Someone(s) should be fired

Who picks the music that plays during end credits? Whomever it is, in many cases, s/he is doing an abominable job. End credit music should be fun but not memorable, or jumpy and fresh enough to get you to sit through and actually enjoy some extra clips that they have tacked on to get you to acknowledge the otherwise never-watched list of people who don’t matter…to you.

So what is Melissa Etheridge doing at the end of “An Inconvenient Truth”? Or Bryan Adams in “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves”? The Melissa Etheridge song has a message, sure, but it’s hokie dyke rock at the end of a film intended to reach and sober a broad audience. Give me a break. It made me laugh at the end of a most unlaughable two hours. Shameful.

And Bryan Adams? Stay within the era kids! Yes, it’s a love story that ends with a marriage and its release-date was at the height of BA’s reign in soft rock. The film, though, did an otherwise admirable job of maintaining a serious and dated tone, dated in the early 19 1190’s . Again, shameful.

Perhaps this is what W. means about history being the ultimate judge: relying on pop music is a great misstep, as what is pop today will inevitably NOT be tomorrow. Yes, I’m sure that’s it.

I am reaching for a glass

I am back in Maryland and have many back-logged mental blog posts that I could not be bothered to write while I was on a Costa Rican beach.

This, however, is not one of those. This is about American cinema, specifically two somewhat recent movie-going ventures: ‘Charlie Wilson’s War’ and the new ‘National Treasure’ movie whose subheading I did not manage to catch as that is how much it matters.

First, Charlie Wilson. This man makes me want to be in politics. Much like ‘Bad Santa’, the film makes alcoholism attractive again, something to aspire to, even. They just make it look so easy…the magic of film. Otherwise, there is little to say about it. It was charming and timely and all those nice things, but mostly it made me want to be a booze hound. Also, I went with my family on Christmas day which warrants a bit of commentary.

As is always the case, the Jews of Bethesda were out in full force. Quite a lot of Jew-fros in pea coats talking about our traditions of Chinese food on that most Hallmark, I mean holy, of days. I have also recently discovered, however, that Christmas movies are not just for Jews anymore. As one gentile friend explained it to me, their family, by some holy writ, has to spend the entire day together. Well, after the morning gifting festivities expire, they too tire of simply staring at each other, so they take an excursion to stare at something else for a while. The movies are perfect: a family can see one together, stay together the whole day without drawing blood, and have something to talk about over dinner.

Unless they saw National Treasure 2, in which case they will have gone home, gone straight for the bottle, and either drawn blood before dinner or passed out and skipped it entirely.

I have a theory as to why it was SO bad, and it’s not necessarily the writers’ fault. This was the first PG movie I had seen since Home Alone, and I think that the genre of PG movies died with that film. Think about it…G-rated movies are still incredible, but they are generally animated and full of hilarious innuendo that is meant to go over the kids’ heads and reach a larger, parental audience. Then there is PG-13, the live-action-practically-anything-goes-but-you-can-only-say-”fuck”-once-rating. Brilliant teen and light adventure movies (including, I believe, National Treasure 1) end up PG-13. The theory goes, then, that National Treasure 2 was written as a PG movie, as a piece of throwaway crap that couldn’t do or say anything exciting in spite of the hot actress and legacy of a good-bad-movie left by the first film.

That being said, the kids in the audience liked it. Perhaps my standards for bad movies are too high (or is it low?). The best I have seen in that category lately is “Gray Matters”. It really warrants its own post but this one is already far too long so don’t ask, just rent. At the very least, here is the IMDB link.

perspective

BBC America, one of the 500 T.V. stations that I am privy to in my parents’ basement, had a spot about the U.S. elections a few nights ago. At first, it was amusing to watch the Brit correspondent in East L.A., translating his own Spanish for the viewers (not half bad, I must say). Then he went to Phoenix, to an anti-McCain radio show on which a woman called in to say this:

“He’s lying. He’s not going to protect the borders. He’s against torture. I’m pro-torture…”

Hmm, where to start? For one thing, I think it is great that the “torture debate” has finally come down to the level of the people. It is useful, and in many cases sobering, to hear what Americans have to say on the issues of torture as exercised by the federal government and its agencies. John McCain brings a unique perspective to the conversation as a former POW and victim of torture, bringing the discussion out of the abstract, out of the utilitarian thought experiments about pulling a switch and/or pushing someone off a bridge in order to save ten other lives. In my humble opinion, it is absurd, illogical, irrational, immoral (choose which sign works best for you) to contradict John McCain on the topic of torture. If torture is to be considered a moral issue (and some — fascists — might argue that it should not, but shouldn’t all legal matters begin with morality?), then how better to judge it than from a lived experience, from the closest possible perspective?

