So, of the films I mentioned, I feel competent to review the following:
The Condemned: An acceptable media commentary in the form of a "The Greatest Game"-style scenario. The upshot: the way things are going, we'll kill people for entertainment soon. I saw it a long time ago and was struck by the folly of putting two non-actors like Stone Cold Austin and Vinnie Jones in the starring roles. Okay island sets. Best Actor nominee: Rick Hoffman, the only one who gives a performance as a human character.
Idiocracy: Lauded, a little, for its ballsy use of well-known brands without their consent. You could say it is a biting social commentary about the way our society is going, since it depicts a future in which everyone is a complete idiot. You could also say it is not terribly smart or compelling. You could also point out the fact that Luke Wilson and Maya Rudolph have so little chemistry that Mike Judge appears to have despaired of even having them come into physical contact. Or that it's just not too funny. Best Actor nominee: Scarface is not an actor, he is a third-rate rapper, but he's reasonably funny here.
Melinda and Melinda: A Woody Allen-directed meditation on the difference between tragedy and comedy. It's essentially two different movies. The tragedy reminded me of Match Point, the comedy of Hollywood Ending, those being the only other Woody Allen films I can remember seeing. Thing about it was, the acting was almost uniformly awful. Chiwetel Ejiofor was the only one in the entire thing with believable delivery. I liked the concept though. It was rarely laugh-out-loud funny, but often amusing and Will Ferrell's performance got better when he was allowed to improvise. Best Actor nominee: Chiwetel Ejiofor is an excellent actor and definitely the pick from a bad bunch.
National Lampoon's Pledge This!: The worst movie I have ever seen. They just gave up on making it halfway through the script, or that's what it felt like. The ending, though, somehow managed to let the entire production down. In the end, even its star, Paris Hilton, refused to attend the premier. Best actor nominee: Kerri Kenney didn't give a believable performance, but she was the only one who came across as though she had heard of "wit."
National Lampoon's Pucked: After seeing Pledge This!, I was pleasantly surprised by Pucked. It was still terrible, but the acting was decent and the plot was stupid but cogent. Also relatively smut-free for something under the National Lampoon banner. Best actor nominee: Bon Jovi was actually not terrible and managed to be charismatic.
Oh in Ohio: A film about a woman's quest for the orgasm. It didn't work for me because Paul Rudd was far more charismatic than Parker Posey, the actress who played the main character. She came across as insincere, but it was a difficult role. Somewhat off, which probably accounts for its lack of success and acclaim. Best actor nominee: Danny De Vito can be amazingly likable and he was in Oh as the man who finally gives Posey's Priscilla what she's looking for.
As an added bonus:
Southland Tales: is a jumbled mess of a film, too complex and slippery to give a viewer any hope of unraveling it, not helped by the fact that the entire first half the movie can only be explained if you've read the three graphic novels that have been published alongside it (and maybe not even then). It is weirdly ambiguous and tediously long and not helped by the music video for "All these Things that I've Done" by the Killers featuring Justin Timberlake. A "smart" film made by stupid people. The Rock gives an especially pungent performance, although my friend Edwin thinks it may have been intentionally bad. Best actor nominee: Amy Poehler is an excellent improviser and, under such an oppressively terrible script, driving an improvisational wedge in is the best anyone can do.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Barack Obama part 2
This is the second article in a four-part series about Barack Obama's recent visit to Eugene.
After four hours spent waiting in line, my carcass finally passed through the entrance to McArthur Court. Security was what you'd call tight, but it seemed to me that, if there was any serious threat of attack, these town hall meetings would be very dangerous for candidates. I'm sure that the Secret Service got the schematic of Mac Court beforehand and that they were reasonably familiar with it, but anyone who attends Oregon Ducks Basketball games would probably be even more so and perfectly capable of using that knowledge to his advantage, were he interested in sneaking in a gun and shooting Barack Obama.
