A Man Can't Even go to the Mall Safely Anymore.

Yesterday, in order to fight boredom, I decided to scout out a nearby shopping mall.
The trip fared better than I had hoped, and I walked through the colorful hallways with a small shopping bag of action figures dangling from fist.

Just around the time I had completed making the traditionally awkward pass-by of Victoria's Secret, I caught a glimpse of a girl coming towards me, offering me a sample of hand lotion.

Caught off guard, I accepted and paused my step while she squirted me a sample-size portion of lotion onto my palm. I had to stop and look at her now, since in one hand I had an offering of moisturizing lotion, and in the other my bag of man-toys. Her first clever move.

"Oh here, let me help you with that." She cooed, snatching my bag of treasures away and placing it on the kiosk next to her bottles of lotion. "Rub the lotion in."

I obliged.

"Do you know where the Dead Sea is?"

Yes.

"So you know that it's right between Israel and Jordan?"

Yes.

"...and that it's the lowest point on the entire planet?"

Yes.

"...and that the salt content of the water is 65%?"

Wow.

"I'm from Israel too. Just like these fine products."

Really?

"Here, let me show you something."

Grabbing my freshly moisturized hand, she turns her attention to my index finger. Grabbing a four-sided file, she proceeds to "get rid of the ridges on your nail. The ridges are bad." in her fine Israeli accent.

Stupid.

A few moments later, she turns the file over to another surface and continues to buff, all the while extolling the virtues of this hand spa set.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

No.

"A wife?"

No.

"A mother?"

No.

I begin to feel my lies creeping up the back of my neck.
"Well, certainly there is someone special you know might be able to use this set! Of course, we even have men coming and buying these for themselves today. Maybe you could use one."

No, I couldn't.

While she proceeded to show me mirror-finished fingernail in relationship to the nine other dull, ridged and ugly looking ones, she pulled out a cuticle oil, ("made from salts, minerals and olive oil from the Dead Sea!") and began massaging it into my finger. My masculinity is curling up in my toes.

All this while, she hadn't let go of my hand, effectively anchoring me physically and gently caressing my meaty palm. She knew her business.

"Now, you try one!" she purred.

What?

The file is pushed into my other, moisturized hand, and I begin to buff and file away the unsightly ridges on my thumbnail. I never did like those stupid ridges there.

I buff, and she asks me questions about what I'm doing here, where do I live and she laughs at everything I say.

Finally, someone who knows how funny I am!

We proceed to the next side of the file. The buffing phase.

She observes my progress closely, helping to hold my hand steady beneath the fierce pummeling my man muscles are delivering to it through the buffer.

"Let's see how it looks."

I take away the buffer to see a thumbnail with slightly glossy edges, and the entire center still dull, unfinished and full of ridges.

Undaunted, she quickly throws cuticle oil everywhere and proceeds to rub it in.

"Good job! Most guys don't get this far." she confides in me from a mere six inches from my face.

Really?

Why didn't I shave today?

She finally comes around to telling me that this manicure set, which includes the remarkable value of the buffer, cuticle oil, my choice of lotion, (cucumber melon,) emory board and some well-deserved self confidence is all for sale for $59.00

I consider the rude implications of just walking away right then. It certainly is the right thing to do. But she has spent so much of her time with me. I would hate to be considered boorish.

Sensing my reluctance (see also: deer in the headlights) she quickly lowers her tone, grabs me by the elbow and whispers that she will give me her employee discount.

"It must stay between us. I'm not supposed to give anyone else this discount."

Really? Special deal, huh?

Then a moment of reason lit up my brain. It occurred to me that I was standing in a crowded mall, surrounded by thousands of people actually considering buying a organically produced manicure set. Pretty girl or not.

She must think you're stupid, T.





Ten minutes later, I am walking through the mall carrying my new organically produced manicure set. Within twenty minutes the shrewdness of the Israeli salesgirl sinks in, and I assume an appropriate level of sheepishness, turning a bright shade of purple and carrying my head tucked between my shoulder blades.

You jedi powers are weak, old man! She walked all over you!

Well, she was touching my hand! I didn't know what to do!

Did she reach into your pocket and take out your wallet, too?!

Yeah, she might as well.

Let this be a lesson to you: If you decide to lie to a persuasive salesperson about having anyone special in your life, either 1) be an orphaned only child with severe social disorders or 2) have a mom and sisters to give the stupid thing to for Christmas.

T.

BMT Chapter 2

The plot thickens.



We are herded off of our bus and told to line up in four columns outside of the processing center. We must carry our baggage in our left hands, and God help us if anyone of us made so much as a peep.

I disembark the bus, replaying the advice administered by others who had gone before me in my head. "Don't be the first one off the bus, but don't be the last one, either."
I had the sense, however, that due to our late arrival, we had caught the normal welcoming committee off guard. Perhaps we would escape some torture for the first evening. As it turned out, they had a whole different method of torture reserved for late-comers.

We line up and stand at attention, bags in our left hands, and the stack of manila envelopes containing super top secret military information tucked into the sweaty crook of my right elbow. Dusk is settling, and the light brown bricks of the processing center give off a rosy glow. After a few minutes, a middle-aged sergeant comes out of the door flanked by two young airmen doing their best to look feisty.

"Put your bags on the ground!" the sergeant yells at us. At least three of our group drop their bags on the cement.
"Pick 'em up!!" he screams.
"Put 'em down!"
More bags drop.
"Pick 'em up!"
"Put 'em down..."

Eventually the dimmer members of our flight began to understand that this would continue until none of us dropped our bags when instructed to "put 'em down." Rather, when all of the bags were placed on the ground at our side, then we would be allowed to proceed inside the building.

The super secret military documents surrendered to the rightful authority, we proceed inside in single file. We pass giant posters informing us about the Airman's Creed and the proper form for a salute, and finally to a reception desk where you recite your name fourteen times, your social security number, answer "yes" or "no" to anything else they ask and then one by one, we are all seated in one long line of chairs, in a room that looked like it could have accommodated ten times our number.

By the time we are all seated, it's 8 o'clock.
No sleeping.
No talking.
No leaning on your hands.
No crossing your legs.

Little happens for the next hour. A senior airman (SrA) comes out to a computer and begins punching a few cursory keys. Occasionally he asks one of us a random question. Finally he calls my name.
"Do you play a musical instrument, trainee Sieh?"
Yes, sir, I do.
"What do you play?"
The violin, sir. (If you question my response, ask me about it sometime.)
"How long have you played the violin?"
Fourteen years, sir.
"You are going to be in the band flight, is that understood?"
Yes, sir.

This compelling conversation completed, the SrA begins to look up new weight lifting routines to try out on his next visit to the gym. This proceeds for the next two hours.
We sit silent, trying hard not to fall asleep. I exchange glances when I can with the other members of the group, hoping to communicate silently that it would be a really bad idea if one of them decided to do something stupid. Like, talk, for instance.

This was our first test. Perhaps we had avoided two days of torturous marching, screaming and organization, but we were to be dangled over the edge of consciousness and not allowed to fall into sweet slumber.