Basically, that lady blew me away. If you want to argue for torture do it against someone who hasn’t been there. Otherwise, you just sound ignorant.

Sorry Sean, that is isn’t very sarcastic, crass, or witty.

My future

I recently had the pleasure of lunching with the grandparents of a very close friend of mine. I have met these folks before, the last many Thanksgivings, having the requisite conversations before I get too drunk on wine and turkey and chocolate cake to speak with anyone. Not that we had much to talk about before all of this happens.

Last week in New Jersey, of course they live in a retirement community in New Jersey, Steven and I sat down for some awkward cold cuts (whose grandparents, who complain that Steven’s girlfriend isn’t Jewish, serve ham? Bad sign number two, behind New Jersey) and I am forced to deflect questions about “my future”. What did I study? What am I going to do with it, “career-wise”? I do my best to explain the next year or so of my life which will not be “career-oriented”, and compliment Florence on the cole slaw.

A few days later, Steven gives me the full debrief on our visit. The grandparents had spoken with Steven’s father, told him how nice it was to see Steven, how tragic it is that he is always going off somewhere and not spending more time with them, how “interesting” his art is, that they have hopes for his “career”, and how Florence is not worried about my lack of professional direction as, drum roll please, I will just “be somebody’s wife“.

Steven told me this as we were strolling by the Congressional office buildings and I had to sit down on the ledge to take it all in. The gasps and screeches of laughter only added to our novelty on the block. “Who says that?” I asked rhetorically. Florence. In Florence’s world, this is my option, my destiny.

Any takers?

I’m not quite over this yet. More to come on wifery.

“crack cream”

No, it’s not what you think. It’s this treat called Tati, and there’s crack in it. And what I have to say about it is something akin to Mike Myer’s rant (as his Scottish father) in “So I Married an Axe Murderer” about the owner of Kentucky Fried Chicken who he simply refers to as, “the Colonel”. Much like the Colonel, who “puts an addictive chemical in his chicken to make you crave it fortnightly!”, the makers of Tati put what can only be crack in this delicious creation, making us crave it all day everyday.

Tati is, essentially, an ice cream sandwich — but oh how it’s so much more! It is vanilla ice cream, very creamy, very melty, sandwiched between two graham crackery cookies that taste like they have been fried in honey. Between the cookies and the ice cream is a subtle layer of chocolate sauce, unhardened. The creation is divine. It comes in this adorablely wasteful plastic tub with a yellow lid and a little button on the bottom which you can push to expel the cookie — you know, so it feels like you are working for your treat. All of this you do immediately upon exiting the store, actually in the doorway next to the trash can. The entire thing takes less than two minutes to consume, and by that point the cookies have completely softened into the ice cream, and into your belly.

And then you want another one. Immediately. But you don’t get one because you know it’s crack and it’s not good for you. You already had your fix for the day and you don’t want it to get out of control. But then you go into withdrawal, and the cycle begins again when you “break down” and buy one the next day.

Tessa and I had a most intellectual conversation about crack creme today:

Me: I think they would be more satisfying if the cookie were harder. The whole thing wouldn’t melt so fast.

Tessa: I think it would be more satisfying if there weren’t crack in it.

As always, she proves the wiser.

Brother that movie reference was for you. Now go cry yourself to sleep on your giant pillow.

Espiritu

I’m fairly convinced that “Spirit” is the quintessential American movie (not to be confused with a ‘film’ as Americans, Disney actually, doesn’t make films, they make blown up TV, i.e. movies).  Reasons why:

1. The main character is a horse. What screams the American dream more than a ‘wild’ animal without ties of any kind who doesn’t have to talk and has a huge dick (no boogie nights action but its implied, I mean its a horse).

