Independence Day

In honor of July 4's approach, I post the following, an homage to our founding father.  

This link courtesy of Mr. Josh Dwire.

Media Darling

My ornery contemporary, Mr Tallent, has argued in conversation and in his public forum (linked) that Barack Obama is unjustifiably a media darling.  It is for his enjoyment in particular that I direct your attention to paragraphs three and four.  

  

Videos To Be Explained Later

Pelican

The Psychic Paramount

65 Days of Static 

From the Annals of Long Ago and Yesterday

Before I cut and paste a blog entry from last summer in a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of credibility in the wake of last night's revelry, I'd like to make a heartfelt recommendation: Read Bill Simmons'  Sweet 17.  He successfully captures every aspect of last night perfectly.  I had intended to write about last night's game myself, but, having read his column at work today, any attempt would inevitably end in plagarism; sans his references to his allegiances in other sports.  

  

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 01, 2007

I Have an Announcement  

Before my 26th birthday, before it's too late, I want to announce my official re-interest in the game of professional basketball. It's been a long time. Much has happened since we last slept together. I beat acne. I started shaving. I stopped picking fights. I'm a phenomenal drinker. The list goes on. Without further ado, however, I would like to announce that I am a fan of the Boston Celtics.

This couldn't be more convenient. As I believe I have mentioned previously, I was a Boston Celtic fan until I moved to Chicago via New Jersey just prior to 8th grade. At the time, becoming a Knicks fan was a no-brainer, given the veracity of the Knicks v. Bulls rivalry. Now, years later, I live in Boston. I like Boston. Well, actually, this depends on a vast array of time sensitive, ever changing factors I won't get into right now. But my thirst for argument and controversy is quenched during the baseball season. And besides, I can only take so much. And now, having lived here for four years, I am afforded the opportunity to embrace the Boston Celtics once again. Moreover, I can do so with clear conscience.

During my hiatus from the NBA, I have maintained a quiet admiration for certain aspects of the game, albeit from a safe distance. As evidenced by my inability to play the game with any level of competency worth mentioning, I have never stopped appreciating its requisite athleticism or its beauty when played the right way. It is because of the latter actually, that I've been able to maintain an interest in college basketball despite my alma matter's ongoing futility.

I have always liked Kevin Garnett. His intensity, loyalty, ability, and sense of humor have made this an easy task; from his 12 years in Minnesota, his well-rounded game, to the old Marbury & Garnett ESPN The Magazine "All Nude" ads. I expect more of the same this upcoming season. Only now, I will get to see it in person and on a regular basis.

Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, welcome to Boston.

And here we are 11 months later.....

Garnett game 6 highlights:

And afterwards:

And then:

An Open Letter

Disclaimer: I am about to expound, albeit in limited detail, upon a group of people in the very same manner I denigrate the objects of my ire. However, the purpose of this platform is not to influence public policy or to tell people how they should vote (Obama) or act, but rather, it is designed quite simply to get things off my chest and into the open air of cyberspace. 

To Middle-Aged and Over White Men,

Though the latest media frenzy threatening to engulf the Obama campaign hinges upon the release, or the withholding, of Obama's birth certificate, you are neither justified nor potentially justified in your antiquated linear thinking.   

It has been brought to my attention that, at least in certain circles within your dignified demographic, there is speculation that the motivation behind the withholding of Barrack's birth certificate stems not from something material, say for example a foreign birthplace, but from the potential that his first name might be similarly "muslim", "terrorist", or "un-american" as the two part version to which we've grown accustomed.  I heard some of you earlier today mention the name Muhammad. Gasp.      

Regardless of whether or not this is true, I'm sure that in today's win at all costs political climate the McCain campaign, and many of its supporters, you are all salivating.  Not that you're all necessarily bigots, but because you are pandering to a known constituency within, and of this great nation as a whole.  What could be better than running against a candidate of mixed racial heritage with a islamic name? Running against one with three!

To hold this potential "bombshell" as material in assessing Obama's potential to serve as our next president is nothing short of obscene.  The fact that it can engender such sincere outrage is perhaps most telling.   