"Everybody move to the other side of the room."

We stagger out of our chairs, shuffle across the room to a group of chairs facing towards us.

Another hour passes.

"Move to the other chairs."

We were barely being watched. By this time, it was past midnight, and I was getting a sinking feeling about how long we were going to be drug back and forth across this room in the middle of the night. The SrA and his constituents were watching a television program in the adjacent room, and would step out every once in a while to ensure that we hadn't fallen asleep. If they got too bored with us, then we would have to move to the other side of the room again.

Finally another group of late arrivals shows up at the processing center. We glumly watch them file in and go through the same process of name and number recitation. We are fed a half-frozen packaged meal containing a ham sandwich, Knottsberry Farms' boisenberry cookies and a not-quite-liquid Capri Sun.

More hours pass. I know it takes precisely 95 seconds for the second hand to go around the clock face once. It doesn't seem fair, somehow.
We are stood up and led into a room to sign our names on W2's and make arrangements for our life insurance, should anything befall us while we were here at BMT. Perish the thought.
Our next-of-kin adequately provided for, we are led back to our original seats where we wait some more.

Finally, we are told that we are departing for our respective squadrons. We are put aboard a bus and driven through the night a mere seven and a half hours after we arrived. Looking at the clock with some curiosity, knowing that reveille came at 4:45 am, (or 0445) I did hope that I would be allowed to go to bed rather immediately.

Only myself and another girl were separated from the pack to join the 323rd training squadron. I now realize that the dark bus was the last time I saw most of those Ohio boys. They were all going to a flight together, and I was the only one who got taken away. Because I played the violin.

Standing under orange halogen bulbs on the drill pad outside of the 323rd's "Tunnel" (headquarters) at 0330. Life suddenly became very surreal. I was exhausted. I smelled horribly, and I badly needed a shower. I looked at the girl standing next to me. She was hyperventilating. I wanted to say something to her, but decided against it.
The door to the Tunnel flew open and our presence was demanded inside.

You must look directly ahead.
You may only stand along the right-hand wall.
Don't you dare lean on the wall.
Keep your arms at your side.
"Who do you think you are?! Don't you dare look at me ever again, or I'll rip your eyeballs out of their sockets!" said the kind CSS clerk.

This was going to be fun.

I am met by a staff sergeant (SSgt.) who takes me up a flight of stairs and into my new home. There is a guard at the door, and he asks for the sergeant's name and mine.
I follow the SSgt. into the day room where I fill out a Red Cross emergency information card; information that will be used to ship my dead body to my parents in a few days' time. The handwriting is scrawled and illegible, the pen uneven on the paper because of writing on the tile floor ("How dare you write on my desk!! You'd better get on your face and write that out on the floor right now!!")

I am shown how to hang my clothes up for tomorrow morning. I am made to shave off any hair touching my ears. I am shown a top bunk that will be mine. I am shown where my bag may be placed. I am told that I will go to sleep now.

Staring up at the ceiling only a few feet away, I listen to the cacophony of snoring, breathing and coughing swirling around me. I listen to the night watchmen having a conversation in the hallway. I realize that it is 4 o'clock, and in forty-five minutes we will have to get up. I shut my eyes.

The first notes of reveille have started when the fluorescent lamps blaze to life and our dorm chief and element leaders run down the aisles, hitting bed posts and screaming for all of us to get up! Get up! Get up!
I fall out of bed onto the tile floor and try to scamble into my jeans and t-shirt. Not even given the opportunity to take of the one I had on yesterday, I am left with no choice but to wear two shirts today.
There is a bleary half-dash to the bathroom, toothbrushes and razors in hand. Fifty bodies crowd around ten sinks, all trying to accomplish our duties first. Of course, you had to make sure they were done correctly. If you were caught with even a trace of missed facial hair, several TIs would descend upon you like freshly-killed prey.

Quickly, from the bathroom to your wall locker to lock your toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream in your security drawer. Hang the key around your neck and keep it tucked inside your shirt at all times. Get your shoes on. Now! Heel-to-toe in the hallway! Now!

Lined up, chests and hips pressed against the back of the person in front of us, we await the order to charge down the stairs and prepare for breakfast chow. The time: 0500.

Thus began the longest day of my life.

Why does Nicholas Cage choose to suck so much?

Here we find the actor Nicholas Cage. A good-looking man. A handsome man. A talented man.
Why does he insist on making so many garbage-y films?! The man can act, (see or Matchstick Men or Adaptation) but he insists on making so many films that leave him looking ridiculous. (See Wicker Man, Ghost Rider or National Treasure:Book of Secrets. And that's this year alone.)
I wonder what kind of career he has decided to pursue.
A few years ago, Nicholas Cage was the "it" man for blockbuster action films (Face/Off, Con Air) but now seems to favor PG-friendly family adventure films. Nothing against that type of film, but why do his performances suck so badly?
Often times his lines feel horribly written. I have to suggest, however, that since it seems to happen to Mr. Cage with such relative frequency, it is average screenwriting in the hands of a particularly dull, uninspired performer.

It is a mystery to me. Care to respond, Mr. Cage?

The Best Albums of Recent Memory

The White Stripes - Icky Thump
The Stripes' sixth studio album has a far more accessible sound than the Stripes have ever indulged in. Built road-ready for dynamite live performance, make sure you check out the title track as well as Martyr for My Love, Catch Hell Blues, and Bone Broke.






The Roots - Game Theory
Always politicized and never marginalized, the Roots make one of their funkiest albums yet. ?uestlove is in funkalicious form on such tracks as It Don't Feel Right and Blackthought makes some of his most direct accusations in False Media and It's In The Music.







Beck - The Information
Accurately described as "the best best-of album until Beck puts out his Greatest Hits." A blend between the funked-out hillbilly country techno styles of Odelay and Guero, and the sprawling, melodic soundscapes of Sea Change and Mutations. If you don't know Beck at all, this is probably the best place to start.





Thom Yorke - Eraser
It's been over two years since Radiohead's Hail to the Thief was released. That's a long time to wait for another go-around of the tripped-out complexity that only Radiohead has been able to offer. Lead singer Yorke attempts to bide the time with this 2006 solo release. All of the tunes are penned by Yorke himself, and while they are haunting and compelling, the instrumental make-up lacks the same energy and genius that the rest of Radiohead used to support Thom's ethereal vocals.



The Black Keys - Magic Potion
The fourth full-length album by the Akron duo does little to change the status quo. Much is often said about a musician's need to search and explore new styles and voices. The Keys are content to stick with the back-door greasy garage-floor style of blues/rock that has carried them thus far. The playing in this album is more restrained, more reserved, as though Dan and Pat have grown out of their youthful flailing instrumental solos. Only one trip to see them perform live will tell you this is hardly the case.

It's a Great Time to Love Cartoons
Never before in history have comics/cartoons/animation been regarded as much a part of American artistic tradition as they are right now.