As it is, though, the Secret Service on the ground seems unaware of this. At one point, my friend Lars took out his camera and photographed the assembled ambulances and fire engines and one Secret Service member in a white shirt and a black bulletproof vest trudged up to him and said, non-negotiably "You're not allowed to take pictures of any of us." Lars, ever non-confrontational, did not ask "why?" but I would have liked to how a photograph of this particular guard, with his long, difficult Polish last name beginning with "T" would jeopardize either Obama or him.
We were then ushered through the airport-esque metal detectors. They differed from the airport inasmuch as they were not accompanied by X-ray machines and administered at a furious pace. Again, an impressive brouhaha, but anyone with sense and timing could have snuck a gun or grenade in amidst the confusion--in a hidden pocket in a backpack, for instance. Lars was detained as they confiscated his laser pointer, though.
I think the purpose of big-time-Charlies at the gate, impressive checkpoint apparati, symbolic confiscations and the like is to reassure people that the candidate is well-protected. And some of the people in there probably cared quite a bit.
As Lars' laser pointer was being confiscated, we lost him in the crowd and the rest of us made our way up to our seats. Oregon is said to have one of the most intimidating atmospheres in college sports and, in this case, I think a great deal has to do with the intimacy and personality of eighty-year-old Mac Court. Of course, like any venue of that age, it is unsafe. One misplaced cigarette would probably kill thousands. But it is also an affecting throwback, especially in the cheap seats, a hundred feet above the creaky maple floor.
I feel compelled to disclose something that probably colored my entire perception of this event from this point forward: I was sitting in maybe the worst seat in the house. I was parallel with the stage that Obama was supposed to be standing on and there was a guy in front of me blocking my view. If I got out of my seat and leaned as far forward as I could, then I could see him. The people to my right and left at least had a better angle on him. I was in the back row. My seat was also uncomfortable. I took to admiring the inside of the arena and the size of the crowd.
The opening speakers were forgettable and patronizing, except for former Gen. Tony McPeak. The two local Obama organizers spoke to us like schoolchildren, as did US Rep. Earl Blumenauer. Gen. McPeak at least gave us some convincing reasons to vote for Obama--he's intelligent, steady, and has integrity. But, overall, none of these people deserved remarking upon.
The crowd was far more interesting. Handicapped spectators sat directly behind the stage in the closest seats. The three tiers were occupied by people like me who had waited in line. I had no idea how the people in the mass of students standing on the floor had gotten those positions, but, looking over the edge of a man-made cliff at the stage with my acrophobia, I envied them. As you do, I spend a good deal of time identifying people I knew among them: Michaela Cordova, Huy Nguyen, Cims Gillespie: that means you.
As Obama's 9p.m. speech grew nearer, volunteers began to hand out signs. In the tier behind where the Senator would station his head, manufactured "Change" signs in red and blue were handed out to his right, and "homemade" ones made of marker and construction paper to his left. The audience directly behind him received one "Change" sign each. A man with cerebral palsy repeatedly asked for one of these as a souvenir and the volunteer distributing them repeatedly denied him before muscling her way past him and out of the arena holding the leftovers, presumably to use when the campaign rolled into Medford the next day. God knows she probably couldn't spare even one.
I began to wish I had signed up to volunteer, more out of the suspicion that it would look good on my resume and impress people than out of any kind of political conviction. Also, I would have gotten a free shirt.
Through the speakers pumped the kind of banal pop music puree you would, I guess, expect from a political rally: country, pop-alternative, "Celebrate" and other disco and funk hits, oldies, a bit of hip-hop, Natasha Bedingfield. Some of the more enthusiastic atendees on the floor and in the lower tiers began to dance to them. The subwoofers, even a hundred feet below, sent an apocalyptic rumbling through the upper tiers, which I guess was the bassline to Earth, Wind & Fire's "Shining Star."