Unfortunately, I don't have the time to continue.  This might be a blessing I suppose, because now I'm inclined to end on a positive note....or to at least to begin the end on a positive note.  

Go Celtics!

  These guys, Bird and Ainge, were at the bar the last time I watched the Celtics at DJ's.

Everyone should be rooting for the Celtics.  Even if you're anti-Boston; a Yankee fan, for example, and can't stand Boston sports three seasons out of the year.  If ever there was a vapid cesspool of waste undeserving of hoisting a championship banner or attending a championship parade, it's Los Angeles.  For evidence you need not look any further than the courtside seats at the game tonight.  If that's not enough, flip the channel to E! during a commercial.     

Evil Urges

The long awaited and highly anticipated Evil Urges dropped today.  My Morning Jacket's fifth studio album, the band availed its title track, "Evil Urges", weeks ago for download.  They've since played it, along with "I'm Amazed", on Saturday Night Live. I'll be the first to admit I didn't like "Evil Urges" upon the first handful of listens.  What jumped out at me immediately was Jim James' Prince-ian vocal performance.  Nowhere to be found was his trademark other end of a hallway vocal, an audible gift of a kind and quality unlike any other.  Didn't see this coming...  

I've since come to appreciate and welcome the potential for a sonic departure from MMJ.  Expectations for what My Morning Jacket should sound like have been cast aside.  And why not?  I've never been one to balk at a change in direction based solely upon my own inertia.  To the contrary, I welcome it.  I applaud it.  In an age of formulaic bullshit that begs no further explanation, you can't say enough about a band ready and willing to abandon a commercially proven sound to explore other sounds.  In a way, my eventual assessment of this album will either elevate or diminish my perception of Jim James and Co. as musicians: capable but relegated to a jammy meets psychedelic indie with a southern twang niche, or a true musical talent with diverse chops and a staying power to match.           

Well I just downloaded it.  I'll let you know how it goes.  

Babble

I had originally intended for my previous post to serve as a comprehensive list of my favorite scenes of all time, at least in in terms of dialogue. At some point in the not too distant future I intend to put together a list of my favorite action sequences and comedic scenes. We'll see if that actually happens. But I digress, as with most all-time lists thrown together in one sitting, I inadvertently left many of my favorites out. In the same vein, some of those that made the cut are perhaps more appropriately included in a list of my favorite movies. Regardless, I will now expound upon my abridged and flawed collection of favorites. Hopefully, my sentiments resonate on some level for some of you, and serve as motivation for others to see a movie or two for the first time.

The first scene, from The Princess Bride, is very much at home on this list.  I've seen this movie 5, maybe 10 times.  The interplay between Wallace Shawn's insanity and Cary Elwes deadpan is nothing short of classic.  Plus, how many times have you seen a battle of wits played out to the death?   

Climax: William Shawn: You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha... 

He then falls out of the chair to his apparent demise. 

It's no coincidence Christopher Walken appears twice.  True Romance is an often overlooked Quentin Tarantino flick.  In fact, I likely wouldn't even know it existed if not for a few college movie junky buddies from college.  As with most things Walken, his anomalous cadence and demeanor account for much of the scene's grandeur.

Climax: Walken: Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm Sicilian. My father was the world heavy-weight champion of Sicilian liars. From growing up with him I learned the pantomime. There are seventeen different things a guy can do when he lies to give himself away. A guys got seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen... but, if you know them, like you know your own face, they beat lie detectors all to hell. Now, what we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna show me nothin', but you're tellin me everything. I know you know where they are, so tell me before I do some damage you won't walk away from.

Dennis Hopper: You're Sicilian, huh? 