Whether it be the film projects of Pixar, the comic books of Frank Miller and Alex Ross or the web artists such as Sam Fout, the world of exposure has never been greater for comic artists, and their medium has never been granted this amount of artistic validity.

Part of the reason is Hollywood's realization that great stories make great movies, and there are a lot of great stories within the traditions of America's comic book traditions. Whether it is a revival of the Superman franchise or a revitalization of the Batman films, or the popularity of Frank Miller's artistic stylings (Sin City, Batman Begins/Dark Knight, 300) the capabilities and talents of these great artists is seeing the light of day in a way in which it never has had the opportunity to do before.

For so long cartoons/comics relied exclusively on printed format for exposure and success. Whether it was syndication in newspapers or being picked up by a publishing house, or working for particular animation studios was the only way a comic animator could enjoy any measure of success. And in many respects, the early forms of comic animation/illustration are still viewed as the benchmark to which we all still strive. Artists like Herge, Kelly, Eisner, Avery, Freleng, Disney and Hanna & Barbara crafted such tremendous art forms that it has taken almost seventy years for art form to evolve beyond that first incarnation.

In my opinion, two things have contributed to this change in the world cartoons.

1) The Internet caused a revolution for the world in countless ways. For the artist, it created an opportunity for even the most unheard obscure comic to have its moment in the spotlight. As a result, many artists subsist entirely on web-based comics and animations.
Artists like Sam Fout (top illustration) create entire worlds of creatures that would probably not find any sort of audience in mainstream publication. But as a web-comic, these stories find precisely the audience that they are intended for. Also, the internet has raised awareness a thousand fold, creating and strengthening communities of like-minded artists and comic enthusiasts who may have
otherwise never have met.

2)Baby Boomers Grew Up
I regard this as the far more significant development of the two key points of reason.
Prior to World War II, there were only a handful of comic book creations (Seigel & Schuster's Superman) and well-known newspaper comic strips. In the late 1920's, Walt Disney began to realize his dream of animation that would capture the imagination of America, but these ideas would not really begin to bear fruit until the next generation of artists began to mature.
Within the next thirty years we experienced the explosion of the feature animated film from Disney studios, as well as the legendary work from the Warner Brothers' studios. Comic books enjoyed what historians now refer to as its "golden age," which saw the birth of such characters as Spiderman, the Incredible Hulk, the X-men, Captain America, Batman and the Silver Surfer.

The children of this generation had the unparalleled privilege of growing up in the shadows of these great charaters, both in the theater and at home on their television, and in their newspapers and newstands.

The fundamental difference between the generations before them is that while cartoons had been regarded as "children's entertainment" and little more to their parents, baby boomers regarded comics as something more, and saw them for the art form they could become.
My generation grew up with the enjoyment of Saturday morning cartoons, (the Smurfs, the Gummi Bears) and now-legendary cartoon strips (Watterson, Larsen and Davis,) but something else happened.

Not only did a renaissance of animation and cartooning occur, but an explosion of creative ideas. No longer was it just about a cartoon strip or an 8-minute short. Artists began using computers and film and ink in ways that hadn't been done yet. The internet allowed artists to see the work of other artists on the other side of the globe. Cartoon art became fused with traditional artistic expression, destroying any idea that comics were only "children's entertainment."

More recently, the success of film studios like Pixar and Dreamworks have brought a new appreciation for cartoons, creating such beautiful scenes, creatures and (most importantly) stories that both kids and adults will enjoy.

This trend doesn't show any sign of slowing down. In fact, it's amazing to think of where the art form could go within the next five, ten and fifteen years. As the form becomes more accessible, more people will have the opportunity to create. And while this will create more schlock than ever before, the talented artists will be discovered, and hopefully allowed to create something truly unique.

Hot Tracks of the Day:

M.I.A. - Boyz
The White Stripes - Catch Hell Blues
Joe Crocker - Woman to Woman
The Electric Six (feat. Jack White) - Danger! High Voltage

For banging good time, look no further.

Basic Military Training chapter 1

Earlier this year I had the dubious honor of participating in our nation's military basic training program. Most readers know why this undertaking was initiated, and if you don't, ask me some other time.

Aside from being a means to an end, basic military training (or BMT) was one of those life experiences I considered on my list of "things I should do before I die," somewhere between base jumping in Hawaii and drinking a quart of paint.
I'm not suggesting that BMT was something I didn't think I couldn't live without, but it was on my list because of the desire to push myself, physically and mentally, just so I knew how far I could go. Besides, who wouldn't want the bragging rights?

This is the first in a series of posts where I will try to (as accurately as I can) re-create my experience at Basic Military Training for the United States Air Force. I hope to avoid a lot of the bravado and machismo that comes along with the territory. I have wanted to commit as much of the experience to the record for a while, before more of it is lost my own shabby memory. So, here goes.




I began the enlistment process at a recruiting station in a poorer neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It wasn't destitute, but it was the sort of neighborhood that you wouldn't probably have much business in. I wasn't out of place - quite, but my unwillingness to roam the streets wearing nothing but an undershirt and baggy jeans did make me stand out a little bit. And, I was (for better or worse) employed.

This sort of environment is perfect for Armed Forces recruiting. As much as certain points of view may sneer on the "preying on poor inner-city youth," the simple truth is that the military is one very good option these kids have for getting out of their "poor inner-city" existence.
For most of the kids I met who were also in the process of enlisting in the Air Force, they were either finishing high school, were aimless, slightly stupid and without any real motivation to begin the next chapter in their lives. Whether it was their parents' or their own idea to join the Air Force, their complacency was about to be removed. Forcibly, if necessary.

Without going too far back into my recent life history, it should be understood that my journey through the enlistment process was not without hiccups. My first task was weight loss (so that the Air Force planes wouldn't fall from the sky because of my body mass,) and then I was faced with a six-month wait in the Delayed Enlistment Program (DEP) simply because there was no available spot for me to fill at basic training.

So from a job offering in April of 2006, we don't actually take the next step in this adventure until February of 2007, when I, and 11 other gentlemen from Northern Ohio were slated for departure on Feb. 14.

One thing no one should ever forget about in planning adventures in Northern Ohio is what time of year you plan on having this grand adventure. In our case, February 14 happens to fall (on Valentine's day, yes, but also) during the winter season. Duh.

February 13: A group of 200+ young soldier/seamen/airmen/marine hopefuls are roused from our slumber at 0430 (civilian translation: way too early) and bused down to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) to complete a last-minute physical, sign some papers, take an oath and then jump aboard a bus to the airport bound to sunny Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio.

This day, however, was not to go quite so smoothly.

Our bus arrives to the MEPS station amidst an early morning snowfall. We all climb off the buses, our bodies running on little more than adrenaline and fear. We are ushered inside, given our cursory warnings about firearms, drugs and ill intention and proceed to have our possessions searched.

