America’s Gas Leak Season

These are surreal times.

 

NBC News et al

Not a real link. Just poor production quality.

Shouldn’t this be more shocking?

What expectations should we have for the nation that invented reality TV when it comes to electing a leader? I guess I thought it was higher  than this. But I get it. Our love for the genre intensified when it got more real and more insane. And the genre spilled into every aspect of our lives, partially through the insipid underground of the internet, liberally democratizing celebrity to any voice loud enough to shatter the white noise fog of everyone else. Reality became “to the loudest goes the spoils, and here we sit at the inevitable conclusion. A cultish personality rises to power by making memes daily, captivating the support of a nation. It was only a matter of time.

This makes not knowing what Aleppo is seem like a total non-issue, right? If you asked him what Allepo was, he would just make something up. He’d start by saying a lot of vague compliments about it: Very big thing, we’re going to very big things. And then, as the first of millions, he would be sold on his own fabrication. We’re going to work well with Aleppo, the last administration didn’t work so well with Aleppo. That’s made things harder, but things are progressing, things are progressing. Now totally convinced that he knows what Aleppo is he’d continue through the press conference with a head of steam after crushing that last question.

We’ve been smoking cigarettes in the tanning booth for a decade, should we really be this shocked we’re feeling a lump? We just wanted to make entertainment more and more accessible, more and more a bigger part of our life. And we have arrived. This guy is a riot. It’s the apex of dark humor.  If we make it out of this era, I think we’re going to remember it fondly. The environment will be irreparably destroyed, Russia will have timeshares in the white house, and the middle class will be broken over the knee of Bane, but let’s not overlook how absurd reality gets to be for oh my god four more years.

 

 

So Bad: A review of The Raven.

John Cusack’s leading role in the Edgar Allen Poe action thriller, The Raven, is the most obviously overmatched casting call ever seen in a major Hollywood film. While one cannot entirely place the fault of this film on Cusack’s shoulders, he is partially responsible. This is a rare disaster that started with the producer, trickled down to the writer, and enlisted the director all actively entombing themselves on a sinking ship, together.

Edgar Allen Poe is possible America’s most mentally unattractive writing icon: a list which includes more hateful alcoholics than productive citizens, yielding a man so twisted by death, scowling with a, huge, balding head, yet willingly revived as a charming anti-detective, solving mysteries a step ahead of the police.

I though John Cusack was kind-of-the-man before I saw this movie. He starred in High Fidelity, held that boom box up in that movie, I rooted for him in America’s Sweethearts. He seemed like a pretty rad, possibly depressed, aging every-man.

After watching Cusack play this charming detective with (I swear to god) a pet raccoon and solve murder-mysteries based on his stories, that credibility dissolved with unseen immediacy.

In one scene, Edgar Allen Poe puts a cowl on, because he’s walking undetected amongst the wealthy via a costume ball plot device, never seen that before, and right after he puts on the mask, prepared to mingle he says, “Nevermore”. Like the raven. In his poem. So that’s how he got the idea.

Then the movie makes you go through the grim catalog of murders. A victim: how did I get here? The killer: masked, and aurrounded in darkness (not enough darkness). The torture device – a swinging pendulum with convoluted machinery of gears and bolts inevitably ticking towards striking distance, unfettered by the pleas and screams of the fat maybe-banker(?) bound to his grizzly deathbed. A surprising amount of murder footage. And then a scene with the same detective in the same police station asking Is this also one of your stories, Poe. And then Cusack Yes, The Pit and the Pendulum! I wonder if I would have liked this movie in 8^th grade. That was an era where I really liked to show off the fact that I knew a lot of names of books.

The police need an expert on the writings influencing these theatrical crimes, so who better than Cusack’s Poe to be wrestled away from his nights of tortuous sleep and days as a plucky wordsmith to help catch the killer.

There is also a Judge Reinhold character, a sidekick with a burgeoning relationship both in his experience with a job he’s just starting to understand; and as a partner to an Eddie Murphian rule-breaker but gold hearted superstar (Cusack… I think).

Cusack very nearly resembles how Nicholas Cage must act in real life. An intriguing, kind of sleazy man, who knows he’s famous, and has a nice smile, so girls are always going to throw him some. That is the decision this film decided to make on its key character – who by the way – is also Edgar Allen Poe.

