe when genocide ran rampant in Kosovo, and even though we had absolute proof of ongoing mass-murder, we Europeans debated and debated and debated, and were still debating when finally the Americans had to come from halfway around the world, into Europe yet again, and do our work for us.

Rather than protecting democracy in the Middle East, European Appeasement, camouflaged behind the fuzzy word "equidistance," now countenances suicide bombings in Israel by fundamentalist Palestinians.

Appeasement generates a mentality that allows Europe to ignore nearly 500,000 victims of Saddam's torture and murder machinery and, motivated by the self-righteousness of the peace movement, has the gall to issue bad grades to George Bush... Even as it is uncovered that the loudest critics of the American action in Iraq made illicit billions, no, TENS of billions, in the corrupt U.N. Oil-for-Food program.

And now we are faced with a particularly grotesque form of appeasement. How is Germany reacting to the escalating violence by Islamic Fundamentalists in Holland and elsewhere? By suggesting that we really should have a "Muslim Holiday" in Germany?

I wish I were joking, but I am not. A substantial fraction of our (German) Government, and if the polls are to be believed, the German people, actually believe that creating an Official State "Muslim Holiday" will somehow spare us from the wrath of the fanatical Islamists.

One cannot help but recall Britain's Neville Chamberlain waving the laughable treaty signed by Adolph Hitler and declaring European "Peace in our time".

What else has to happen before the European public and its political leadership get it? There is a sort of crusade underway, an especially perfidious crusade consisting of systematic attacks by fanatic Muslims, focused on civilians, directed against our free, open Western societies, and intent upon Western Civilization's utter destruction.

It is a conflict that will most likely last longer than any of the great military conflicts of the last century - a conflict conducted by an enemy that cannot be tamed by "tolerance" and "accommodation" but is actually spurred on by such gestures, which have proven to be, and will
always be taken by the Islamists for signs of weakness.

Only two recent American Presidents had the courage needed for Anti-appeasement: Reagan and Bush. His American critics may quibble over the details, but we Europeans know the truth. We saw it first hand: Ronald Reagan ended the Cold War, freeing half of the German people from nearly 50 years of terror and virtual slavery. And Bush, supported only by the Social Democrat Blair, acting on moral conviction, recognized the danger in the Islamic War against Democracy. His place in history will have to be evaluated after a number of years have passed.

In the meantime, Europe sits back with charismatic self-confidence in the multicultural corner, instead of defending liberal society's values and being an attractive center of power on the same playing field as the true great powers, America and China.

On the contrary - we Europeans present ourselves, in contrast to those "arrogant Americans", as the World Champions of "tolerance", which even (Germany's Interior Minister) Otto Schily justifiably criticizes.

Why? Because we're so moral? I fear it's more because we're so materialistic, so devoid of a moral compass.

For his policies, Bush risks the fall of the dollar, huge amounts of additional national debt, and a massive and persistent burden on the American economy - because unlike almost all of Europe, Bush realizes what is at stake - literally everything.

While we criticize the "capitalistic robber barons" of America because they seem too sure of their priorities, we timidly defend our Social Welfare systems. Stay out of it! It could get expensive! We'd rather discuss reducing our 35-hour workweek or our dental coverage, or our 4
weeks of paid vacation... Or listen to TV pastors preach about the need to "reach out to terrorists. To understand and forgive".

These days, Europe reminds me of an old woman who, with shaking hands, frantically hides her last pieces of jewelry when she notices a robber breaking into a neighbor's house.

Appeasement?

Europe, thy name is Cowardice."

To all who do not yet know. . .

YIPPEE!!

I'll catch y'all in DC. . .

T.

Introducing Wolfmother.
The Best Australian Band since. . .AC/DC.

I'd better be careful with what I say. I'm sure there've been other really good bands since AC/DC. I probably don't listen to them though, and that means they must suck, so then Wolfmother really is the best band since AC/DC.

Enjoy my logic?

The stupid photo loader on blogger isn't working right now, so I'll get some images as soon as I can.