A word on packing for basic training: Don't. Whatever items that the Air Force suggests you pack along for your foray into the wild blue abyss they will promptly take away from you on your arrival. Best plan: aside from the clothes you are wearing, take a toothbrush, a razor and some shaving cream. Everything else that you could use/need they will make you purchase once you're down there anyway. And in case you are unsure about what kind of product to buy, don't worry! Your Military Training Instructor (MTI or TI) will kindly assist you in only selecting from a prescribed selection of items that you may purchase.
The more stuff you bring, the more you'll love playing the TI's favorite game "pick it up, put it down" during zero week. More on this later.

The final processing at MEPS underway, our hapless heroes had only one final underwear-only processional to complete, another urinalysis, and then finally, the first real taste of military precision and order: hurry up and wait.

The group (interchange "flight" from henceforth) going to our relaxing stay in Lackland made it out of MEPS by late morning, after taking our oath of enlistment and enjoying a little USO hospitality. Our arrival at the airport was through more snow showers. However, as dully appointed leader of the dozen idiots from Ohio, I was more concerned with the charge of getting all of these kids through airport security, baggage checked and to the same gate without losing anyone. And on top of that, I had been handed a stack of manila envelopes, containing the medical and enlistment paperwork for every member of our troupe that I was to hand-deliver to the personnel at Lackland. Any deviation from this plan was considered a felony, and compromised official military documents. So far, I'm in love with the Air Force.

No sooner do we nestle into our wait at the crowded gate than we begin noticing "delayed" signs beginning to flash above our heads. Yes, dear readers, our plane had been delayed. But not just delayed. After a couple of hours, the air traffic was shut down because of the snow, so our flight was cancelled, and we were sent back to the hotel, confused, perhaps a little frustrated, but mostly relieved that we'd gotten such a late stay in our sentence. It didn't take too much imagination to think of the "fun" we would be missing during the first 24 hours of basic training.

Our trip back to the hotel took hours. The trains were slow, clogged by snow on the rails, and also the inability to stop, therefore it was ill-advised that they go any faster than would permit them to coast to a comfortable stop later on. Arriving at the landmark Tower City Terminal in downtown Cleveland, we then proceeded to wait another hour in the lobby for the hotel's shuttle to come and pick us up.
(Thinking that our trip back to the hotel would take equally long, we were shocked and perturbed when our drive back only took five minutes, which somewhat deflated the hotel clerk's affirmation that "the shuttle was sent out for you over twenty minutes ago!")

Safely back in the cocoon of our hotel rooms, phone calls frantically began to our respective recruiters, MEPS authorities and our parents to notify them what had happened, and what, precisely, were we supposed to do now? Quietly and firmly, we were told to stay put, but plan on awakening at 0430 again the next morning for departure on the next flight to San Antonio.

"Never," we were told "has MEPS been shut down for any reason. The last time it happened was during the east coast blackout. Snow never shuts us down out here."

The next morning we were informed that MEPS was closed, and no one would be coming in for the next 24 hours, so we were trapped at the hotel for the next two days. Sorry about this, just watch some TV, go to the gym, and stay out of trouble.

Those of us remaining did our best to stay out of trouble, eating decent hotel meals three times a day and letting the TV meteorologists tell us that it was a storm like we've never seen in the last hundred years. The most useful thing we did manage to do was bond.

Zwick, Crawford, Cowx and eight other names that don't match up to their faces in my mind spent a lot of time in central hotel rooms, eating together, watching TV together and wondering when we actually were going to leave. I earned the nickname "Chief," (the moniker for a Chief Master Sergeant or CMSgt. - the highest rank of enlisted airmen) since I was the oldest, was the contact with the MEPS authorities and knew how to check baggage, go through security and how to read flight information off of the airport monitors. All in all, this was a fun couple of days. The attitudes remained good, and we entertained ourselves well, making new friends and enjoying thinking about the torture the rest of our flight was already going through.

Finally we received the call. Tomorrow morning. 0430. We are on a flight departing at 1030.

One more early morning, one more groggy bus ride, one more search of our belongings. As we proceeded through the hallways at MEPS, the Air Force liaison came up to me and said I'd done a great job at the airport yesterday, and that we would talk more about it later.

We never got the chance to talk. Too bad.

Again on a bus, again to the airport. Again through security and again to our gate. This time, the sun is shining. There are a lot of people in the airport, equally delayed in their travels, most certainly.

Our arrival in to San Antonio was uneventful, although it was memorable because of the amount of adrenaline beginning to pump through my body. I wasn't sure if we were going to be met at the arrival gate by some firey sergeant in uniform, or if we would get outside before having a combat boot shoved in our faces.

Pausing only to change my voicemail message to something like "If you're hearing this, that means I'm lying face-down, dead in a puddle somewhere in basic training. Don't touch my stuff" we made our way through the airport, following the signs marked "USO" - our designated rally point. Along the way any candy, magazines or other comforts that we had acquired along the trip were disposed of.

The USO lounge in San Antonio is spacious and you can enjoy watching aircraft on the tarmac. There are easily twenty lay-z-boy recliners arranged around the room. We cautiously took a seat in these chairs, after being told that we would met by the bus driver in a few minutes.
Some of us fell asleep, others decided to eat as many of the USO-provided Oreos as possible. For the most part, we were dead quiet. If someone did start to talk, they were hushed by the others. We didn't know when the test would begin, if it had started already, if we were already failing...

A wrinkled old black man walked into the lounge and called for all of the Air Force's recruits. We gather our things and follow him through the airport and along side to where a school bus with "Lackland AFB" painted plainly on the side sits waiting for us. I am pretty sure the driver is not in the military, but still we are deathly quiet. We are already mentally exhausted, wide-eyed and nervously expecting someone to jump out of nowhere and toss a hand grenade at us.

There is one other passenger on the bus in addition to us recruits; a tech sergeant who has been stationed temporarily (TDY) at Lackland as an aircraft maintenance specialist of some sort. He was talkative, and seemed to enjoy laughing at us quite a bit when he found out we were all heading to BMT at that very moment. I wasn't sure if it was safe to talk with him or not. So I didn't.

The bus ride is short. Soon after leaving the airport, you will begin to see signs for Lackland AFB along the interstate. Along the way, I consciously make an effort to take in the fast food restaurants, the hotels, the billboards - any sign of normal life that I could see. The dread was overtaking me that I would never again enjoy freedom like I had.

What exactly have I gotten myself into?

The bus arrives at Lackland AFB at roughly 1900.

Let's give this another go...

Like the new look?

Because he was so cuuuuuute...

Holy Crap!

Where have i been?!!

My mom says she can't find any recent posts.

Well, that's because there are none.


Encouraging, eh?

A few things have happened since the last time I wrote. Pretty much I've just been sitting around playing Xbox and eating Cheetos for the last seven months. Cool, eh?

Anyway, this is just a note to say that I'll be dusting off this site, getting back into the swing of things and hopefully being more organized about getting posts up on this blog again.

Here's hoping, anyway.

Life These Days

Its been a while.

And in one voice you say: "Amen!"

Nearly two months has gone by, (not quietly, I should add) since I last wrote. My apologies.
Pluto still lives in exile, but most of the other matters I mentioned in my last post have faded into distant memory. So if you were to ask me about something I mentioned a while ago, please don't be offended if you don't get anything but a blank stare.