Walken: Yeah, Sicilian.
Hopper: Ya know, I read a lot. Especially about things... about history. I find that shit fascinating. Here's a fact I don't know whether you know or not. Sicilians were spawned by niggers.
Walken: Come again?
Hopper: It's a fact. Yeah. You see, uh, Sicilians have, uh, black blood pumpin' through their hearts. Hey, no, if eh, if eh, if you don't believe me, uh, you can look it up. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, uh, you see, uh, the Moors conquered Sicily. And the Moors are niggers.
Walken: Yes...
Hopper: So you see, way back then, uh, Sicilians were like, uh, wops from Northern Italy. Ah, they all had blonde hair and blue eyes, but, uh, well, then the Moors moved in there, and uh, well, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with Sicilian women, huh? That they changed the whole bloodline forever. That's why blonde hair and blue eyes became black hair and dark skin. You know, it's absolutely amazing to me to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, that, uh, that Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. Now this...  

Although misguided and ignorant, the opening monologue of The Departed is authentically revelatory of the skewed ideology of a sociopath, while also managing an element of truth.

Climax: Jack Nicholson: I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me. Years ago we had the church. That was only a way of saying - we had each other. The Knights of Columbus were real head-breakers; true guineas. They took over their piece of the city. Twenty years after an Irishman couldn't get a fucking job, we had the presidency. May he rest in peace. That's what the niggers don't realize. If I got one thing against the black chappies, it's this - no one gives it to you. You have to take it.

From the numerous layers of Donnie Darko, this one makes the cut for it's celebration of intelligence and fringe insightfulness, juvenile delinquency, and adolescent male pathology. 

Climax: Jake Gyllenhaal: [shouts] First of all, Papa Smurf didn't create Smurfette. Gargamel did. She was sent in as Gargamel's evil spy with the intention of destroying the Smurf village. But the overwhelming goodness of the Smurf way of life transformed her. And as for the whole gang-bang scenario, it just couldn't happen. Smurfs are asexual. They don't even have... reproductive organs under those little, white pants. It's just so illogical, you know, about being a Smurf. You know, what's the point of living... if you don't have a dick?

Stephen Baldwin has apparently gone completely off the reservation since his appearance in The Usual Suspects.  No, not drugs, just good old fashioned bible thumping lunacy.  But try to cast this notion aside for the purposes of this scene, which includes Benicio Del Toro's barely decipherable mumbling, and Kevin Spacey preamble narrative.        

Climax:  This one's short enough that the whole thing qualifies.  

The Way of The Gun is an awful movie.  Terrible.  Thankfully, this scene graces us at the very beginning... errr... perhaps regrettably, because this scene was just enough to make me watch this entire god-forsaken movie.     

Climax: When I found this scene on  YouTube yesterday, I was delighted to realize the loudmouth is none other than Sara Silverman.  Be that as it may, the climax remains Ryan Phillipe's decision to punch her out instead of her boyfriend, Carrot Top.

I'm a bit of a David Milch junkie; at least his two most recent HBO projects.  Oddly, he used to be a junkie.  He's also a brilliant writer.  To my chagrin, this was one of the best Deadwood clips of Al Swearengen that I could find.  There are countless better.  

Climax:  Once acclimated to the colloquial dialogue undoubtedly colored also by Milch's palette, the entire series was a climax.  I chose this one over the alternatives for its theme of libertarian sovereignty, old west style, in addition to Al's eloquence.  

I was genuinely bummed when Deadwood came to an end, but David Milch's John from Cincinnati capably filled the void, if only for a short time.  You pretty much knew from day 1 this show was too strange and abstract to catch on.  Even for HBO.  Without any context, this might be the most confusing clip of any movie you've ever seen.  Even with it I struggled to make sense out of it.  But therein lies much of the beauty of this show: odd prose and disjointed story lines.    

Climax:  Just watch.  Its 9:30 and I'm getting too tired to sift through this sprawling soliloquy.  

Deerhunter is one wild flick.  When you consider how the movie ends - heck, even without it - this is pretty intense.  

Climax:  It's all there.

This is not the best scene in Rudy.  To the contrary, I found this scene a little awkward the first time I saw it.  Only in hindsight do I appreciate this scene on any level.  But it is one of my favorite movies.

***Note to YouTube:  I couldn't find the scene in Twins where Arnold tells DeVito, "I'm your brotha Vincent!" Or the part of Back to the Future where Doc Brown responds to Marty's characterization of his mother's crush as "heavy" and Doc asks, There's that word again; 'heavy'. Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?" 
Please address this.  

