Movie Review: Zombieland
Directed by Reuben Fleischer
Starring Woody Harrelson, Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Abigail Breslin

''tis the season, I suppose. October rolls around and horror flicks are the soup d'jour. And ever since Shawn of the Dead steamrolled genres a few years ago studios have tried to concoct the same recipe, blending humor and gore into an easily consumable dish.

Unfortunately, there are just too many elements of this film that don't pull their weight, demolishing any wit and charm that may lie in its path with the finesse of a blood-soaked chainsaw.

The story begins in a post-apocalyptic zombie-infested world where Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg) is the only person left alive to do voice over. This in itself is tragic, but it does allow for Columbus to walk us through his list of rules for zombie survival (an enjoyable running gag that comes back repeatedly throughout the film) before running into Tallahassee (Harrelson) and his zombie-plowing Escalade. Shortly thereafter our heroes cross swords with a pair of sisters who are conning their way across the carcass-littered futurescape. Eventually our quartet gains each others' trust and they inexplicably head towards an amusement part in California, fueled by the promise of a zombie free area.

While some of the jokes are genuinely funny and well timed, most feel tired. A cameo by Bill Murray is probably the highlight of the film, a rare moment where the jokes seem to come effortlessly despite the script and direction.
On the horror-o-meter Zombieland scores a low 3.5 - 4. Even when the blood-drenched undead are sprinting towards the living there's little impetus for the audience to writhe and wiggle. Simply put, it doesn't seem as though director Fleischer has seen enough horror flicks to know what a good one should look like.

The grand finale takes place at the Pacific Playland amusement park, and it becomes clear that this was intended to be the great masterpiece of the film. The confrontation between the living and undead is at its height, but again, there isn't a fear that our heroes might not come out of this still pink and- well, alive. Even the undesireable Columbus scores the babe without hardly any effort.

For uneven script-writing, vague direction and for spinning its wheels once too often Zombieland fails to make the grade that would make it worth mentioning a year from now when you're in the mood for something scary.

Movie Grade: C

What Happened To My Lead Singer, Dude?

If you've watched the faces that populate rock n' roll (and all of its outlying subsidiaries) for a while you might've noticed a unsettling trend.

Being in the spotlight of fame has yielded many of fashion's most memorable moments, particularly for musicians, who seem to desire artistic expression over sensibility and grace. Even going back to the moppish cuts of the fab four was ridiculous in its own time.

But at least you could tell their gender.

Today there is a bizarre tendency for androgyny to be the flavor du jour. It isn't just the mascara that Nikki Sixx donned or the ozone-killing amounts of Aqua Net that Dee Snider eemployed. Its the... well here: you'll see what I mean.

Here we have a picture of Tokio Hotel frontman Bill Paulitz. That's right, Bill. This, my friends, is a dude:
Please contrast this with an image of the iconic James Hetfield of Metallica, doing what Metallica does:

Here we have AFI's lead singer Davey Havok looking a lot less demure than at other times in the band's history:

My reply to Davey:Lemmy Kilmister

But maybe it's not the dude's fault. Perhaps just being born with a fine bone structure and skin that looks good under rouge is merely a byproduct of our confused time which is scrambling to figure out which gender we're each supposed to be playing. Maybe it's just a couple of guys (or labels) recognizing the opportunity to capitalize on a market where the guy is prettier than his girlfriend. (I'm sure that won't cause any problems at all.)

But there might be another explanation. Maybe male superstar rock singers are looking like fish-faced pansies because the female superstar rock singers are letting themselves get a little weird. Exhibit #1:Lady Gaga

Exhibit #2:

Amy Winehouse

Appealing, no? Who says drugs are bad?
But don't worry, my children. We can sleep soundly as long as Henry Rollins patrols the perimeter of musical masculinity, keeping it safe from all who seek to harm.

Look What the Cat Drug In...

Minding my own business tonight, quietly trolling around my humble domicile and I venture into the front room to find my cat attentively harassing some bug that had the poor fortune of crawling through my door.

After a moment's inspection, however, I notice that this isn't just any bug. It appeared as though my cat had cornered a small carnivore - an insect that appeared that it just might eat my cat, and not the other way around. Every end of its (comparatively) large body seemed pointed, poised and intent on inflicting merciless slaughter of its furry assailant.

Instead of helping out my stupid feline I did what any thoughtful parent would do: I grabbed the camera.

After a little inspection it appears that this particular monster might be a variety of mantis.
Unfortunately my interwebular search took too long to save this guy from the clutches of my furry protector. I'll probably find pieces of him turning up in my laundry for a while.

Me thinks it might be a good time to star shutting my door in the evening hours.

Film Review: It Might Get Loud
Directed by Davis Guggenheim
Starring Jack White, The Edge, Jimmy Page

The Premise: Documentary filmmaker Guggenheim (An Inconvenient Truth) directs guides three living legends of the electric guitar through their thought processes and memories of playing some of rock n' roll's most memorable tunes. It Might Get Loud certainly is not a film designed for popular consumption, but to those who are fans of Led Zeppelin, U2 or the White Stripes, the documentary is probably required reading.

It should never be said that Jack White sits still for very long. Since this film was shot in early 2008 White has released an album with a brand new band (the Dead Weather) while still keeping the Raconteurs active, recording the title track for James Bonds' latest, playing Elvis in John C. Reilly's Walk Hard, opening his own studio space in Nashville and having a second child. It Might Get Loud seems like it would be an easy afternoon in Jack's world.
Halfway through this film one can't help but wonder if this project didn't start out with another, more sinister design. During the introductory scenes Jack White admits to the camera that he's going to try and trick Jimmy Page and The Edge into giving up their secrets.