In six weeks a great deal has changed. I have a new home. I have new opportunities. New challenges. New scenery. New underwear. New friends. (The old ones kinda blew.)

It occurs to me that I've not really gone into too great of detail about different aspects of my life since this summer began. The simple truth: I've become lazy with regards to this blog. It has surprised me to find out that people have actually been checking in to see what's up, and how disappointed they must be recently. I believe I should make it a higher priority. Sleep, already a precious commodity, will have to take another one for the team.

I anticipate several sessions in order to try and say all that should be said...


I now reside in the lovely Cleveland suburb of Chagrin Falls. An old, historic town which has not changed much on the face in the last one hundred years.
There is actually a waterfall here,(see photo) as well as a popcorn shop, an Hermes boutique and a well-patronized Starbucks. Aside from that, the hills are sprinkled with various high-priced homes, some old and historic (like the one in which I currently reside,) and some which are shiny new trophies, wearing a pair of freshly waxed Lexus' like a pair of earrings.

I have been rather ashamed at times to enjoy my time here so much. After living six years in Cleveland, (not exactly the envy of the country) and experiencing so much economic segregation, I have been embarassed to be in the midst of so much wealth. People here have done quite well, attending the appropriate college so that they could achieve "the" job and make "the" money for "the" car, and it has been such a inverse experience from metro Cleveland.
In Cleveland, to have nothing, means you complained about it, took pride in your poverty and generally kept it near the front of your mind.
In Chagrin Falls, you have a great deal, discuss it with your other equally wealthy and attractive friends, take great pride in your position, become bored and go buy a new sport coat.
I can not and will not fault anyone for their successes, but it is a sad truth that many of these people are owned by their possessions. Yet if someone offered me $200,000 a year to play viola, would I turn it down?

My second mother has taken me in, given me shelter, and even food. A warm bed and a place which I am instructed to call home. There are no words to express my gratitude to her, and I fear I could not afford an object which might express it for me. "It's the little things," I'm told.
I have discovered a weakness: housework. I abhor it, and I am also abhorent at it. If you give me a mop and instruct me to "look busy," I must fight very hard against my synapes shutting off. Vision becomes blurry. I stagger about as a man lost and confused, grasping at anything around me, knocking things to the floor, only to realize that I now have to clean that up as well. It is, as you say, NOT a gifting.

I can complete a household task, but I have no instinct for it. I must be instructed as to what chore to perform, for I could stand in front of Mt. St. Helens and innocently ask "what mess?"

I strive to do better. I shall do my laundry. I shall not leave my shoes lying about. I shall wash dishes. I will not trap the cat between the screen and outer doors. I will try to make my bed.

It does not look hopeful for that last one.

To Fill Up the Time I work at the Stone Oven Bakery in Cleveland Heights. No, we don't bake the bread on premises, but it is done downtown in our own bakery. And yes, the oven is made of stone.

(I intend to start a competing venture named the "Dutch Oven." Anyone? Anyone? Good. A few of you are laughing.)

I made the brilliant gesture of telling the store owner, John, that I would like to work 30 - 40 hours a week. Then school began again, and 60% of the work force returned to school, leaving about six of us holding onto the bread basket. I've gotten a good many hours of work there, which has helped to bring in steady income, but somewhere between your 3,500th turkey and provlone sandwich and a poppyseed tea biscuit you begin an inner dialogue with yourself that sometimes leads to disastrous consequences.

"Hi, what can I get for you today?"

A cup of coffee, I'll bet.

"Do you want the apricot, raspberry or poppyseed?"

Ooh, a tea biscuit. Way to shake things up there...

"Anything else for you?"

Remind me again; what is it you do?

"That'll be $1.85."

...'cause I remember that you were in college for something. Now what was it...

"Thank you."

Ah, big tipper. A whole 'nother 15 cents to split three ways! In another three months you can buy that bag of Doritos you were eying at Walgreens last night. I saw you. Don't try and hide it from me. I'm you, remember?

"Hi, do you know what you want?"

Oh, wait. Didn't we do something in music?

"What kind of bread do you want that on?"

Ten bucks says she goes for the multigrain.
Aha! You owe yourself ten bucks.

"And what side do you want with that?"

Here it comes.....

"Potato Chips, Tabouli or Cous cous are your choices."

Tabouli. Tabouleh. Taloubah...

Cous Chip chip. Potatoah Chip Chip

"That'll be $6.45"

In your ear.

"And what name can we call whe your order's ready?"

Why can't the women be younger who eat here?

Ethel. Figures.




Eight hours later we emerge having done battle against the ravages of dirty dishes, the onslaught of the bread slicer and of course, the mind numbing psychological war fare of prattle with the customers. How much of this stuff can some people eat? I don't have to pay for it and I'm kind of tired of it! Why would you pay seven bucks a day for it?!

I could do a whole lot worse when it comes to a job, but I have grown so increasingly thankful for my music making gigs which take me away from the Stone Prison for days at a time. Case in point: this weekend. But that's a story for next time, kids.

T.

Tomato florentine, tornados and Pluto: see receipe for weirdest week yet.

The events of this week push my existence into the realm resembling something like a Twilight Zone episode. Whether it be tumultuous friendships exploding, the very existence of our solar system being pulled apart by technicality or tornados ripping through the grocery store parking lot, this week has led me to believe in the Ordinance of cosmic fate. If everything gets lined up just right, solar flares from Alpha Centuri can really mess with you, man...

I know its been a good whiel since I've posted anything meaningful on this blog. My apologies. The good news: the internet has been hooked up again here at the house, meaning that I'll be able to post more frequently and without having to trek down to campus in order to post. But this is relatively old news.

Pluto has been ruled a "dwarf planet" by a group of astronomers all gathered together somewhere in Europe, discussing the cosmos, life and the preference for wax paper over foil as potato chip bags through a cloud of pot smoke. I don't know how these NASA geeks get anything done.

In any event, the geniuses that be have voted Pluto off the island, leaving us with a meager eight to fight for the champion of "Survivor: Galaxy." What will those CBS execs think of next? My money's on Venus to get the boot next. She's been a shrew ever since the first millenium, and I think Uranus and Neptune have just about had enough.

I will soon find myself without a gym to go to. My membership expires, and I know of no other place that offers a monthly subscription. Doesn't this seem a little retarded? In any event, i'm training myself to get used to not having one (especially in a move out to a community where there is not activity center) by getting ready for running a 5K next month. It seems a good incentive to keep the running up. I want to shoot for a time between 21 and 23 minutes to complete. I do not expect a victory, just the thrill of competition. Beyond that, I've also started biking again, exploring the endless honeycomb of roads that tangle their way through Cleveland and Shaker Heights.