The amount of horrible dialogue you have to watch leading up to Poe and the Reinhold character figuring one  murder has to do with Cask of Amontillado is breath-taking. Did you ever write about a sailor? No, not a sailor. Well he’s on a boat. A boat you say… what’s the boats name? Fortunato, why? Eureka! That’s the first line in a quite well-known short story entitled shootmenow.

The murderer is his type-setter, I guess. I mean he claims to be. He may have been a relevant character at some junction of the film, but by the time this is revealed he could just have of been a count, or a girlfriend’s ex, or a rival writer. A type-setter helps make books, if you’re wondering. As the murderer is victoriously taunting over his perfect crime, he asks Poe if he’s ever been to France. Poe, drowsy from some poisonous concoction, mumbles something. The type-setter mentions a young writer named Jules Verne, reminds me a lot of you, he says. Who are they pandering to by name-dropping the Intro to Lit reading list? Me in eight grade and absolutely no one else. Which makes me think that think that this movie was directed to impress me in 8th grade and a wistful band of would be coffee-drinking English majors (pre-hipsters? Does this generation have  pre-hipsters?), because only would that precise human archetype fantasize about the Jules Verne-based-murders inevitably amounting to a series of culturally validated Saw movies.

Louie is Back, Brand is Bleak.

FX has sentenced Russell Brand’s one-man show to a quick death.

Premiering the show after the highly acclaimed, insanely popular season 3 premier of Louie gives it little room for error. Louie CK is methodical and insightful and applies masterful attention to detail. His content is inseparable from human life, human sadness and that stuff is truly funny in a way that Saturday Night Live, Always Sunny in Philadelphia, or Will Ferrell movies cannot be (and I mostly enjoy those things). Louie’s mainstream acceptance  brings a slight redemption to the status of being a part of the American audience. That isn’t a slap of political detest. Or, I don’t know, maybe it is.

Brand plays the confused critic lost in the complex silliness of American culture. Which is solid, as far as comedic shticks go. He is an energetic, silly fire starter who addresses  native policies as if it’s his first look at an alien absurdity. While Russell Brand isn’t terribly unfunny, and is occasionally bright – that glimmer of raunchy-accent-driven outsider observation is exposed,   contrived and tacky as body glitter, under the magnifying glass of a Louie-fed audience.  CK is driving that lowest-common-denominator demographic out of the room, and the viewers left with Brand-X are going to be settling.

Louie’s show continues to be a human drama; a character-driven insight to the dregs of flabby sorrow, red-haired male pattern baldness, the flaccid disgusting aging that Louie half smirks at. He’s vulnerable to the dense fog of human condition. Like Knut Hamsen’s Hunger, we’re drawn to a mind oppressed by the common cruelties of the universe.

Directly following that is Russell Brand’s  blunt resolution to the bet: “You can’t entertain an audience for 30 minutes on a weekly basis”. Being radical, making political points, mixing it up with the audience, bringing on a Harvard grad to play Andy Richter to his loose, animated O’Brien. Despite being occasionally funny, his self-aggrandizing on-stage comedy (half)hour performance lacks any version of a soul. After Louie kicks in the mirrors, and blows away the smoke of the formative differences, we’re left with snark and guitar rifts.

Americans have long known and humiliated their own government’s short-comings to the point of bumper stickers. Louie brings that blade right to the heart and the raw exposure feels new. As a people we’ve outgrown the grand commentary. I want to hear one man’s story, and relate to the human fears, insecurities, and dramas. And I want to laugh about it.

The Loser Report

Terry Collins’s old-school approach catalyzed a surprising Mets team towards contention in a year abandoned before it began. He won a shouting match with David Wright,sitting him to avoid a revenge HPB  in Milwaukee. He tentatively watched, allowing Santana to throw an exceedingly high pitch count to secure the first ever Mets no-hitter – an uplifting moment for fans and teammates. Even getting the last word in that cross-town rivalry campaign ad for Dunkin Donuts. “Rather play in Queens”.  Dickey’s god-sent season and Santana’s recovery were out of his hands, but this team is achy all over. Bad bullpen. Fielding errors and injuries aplenty. And a reprehensibly unproductive season from would-be cleanup hitter Ike Davis. He’s gotten production with a team of triple-A gamers and replacements’ replacements and kept them afloat in a division where their talent ranks dead last.

The Mets have a very Hosiers feel about them. Back to basics, no glamor. Just dirty jerseys sliding into home, hysterical chicken in the clubhouse antics, a silly-pitch savant, a back-from-the-dead veteran, bunch of goof-ball cast-offs, getting humbled, learnin’ lessons and a no-nonsense manager. I want to cast this movie so bad (and it starts with Jeff Bridges as RA Dickey).