This Australian power-rock trio comes at the height of a retro-rock era where bands that sound (but especially look like) the bands of yester-year are finding great success.
Suddenly all of the hipster garments and fashions from thirty years ago are popping up all over in various underground clubs and music bars where many of these bands are carving their niche and recruiting fans to their cause.

I bring this band to light here because I have only recently discovered their music, and in about three weeks they will be playing here in Cleveland, and I hope to be in attendence for the show.

Wolfmother is made up of Andrew Stockdale, Chris Ross and Myles Heskett, who play guitar, bass/keyboards and drums, respectively. Their combined songwriting style combines the flavors of MC5, Led Zeppelin, the Who, Black Sabbath, the Doors, and virtually every other awesome hard rock/psychedelic group that existed in thirty to forty years ago.

Their style is nothing original or terribly unique, but it is a fresh take on what has grown to be one of my favorite genres and periods of rock ‘n roll music making. I view them as a Who or Black Sabbath for my own generation.

Their comparison to fellow Aussie rockers Jet is inevitable, but hardly fair. They are both signed to the same label, and both represent a certain “dirty rocker” image, but their songwriting could hardly be less similar. Jet has a few good hooky tunes, but it is difficult to listen to their entire album. Wolfmother’s tunes, on the other hand, all have a unique and different appeal to them which keep their songwriting fresh and listenable.

Check out some of their tunes at the band’s website (www.wolfmother.com) and wait for the release of their full-length album here in America.

T.

Review: New York Philharmonic, Avery Fischer Hall, New York NY, March 11, 2006
Christoph von Dohnanyi conducting
Schubert : Symphony no. 8 “Unifinished”
Bartok : Bluebeard’s Castle
Anna Sophie von Otter - Soprano

I had the pleasure of finding myself in New York this weekend, and the similar pleasure of hearing one of America’s greatest orchestras.

Now everyone knows that the Cleveland Orchestra is the best in the country, quite possibly the world – no one denies this. But its still good to hear the contenders for oneself so that you can stay in solidarity and know that what you speak is true.

I have now heard three of the “big five” orchestras – that would be Cleveland, Philadelphia and now New York. (Leaving Boston and Chicago.)

So far, Cleveland maintains its grasp on the prize.

The first thing one must consider when comparing these orchestras to each other is the vehicle in which they play. Severance Hall in Cleveland is the standard of America (I’ve not yet heard another better) and Avery Fischer is a hall not even the Philharmonic praises highly.

Acoustics aside (fortes and pianos sound startling similar in the space) aesthetics are ridiculous compared to Severance. The surfaces in Severance are all acoustically tuned and useful, but also beautiful.

Avery Fischer looks as though they started out going for the aesthetic, but forgot to consider the acoustic properties of the materials they were using. Or the shape of the hall. As a result, there have been obvious and clumsy attempts to remedy the halls‘ deficiencies by hanging acoustic panels and sheets of various shapes and textures on the stage’s shell, ideally in an effort to put the NY Phil’s best foot forward.

This brings us to the orchestra itself.

The first thing that is always noticed about orchestras outside of Cleveland is the attention to ensemble. Cleveland is like listening to a finely-tuned recording at every concert, or in the words of one member of the orchestra, Cleveland “picks up where everyone else ends.”

So the ensemble was not as picture perfect as could be, but what as even more alarming was the level of technical profession on some of the more noticeable passages and exposed writing was startling below my expectations.

The principal oboe was consistently flat throughout the evening, the principal horn had what seemed to be a lot of articulation problems, while the clarinetist seemed to suffer from poor breath support, ending with what seemed to be a weak vibrato, which any orchestral player knows, for a clarinetist, is simply a no-no.

The string players had the benefit of hiding bad playing amongst their numbers, but there were select moments when the ensemble was terribly off. In truth, the only string section that really sounded great was the viola section. (Wouldn’t I have the most to say badly about them?)

Part of me wanted to blame their inconsistencies on the fact that their normal director (Lorin Maazel) was not on the podium, as well as the fact that Glenn Dicterow, (their concertmaster) was taking the week off.