The film never adopts this device, however, and quickly slips into a more biographical examination of the three guitarists, following The Edge around Dublin, Jimmy Page back to the mansion where they recorded IV and Jack White through the backwoods of Tennessee in a vintage Pontiac. (I know, I know.) Therein lies the problem: while The Edge and Jimmy Page seem to show the camera around their personal lives with a certain degree of humility, Jack White seems to adopt a persona for the film, claiming he's continually "looking for the struggle" and telling a nine year-old version of himself to pick a fight with his plastic guitar.

After forty-five minutes of this meandering one can't help but wonder if this film started out with a far more colorful intention, one where Jack White is allowed to 'play' more and truly catch The Edge and Jimmy Page off guard. This version of reality is aborted, perhaps out of necessity or out of professional or personal courtesy to the other musicians involved. What we're left with is an interpretation of three legends of rock 'n roll, two of which are down-to-earth, creative minds who walk us through their processes, and one cartoon character full of self-importance, strutting a narrow line between art and mockery.

Interestingly, it is the portions of the film focusing on Jack White that make the film watchable. I scarcely think there are parts of The Edge or Jimmy Page's stories that were told for the first time in this film. In one sense it is White's comparative obscurity to the masses that make his story more interesting to tell. But when Guggenheim dutifully splits screen time between his other two subjects interest lags and the film feels more like a History Channel program.

While a must-see for the die hard fan, this film will probably collect a lot of dust before it's pulled off of Blockbuster's shelves. Too scattered to be a good documentary without any controversy or nuance, this is a film really for enthusiasts only. Zeppelin and U2 fans will have to choke back on a lot of White's pomposity, but that's the heart of rock n' roll after all.

Movie Grade: C

Film Review: Pandorum
Directed by Christian Alvart
Starring Dennis Quaid, Ben Foster

The Premise: Corporal Bower (Foster) awakes from an extended hyper sleep aboard an intergalactic Noah's Ark bound for an Earth-like planet a mere 123-year voyage away. But Bower has awoken prematurely for an unknown reason, and sets about to restore order to the ship (with the help of Quaid's Lt. Payton) which has fallen into a state of chaotic anarchy for a couple of eerie reasons.

The real misfortune with Pandorum is that at its very core lies a great story. The execution is what dooms this film to mediocrity from the get-go. It would seem that screenwriter Travis Milloy and director Alvert chose to go after the 12 - 18 year-old male demographic first, as it is arguable that most teenagers could care less that Pandorum blunders its way through any piece of exposition that it comes across. The great majority of the film feels like a Halo-infused binge, with chaotic action sequences that belie any cohesion or continuity and every other scene meant to build up tension being rushed through so someone can pull a knife and start swinging.

The inevitable comparisons to other sci-fi films is a poison of the filmmaker's choosing, the two (or so) most immediate comparisons being Alien and Sunshine. A combination of the two basic plot elements of these films are woven together, but not convincingly or evenly. The film feels far too much like Alien for the first two-thirds of the film, and only begins to explore the psychological devolution (á la Sunshine) of its characters with any interest during the last 30 minutes or so. (Incidentally, right around when the film begins to get really interesting.)

But there are very few tricks left to be played in the sci-fi thriller genre. Most of the cards have already been used, so if a filmmaker chooses to play his hand, it'd better be good. While Ridley Scott mastered the art of a simmering tension with Alien, and Danny Boyle allowed his crescendo of madness to reach its blistering climax in Sunshine, Pandorum wants to coast into town on the vapors of those films, hoping an audience will fill in the blank during lazier moments of the film's construction.

As mentioned earlier, the true plot waits far too long before unfolding for the audience to see, and by then its too late. If only Alvart and company hadn't been so distressed about coming off cool they could have really crafted a modern sci-fi classic. As it is, its only a shadow of greater films that have come before and will only serve as as reminder of those greater than itself.

Movie Grade: B-

DVD Review: Flight of the Conchords - Season Two

If you're a fan of New Zealand's fourth most-famous folk rock comedy duo and you don't subscribe to HBO then the release of their second season on DVD maybe your first chance to see what the boys have been up to.

The short version: they've been doing great work.

Season one ended with band manager Murray (Rhys Darby) finding success with his second band and their monster hit "The Doggy Bounce." Season two picks up where we left off, with Murray in a magnificent high-rise office still trying to manage the fledging Conchords (Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie) while enjoying the success of the Crazy Dogggz. Things are quickly set right, however, and we soon find ourselves with the routine of band meetings crouched over Murray's desk at the New Zealand consulate.

While the second half of the first season saw Clement and McKenzie trying to write a larger world for themselves by taking the 'Chords on tour, etc. it did lose part of its Seinfeld-esque appeal - an familiar episodic world where Jemaine and Bret get themselves into inconvenient circumstances, but hardly ever trouble.
It would seem that they learned their lesson in season two - there are many episodes which should be regarded as their best work yet - allowing their natural characters to unfold and interact with the cast of characters they've created. It would seem that everyone has gotten comfortable in the show's identity and is enjoying exploring their world.

There are some interesting extras including a short making-of documentary with interviews with Jemaine and Bret as well as faux commercials for Dave's pawn shop.

Favorite episodes: The New Cup, The Tough Brets, Unnatural Love, Wingmen

Movie Rating: A

May We Take a Moment to Remember...

...how exceedingly awesomely horrible the film Commando is.

This should come as no surprise to the 52% of the population not sporting external genetalia, but it is sometimes useful for the rest of us to put such films as this in perspective, for good and bad.

Unlike A-hnold's two greatest films, Predator and Terminator 2: Judgement Day, where Arnold almost seems to accidentally stumble into films where there's a great story happening, Commando is the exact opposite of that process. Sure, it's one of the early macho action movies, but when something can be done really well (Die Hard, Aliens) then it makes it all the harder to swallow the popcorn for the less fortunate of the breed. (Hear that Speed? I'm coming for you.)