And now, after losing four straight, the second such streak of the season, Collins calls his team out. Called out Duda’s sloppy base-running, Ike’s ejection, the fielding, the hitting, the overall miasma of malaise stymieing the team. Then directly approaching an abundance of excuses only to diffuse them. That’s how leaders do. Now it’s time for the Mets to answer the call, and show the coach they’re lucky to have that they deserve to play for him.

And the across town report has everything happy in Yankee land. Another easy win versus a forgettable team. The highlight being  a spectacular non-catch misdiagnosed as an out, getting the Bombers out of some lukewarm water. Post-game interview Joe Giradi philibusts the topic rambling together “I didn’t see the tape” and other un-pin-downable sloganism. That team is prepared for the trial. You know how Collins would have responded to the question? “Ref missed the call. Wise sold the catch. That’s baseball.”

No.

Nonsense.

Coaching.

Yes, the Yankees stomped the Mets this year. 5-1 in total. They slammed Santana after his no-hitter. They hit Dickey after his back-to-back one-hitters. Stole quite a bit of shine. But compare the rosters. It’s Cano and Jeter vs Quintanilla and Valdespin up and down the line-up. That’s insurmountable. When the Yankees are hitting, it’s like looking through your rich neighbor’s window on Christmas. Good news on Good Street, everything is going well for the team full of All-Stars.

In other sports that are killing me: Amare Stoudemire is clearly frustrated while desperately trying to cope with being an aging, ailing player on a team that can’t use him anymore. His failure to mesh with super-star usurper and crowned franchise savior Carmelo Anthony is only compounded by Stod’s shaky knees and nagging back.

He is spending this week apologizing for using a gay slur on twitter. This is after he punched the fire extinguisher and missed meaningful playoff minutes. Which happened right after returning from injury. Which happened a season after missing play-off time, hurting his back doing a trick-dunk.

To make it worse, Carmelo Anthony is doing the most baller thing I’ve ever seen:

Posing at the unveiling of his own Wax Statue!

Then he spends the rest of the day Scooby-Dooing guests at Madame Tussaud’s. Imagine being stressed about your water soluble fame in a New York penthouse, ignoring your butler’s distressed advice to leave the TV off and seeing this. Amare Stoudemire might be the poster boy of the money can’t buy happiness movement.

And for the Jets, a team just recently embarrassed by Rex Ryan bolstering his comedy career in an Adam Sandler movie: Bart Scott mentions that he has an opinion on something. A declaration by Bart Scott in support of the pro-bowl, claims “it’s part of the fabric of football“. The event has been ignored by fans and players over the last couple years leaving 5th and 6th choice QBs opportunities to take the trip. Maybe it’s that his 2006 invite is Scott’s only evidence of his once renown bad-boy persona, before he was unveiled as a mediocre thug lucky to play beside Ray Lewis, and the slow soft interior of a Jets defense. A unit that while statistically sound doesn’t seem to ever make a big play when they need it, nor capable of making that fourth quarter stop. Scott’s got bigger issues than a Pro-Bowl he’ll never return to. Guy needs to look towards the leaders on this team and ask himself “Is Rob Schneider filming anything”?

Three Trades for a Better Summer

I wasn’t expecting for this to finally be the Summer of Redman; or for a sudden appreciation of The Wrens to overtake Middle America; but amongst the annual customs of summer radio, certain standards have been significantly lowered. While classic archetypes are still represented by token flag bearers, I’d be far happier with relics of the past.

#1 Gotye – Somebody that I Used to Know.

This song, like all indie songs that breakthrough to mainstream radio, was palatable at first. The Glockenspiel was cute. The male-female vocals trading parallel verses gave it almost a Neko/AC exchange. It’s faux-ephemeral chorus is heightened in the facebook universe, brimming with glances at the somebodies I used to know.

One week passed and I had an irreconcilable disdain for this song. The way it tip-toes in on whispers and xylophone. The lifeless voice inflating instead of growing passionate. The droning wail tacked to the end of every single line. When this song isn’t outright bad, it’s boring. These are the cringe-worthy lyrics of  middle school breakup poetry. Someone defriended our vocalist after the relationship went south. His retaliation was not a proud moment.