After four hours spent waiting in line, my carcass finally passed through the entrance to McArthur Court. Security was what you'd call tight, but it seemed to me that, if there was any serious threat of attack, these town hall meetings would be very dangerous for candidates. I'm sure that the Secret Service got the schematic of Mac Court beforehand and that they were reasonably familiar with it, but anyone who attends Oregon Ducks Basketball games would probably be even more so and perfectly capable of using that knowledge to his advantage, were he interested in sneaking in a gun and shooting Barack Obama.
As it is, though, the Secret Service on the ground seems unaware of this. At one point, my friend Lars took out his camera and photographed the assembled ambulances and fire engines and one Secret Service member in a white shirt and a black bulletproof vest trudged up to him and said, non-negotiably "You're not allowed to take pictures of any of us." Lars, ever non-confrontational, did not ask "why?" but I would have liked to how a photograph of this particular guard, with his long, difficult Polish last name beginning with "T" would jeopardize either Obama or him.
We were then ushered through the airport-esque metal detectors. They differed from the airport inasmuch as they were not accompanied by X-ray machines and administered at a furious pace. Again, an impressive brouhaha, but anyone with sense and timing could have snuck a gun or grenade in amidst the confusion--in a hidden pocket in a backpack, for instance. Lars was detained as they confiscated his laser pointer, though.
I think the purpose of big-time-Charlies at the gate, impressive checkpoint apparati, symbolic confiscations and the like is to reassure people that the candidate is well-protected. And some of the people in there probably cared quite a bit.
As Lars' laser pointer was being confiscated, we lost him in the crowd and the rest of us made our way up to our seats. Oregon is said to have one of the most intimidating atmospheres in college sports and, in this case, I think a great deal has to do with the intimacy and personality of eighty-year-old Mac Court. Of course, like any venue of that age, it is unsafe. One misplaced cigarette would probably kill thousands. But it is also an affecting throwback, especially in the cheap seats, a hundred feet above the creaky maple floor.
I feel compelled to disclose something that probably colored my entire perception of this event from this point forward: I was sitting in maybe the worst seat in the house. I was parallel with the stage that Obama was supposed to be standing on and there was a guy in front of me blocking my view. If I got out of my seat and leaned as far forward as I could, then I could see him. The people to my right and left at least had a better angle on him. I was in the back row. My seat was also uncomfortable. I took to admiring the inside of the arena and the size of the crowd.
The opening speakers were forgettable and patronizing, except for former Gen. Tony McPeak. The two local Obama organizers spoke to us like schoolchildren, as did US Rep. Earl Blumenauer. Gen. McPeak at least gave us some convincing reasons to vote for Obama--he's intelligent, steady, and has integrity. But, overall, none of these people deserved remarking upon.
The crowd was far more interesting. Handicapped spectators sat directly behind the stage in the closest seats. The three tiers were occupied by people like me who had waited in line. I had no idea how the people in the mass of students standing on the floor had gotten those positions, but, looking over the edge of a man-made cliff at the stage with my acrophobia, I envied them. As you do, I spend a good deal of time identifying people I knew among them: Michaela Cordova, Huy Nguyen, Cims Gillespie: that means you.
As Obama's 9p.m. speech grew nearer, volunteers began to hand out signs. In the tier behind where the Senator would station his head, manufactured "Change" signs in red and blue were handed out to his right, and "homemade" ones made of marker and construction paper to his left. The audience directly behind him received one "Change" sign each. A man with cerebral palsy repeatedly asked for one of these as a souvenir and the volunteer distributing them repeatedly denied him before muscling her way past him and out of the arena holding the leftovers, presumably to use when the campaign rolled into Medford the next day. God knows she probably couldn't spare even one.
I began to wish I had signed up to volunteer, more out of the suspicion that it would look good on my resume and impress people than out of any kind of political conviction. Also, I would have gotten a free shirt.
Through the speakers pumped the kind of banal pop music puree you would, I guess, expect from a political rally: country, pop-alternative, "Celebrate" and other disco and funk hits, oldies, a bit of hip-hop, Natasha Bedingfield. Some of the more enthusiastic atendees on the floor and in the lower tiers began to dance to them. The subwoofers, even a hundred feet below, sent an apocalyptic rumbling through the upper tiers, which I guess was the bassline to Earth, Wind & Fire's "Shining Star."