Commando is the tale of retired special-ops warrior John Matrix (Schwarzenegger) extraordinaire, happy to spend the rest of his life caring for his daughter and chopping wood in a tight shirt when his daughter is kidnapped and his unwittingly flung back into a world of violence and intrigue he thought he'd left behind.
Sounds intriguing, right? Not really.

Dialogue is painful, especially involving an Arnold that was yet to clean up a lot of his dialect. In fact a good many portions of the film feel like they were overdubbed entirely. Rae Dawn Chong, who plays the...love interest(?) in this film is half-drug through the film, fighting any natural instinct to act any other way than helpless. But it's okay, because she's got Arnold, remember?

Daniel Hedaya plays a restrained mastermind villain who eventually gets pumped full of lead (who doesn't) but the real Bad Guy that Arnold gets to knife fight with is a former comrade-in-arms who speaks with some form of British accent and wears a chainmail shirt. (Apparently all of America's special ops crew are from European nations.)

Played by Vernon Welles, Bennet is everything Matrix is not. Fat, annoying, ugly and probably some of the worst Bad Guy instincts ever seen on screen. How he manages to hold off an attack from A-hnold for more than 1.5 seconds is a cinematic secret. Perhaps it was the giant serrated hunting knife he carries around that improves his warrior skillz.
And the chainmail. It conveniently protects whilst it covers the extra 30 pounds he brought to the set with him.

Apparently Commando was shot on the leading edge of special effects relating to pyrotechnics - or, more specifically, how to get dudes to fly through the air when a grenade goes off. At one point of the film grenades outnumber air molecules as they fly through the air, and every time a detonation occurs at least two fake-mustachioed Bad Guys do mid-air somersaults into some bushes, conveniently planted years earlier in case they were needed to break someone's fall.
I've watched enough "making of" TV specials to know about the pneumatic catapults used to create the illusion of tossing hapless victims around, but I guess they never considered doing it fifteen times in the span of 2 minutes might give audiences enough time to ponder if there was something...amiss. Apparently you will always be flung into a head-long somersault regardless of where the explosion occurs.

Among other awesome annoyances: apparently phone booths can be lifted out of the ground, kidnapping women in parking garages will make them your co-conspirator and yellow Porsches will still work after you've stood them on their side.

Commando is a rare film that fits an unusual category: simultaneously one of the worst, most annoying action films made but also a film that is kind of like sushi: when you crave it, ain't nothin' else gonna fill that hole.

Movie Review: Extract
Directed by Mike Judge
Starring Jason Bateman, Kristen Wiig, Mila Kunis, Ben Affleck, J.K. Simmons


Mike Judge's first film in three years moves back towards the flavor of Office Space, arguably Judge's most successful film. 2006's Idiocracy suffered mismanagement at the hands of Fox Studios and made Judge resresolute in assuring that the next film he made would be made his way.

Enter Extract. A tale of a medium-sized flavor extract factory owner, Joel (played by Bateman) who seems to have a lot in common with Bateman's alma mater Michael Bluth. His marriage to Suzie (Kristen Wiig) is in a rut and in a moment of weakness, admits his desire to have an affair with a new employee Cindy (Kunis) to his bartending, barbiturate popping stoner buddy (Affleck.) Still, he loves his wife and feels compelled to honor his vows. Unless, of course, she could be compelled to break the vows first, thereby freeing Joel from any guilt by cheating with Cindy. Not surprisingly, the plan goes awry, and Joel, who didn't think he would care that his wife would have an affair is wracked with guilt and remorse at hiring quite possibly the dumbest gigolo in the tri-state area. To make matters worse, he learns Cindy isn't quite who he thought she was all the while dealing with a potential lawsuit at his company involving a shattered testicle.

To read a synopsis is to think that there would be plenty of good material ripe for Mike Judge's particular talents. The plot for Office Space sounds about as interesting as the back of a milk carton, and yet it is full of now-legendary comic moments. Sadly, Extract doesn't benefit from the same comic prowess. The jokes feel like they should be much funnier than they are, and a lot of the movie is spent waiting for the big punch line to arrive. The performances are all adequate, although none could be regarded as stellar or even a marker in any of the actors' careers.

Considering how popular Mike Judge's projects have become in Hollywood he certainly had his pick of talent for this film. For one reason or another, however, the ingredients don't make for a good recipe this time.

Movie Grade: C+

Reason no. 352 to be excited

November 27, 2009 will see the release of a new project featuring the Akron blues duo The Black Keys teaming up with eleven different hip hop acts under the project name of Blakroc.

Guests include Mos Def, RZA, Q-Tip, Ludacris and others. All musical tracks provided by The Black Keys.

SShould be a rockin' good time. Visit their website to view webisodes and a trailer.

Movie Review: Inglorious Basterds
Directed by Quentin Tarintino
Starring Brad Pitt, Christoph Waltz, Eli Roth, Melanie Laurent

What's wrong with this picture: Quentin Tarantino, director of such films as Kill Bill vols. 1 & 2, Death Proof, Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs decides to make a period film involving Jewish GI commandos sneaking into the heart of Nazi-occupied France and beating any German soldier they find to a bloody pulp with baseball bats. Even 60 years later it still sounds gratifying, right?

The answer is there is absolutely nothing is wrong with that picture. On paper.

Tarantino, known for his lovingly crafted over-the-top homages to his favorite film styles (i.e. all of them) tackles a new beast: the period war drama. Sadly, while his previous films all possess a certain flair and panache that can only be described as 'Tarantino' Inglorious Basterds feels shockingly unsure of itself and uncommitted.
Gone are most of the trademark soundtrack cues that Tarantino has become legendary for - but even more disappointing are the few examples of recycled music held over from previous films.
The camera work is only notable for its lack of any sort of fast-paced tricks or stylization.