Dohnanyi’s conducting is well known to me, since he finished a 20+ year tenure with the Cleveland orchestra during my first years in that city, so I trust his musical ideas and instincts. For some reason, the tempo (particularly in the first momvent,) felt terribly slow, and the entire performance felt very uninspired. It would seem unthinkable that a professional orchestra (particularly of such repute) should give performances which risk sounding “notey” but that is precisely what happen to the Phil on Saturday night.

On another note, the audience at Avery Fisher that night, while seemingly well-dressed and affluent enough, and yet during the two movements of the Schubert symphony there was a smattering of applause from a confused audience. I was amazed. How can a city of such high culture and high-browed better-than-thou approach to most everything they do have at least twenty people in the concert hall who don’t know better than to clap in the middle of a performance? This is truly concert-going 101.

So at the end of the evening, the NY Phil does have a collective “sound” which I find only in the finer of the orchestras, but I found their performance this past weekend to be lackluster and sloppy. It IS a professional ensemble, and regardless of personnel changes or different directors, it is the musicians job to get the achieve the performance and the get job done.

T.

The Best Movie. . .Ever.

What happens when Jack Black and the director of Napoleon Dynamite join forces?

Welcome to the world of Nacho Libre.

I have to say I'm impressed by Jared Hess (director) and his cinematic vision thus far.

The premise:

Monks who secretly want to be wrestlers. They wear their outfits under their habits and moonlight as cheesy Meixcan wrestlers, i.e. El Chupa Nibre.

Throw into that phenomenal idea that Jack Black plays the lead, (wrestling alias Nacho Libre) and what more anticipated film could be released this year?

Seriously. This is one of the coolest ideas for a movie in a while.

T.

What's Spinnin' In My Player These Days. . .

It's always fun to be in a mood where it would seem that everything you encounter is great music that you want to absorb and enjoy.

This is what its been like the past few days. Discovering/re-discovering a lot of really neat stuff.

So what have we discovered?


Cake - Prolonging the Magic
Third album from funked-out fedora-touting hipsters who don't seem to care much about conventional songwriting - as long as you get to put a good bass line to it.


The Mars Volta - De-Loused In The Comatorium
Bizarre prog-rock's journey through the dreams of someone in a coma. Sounds like the perfect thing for a rock album, right? Complete the picture with a very unorthodox approach to recording and you have some of the most unique music to be released today.


John Mayer - Heavier Things
The sophomore follow-up by pussy-boy Mayer shows he wasn't a one-hit songwriter. This album is thoroughly enjoyable to put on and listen through. Kudos for anyone who's willing to dress up like a bear and insult his own music to his most die-hard fans.


Presidents of the United States of America - Self-Titled
This is reaching back to a by-gone era who almost predates the opaque gloom of Kurt Cobain and a the millions of offspring that were spawned. Devolved song-writing left the trio with a three-stringed guitar, a two stringed bass and as simple ingredients as the Presidents could think to distill themselves to.

Always good stuff. Always something new.

T.

Telegram Goes the Way of the Dodo. . .Only 190,000 years after it was first used. Not a bad run. . .

This article is from Wired.com. Enjoy.

T.

"For more than 150 years, messages of joy, sorrow and success came in signature yellow envelopes hand delivered by a courier. Now the Western Union telegram is officially a thing of the past.

The company formed in April 1856 to exploit the hot technology of the telegraph to send cross-country messages in less than a day. It is now focusing its attention on money transfers and other financial services, and delivered its final telegram on Friday.

"The decision was a hard decision because we're fully aware of our heritage," Victor Chayet, a company spokesman said Wednesday. "But it's the final transition from a communications company to a financial services company."

Several telegraph companies that eventually combined to become Western Union were founded in 1851. Western Union built its first transcontinental telegraph line in 1861.

"At the time it was as incredible and astonishing as the computer when it first came out," said Tom Noel, a history professor at the University of Colorado at Denver. "For people who could barely understand it, here you had the magic of the electric force traveling by wire across the country."