Your mother and I watched some terrible movies together
Observation 1: It's Spring Break and I don't have a job.
Observation 2: I have nothing to do for the rest of the month and almost none of my friends are in town.
Observation 3: My roommate has a massive stack of bad movies he got for free that aren't doing anything.
Conclusion: I will watch all of the movies and review each on this blog.
Here is a list:
The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (2003, starring Pierre Richard)
Animal 2 (2007, starring Ving Rhames)
Attack Force (2006, starring Steven Segal)
Bandidas (2006, starring Penelope Cruz)
Big Nothing (2006, starring David Schwimmer)
The Breed (2005, starring Michelle Rodriguez)
Cherry Crush (2007, starring Julie Gonzalo)
Color of the Cross (2006, starring Jean Claude Lemarre)
The Condemned (2007, starring Stone Cold Steve Austin)
The Contractor (2007, starring Wesley Snipes)
Death of a President (2006)
Delta Farce (2006, starring Larry the Cable Guy)
The Detonator (2006, starring Wesley Snipes)
DOA: Dead or Alive (2006, starring Jamie Pressly)
Even Money (2005, starring Forrest Whittaker)
The Ex (2007, starring Zach Braff)
Half Past Dead 2 (2007, starring Bill Goldberg)
I am David (2003, starring Jim Caviezel)
Idiocracy (2006, starring Luke Wilson)
Kickin' it Old School (2007, starring Jamie Kennedy)
Kovak Box (2006, starring Timothy Hutton)
Melinda and Melinda (2005, starring Radha Mitchell)
Mrs. Henderson (2006, starring Dame Judy Dench)
National Lampoon's Pledge This! (2004, starring Paris Hilton)
National Lampoon's Pucked (2006, starring John Bon Jovi)
Oh in Ohio (2006, starring Parker Posey)
Recon 2020 (2006, starring Anderson Bradshaw)
Red Line (2007, starring Nathan Phillips)
Rigoletto (2005, starring Giuseppe Verdi)
Ringu (2003, starring Nanako Matsushima)
Roaring Dragon, Bluffing Tiger (2003, starring Anthony Wong)
The Searchers (1956, starring John Wayne)
Second in Command (2006, starring Jean Claude Van Damme)
Shadow Man (2006, starring Steven Segal)
Standing Still (2007, starring James van der Beek)
The TV Set (2007, starring David Duchovny)
Until Death (2007, starring Jean Claude van Damme)
The White Countess (2005, starring Ralph Fiennes)
Who Made the Potatoe Salad (2006, starring Jaleel White)
Winter Passing (2006, starring Will Ferrell)
You Kill Me (2007, starring Ben Kingsley)
That's 41 movies over the next seven days. I don't believe I can do it, I will say that right now. I have already seen, in preliminary research and the like, both National Lampoons, Ringu, Idiocracy, and The Condemned, which means I have 36 movies to see. That's roughly five a day. I'll try my best. I'll probably die.
Observation 2: I have nothing to do for the rest of the month and almost none of my friends are in town.
Observation 3: My roommate has a massive stack of bad movies he got for free that aren't doing anything.
Conclusion: I will watch all of the movies and review each on this blog.