Perhaps most disappointing in this film are the uneven performances given by the starring cast.
Brad Pitt has never felt more cumbersome and outwitted, chewing his way through a supposed Tennessean accent with about as much flair as a bird walking backwards. He's at his funniest when trying to fake an Italian accent. Eli Roth, friend of Tarantino and director of campy horror hit Hostel plays Sgt. Donny Donowitz, or the Bear Jew, as his terrorized Nazi counterparts name him who enjoys the ritualistic bludgeoning of his enemies skulls with a stained Louisville Slugger. Roth is a distant reminder why not just anyone should be put in front of the camera to act, in much the same way as Tarantino used to try his hand at prominent roles in his own films (From Dusk 'til Dawn.)

Still, Pitt and Roth's haphazard careening through this film is counterbalanced by a mountain of unknown talent, the most important of which is Christoph Waltz who plays the Gestapo Col. Hans Landa with such evil delight that one can only hope that he will be deservedly remembered when the Oscar season returns. Melanie Laurent plays a Jewish woman hiding in plain sight who, for the purposes of Tarantino's universe, is permitted to exact the form of revenge on the Nazi high command that Eisenhower would've gladly given his left eyeball for. Her performance is brilliant.

To say that Tarantino takes liberties with the history of World War II is to put it mildly. While it is certainly par for the course in Tarantino's universe, it makes the less engrossing scenes in this film stick out like bandaged thumbs, and why I have to consider Inglorious Basterds Tarantino's worst film to date. Inconsistent performances and a lack of identity will make Basterds slide into the shadows of Tarantino's many superior works.

Movie Grade: C

Movie Review: 9
Directed by Shane Acker
Starring Elijah Wood, Christopher Plummer, Martin Landau, John C. Reilly

The idea behind "9" has actually been simmering on the stove since 2005 when the 11-minute short of the same name was nominated for an Academy Award, so while the story is new to the majority of moviegoers, director Acker has had his burlap hero fighting mechanized creatures for several years now.
9 being only the fourth CGI animated film to garner a PG-13 rating means important things for a film industry that is trying to grow up with its audience while simultaneously capitalizing on the profitable territory that adult-themed graphic novels have staked out. If studios are able to make films like 9 succeed it would mean an entirely new world of storytelling; one where cartoons may not seem like such kidstuff any more.

While 9 is beautifully animated, and intricate in detail, the basic storytelling is flawed. Acker seems to have rushed through some of the scriptwriting processes, trading real depth and feeling for sensory stimulation. The end result is a movie that feels wooden and distant. While we know to root for the good guys we have little more invested in their plight except that they aren't the ones with red eyes or leathery wings. No more explanation than is necessary is offered as to the origins of the creatures' world, which makes sense up front, but leads to a detachment from the character's plight as the filmmakers struggle to make their audience care about the imminent danger they find themselves in.

9 feels more like a treatise on what could be accomplished but less a film in its own right. The technical wizardry is quite astounding, especially when you consider how far CGI animation has come in the last ten years. Perhaps we'll have to wait until James Cameron's Avatar to discover what a masterful melding of CGI and storytelling will look like.

Movie Grade: C+

After a mere 17 month hiatus I [loftily] plan a raging comeback for T&C.

I know, I know. It's as if all the air has been sucked from your lungs.
But please, show restraint.

My disaffection for many of the popular 'social networking' sites has been growing. So much so that I am on the cusp of forever leaving the legion of drones and seeking out a more unique online identity - one that might more accurately reflect my personality and stupidity than any paint-by-number format ever could. (This is about the time when you notice Blogger's pre-fab template.)

Anyway, this is just a quick 'hello' and a shout-out to see who all is out there.

Too bad. I already know the answer to that one.

A hilarious write-up on the Yugo, one of Time magazine's 50 worst cars of all time:

Malcolm Bricklin, head of the Bricklin SV1, wouldn't be satisfied until he had forced every American to walk to work. To that end, in 1985, he began importing the Yugo GV, which turned out to be the Mona Lisa of bad cars. Built in Soviet-bloc Yugoslavia, the Yugo had the distinct feeling of something assembled at gunpoint. Interestingly, in a car where "carpet" was listed as a standard feature, the Yugo had a rear-window defroster — reportedly to keep your hands warm while you pushed it. The engines went ka-blooey, the electrical system — such as it was — would sizzle, and things would just fall off. Yugo. Or not.

The Irritating Lack of Opinion that comes with a B+

Rolling Stone magazine, regarded as the pop culture benchmark for the music industry this side of the Atlantic features album reviews of freshly released music every two weeks in their magazines' issues. Most people will probably only recognize half of the artists that the Rolling Stone covers because, to their credit, they do expose a lot of unknown acts to the spotlight by reviewing their work. A favorable review will do wonders for a band that had previously only seen their exposure go up via their myspace page.

However, in the last month, three albums have been released that I have been waiting for with varying degrees of anticipation. The Black Keys' Attack & Release, Gnarls Barkley's The Odd Couple and The Raconteurs' Counsolers of the Lonely.
Each of these albums received a 3 1/2 star rating from Rolling Stone. Generally speaking, a 3 1/2 star rating is considered 'good' out of the possible 5 stars that there are to earn. However, each of these albums represents a progression in each bands' musical evolution, and I fear that Rolling Stone is incapable of offering a true perspective on these albums' worth when comparing next to the latest remix album from Taylor Hicks.
So, rather than alienate their indie/alternative/underground audience (such as it is) by either lambasting or lauding the albums, they assign an inoffensive rating, certain to disappoint as many as it impresses. In an election year, it seems a great example of political expediency.
I try not give too much credit to Rolling Stone, for as much as it claims to ascribe to its origins during the rebellious age of hippy-dom, the fact of the matter is that it has become such a big and influential part American culture that true artists and musicians would be wise to shun its influence and refuse any allegiance. A crucial part of the rock 'n roll recipe has always been the destruction of the empire that preceded it.

T.