A Eulogy:
Charles Barr (31), bassist with the Cleveland Orchestra died two weeks ago today while on his bike in Cleveland Heights. While entering onto the road, he was unexpectedly hit by an oncoming truck, and was later pronounced dead at the scene by Cleveland EMS. His death has sent shock waves through the community, both musical and residential. It has given pause and a reason for us all to question more what we believe in, and the ultimate uncertainty of our existence. We do not know when our time will come up, and it is an excellent reason to question what we hold faith in.

I have already had the appointed opportunity to have a conversation on this topic with friends who do not believe. Is it not ironic, tragic and yet fitting that the greatest good a man could accomplish might only be in his death?

T.

Ladies and Gentlemen....

Introducing: Imogen Heap

More famously known as half of the British electronica duo Frou Frou, (contributing member to the best-selling soundtracks for the films Garden State and Shrek 2, Imogen's haunting and distinct voice became well known, but her solo work - which has only been released since the 2003 disbandment of Frou Frou - has been flying almost entirely under the radar.

But here's your heads up: before Zach Braff's new film hits theaters next month, you can check out her music at places such as MySpace or imogenheap.com to get a taste of her style. The key track: the beautiful, haunting and remarkable "hide and seek."

Reminiscent of Bjork (an influence that cannot entirely be overlooked since Heap's counterpart in Frou Frou has had a long history of working with the Icelandic songstress,) yet with more intensity, the show here is undoubtedly Imogen's inimitable vocal stylings - not only the unique sound of her voice, but also the acrobatic ease with which she flies through very difficult vocal lines and tight (ocassionally) dissonant harmonies which she recorded all her self.

Well worth the listen, expect her to be well known on college radio and indie music circuits after Zach Braff's movie opens. Considering the explosion of interest in the artists featured on his last soundtrack (and the incredible care with which he chose the music,) "Hide and Seek" is sure to bring some much deserved light to the work of Imogen Heap.

T.

Hot Tracks of the Day:

Gorillaz - Dirty Harry
Chad Vangaalen - J.C.'s Head on the Cross
Hive - Ultrasonic Sound
Damien Marley - Road to Zion
Gnarls Barkley - Transformer

Check these out for good grooves...

T.

Ladies and Gentlemen: OKGo!

This band is something I dabbled with a little bit a few years ago, but I recently rediscovered their tunes, and my ears have grown to love it. Perfect combinations of equal parts pop and edgy rock make this a fun band to listen to.
An added bonus: the band is perfectly self-aware, not taking themselves too seriously in any of their going-ons, but determinedly never mainstream. The end result: a hidden treasure of tuneful melodies ideally suited to the paisely-adorned hipster who didn't ever give up on his candy-coated listening habits.

What forced me to rediscover OKGo was seeing the music video for their song "Here it Goes Again" and realizing how brilliant the idea was. Decidedly lo-tech, you must see how this band treats eight treadmills used simultaneously to craft their video. The most amazing part: its all done in one take. Take that, Michael Gondry.

Check out the band's website to bask in the group's on-the-head funky image. You can watch music videos from their own site at okgo.net, but you'll have to head to youtube.com to catch the treadmill action.

OkGo has certainly garnered its legions of followers all over the world, and perhaps one day they will really get the attention that is deserving of them, but until then, we get to enjoy the self-amusing music videos from a band that apparently doesn't have enough to do.

The icing on the cake: The band's drummer, (the bald one who is both lip-syncher and ring leader in the music video,) Dan Konopka, is brother to Stanley Konopka, associate principal viola of the Cleveland Orchestra. Funny we don't hear him talk about him a whole lot. Of course, this is the same violist who had a family member married to Jason Newsted (of Metallica) and never mentioned that either. Weird family. At least they kept the same haircut.

T.

Movie Review: The Oh in Ohio
Starring: Parker Posey, Paul Rudd, Mischa Barton, Heather Graham, Danny DeVito
Directed by: Billy Kent

Could-be cult fav settles for C-minus filmmaking.

One of numerous trips to a local tavern started out innocently enough: an order of barbecue chicken wings, a pint and some conversation. Nothing that would merit any notice, except for the fact that halfway through the meal a pair of appropriately clad individuals, claiming to be technical members of a film crew entered our area of the restaurant with the request that we not move around or make any sort of unnecessary noise so as not to disturb the quality of sound recording going on during the filming next door. Our curiosity piqued, we obliged in exchange for a lengthy conversation with one member of the film crew as to what was going on next door.
The crewman informed us that both Heather Graham and Parker Posey were next door filming scenes for an upcoming motion picture, tentatively titled the Oh in Ohio.

A bit over a year later, this film has a limited release all across the United States, including one independent theatre here in Cleveland, the film’s hometown.
Quite obviously the film takes place in Cleveland, both because of the locale known to all of us Cleveland locals, but also because the characters remind us repeatedly during the first half hour of film. There is, apparently, some great love the writers have for Cleveland, choosing to craft a film so devoted to the “Roar on the Shore.”

The Premise: of this film is so mature in nature, I’m not quite sure what I can mention here without becoming obscene. The entire reason I ever saw this film was that it was shot in many locations both on my university campus and in neighborhoods in which my friends live. Sadly, the topics of dialogue during this film often times reach such levels of depravity that this marked the first time I actually considered walking out on a movie.

This was not what I was expecting to occur. I knew the plot’s mature themes, but I expected them to be handled a little bit more frivolously, turning the entire issue into something of a laughing stock. Instead, writer/director Billy Kent strives to create a psycho-comedic art film about the tragedy that effects “30 million” women all over America. Along the way enlisting the help of Liza Minelli, which very well may have been the funniest scene in the entire movie.

This movie was torn between several existences. One is a raunchy, frat-house comedy involving an endless parade of genital jokes, and the other, a poignant disaster film about a marriage flying apart at the seams. Characters are poorly developed, (if at all) and are thrown into one personal conflict after another, but rarely ever justifying or validating one conflict before beginning a new one. This leads to a surprising amount of unexplainable behavior by our starring characters, and after a while you simply must give up and try and make it through to the end, just to see where the chips are headed when the credits begin to roll. We barely make it there.

What starts off as being a smart and funny comedy quickly turns into a three-month crash-course timeline to the $5.50 bin at Wal-mart.
For me, the greatest tragedy of all is the complete non-use and misrepresentation of the city of Cleveland. Films like American Splendor and even Welcome to Collinwood used every ounce of eccentricity and eclectic energy that they could squeeze out of this patch-work city. To use Cleveland as a backdrop for a film means to have a certain understanding of its history, its architecture and its people. Oh misses all of this, choosing instead to create a fictional existence of homes, offices and water slides that ends up being terribly generic, non-specific and wholly incorrect. For better or worse, Cleveland has a very distinct identity about it, and treating it as a third-teir Chicago does nothing to promote a city that will only be shunned by the people who live there. Cleveland may not be the envy of the free world, but its people are proud, and fiercely protective of their home. So go away Hollywood, and don’t come back until you have someone who’s ready to show an accurate side of Cleveland.

The Grade: D

T.

Music Review: The Detroit Cobras: Mink Rat or Rabbit

Retro-rockers are an indulgent what-if of rock ‘n roll history.