Here is a list:
The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (2003, starring Pierre Richard)
Animal 2 (2007, starring Ving Rhames)
Attack Force (2006, starring Steven Segal)
Bandidas (2006, starring Penelope Cruz)
Big Nothing (2006, starring David Schwimmer)
The Breed (2005, starring Michelle Rodriguez)
Cherry Crush (2007, starring Julie Gonzalo)
Color of the Cross (2006, starring Jean Claude Lemarre)
The Condemned (2007, starring Stone Cold Steve Austin)
The Contractor (2007, starring Wesley Snipes)
Death of a President (2006)
Delta Farce (2006, starring Larry the Cable Guy)
The Detonator (2006, starring Wesley Snipes)
DOA: Dead or Alive (2006, starring Jamie Pressly)
Even Money (2005, starring Forrest Whittaker)
The Ex (2007, starring Zach Braff)
Half Past Dead 2 (2007, starring Bill Goldberg)
I am David (2003, starring Jim Caviezel)
Idiocracy (2006, starring Luke Wilson)
Kickin' it Old School (2007, starring Jamie Kennedy)
Kovak Box (2006, starring Timothy Hutton)
Melinda and Melinda (2005, starring Radha Mitchell)
Mrs. Henderson (2006, starring Dame Judy Dench)
National Lampoon's Pledge This! (2004, starring Paris Hilton)
National Lampoon's Pucked (2006, starring John Bon Jovi)
Oh in Ohio (2006, starring Parker Posey)
Recon 2020 (2006, starring Anderson Bradshaw)
Red Line (2007, starring Nathan Phillips)
Rigoletto (2005, starring Giuseppe Verdi)
Ringu (2003, starring Nanako Matsushima)
Roaring Dragon, Bluffing Tiger (2003, starring Anthony Wong)
The Searchers (1956, starring John Wayne)
Second in Command (2006, starring Jean Claude Van Damme)
Shadow Man (2006, starring Steven Segal)
Standing Still (2007, starring James van der Beek)
The TV Set (2007, starring David Duchovny)
Until Death (2007, starring Jean Claude van Damme)
The White Countess (2005, starring Ralph Fiennes)
Who Made the Potatoe Salad (2006, starring Jaleel White)
Winter Passing (2006, starring Will Ferrell)
You Kill Me (2007, starring Ben Kingsley)
That's 41 movies over the next seven days. I don't believe I can do it, I will say that right now. I have already seen, in preliminary research and the like, both National Lampoons, Ringu, Idiocracy, and The Condemned, which means I have 36 movies to see. That's roughly five a day. I'll try my best. I'll probably die.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Your mother's presidential campaign was a disaster.
Yesterday, I went to a Barack Obama rally. Over the next few days, I will write on that experience. This is Part 1 of a four-part series
Obama's decision to speak in Eugene, Oregon, surprised me. Surely, he had no chance of losing in a town where smoking a joint in the middle of downtown is unlikely to draw a sidelong glance. This suspicion was confirmed for me when, nine hours before Obama's rally was scheduled to begin, I walked past the basketball arena on the University of Oregon campus that would host it and saw two long lines stretching out of the entrance.
At roughly 3:30 p.m., I joined one of those lines with a couple of friends, perhaps a quarter mile of sidewalk away from the entrance. Considering that Obama was showing up at nine, it was likely that almost everyone there, except perhaps for the four guys waving signs with John McCain's name on them a hundred feet in front of me (you never know in this town, though, and I am an idiot), was pretty sure he was voting for Barack Obama. And we weren't even sure we would get in.
MacArthur Court, Oregon's creaking basketball venue, seats 9,000 people and I would have believed anyone who had told me that many or more had gotten there before me. Considering how few people vote in primaries, 9,000 is almost enough to render a visit to a state of Oregon's size redundant for Obama. That doesn't even take into account the people who got there after 3:30, of which there were many, many thousands. So I was even more mystified as to the reasons for the Illinois Senator's visit.
No matter what's at the end of them, waiting in long lines is grim, especially with an overactive, paranoid imagination like mine. The people who moved past me to get to the back of the line seemed to be picturing themselves killing me and taking my place. I could feel hatred emanating from the family behind me and it intensified my own hatred for the screeching high school kids in front of me. I visualized a future in which, just as I was about to enter the arena, someone threw me aside and muscled his way in and started a riot. I was teargassed, brought before a court, and sentenced to jail to spend the rest of my life with my guilt about somehow ruining Obama's change.