Something Worth Traveling to the Netherlands For

In a time when we hear about the endless troubles facing the American Automotive Industry, there seem to be an endless line of explanations as to why our domestic vehicles are taking a back-seat to foreign-owned and imported vehicles. While explanations seem to be in endless supply, one simple fact (as a younger, potential auto buyer) is that often times foreign vehicles have a much higher value/cool ratio than their domestic counterparts. The success of the auto brand Scion is evidence of this fact: value-pricing coupled with a surprising level of amenities wrapped in a stylish package.

So then imagine my surprise when I happened to see a commercial for the 'New' 2008 Ford Focus sold overseas. Here is a photo of the 'new' Focus currently available to the masses here in the U.S.:














...and here is a picture of the 2008 Ford Focus currently available in Europe and Australia:












Here's an even cooler version that you can buy, known as the Focus Cabriolet:












And in today's fuel-conscious buying mode, imagine how well a car like the Ford Fiesta would sell opposite vehicles like the Toyota Yaris or the Honda Fit:












But it's not just the small economy vehicles that Ford is inexplicably saving it's style for. In the latest James Bond film installment, Casino Royale, Bond arrives in the then-concept vehicle Ford Mondeo. It is now available in dealerships, and looks like this:












This is America's version of the Mondeo, known as the Five Hundred:









It would seem that the Ford Motor Company is saving its retarded step-children for sale in the U.S. and sending their more stylish, award-winning (no joke) vehicles to overseas markets. I have to ask: why? I wouldn't think twice about purchasing another Ford vehicle if they looked like their European cousins. As it is, Ford seems to be pursuing a sales tactic based on a golf-cart mentality that is promoting their vehicles as pragmatic people-movers, rather than dynamic and fun to drive vehicles.

There is a short list of items that will force me to run to the grocery, drug store, head shop, etc. immediately because I've unexpectedly run out.
Most items I'll force myself to do without until my next convenient trip to the store, but sometimes you just come across those few necessities that make modern life impossible to be without.

Considering that it is a short list, one would think it would not be the hardest trick to keep these items in constant supply.

You, dear reader, don't know me very well.

It is certainly not a matter of pride nor joy, but I believe myself incapable of several basic human awarenesses that the rest of you take for granted. Things like brushing your teeth, washing dishes, vacuuming... Perhaps not tasks that we enjoy, but the benefits they reap ensure that you will continue to perform them.

I, on the other hand, will suddenly look down at my feet one day and wonder why I'm feeling dried tuna fish crumble between my day-three-of-five socks on the carpet. It's then that I realize that I've forgotten yet again to vacuum, do the dishes and do the laundry.
This immediately throws me into a deep depression that prevents me from actually doing any of these chores and can only be remedied by playing Call of Duty.

So, imagine my surprise this morning while performing my morning constitutional that I should turn to my left and discover that I have completely exhausted my supply of toilet paper.
(Always afterwards do I think to look.) I instantly replay the above scenario in its entirety and realize that I also lack the ability to make shopping lists which would ensure that I reminded myself to buy toilet paper as I wandered down aisle after aisle at the supermarket.

Several questions come to mind: how is it that my TP consumption has skyrocketed in the last couple of months? I'm used to a strict diet of 8 squares a day (and yes, the end goes over the roll, not under!) so how could I have shot through a roll in under a week?
When I've had female guests in my home, I'm used to seeing half a roll disappear in a couple of hours. ( I don't understand it, but I accept it.) However, there have been a severe lack of females in my home, so this was not a suitable explanation.

Well, T. there just isn't a way for you to come out of this looking good.

I just don't consider it until its an issue, that's all.

Most people will go to the grocery and buy their week's groceries at once to include meats, dairy, grains and all other appropriate food group items. Among these groceries will include light bulbs, kleenex, household cleaners and toilet tissue. When purchased as a group, no one can chastise or bring attention to the fact that you are buying Preparation-H or extra-strength deodorant because it is all traveling in a herd.

But when you're the guy who comes in to buy a pack of toilet paper singularly, there are only two possibilities:

Either you're a mischievous person on his way to cause trouble with some local property

or, you're too stupid to look at the roll before you sit down.

There's that quiet understanding between purchaser's and cashier's eyes as you wait in line. He/she knows. He/she may even decide to prolong your check-out slightly, in order to see how bad the situation has become.

You can stand there, meet their gaze levelly, hands in your pocket, nonchalantly eyeing the tabloids, confident in the knowledge that all human beings use toilet tissue, or you can do what I did:

Stare intently at the cashier with an expression somewhere between fear and anxiety, hands rammed deeply into jacket pockets, as though you were holding your very insides from bursting through your shirt front. Add a slight shuffle with your feet in order to express a heightened awareness of your body's inclinations.
He/she can show mercy at this point and just ring up the stupid toilet paper and let you leave in dignity, or they can have a conversation with you and ask you if you have exact change and if you're having a good day, if you went to the season opener, making sure that the people in line behind you understand that YOU are there to purchase toilet paper. Nothing else. Just toilet paper. What an idiot.

Satan finally decides to take my outstretched money and hand me a plastic bag containing the toilet paper (although I partially expected him to hand it to me attached to the top of a pole decorated with colorful streamers.)

Dear friends, let us not be confused any longer as to how much toilet paper we have remaining under the sink. In the same way that we take care to know how much milk remains or how long the battery in our laptops will endure, let us always be mindful of our posteriors. And, if you're ever in the DC area, watch out for the horned cashier who takes joy in the torment of his customers.

Po' boy sketches mk. II

Rejected Camouflage Pattern #34



The Coolest Xbox gamer you would EVER hope to meet...

More Bad News from the Hip-Hop Frontier

My TV happened to end up on BET for a while this afternoon and I was struck by the further distillation of "hop hop" music into a ubiquitous murmur of rhythmic noise.