2. There is no dialogue from the main character but a husky male voiceover kindly relays to us how he is feeling. Read: men don’t have to communicate, everyone just magically knows what is going on. That might be nice, eh?

3. The girl horse has long eyelashes and a feather in her mane. Easy social cues make life, well, easier.

4. The entire movie is an obsene glorification of the American west. Every other scene is in Monument Valley, then they magically end up in a pine forest. Teleportation is the only explanation, and what does every American want more than to teleport.  I mean, everything’s just so far away!

5. The horses can run all day and never tire. Stamina. Enough said.

6. Spirit (the title character) jumps across an impossibly wide canyon, satisfying both the need to overcome insurmountable obstacles and to be Evil Knievil.

7. I’m fairly sure the music was written by Bruce Springsteen.

Need I say more?

In other news, the adage of the day is “free drinks do not equal a good time”.  A lesson for everyone.

you need this

Okay, everyone go to the grocery store to the home cleaning supplies aisle and look for “Wypex”: it’s this blue, solid dish detergent and while I have no idea about its antibacterial qualities, the suds are fucking magic.

“No contest”

While I was explaining ultimate frisbee to a very skeptical Israeli today (he called it “nerd square” which has to stick somewhere for something: Whit, you’re in charge of making up a game in time for New Years), I made a strange connection with something Baudrillard wrote about in “America”. He talks about how America, specifically cities in California like L.A. and Santa Barbara, are achieved utopias. I have decided that this is why Santa Barbara ultimate players are such assholes. They are “living the dream”, so to speak, and because their home and their lives are such perfection attained, their ultimate must be as well. Hence them always being right. About everything. Even when they clearly stepped into me and I was giving them ample space to pivot. Totally my fault. I will never contest a Santa Barbara call again. Instead I will say, “I apologize for impeding your utopic vision achieved.” I implore everyone to do the same and see who gets slapped first.

dashing through the snow?

So it’s the season. It’s unavoidable. Especially because I decided to go to a Catholic country. Of all the things to consider while choosing a destination and travelling, I never suspected that la Navidad would be such an integral part of the experience. As one might expect, people here love Christmas, especially the kids. Last week I was living with a family with three little girls who have the longest holiday break imaginable, giving them nothing better to do than hang around the house singing Christmas carols and watching “Espiritu” (’Spirit’, the incredible Disney movie that warrants its own post).

The carols, though, there is something so troubling about hearing Christmas carols here and it’s not the spanish translations. Actually, the fact that they are in spanish make them infinitely more bearable than the inundation that I would be receiving were I still in the U.S. What has been bothering me, or at least making me shake my head at the world a bit, is that in this tropical country Christmas is still associated with, well, “dashing through the snow”. What’s up with that? This just screams globalization in all its great irony (perhaps only the Alanis Morrisette variety). Were these songs written in Hollywood? Does it prove the commercialization of the holiday to such an extent that it doesn’t even have to make sense, environmentally?

I don’t know, this is half rant half giggle for me. What I really want to hear is a song about Santa on a beach…in Oklahoma. Is it too soon after the storm for that one? My apologies, Oklahoma. Too easy.

Why horses?

A few days ago Tessa and I participated in what can only be categorized as the most overt of tourist activities: a horseback ride.  True, a group of tall white women as we five riders were would stick out in any crowd, especially here.  One can only imagine the magnified effect of mounting an animal, one that makes us both taller, and more foreign.

 Also, riding is difficult.  Most people I know have little to no experience on a horse, including everyone I was riding with save our guide.  I hadn’t ridden in about five years, and while there was a time when I was very comfortable in a saddle, that time was not yesterday, and I was a bit afraid of losing my seat a few times.  So the question remains, why is horseback riding such a ubiquitous tourist activity?  Is it really so romantic that people just don’t realize what they’re getting into, the days of soreness not included, and touring companies happen to be well-attuned to this part of the anglo psyche?  It’s just so hoity toity that we are too embarrassed to do it in our regular lives but we feel some license in a foreign place so we excuse ourselves of our ridiculous impulses (this, I suspect, is the reason for a large part of the embarrassing or regretful impressions that foreigners make). 

All of that being said, of course we had a great time.  Sugar cane and coffee fields, vistas of shadowed valleys, a roaring waterfall, near-catastrophic galloping spurts, and a really sore ass.  Love tourism.