My own paranoia aside, though, there was also a hint in the air that something special might be about to happen in Mac Court. It wasn't the muscular, heart-swelling feeling you can probably read about in books on Robert Kennedy or Martin Luther King, Jr. Certainly it was not as strong as the collective buzz at an Oregon Ducks sporting event. But I did have, or think I had, the sense that everyone felt they might be part of some big, historical change for the better.
That feeling was somewhat undercut by the hippie screaming "BY BEING PART OF THE SYSTEM YOU'VE ALREADY LOST" as he hurtled down 15th Avenue on his bicycle and the man walking around the block with an orange sign that read "9/11 was an inside job." As he passed, I said, "probably not, man," to which his only response was to chuckle and smile even more smugly.
As the line started to move, people started coming up to us to demand our attention. A seriously jaded-sounding Hillary Clinton supporter halfheartedly tried to shift some pins onto us. A pungent man asked us to sign a petition to end the war in Iraq that was the object, some time later, of derision for the loud, mannish woman who cut in back of us. Obama volunteers prowled back-and-forth registering voters. One of my friends registered several times. Then there were the men loudly selling Obama merchandise. One peddler had a rack of banal buttons, among whom the "Obama for American Idol" pin stood out for its inanity.
Panic swept the line as we passed the Rec. Center. We were told that coins and backpacks were not allowed, so I scampered into the gym to purchase a bag of Skittles from the snack machine with my friend's change. My friend put my backpack, with the great works of literature I had assembled to read this break, in her locker. I won't see it until the end of spring break.
As we reached the end of Fifteenth Avenue on campus to turn the corner onto University, upon which Mac Court has its address, the imposing, navy blue figure of the Eugene Metro Bomb Squad's paddywagon silhouetted itself against the setting sun. Attached was a safe detonation chamber on wheels, looking like a squat, light blue cement mixer with gleaming silver handles. As a couple of elderly women turned the corner and descended Fifteenth holding aloft a rainbow-striped flag emblazoned with the word "PEACE," I wondered at how many storied missions this bomb unit must have seen in this city.
At one point, as the line finally moved far enough to put me in sight of the entrance, a young boy, probably an eighth or ninth grader, passed us in line. "The candidates suck! Vote for me!" he was yelling. Spying a likely signpost, he grabbed onto it and began to hang off of it. His spindly, bruised legs stood aloft and behind them, people were lined up all along the sidewalk in thick ranks that curved around the block and out of sight.
Obama's decision to speak in Eugene, Oregon, surprised me. Surely, he had no chance of losing in a town where smoking a joint in the middle of downtown is unlikely to draw a sidelong glance. This suspicion was confirmed for me when, nine hours before Obama's rally was scheduled to begin, I walked past the basketball arena on the University of Oregon campus that would host it and saw two long lines stretching out of the entrance.
At roughly 3:30 p.m., I joined one of those lines with a couple of friends, perhaps a quarter mile of sidewalk away from the entrance. Considering that Obama was showing up at nine, it was likely that almost everyone there, except perhaps for the four guys waving signs with John McCain's name on them a hundred feet in front of me (you never know in this town, though, and I am an idiot), was pretty sure he was voting for Barack Obama. And we weren't even sure we would get in.
MacArthur Court, Oregon's creaking basketball venue, seats 9,000 people and I would have believed anyone who had told me that many or more had gotten there before me. Considering how few people vote in primaries, 9,000 is almost enough to render a visit to a state of Oregon's size redundant for Obama. That doesn't even take into account the people who got there after 3:30, of which there were many, many thousands. So I was even more mystified as to the reasons for the Illinois Senator's visit.
No matter what's at the end of them, waiting in long lines is grim, especially with an overactive, paranoid imagination like mine. The people who moved past me to get to the back of the line seemed to be picturing themselves killing me and taking my place. I could feel hatred emanating from the family behind me and it intensified my own hatred for the screeching high school kids in front of me. I visualized a future in which, just as I was about to enter the arena, someone threw me aside and muscled his way in and started a riot. I was teargassed, brought before a court, and sentenced to jail to spend the rest of my life with my guilt about somehow ruining Obama's change.