Lyrics that embarrassed me just by listening to them:

• “Like when you said you felt so happy you could die”
• “Well, you said that we could still be friends”
•  “You didn’t have to stoop so low/ Have your friends collect your records and then change your number”
• and finally, “Now I know we were nothing”

That list could have been much longer. I don’t feel bad for Gotye because Kimbra won’t talk to him. I feel bad for him because even after high school, he’ll never forget writing this.

The Replacement: Hey There, Delilah – Plain White T’s.

Strip down the quirky beats for guitar and a little violin. Enter: one adorably hopeful ballad to a girlfriend. Instead of force-feeding harsh, specific, generic details, The T’s introduce a sincere faith in their collective high-school sweetheart. Showing vs. Telling 101.  How many phone calls went unanswered while Delilah was out with new friends? A whole bunch. I dread the cuckoldry that haphazardly flung this unplayed cassette from the nightstand. I bet she doesn’t even break the news to him, instead just growing distant. Then he tries to surprise her with a romantic visit, and Brad greets him at the door, “Hey, babe. This guy says he knows you.”

Just listen to the tape Delilah!

He’d walk to you if he had no other way!

#2 Carly Rae Jepsen – Call Me Maybe

Carly seems very young in the beginning of this song. She’s throwing pennies into wells and making wishes. Moments later we’re in a world of ripped jeans and hot night wind. Potential foreshadowing for a sudden cocaine and DUI whirlwind tour of California? Too soon to say, the Hollywood maturation process is an unpredictable beast.

The under aged girl dance track has become the cornerstone of Summer radio, so while I don’t hate this track an upgrade is in order.

The Replacement: Party in the USA – Miley Cyrus.

Miley is nervous and unsure if she’s going to fit in. But you’d never know it from this beat. Whatever instrument is strumming like it’s remixed is just perfect. Before the chorus comes in there’s this UFO-landing-sound crafted to compliment the unique pitch of Miley’s voice. Also the back-up singers who follow the “Nodding my head like yeah” are the uncredited heroes here.

In all fairness, both of these songs descend into poorly chosen talk-sing breakdowns, but Jepsen’s rushed whispers are her only non-repeating lines. Miley scaffolds her chorus with legitimate narrative.

And the Yeaa-e-ah-e-ah runs unopposed, because Carley choose to leave out a signature sound effect.

#3 All the Drake songs.

I’m  unsatisfied in the post-Jadakiss, post-TI hip hop biodome. Degrassi’s own Jimmy Brooks spearheads a crusade for softer hip-hop.  There is a linear spectrum where rappers and their works find a place. On one pole there is the very unmusical, spoken rhymes over beat. On the other end is R and B singing. A legion of J Coles and Omarions and Tre Songzes have saturated the market; hissing lullabies of dark nightclubs and sultry encounters. The scales have become so intensely tipped towards Usher that a Rick Ross sized counterbalanced, who’s juxtaposition goes as far as simply repeating “I’m selling crack right off the iPhone” thrives wildly as hip-hop’s only graduate from the school of Suge Knight. Between these divergent ends is a great barren desert.

No Get By. No Rubberband Man. No Aw Naww.

So, I do have an agenda here. And it’s for the reinstatement of Summer 2005 rules – All Dipset. All the time. Specifically the reign of Juelz Santana. If you haven’t heard Santana’s masterpiece What the Game’s Been Missing then you’re barometer needs recalibration to the exact tempo of track 16: I Am Crack.

Play me out this joint, Juelz.

Netflix Gold: Cool as Ice

Foreword:  I planned on installing a segment to review Netflix movies. I quickly looked to rewatch Cool as Ice, a personal favorite, and found it had been removed. To make sure an entire generation would have access to this film, I will recite it from memory.

Our tale starts in a dark nightclub. Naomi Campbell is on the center stage crooning to an audience of an unseen Vanilla Ice.

After the second verse, we see our hero wandering down a dimly lit corridor ignoring the ballad, grimace ripe with swagger. Instantly his personal space gets invaded by a beautiful blonde in a leather jacket. Ice takes her number, unfazed and keeps going. She’s left behind biting her lip and twisting her toe into the ground in a visible display of lust.

Vanilla Ice is always dressed as though he just emerged from a sci-fi future of his own design. He has two different patterns shaved into the back of his hair: on the left the etchings are reminiscent of a brick wall, the right displays two zig-zagging lazer beams. The only thing separating them is a rat-tail. None of that is made up.

Sometimes he’s got to hide the ‘cut to remain anonymous. Fortunately he has a snap-back black cap adorned by a metallurgist’s finest work in both it’s steel brim and avant guarde tri-force studded-on plate. Couple this with some golden steam-punk frames and he’s just one of the guys.