In 1994, Western Union Financial Services was acquired by First Financial Management Corp., which First Data Corp. bought for $7 billion the following year. Last week, First Data said it would spin Western Union off as a separate company.

Telegrams reached their peak popularity in the 1920s and 1930s when it was cheaper to send a telegram than to place a long distance telephone call. People would save money by using the word "stop" instead of periods to end sentences because punctuation was extra while the four character word was free.

Telegrams were used to announce the first flight in 1903 and the start of World War I. During World War II, the sight of a Western Union courier was feared because the War Department, the precursor to the Department of Defense, used the company to notify families of the death of their loved ones serving in the military, Chayet said.

With long distance rates dropping and different technologies for communicating evolving — including the internet — Western Union phased out couriers in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

By last year, only 20,000 telegrams were sent at about $10 a message, mostly from companies using the service for formal notifications, Chayet said.

Last week, the last 10 telegrams included birthday wishes, condolences on the death of a loved one, notification of an emergency and several people trying to be the last to send a telegram.

"Recent generations didn't receive telegrams and didn't know you could send them," Chayet said.

Samuel Morse, inventor of the Morse code, sent the first telegram from Washington to Baltimore on May 26, 1844, to his partner Alfred Vail to usher in the telegram era that displaced the Pony Express. It read "WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT?"

"If he only knew," Chayet said of the myriad choices today, which includes text message on cell phones, the internet and virtually free long-distance calling rates.

"It definitely was an anachronism," Noel said. "It's amazing it survived this long."

So my sister sends me an email. . .

Sounds like the beginning of a bad story, right?
These questions are to be answered in song title form! No cheating!

Obviously I didn't take this too seriously. Sorry Shaina.

Enjoy anyway.

Gender: Fat Man Stomp (Bone Crusher)

Describe yourself: Dazed and Confused (Led Zeppelin)

How some people feel about you: I Love You Honey (But I Hate Your Friends) (Cheap Trick)

Describe your current girlfriend: Song for the Dumped (Ben Folds Five)

Describe your friends: Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (Bob Dylan)

Describe what you want to be: So You Wanna Be a Rock ‘n Roll Star (The Byrds)

Describe how you live: Day by Day (dc Talk)

Describe how you love: Shallow Be Thy Name (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

Share a few words of wisdom: Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow (Frank Zappa)

One thing you want to say to someone: Take This Job and Shove It (Dead Kennedys)

Here and Back again....

We find ourselves back in Cleveland again.

Amazing how you see all of these entries over the past couple of weeks, and then all of a sudden I’m back in Ohio, and then nobody knows where I am any more….

This is the sad state of affairs of an internet-less individual.

I am back to trekking down to campus for email and internet use, although from now on I may find myself composing these entries on my computer before I come down to school, so I don’t have to find myself spending a lot of time sitting in the car at a parking meter, while other students wander past looking in the windows trying to figure out what I’m doing.

As for my time spent here in Cleveland thus far, I am playing with the Toledo Symphony this week, and three of us violist have been driving out there every day since Tuesday. Thankfully the concerts start this evening, and tomorrow is the last trip we have to make.
Four hours of driving for only a few hours of rehearsal. Although on Tuesday and Wednesday we had double rehearsals, which was way too much Mahler for one day.

Mahler 9 is a cool work, but we all agree that this symphony is probably 45 minutes too long. A symphony that’s 90 minutes long is trying for everyone’s patience, but at least the musicians are engaged with something to do. The poor audience that must sit there and endure the work. My feelings go out to them.

In any event, I had a great vacation at home in Minnesota with my family. I would really like to get home more often, but at least I know I have to do my best to get home in May for my sister’s graduation.

As for now, next week begins classes again. The last leg in a six-year journey is about to begin. Hopefully it ends bearing great fruit.

T.

P.S. The photo is actually the peristyle where I'm playing tonight. It was designed by the same acousticians who designed the new concert hall at CIM which is currently under construction. Cool, huh?