My own paranoia aside, though, there was also a hint in the air that something special might be about to happen in Mac Court. It wasn't the muscular, heart-swelling feeling you can probably read about in books on Robert Kennedy or Martin Luther King, Jr. Certainly it was not as strong as the collective buzz at an Oregon Ducks sporting event. But I did have, or think I had, the sense that everyone felt they might be part of some big, historical change for the better.
That feeling was somewhat undercut by the hippie screaming "BY BEING PART OF THE SYSTEM YOU'VE ALREADY LOST" as he hurtled down 15th Avenue on his bicycle and the man walking around the block with an orange sign that read "9/11 was an inside job." As he passed, I said, "probably not, man," to which his only response was to chuckle and smile even more smugly.
As the line started to move, people started coming up to us to demand our attention. A seriously jaded-sounding Hillary Clinton supporter halfheartedly tried to shift some pins onto us. A pungent man asked us to sign a petition to end the war in Iraq that was the object, some time later, of derision for the loud, mannish woman who cut in back of us. Obama volunteers prowled back-and-forth registering voters. One of my friends registered several times. Then there were the men loudly selling Obama merchandise. One peddler had a rack of banal buttons, among whom the "Obama for American Idol" pin stood out for its inanity.
Panic swept the line as we passed the Rec. Center. We were told that coins and backpacks were not allowed, so I scampered into the gym to purchase a bag of Skittles from the snack machine with my friend's change. My friend put my backpack, with the great works of literature I had assembled to read this break, in her locker. I won't see it until the end of spring break.
As we reached the end of Fifteenth Avenue on campus to turn the corner onto University, upon which Mac Court has its address, the imposing, navy blue figure of the Eugene Metro Bomb Squad's paddywagon silhouetted itself against the setting sun. Attached was a safe detonation chamber on wheels, looking like a squat, light blue cement mixer with gleaming silver handles. As a couple of elderly women turned the corner and descended Fifteenth holding aloft a rainbow-striped flag emblazoned with the word "PEACE," I wondered at how many storied missions this bomb unit must have seen in this city.
At one point, as the line finally moved far enough to put me in sight of the entrance, a young boy, probably an eighth or ninth grader, passed us in line. "The candidates suck! Vote for me!" he was yelling. Spying a likely signpost, he grabbed onto it and began to hang off of it. His spindly, bruised legs stood aloft and behind them, people were lined up all along the sidewalk in thick ranks that curved around the block and out of sight.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sometimes I talked to your mother about stupid bullshit.
It doesn't just seem crass to say that this blog attempts to keep things high-minded, it is crass. We don't. We're not intelligent (If we were, I would not be posting my first blog in a couple of weeks on exam weekend or writing complete sentences between parentheses). We are not enlightened or spiritually uplifted. We are blatantly crass, boorish idiots. But at least we haven't descended to artistic criticism...yet.
Or have we?
I will today. This surely spells the end of our golden age of originality, but I think we'll try to keep it a.) to one review a week, b.) amusing, and c.) brief (I am an idiot). Did you see what I did in that last sentence (I am an idiot)? No, not the aside in parentheses, the comma between "amusing" and "and" (I am an idiot). That's what's called an "oxford comma," and that's also the title of a track off New York band Vampire Weekend's self-titled debut album (I am an idiot). I imagine I look like a shameless tool for picking that one to review, since it's (I think) all the rage in the "blogosphere," but the record has a quality to it that I like--unambitiousness (I am an idiot). What I like about it is that it is limited, either by design or by dint of trying to be too damn cute (I am an idiot). The songs are superbly crafted musically and their lyrics are extremely clever, but both are quite easily conquered, and therefore the record is a tool of meaning rather than an agent of meaning (I am an idiot).