We must ask ourselves the question: what if the Beatles had never been? How differently would the musical landscape of today be if it were not for the Beatles’ musical output from Revolver on?

Prior to the likes of the Beatles and Dylan, rock music had a straight forward, easy to digest formula based entirely on youthful exuberance and enjoyment of the music. Bill Haley & the Comets, the Ventures, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis were all the superstars of their age for crafting simple, melodic rock ‘n roll songs that America’s youth devoured.

And then the sixties happened.

Tastes and attitudes change, and the innocent age of early rock ‘n roll had passed.

And yet today there are still those who make music as though 1964 had never happened.

One example: the Detroit Cobras – underground retro-rock outfit from, where else? Detroit – ask the same question I just posed to you. Who thinks dances like the twist and the mashed potato are done with?

The Cobras’ first studio album, Mink Rat or Rabbit is old news for the band, (they have currently released three full-length albums) and yet in many ways I think it their best work, because the intention of the styles remains unpolluted and unapologetic.

Songs like “Cha Cha Twist” are good enough to make you want to dance, while other songs like “Putty” recall an Animal-esque melodic styling. Underneath the blatant and bold-faced vocals of lead singer Rachel Nagy, the rest of the Cobras keep a tight ensemble, riffing through classic rock styles.
Their style is at moments early Rolling Stones, blending together traditional blues stylings with raucous hip-rattling attitude, but never apologetic for what it is not: cutting edge.

This is a brilliant collection of original tunes which only tell their age because of the level of distortion used on the guitars and bass.

A highly recommended disc:

The Grade: A

T.

P.S. Sorry about the cover image. I couldn't find an edited version.

Movie Review: Match Point
Starring: Johnathan Ryes Meyers, Emily Mortimer, Scarlett Johanssen, Brian Cox
Written and Directed by: Woody Allen

With deft direction, and a little bit of luck, this film charmingly grabs on doesn’t let up until the end.

This film exhibits such finesse in its direction that one would think that the youthful Mr. Allen has had experience in directing film in the past. Otherwise how could his work be so efficiently precise and effective?

We joke of course. Woody Allen’s contribution to cinema (particularly comedic) is legendary, and will long survive his own life.
Mr. Allen’s most famous films (Annie Hall, Don't Drink the Water, Bullets Over Broadway) are often cited as being amongst the funniest films ever made, so it was surprising and intriguing to see Allen turning his attention to what ultimately proves to be far more dramatic fare. All of the experience Woody Allen has garnered thus far is put to work in this Golden Globe nominated work, which must be added to the list of more impressive films of the last year. I came into this film determined not to like it, so the fact that it ultimately won me over speaks volumes to the artistic craft of the film.

The Premise: Everything we do requires a little bit of luck in order to succeed.
Could-be-pro-tennis player Chris (Rhyes Meyers) takes a job as a tennis instructor at an exclusive club in London where he meets upper-crust socialite Tom and his sister, Chloe whom he ultimately marries. Chris meets Tom's fiancé, Nola (Johannsen) who proves too much temptation for Chris, and they begin what ends up being a year-long affair, culminating in an illegitimate pregnancy, even though Chris has since married Chloe. From this point on, the movie really becomes engaging, and the end of the story is best not divulged at this point.

My first impressions of this movie were rather luke-warm. The film first appears to be a satirical look at the hobnobbing social class of England, where proper etiquette and formality is the most important order of affairs, even when circumstances become so ridiculous that the characters are forced to obscene actions behind closed doors.

Mr. Allen’s legendary status as a comic director/writer/actor leave me wondering at times how seriously I am to take certain circumstances in the film. At times the situations become so embroiled that you almost felt it necessary to laugh, otherwise you would be uncertain as to what the outcome could be. At times it was obvious that our reaction was meant to be hilarity; at others, it is entirely to the audience’s discretion.

The directing in this film is superb. For the first hour and a half of film, the plot, characters and story behave so predictably, that if it weren’t for Woody Allen’s deft touch of camera work, editing and the actor’s performance, I would have been prepared to write off this film with a dull thud after the first thirty minutes.
But somehow Allen keeps his camera unrelentingly close to the center of attention, never letting up on the tension or drama, so the audience never has the opportunity to grow bored with what is going on. A less experienced director would probably welcome the moments in the film to seek respite throughout the film, allowing the characters and the audience to relax a little bit, but Allen knows better, and pushes his vehicle to the limits of its capability. From frame one, this film builds to a crescendo that really doesn’t end until the credits roll.

One reason Allen is able to push the story as far as he does is because of Allen’s other great mastery: comedic timing.
No matter how tense the scenes may become, whenever Allen really needs it, he achieves the classic comedic timing needed to deliver the one-two punch line that relieves enough of our collective strain so that he can build it up again.
Whether he uses the device to deliver an actual comic punch line which we laugh at, or uses it to move quickly into the next beat of story telling, he does so with such liquid efficiency it makes you marvel.

The acting in this film is perhaps the weakest point of the film. Johnathan Rhyes Meyers who plays Chris Wilton is convincing enough, certainly chosen for this role because of his ability to seem convincingly unconvincing. For the entire film his character is telling one lie or another, so it was essential that we enjoy a performance that would allow the audience to ultimately see the conflicted nature of his character.
Far less convincing is the lovely Scarlett Johannsen playing the fledgling American actress, Nola. Nothing against Ms. Johannsen, but I have yet to truly be taken in by a performance. I believe she has the unnamed “X-factor” of appeal which will assure her a future career on the silver screen, but I can not separate this from the fact that I have always felt painfully aware of her self-awareness as an actress. I await the day when I see a Johanssen performance that really takes me away from her ordinary characteristics.

Because of the final third of this film, and the slick, seamless way in which the film is told, I have to give this movie a high rating.

The Grade: A

T.

A Quick Breakdown on the Movie Career of Arnold Schwarzenegger: what’s worth seeing, and what you should catch on late-night AMC.

Hercules in New York: Arnold’s first film after already achieving super-stardom in the world of professional bodybuilding. His Austrian accent so thick, in the original theatrical release, his lines were dubbed over by another actor, just so you could understand what he was saying. Later versions restored original indecipherable version, much to the delight of Arnold fanatics everywhere.
This film is so poor, it deserves recognition as being the only true cult-worthy film in Arnold’s arsenal. With later films, studios will recognize his true earning potential and increase production value so that his films actually look like a real movie, not something made in your neighbor’s basement.

Conan the Barbarian & the Destroyer: (1982 & 1984, respectively) Arnold’s first true breath-through performance. A role that was ideally and singularly crafted for the unbelievably sculpted physique of the Austrian Oak. Arnold’s first exposure to big budget work, plus the mythical setting helps to cover up Arnold’s still confused English, despite work with a dialect coach on set.

The Terminator: (1984)The first Arnold film that one really should see. Director James Cameron has a vision that extends beyond the persona of Schwarzenegger, and works to craft a sci-fi thriller that will truly stand the test of time, casting Arnold as the from-the-future cyborg assassin sent to kill Sarah Conner. In the first installment, Arnold acts as the bad guy, a noteworthy moment, since 1994’s sequel has a significant role reversal.