Exhibit A: Lil' Wayne's Lollipop - yet another sex-as-candy innuendo love-grind features Lil' Wayne and bevy of hoochie girls rolling around a light cityscape in a stretch limousine. I honestly thought I'd tuned in during the song's bridge - the mood seemed so transitional and ambiguous. After listening for a few more bars, however, I realized this was the song.
I believe myself to have very broad limits in defining music, and my tastes are eclectic and varied. That being said, calling Lollipop a hip-hop song is like calling a doorbell a symphony.

(Let's not get theoretical here - I know there are those who would argue for the virtues of doorbells.)

This particular track demonstrated some disturbing trends which I feel should be brought to light for conscientious listeners everywhere.
The track Lollipop was produced using the now-familiar thick, heavy "southern-style" beats that have come out of cities like Atlanta and Nashville. While they may be great fun to blast out your neighbors while at stop lights, their complexity and originality is only a glimmering shadow of the pioneering hip-hop music.

Still, like radio-friendly top-40 hits, these artists mix and produce their music to sell - featuring hooks and catchy rhythms galore. This is good business.

However, unlike all music up until this point, this was the first time when I was unable to hear a discernible solo artist. Quite astonishingly, Lil' Wayne's vocals were multi-tracked and mixed down into the surrounding music so that I honestly expected the real artist to come on and start rapping on top of Lil' Wayne's ostinato.
Still, after listening for another minute, I realized that this was the song, and this was the artist and this was the music. And this was one sorrily disappointed music fan.

This is a sign of our music culture: as iPods have become a universal accessory for all ages and all demographics, musicians and producers have responded by crafting their tunes to play well to America's suddenly all-mobile listening habits. Gone are 80% of dynamic contrasts. Aside from a fade-in or -out, ipod listeners can not be inconvenienced by the trouble of having to adjust volume constantly to accomodate the roar of life around them. However, when you play this music at home, on your stereo for your private enjoyment, suddenly you realize how much this music sounds like a background soundtrack to a bad television program. It is merely a murmur, built for you to keep step with it, and help "groove" along, but not complicated or interesting enough to force your ear to have to listen and distract you from your otherwise already complicated life.

This may seem a luxurious compliant to most, and for the most part, they would be right. It is a small irritation on the zit-covered existence of daily troubles, but the further we slip away from appreciating true art in any form, the worse we are as a culture.

I can't get inflamed about this, however, because I have to believe that real art and real music will survive as it always has. In ten years we will have forgotten about Lil' Wayne's Lollipop (thankfully) and will only remember this decade in sweeping generalities, the way we regard the 90's as 'Grunge' and think of Classic Hip-Hop as Run DMC, despite the hundreds of other influential musicians who worked during that pioneering time.

I await music's next revolution with baited breath, and can't wait for this drought of musical sterility to pass.

You gotta practice machines, too...

For those of you paying attention, this would be an example of overactivity when it comes to how much ink is on the paper. The smaller the image gets, the more confusing it becomes.

The Undertaking of Project #756.4

In effort to remain productive, useful and utilize resources, I have begun a campaign to develop, learn and research an until-now unexploited potential gold mine: cartooning.

Sure, it's fun. Sure, it's easy. To do poorly, that is.
Sure, every church bulletin/sermon notes page since I turned 5 has been decorated.
Let's see if we can't use it for something more...
The premise:

Do free-hand drawing every day to build up skills with pen and ink that will benefit in the subtle storytelling art form of cartooning.

The rules:

10 - 15 minutes are permitted per drawing. This must include pencils and inks. It must do its best to convey in the simplest shapes possible the point of the drawing. In other words: the goal is to maximize the economy of line in showing the viewer what is happening. Great cartoonists do this so well, it's uncanny. Us poor ones just slop ink on the page and hope something comes out of it.

Different types of tools will be used in experimenting with different techniques, attempts and style, etc.

Right now, the weapon of choice has been a regular Sharpie marker. The goal: to get a wider range of textures out of the felt tip beyond what I would scribble on top of a cardboard box. Then again, that might look cool. I should try that...

I will do my best to post a drawing here every day. (Ala The Creatures in My Head) to gauge reaction and hopefully see a side-by-side improvement as I muddle through this.

I give you the Carnivorous Parking Meter:
The Dude Who's Way Too Excited About Riding the Toy Airplane:


...and of course, Ugly Alien with his Rat-on-a-Stick:


Apparently I shall have to suffer through all sorts of torments in order to get this done. Most of them are technologically related (busted scanner, computer programs that can't seem to comprehend the simplest task I ask of it...) but through it all, I shall persevere to bring you my rendition of a singing toilet.

T.

As a Follow-Up to My Last Post

...mentioning some of the innocent, harmless music being made today, here is the balance point:
the grimiest, dirtiest artists I could find.

The Bumblebeez
Australian Hip Hop Troupe features a motley crew of white kids (and girls!) with some of the messiest, infectious collections of noises I've heard recently. Overblown and distorted, everything sounds like its playing through a blown-out boom box. And that's why its so cool! Content is much less a factor, as you can barely understand what the various emcees are mumbling into their $2 microphone.

Mickey Avalon
Jewish New York-born rapper has about as uplifting an attitude towards life as one could expect from a posting with this title. His songs are about a complete loss of faith, prostitution, comparing the size of his genetalia and various sex moves known as the "Jane Fonda." A gifted lyricist, he does something not a lot of emcees bother with: articulate. Even with his whiny, pouty son-of-a-b**** attitude, he makes you join his effort, rather than hate him.

"Toy Shop" Girl Musicians Are SO In Right Now.

First (if one can remember with me,) it was Regina Spektor, a Russian singer/song-writer who had quirky, unusual pop songs featuring a great deal of acoustic instruments and simple, innocent melodies. Needless to say, these weren't songs about self-mutilation, anarchy or dead puppies.