"Oxford Comma" is a typical, if superb, example (I am extremely stupid). It exemplifies Vampire Weekend's particular timbre--consciously African-sounding pop accented by melodies and vocals you would expect to find in the score for a vaguely sappy old film set in Paris (I am extremely stupid). And lyrically, it is also typical--consciously clever and glaringly subtle (I am extremely stupid). There is a craft and graft aplenty in the business of making it seem as if these meticulous melodies are off-the-cuff and this intricate wordplay seem to arise from casuality (I am extremely stupid). And yet, it's all the more likable for this unforgivable smugness (I am extremely stupid). I mean, Vampire Weekend are essentially the Michael Bolton look-alike that Matt Damon's character asks about apples in Good Will Hunting, smug, well-read Ivy League brats who thinks they are God's gift (I am extremely stupid). But they're smug, Ivy League assholes who said to themselves, hey, if we try, we can make a smart, nice-sounding record, and that's what they did (I am extremely stupid).
The one exception to that overriding rule, sonically, is "A-Punk," the third track and noticeably anomalous in that it is played at the overcaffeinated tempo seemingly demanded by the modern big indie single ("Rough Gem," "Dashboard," "+81") (I am an idiot). It is also the only song on the record with inscrutable vocals (I am an idiot). Not coincidentally, this is the song the band played when they went on David Letterman (I am an idiot). I guess that makes them transparent again--they're gunning for a wider audience (I am an idiot). It'll sell C.D.s, but we shouldn't begrudge it that (I am an idiot). It's not like it's shifting a bad product, after all (I am an idiot).
Vampire Weekend is this guy.
Or have we?
I will today. This surely spells the end of our golden age of originality, but I think we'll try to keep it a.) to one review a week, b.) amusing, and c.) brief (I am an idiot). Did you see what I did in that last sentence (I am an idiot)? No, not the aside in parentheses, the comma between "amusing" and "and" (I am an idiot). That's what's called an "oxford comma," and that's also the title of a track off New York band Vampire Weekend's self-titled debut album (I am an idiot). I imagine I look like a shameless tool for picking that one to review, since it's (I think) all the rage in the "blogosphere," but the record has a quality to it that I like--unambitiousness (I am an idiot). What I like about it is that it is limited, either by design or by dint of trying to be too damn cute (I am an idiot). The songs are superbly crafted musically and their lyrics are extremely clever, but both are quite easily conquered, and therefore the record is a tool of meaning rather than an agent of meaning (I am an idiot).
"Oxford Comma" is a typical, if superb, example (I am extremely stupid). It exemplifies Vampire Weekend's particular timbre--consciously African-sounding pop accented by melodies and vocals you would expect to find in the score for a vaguely sappy old film set in Paris (I am extremely stupid). And lyrically, it is also typical--consciously clever and glaringly subtle (I am extremely stupid). There is a craft and graft aplenty in the business of making it seem as if these meticulous melodies are off-the-cuff and this intricate wordplay seem to arise from casuality (I am extremely stupid). And yet, it's all the more likable for this unforgivable smugness (I am extremely stupid). I mean, Vampire Weekend are essentially the Michael Bolton look-alike that Matt Damon's character asks about apples in Good Will Hunting, smug, well-read Ivy League brats who thinks they are God's gift (I am extremely stupid). But they're smug, Ivy League assholes who said to themselves, hey, if we try, we can make a smart, nice-sounding record, and that's what they did (I am extremely stupid).
The one exception to that overriding rule, sonically, is "A-Punk," the third track and noticeably anomalous in that it is played at the overcaffeinated tempo seemingly demanded by the modern big indie single ("Rough Gem," "Dashboard," "+81") (I am an idiot). It is also the only song on the record with inscrutable vocals (I am an idiot). Not coincidentally, this is the song the band played when they went on David Letterman (I am an idiot). I guess that makes them transparent again--they're gunning for a wider audience (I am an idiot). It'll sell C.D.s, but we shouldn't begrudge it that (I am an idiot). It's not like it's shifting a bad product, after all (I am an idiot).
Vampire Weekend is this guy.
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