Commando: (1985) is Hollywood’s first blatant attempt to capitalize on Arnold’s obvious star power as the ultimate action hero, casting Arnold as the all-American war hero who goes out to kick butt in order to save his daughter from the clutches of the evil powers. This film would join Hercules in the cult-tastic category if it didn’t take itself so seriously. Born in the age of Rocky, Rambo and Street Fighter, Hollywood required its action heroes to be sweaty, muscular and the epitome of testosterone-pumping machismo. This film ends up looking goofy because of cheesy pyrotechnics and cheap stunts that do more to diminish the Arnold’s capabilities than to build them up.

Predator: (1987)is our first must-see. This film follows in the same vein of tradition as Commando, but where ___________’s Commando decided it was “mission accomplished” to have Arnold strutting around shirtless, Predator takes the antics to the next level, the same way director Cameron does with the Terminator films: he creates a legend surrounding the antagonist (Predator) which lives on to this day through the Predator film franchise. (The latest installment being Alien Vs. Predator.)
The dialogue in this film is ridiculous and ludacris as ever, but when the film really starts to revolve around the monster hunting his prey, Arnold shows himself to be capable of more as an actor than just flexing. He creates a real sense of tension and anticipation which carries the film all of the way until its final show-down between man and monster.

Total Recall: (1990) Is often times hailed as one of Arnold’s greatest action films. I disagree. Between a scantily clad Sharon Stone and Academy Award-winning effects, it left little time for a good movie to develop, even if it was about mutants trying to overthrow the evil human tyranny on the planet Mars. Again, real wide appeal to the subject matter. Worth seeing, but this still shows Ah-nold just before he hits his mainstream appeal.

Terminator 2: Judgment Day: (1991) Cameron’s second and most infamous chapter in the Terminator legacy, and Arnold’s greatest film success.
Here, the most important change we find in this film is Arnold now playing the good guy, sent back in time (again) to protect Sarah Conner instead of killing her. (You can imagine the poor girl’s confusion.) Full of state-of-the-art special effects which to this day are still stunning to see, this film has earned its place in the catalog of American cinema, not only as the signature role for Arnold Schwarzenegger, but also in the genre of action/science-fiction. This film ushers in the Era of Arnold, to be demonstrated by a slew of films rushed into production over the next decade.

Junior/Twins: (1988/1994) Begin to show us the other, family-friendly side of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I don’t know whose idea this was: Arnold’s or his agents, but these two films, pairing him with comic dissimilar Danny Devito begin Arnold’s string of family films which go on to include Kindergarten Cop, Red Heat and Jingle All the Way which are films that the entire family is encouraged to watch and enjoy. Most often these films center on the fish-out-of-water story, putting the large, muscular Austrian in the most uncomfortable, comical circumstance imaginable, and letting the rest of the movie make itself. (i.e.: a pregnant Arnold, (Junior) paternal twins Schwarzenegger and Devito (Twins) a hard-nosed cop forced to work with children (Kindergarten Cop) or the loving father, too devoted to his job who is forced to compete against Sinbad for an elusive Christmas present for his son (Jingle all the Way.)

True Lies: (1994)The age of high excess and big budget for Arnold’s film projects. Co-starring Jamie Lee Curtis, we see a confident and comfortable Arnold, now completely aware that he will never speak without his distinct accent, but also aware that it no longer matters. Arnold has staying power, and he rides high on a slew of successful films, and it is now the order of the day for each successive film to out do the last with larger stunts, more elaborate destruction and ever deeper pockets. Example: High-suspense Harrier jet sequence which features two different female characters clinging to the outside of the plane while Arnold blasts his way through skyscrapers to kill the bad guys. Good stuff.

Eraser: (1996)marks the beginning of the end for Arnold. His greatest achievements behind him, this is his last valid effort to reclaim his mantle as the legendary figure of action films. Co-starring Vanessa Williams, this plot become inversely less fantastic and therefore less believable, and would have to join the C-list of Arnold’s films, lodged somewhere on the shelf between Commando and True Lies.

Batman Forever: (1997)Arnold plays the comic villan Mr. Freeze in the last installment of the 1990’s chapters of the Batman films. By this time, the public’s attention span for Batman films has waned, and despite every attempt to woo in an audience with increasingly elaborate special effects (and a fresh-from-the-ER George Clooney as the slickest Bruce Wayne yet) the response to this film is luke warm, effectively ending the existence of Batman until 2005’s triumphant Batman Returns with a darker, more realistic interpretation.

End of Days (1999): is Arnold’s stab at the ever popular end-of-the-world apocalypcial horror show that has always brought in the audiences. Kudos for having Gabriel Byrne as thte devil incarnate, but somehow dropping Ah-nold into the middle of a vast religious conspiracy to prevent Satan from roaming the earth just seemed a little too ridiculous. Somehow.

The Sixth Day: (2000) is Arnold’s last decent action film. Set in the near-future, this movie deals with the soon-to-be headlines issue of cloning, pitting one Arnold Schwarzenegger against the other, therefore answering the ultimate question: what is strong enough to take down Arnold Schwarzenegger? Only another Arnold Schwarzenegger. I understand this isn’t a great film, but its one I always enjoy watching, partly because the spirit of the film isn’t too dark, but also because the filmmakers understood not to take themselves too seriously.

Collateral Damage: (2002)Arnold’s last free-for-all action flick before being elected to office as the governor of California. Production on this film had already wrapped by the time of September 11, 2001, and a great deal of debate began to occur, since the central theme of this movie was terrorists killing Arnold’s family, and then, of course, Arnold exacting his revenge.
The plot for this film is weak, and an obviously aging Arnold shows a quiet desperation to retain control of his title as “king of action.” Nearly thirty years since his silver screen premiere, not even the four-time Mr. Olympia is able to remain the king forever.

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines: (2003) is meant to pick up another eight years or so after Terminator 2, no doubt hoping to capture much of the same energy and mystery surrounding Arnold’s Terminator and the entire storyline. The Terminator returns from the future once again to protect the young Joe Conner from assassination by the this-time female robotic counterpart. In the end, the world is plunged into nuclear war, and history will be played out in the same way that the first two films foresaw, yet the Terminator succeeds in his mission, ensuring that Conner survives the war to organize the human rebellion against the machines, just in time to send a robot back in time to protect his mother from being killed by a more youthful version of the Schwarzen-robot. Whew. Talk about writing yourself into a corner… An aging Schwarzenegger has heart surgery prior to filming, obviously making his training more difficult. Ah, the joys of aging.

Yes, I am aware that there are plenty of Arnold films that we have overlooked here, (such as Running Man or Last Action Hero, but this should hopefully cover his greatest and most memorable film roles, and hopefully go to show just a portion of the impact he has had on the late part of the twentieth century both as a film star, and as a popular icon to millions of people world-wide.

T.

T.