This past year we saw a huge surge in the popularity/number of these "toy shop" musicians. Feist even managed to pull a 'best new artist' Grammy nomination out of the whole ordeal. Sarah Bareilles and Yael Naim are using the same recipe: one part attractive (not glamorous) girl, one part piano, one part hooky melodies. Shake liberally and serve chilled.

The last two names mentioned in the above paragraph have certainly seen a huge boost in exposure due to their music's use in nation-wide commercials. Ms. Bareilles in Rhapsody Music's satellite music channel, and Ms. Naim in Apple's latest commercial for the iBook Air.

While this is the latest, freshest thing to emerge on the musical scene, it will certainly soon tire just as quickly since labels have obviously figured out the road to success and are quick to submit their own verse of the same song.

The characteristics of this music are unique. While so much music getting air play is production-laden, guitar-drenched, woofer-kicking schlock, this music seems absolutely refreshing. A great deal of acoustic instruments, quaint, almost comic and whimsical arrangements at time make you smile a little bit while considering the light-hearted innocence of the song itself.

This is what comes up when you put "Pork rind buttercup" into a Google image search. What other wonders will we discover next?

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way Home From the Office

Happy at having finished a rehearsal early, the orchestra poured out of the school where rehearsal had been held and filed to their cars by ones and twos.
It had been raining off and on throughout the day and vehicles that had been sitting unused for most of the day showed the usual symptoms: wet brake pads and swollen door seals. As I reached my car, I, as I always did, stuck my key into the lock of the hatchback - where I commonly put my instrument while in the car.

Much to my surprise, after turning the lock, I looked down at my hand to see that only 60% of the key remained in my hand. The rest of it had hilariously decided to jump ship inside the lock, not only denying me the ability to get inside my car, but also the ability to drive home.

Thankfully, at that moment, two other violists happen to walk by and see my look of shocked bewilderment as I held up the half-key for their inspection. Surely, they had to be laughing on the inside. To be polite, they both seemed quite genuinely concerned, but if roles were reversed, I know it would've taken some amount of self control to point and laugh.

Thanks to the wonders of the modern age, the number for my insurance's roadside assistance was pulled off of a internet-capable cell phone and I called their handy-dandy automated "hang on" phone system while they tried to track down a locksmith that could come out and do the work.

Already ten minutes have passed, and the great majority of the other musicians have all left. I am invited to sit in my friend's car while we wait and find out how many days it will take for the locksmith to arrive. Staying true to my fortune, I realize that the only (apparently) useful theft deterrent my car has is a computer chip contained in the key itself, which once engaged in the ignition, allows the motor to start. Without this chip, my car is nothing more than a stylish paper weight.
Finding a locksmith that could replace the key with a compatible key chip inside took longer, and, as it turns out, meant that they would have to drive from Zimbabwe. But, "they should be there in about 40 minutes." (ha ha)

The school where we had rehearsed had since locked its doors, the janitors undoubtedly going home to their warm beds and the thought of joyously returning to their work the next morning. My friend (and her warm car) began to realize that she had to start heading home.

Looking around for any sign of civilization, I spotted a beacon of modern convenience: a Seven Eleven convenience store across the street from the school. Its fluorescent bulbs burned bright into the night, welcoming me with all of the assorted surreal sugar-coated shrink-wrapped 2 for $3 offerings I could ever imagine.

I walk in, viola on back, prepared to wait out the remainder of my "40 minutes" by the magazine rack near the front door. This way, when the phone call comes at precisely 10:29, (40 minutes) I will be able to dash out the door, across the street and to my car to meet the locksmith. Ironically enough, I find myself looking through the Auto Trader, wondering how much extra remote access would cost on a new car...

10:45 - Having exhausted the Auto Trader, RV Trader and Motorcycle Trader, I've resorted to staring out the window, making an unusual eye contact with the customers as they pull up in front of the store, a mere four feet from where I stand, staring straight back into their headlights. One starts to wonder if the man without a coat carrying a large black case on his back who deliberately stares down customers would be making any friends tonight...

11:15 - An automated courtesy call from my insurance company wants to find out if my help has arrived yet. Press 1 to talk to a representative.

1111111111111111111111111111111

It turns out that the lock smith is just crossing the bridge into Virginia which will still give me a good 30 minutes to ponder my life choices while I decide whether to look at XL, Lowrider or Elle.

12:00 - A call on the cell phone from the locksmith himself! He tells me that he's just made it to the intersection where the school is located, but he realized he doesn't have the computer he needs to program the new key, so he has to return to the locksmith mothership to get it. (Again, in Zimbabwe.) "Hang tight!"

FYI - The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition is on newsstands everywhere. And, Avril Lavigne makes the cover of Maxim, and Car & Driver features a cover article about the new Pontiac G8. Some cheaply produced periodical named Shooting laments the passing of the .223 ammunition and I watch the same group of 3 - 8 guys come into the store three times and buy half of the beer that they have in stock. For a Wednesday night, it's quite a party...

1:00 - My body is shutting down. Tired, hungry and crabby, I'm sitting on a plastic bag full of over-priced logs for the rich man's fireplace, trying to stay interested in a one-page article about zany office character's bracket choices for March Madness. Also trying to stave off any undue suspicion from the two Ethiopians working the late shift.

1:30 - another courtesy call from the insurance company - this time I'm put on hold (why not?) only to find out that
indeed, the locksmith has in fact driven to another state in search of an Excalibur-computer. Fantastic.

1:50 - Finally, a phone call from the locksmith, driving around the school looking for my car. I meet him at my car and show him the nub of a key that I had left.
Interestingly, as surprising as the act of snapping the key off had been, retrieving the tip of the key from the lock on the trunk took an entire 35 seconds.

As our project progressed, keys cut and programmed, the locksmith and I began to talk and I found out that he had served four years in the military and had gone and done a tour in Iraq. Sensing our camaraderie, this locksmith decided to tell my some war stories of his time over in "The Sandbox."