And....SCENE!

Princess Bride


True Romance


The Departed


Donnie Darko


The Usual Suspects


The Way of the Gun


Deadwood


John from Cincinnati


Deerhunter


Rudy

Caitlin and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

***Background.  Important when you consider my sister's boyfriend is slated to fly to the Congo in the next few days to work for this project...and in the context of her story.  

I had the most terrifying experience yesterday since arriving in Costa Rica.  My heart's still pounding.  I have not had an adrenaline rush like that since I don't know when.  Ever maybe.  

It started raining and we lost the monkeys.  In an attempt to find them I was separated from a co-worker. After a little searching, the wind began to pick up and the rain started coming down like nothing I have ever seen. Unbelievable.  I stared at the river, watching it swell right before my eyes.  It started rising at a rate I wouldn't have thought possible if I hadn't been standing there.  At the time, it was reasonably amusing because I was on the right side of the river, and would not need to cross it to get out that night. 

The rain continued like this for maybe a half hour or so before it occurred to me where the monkeys may have headed during a downpour like this.  At this point it was almost 5pm.  I was dumbfounded by the degree to which the trails were flooded.  Wading mid-calf in water on well-maintained trails, newly forged streams rushing around me, I came to a part of a trail where we usually just have to leap from rock to rock in order to cross.  I expected to have to wade fairly deeply, or to jump farther than usual in order to get across, but I was completely stunned to find that the small stream was now the kind of white water you'd see in the movies. Absolutely NO WAY I could cross without risking life and limb. With the water moving that fast and hard, there was no doubt I would have been overtaken and be swept down to the actual river, smashing body parts on large sharp rocks along the way.  Reasonably worried, I ran upstream to a spot where we cross often....but again, completely impassible....immanent death. 

I was actually stuck out there.  My only option was to head up to the source of the stream and go over the top of it.  I had been there once before, but finding it now in the dark, torrential rain posed a new challenge.   I made it, but it was now a massive impassible waterfall.  I went upstream even further and found a place where I could wade waist deep and hold onto tree limbs overhead in order to avoid being swept away.  Relieved the worst was behind me, I'd be able to follow a fence I know of out to the dirt road where my co-worker was waiting for me in the car.  I ended up encountering about 5 more rushing streams that I had to cross, trying desperately not to be swept away. To my delight, I did get swept in during one of these crossings and had to grab at reeds in order to pull myself out and onto a rock.  After maneuvering around in 50 directions, trying to circumnavigate dangerous currents, I had no idea where I was.  Pulled out the map I haven't used in about 8 months, deciding to head west until I hit the dirt road. It being pretty dark, I was a bit panic stricken.  Compass in hand, I ran, crashing through endless acacia forest - trees lined with jagged bark with the biting/stinging ants that patrol them - knee deep in running water.  I glanced at my compass every minute or so to make sure I was still going west and as fast as possible.  Just when things started looking a little too familiar I realized I had come to a stream I had already crossed.  Desperate, I pulled out the compass again.  It was just spinning in circles, soaking wet and completely fucked.  No way to tell how long it'd been leading me in the wrong direction.  Dark now, with an appropriate thunder and lighting soundtrack, I was completely lost.  And alone.  Did I mention that?  My coworker had been safely on the other side of that original stream and was already in the car.  Out of pure luck I had the project cell phone on me to call my boyfriend before he left for the airport.  Even more amazing, I got service and was able to call the house to explain my current circumstances.  My boss drove up and down the dirt road, laying on the car horn in the hopes that I was within earshot....but I could hear nothing except the rain, thunder, and my own heart pounding in my ears.  I just kept running in what I hoped was the same direction, thinking that was my best bet for getting to somewhere.  

Needless to say, I eventually got out. My legs  are all cut up from storming through bromeliads (cactus plants that grow in thick endless patches).  Never felt it before I got home because of the adrenaline and an intense focus on getting the hell out of there.  I wonder if I was more stressed about being lost because of the news about the missing researcher in the Congo? Being alone and lost in Lomas was scary enough. I can't imagine that poor girl in the Congo.