Hold up, playa.

If you get that look from Vanilla Ice, get off the dance-floor immediately. Failure to do so will result in getting your girl took.

Ice leaves the sultry warehouse with a running-crew four deep, all on motorcycles.  What’s important to note here is the out-of-this-world performance by Ice’s right-hand man, Sir Deez, who actually manages to upstage our star with an orange and black tiger-striped bike. They cruise up the country side and there, slow-motion galloping beside the road is the girl of his dreams. Knowing the importance of a first impression, the Iceman leaps the fence. No ramp? No problem.

Landing on the other side of the fence, his damsel is thrown from her horse, bucking in awe.  She’s rightfully angry as the cavalier approach could have  caused serious injury. Her proper upbringing and high-society sophistication holds off Ice’s School of Hard Knocks charm during their first interaction, but I wouldn’t bet on it in the long run.

As the four ride down Main Street, Suburbia the following things happen:

A young boy drops his ice cream cone

A dog’s ears and tail perk up instantaneously

An old couple’s eyes and mouth grow into wide circles mesmerized by something they’ve never seen before.

This was how hip-hop introduced itself to mainstream culture. There was a lot of confusion and resistance from perennially-out-of-the-loop early-90s parents. Cool as Ice takes place in an era from which Rob Van Winkle never evolved. Ice expected every meeting to be a sly-smilin’, sardonic explanation of identity where he’d say things like “I’m a rap-per” pronouncing both syllables like they don’t know. Then  disrespectfully calling  a patriarch “pops”. Following that up, solemnly on the front porch stairs: “Girl, yo parents just don’t get me, I’m just bein’ me, you know.” Looking hopelessly towards the moon then,  “See ya, CynTHIA“.

Sir Deez’s motorcycle, overworked from what appeared to be a couple miles of paved road, breaks down. Ice tows it to the nearest repair shop by chaining it to his own motorcycle. Instead of the properly trained professionals, you expected to see here, we’re introduced to a cooky disenfranchised 60-something couple that guarantees a quick solution. They do not deliver on this guarantee. They quickly dismantle the bike through ineptitude or more likely as punishment for Deez’s blatant attempt at swagger-theft against Ice.

Now stranded in this one-horse suburban town, rebel-without-a-cause-outsider Vanilla Ice decides to track down that mysterious enchantress last seen cursing his name and riding into the sunset. It’s not long before he finds Kathy (the girl) and her douchey Ivy League boyfriend. If you’re wondering how long you’ll have to wait for Ice to say “Drop the zero and get with this Hero” the answer is: not very.

Eventually Vanilla Ice drops in on the couple down at a local hangout – The Sugar Shack – where a stunning performance of Ice’s hit The People’s Champ ensues, eventually winning the heart of Kathy. At this point Ice is wearing a black leather jacket, pants that are literally every single color, and sunglasses that combine for my favorite moment in American history. If you unscramble the words on his pants and jacket and properly arrange them I’m certain the resulting poem is something beautiful and sacred, possibly lost in Alexandria or Pompeii. Unfortunately he moves too quickly to capture them all. It does say “Freeze” in bubble letters down the left arm, which hopefully aids any ambitious anthropologists out there.

This movie also introduces Kathy’s brother Tommy, who represents an important piece of Americana. While Kathy loves Vanilla Ice because he’s dangerous and cool, but with a sweet side and all the cunning implications of his high-arcing eyebrow  – Tommy loves him for a different reason. Tommy is the boy who is buried in uptight country-club culture, and through neglect and youthful rambunctiousness finds a parallel in the off-brand rebellion Ice and the Hip-Hop movement are selling. Everything about Ice is “rad” to Tommy. Ice’s willingness to spend time with Tommy and, if I recall correctly, teach him to ride a motorcycle at the age of 11 – replace the male role model attention that would otherwise come from his business-first uninvolved father. Ice is one-part cool older cousin, one part hip-hop icon, one part rebellious messiah, all of which Tommy will idolize until 8th grade when he starts dressing in black and smoking cigarettes. We all know Tommy because deep down we all were Tommy.

We’re about 30 minutes into the movie.

From here, it gets a little less memorable. Kathy’s family is found out to be snitches in the Mafia living under false identities, unbeknownst to Kathy and Tommy. Tommy gets kidnapped. Ice and his boys find the gangsters hiding in a construction yard and ambush them by driving through the walls of an un-built office building and unleash some previously unseen martial artistry and the day is saved. Adding krav-maga to a skill set which already includes motorcycling, break-dancing, beat boxing, and rapping needs little explanation.