I don't even feel I should write the story down, for the protection of all involved. Surely it is a story he should not be re-telling for his own safety, but also because of the potential legal proceedings he could become involved in as questions would arise about Law of Armed Conflict and the Geneva Convention.

It made me wonder: as frustrated as I have been by the experience of seeing the nominally stupid population that makes up the enlisted core of the Air Force, (and assumptions regarding the other branches of service) it puts me in a bind: I rely and trust upon these very people to complete their missions which will ensure the safety and well-being of the United States, and yet I often find the attitudes and actions of these soldiers, airmen and marines as individuals to be ridiculous, childish, dangerous and, for lack of a better word, stupid.
Why is my job in a situation where we're treated like brain dead infants and told how/where/when to do everything? It's because of this locksmith who met me at a parking lot at 1:50 in the morning.
This is saddening, frustrating and perplexing, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

The other thing I wondered about was whether or not I wanted to be standing in the middle of a parking lot with this guy at 2 AM in the morning...

Thankfully, I was home by 2:30, a mere $360 dollars less and not a bit wiser for the experience.

A note to Ford: Please install a form of theft deterrent that will allow me to have a replacement key fashioned that will cost less than 10% off the vehicle's worth. Thanks.

And for all of you kids who are thinking about opening your trunk: use the release switch by the driver's seat - just to be safe.

T.

Best Films of 2007

Since everyone's been absolutely pestering for my highly influential opinions on the high-water mark of last year's cinematic offerings....

...here are the greatest, most entertaining, most elevating and most exciting films of 2007 according to the Grand Poobah:

300 - Frank Miller and Zak Snyder team-up create visually compelling and instantly influential film about the 300+ Spartan warriors.

Grindhouse - Tarantino and Rodriguez tag team unsuspecting
audiences and deliver double-featured dose of smoldering goo left over from their childhood film fantasies.

Ratatouille - Pixar's batting average remains staggeringly high with this whimsical Parisian tale of a kitchen infestation that- for some reason- doesn't make its audiences run screaming into the theater lobby.

Transformers - The best alien-robot-invasion movie I've seen in a while. Its greatest success was pulling off the balancing act between stupid and fantastic. Looking forward to the sequel. With recent memories like Spider-Man 2 and X-men 2 in our rear-view mirror, we have reason to hope that Optimus won't have to save the day by using his can opener function.

Hot Rod - Has come as close to repeating the insanity and intangible humor of Napoleon Dynamite as anything else I've seen. Off-the-wall and deliciously reminiscent for those of us who grew up in the 80's, Andy Samberg makes an under-the-radar hit that will make us smart ones continue to tune in.

3:10 to Yuma - Glenn Ford classic gets a post-Unforgiven makeover. Cowboys are allowed to be simultaneously emotional and filthy. Terrific performances by Crowe, Bale and Prince create a compelling and thrilling tale of a great underlying morality that packs six shooters.

The Kingdom - Political action/thriller throws FBI agents into the midst of the turmoil in Saudi Arabia to solve the murder of American citizens at the hands of terrorists. Simultaneously an informative treatise on the political and social chasms between us and a great suspenseful thriller.

American Gangster - Ridley Scott continues to show an incredible ability to distill a gripping story out of complex circumstances. Denzel Washington's Frank Lucas is endearing and exciting and yet violent and terrifying. Beyond the performances by Crowe and Washington that pulls you emotionally into the film, watching the timeline of America's drug use is saddening and incredible.


There are obviously a few films that were released in '07 (limited) such as Juno, There Will Be Blood and Michael Clayton that are receiving a lot of critical attention. I've not seen these yet, but aside from Juno, I believe these films will fall in line with the overly dark, dramatic stories that Hollywood pundits love to adore even despite certain aesthetic shortcomings.

But if you're looking for a good rental for the weekend....

T.

Okay, I'm tired of being an adult now.

I'll go back home and stop pretending now.

I'm tired of the responsibilities, the bills, the expectations, the disappointments, the losses, the fears, the anxieties, the risks, the dangers, the further expectations, the follow-up expectations and the resulting disappointment.

Whether it's as simple as getting (another) bill in the mailbox, realizing that you haven't yet made the phone call to Sallie Mae or being paranoid, laying in bed at night asking yourself through half-consciousness if you remembered to set your alarm so you don't show up late for rehearsal. Because after all, you can sound like crap in rehearsal, but if you show up late, that'd be a problem. Or gritting your teeth every time a credit score commercial comes on the TV or radio and makes you afraid that you'll never qualify for that $4.5 million dollar home loan for the modest 2 bedroom rambler you've had your eye on.
And if that weren't enough, you have to worry about your rate of hair loss, what your friends and (even worse) strangers think about your 'unique' hair patterns, what you smell like, whether or not the clothes you cover your lumpy pasty white body with are clean, whether or not you could afford to put 1/4 tank of gas in the car this week, if you remembered to write down that last purchase in your checkbook register, turn off the oven and feed the goldfish.
Or, you could try struggling with the impending doom of personal failure - sensing that you've not accomplished what you wanted/are capable of and now you're in a place where there's no option for you to change course.
Adults are weird. They say one thing, and mean another. The sooner you learn this subtle language of subtext the better you'll do. But don't try and keep a young kid around to translate for, because it only points out how stupid and redundant your lifestyle is. In the effort to not offend or confront, we complicate things on average 147% more, requiring an addition .5 amount of effort to accomplish anything at all.

Yes, despite all of the amazing wonderful freedoms adult brings, I'll exchange it at the counter for the chance to go back to scarfing macaroni and cheese for lunch, cramming an afternoon of imaginary war against the trees in the backyard and spending 5 hours laying my stomach, building the world's unseen wonders out of Legos.

I'll gladly even set fire to most of my possessions, if it'll help you out.

T.