And the movie ends following this scene:

Ultimately Vanilla Ice taught us a lot, mostly about the value of self-awareness. And while this movie may not be good by (m)any traditional standards and is exceptionally easy to ridicule, Rob van Winkle did ride a career that gave us a worthwhile cameo in a Ninja Turtles movie, a number of celeb-reality appearances, and this bedazzled patriotic jacket. He was pretty okay for his time.

Before They Hatch: Another CGI Movie

It does seem about-that-time for the good Doctor to be the center-piece of the latest Pixar Disney assembly-line construct. The voice is identifiable, and with it comes John C. Reilly rather than an actual unique character. His Hollywood trademark pug-faced self-pity has become universally known; no different than Jack Black with his hyper-active buffonery, Owen Wilson’s smirking charm, Eddie Murphy’s cheek-squishing-grin and boisterous auditory assault. How difficult do you think it was for Larry the Cable Guy to prepare for his role as Mater?

And you have the group ensembles:

Madagascar provides a cautious Ben Stiller weary of the slapstick demons he never outgrew, David Schwimer’s xenophobia, Chris Rock’s family friendly brand of street smarts.

Ice Age offers Dennis Leary’s cynicism and viciousness; Ray Romano’s pensive good-nature and Leguizamo’s spastic playfulness. If the three actors were braving the tundra the dialogue would be identical (potentially with a hair more swagger from The Pest).

Here’s a movie: All the young hornets train in a militant boot camp, but young Theo (Jason Schwartzmen) struggles with society’s pugilistic expectations. He spends his days absconding from menial security duty to gallivant among the aromatic sunflowers. During these daily flights of truancy, he meets and subsequently falls in love with a chicly disinterested bumblebee, Matilda(Aubrey Plaza). But it’s only a matter of time before churlish stinkbug upstart (Jonah Hill) and his frightening-to-children jester (Russell Brand) poison the food source and make all the hornets sick. The stinkbugs begin to colonize and oppress the hornet nest and it’s inhabitants. Theo is seen as a traitor for abandoning his vital responsibility.

Theo has to save the day.

Aziz Ansari ambitiously attempting to woo the queen Hornet seems good too.

Oh, and Johnny Depp plays Theo’s quirky detached friend who’s spaciness implies drug use. He can be a termite or something.

Tim Allen and Tom Hanks as Woody and Buzz were just  two actors playing roles. Maybe Tim Allen’s Home Improvement one-ups-manship  (or as Wreck-It Ralph may joke “1-Up-smanship”) was the lone hold-over. On second thought, that’s not really fair. Buzz didn’t intentionally best Woody and rub it in. Plus nothing comically blew up in his face. Toy Story passes.

But who even played Mr. Impossible? Or Nemo? Or the guy in Up? They were just characters. They anchored stories. Not vapid movies based around interchangable talent, but precious little stories.

So we’re given the John C. Reilly character. Bulging with discontent, disheveled hair havin’, doe-eyed, soft around the everywhere especially the heart…. And he says to the world, “I don’t want to be the villain. I appeal to unmovable truths – specifically the basic human need to be loved but I’mcastasthebadguyandthatmakesmesadandhowwillothercharacterstakemeseriouslylikethis”.

So he’s in a support group, borrowing from Fred Claus and that diet Dr. Pepper commercial, which leap frogs plot device in favor of being a joke machine with a V8 Hemi nostalgia engine powering it through the gates. Sitting at the round table, we have Dr. Robotnik, Bowser, Blinky and a bunch of cameos to toss on screen for the “That’s Sephiroth!” moment.

Also: Was Zangief even a villain? I always thought we were Street Fighting against the unlockable characters. The also represented M Bison and his minions: Vega, Sagat and Balrog. I think Zangief was just Russian. I guess during the Cold War era that was all it took. He was clearly a proletariat avenger. And a whole cheering floor team breaking from their grueling hours within a continually spark-filled factory can’t be wrong. The guy is a blue collar local legend. You don’t think he just wants to see his kids again? You think old age is going to treat this guy well? Zangief is Russia’s answer to Rocky and you’re making him out to be Ivan Drago. Shame on you. Shame on all of you.

From here they reload on fan support. Combining Star Craft, Call of Duty, the Glee woman, Mario Kartting through Candy Land, insufferable dialogue with Sarah Silverman and we’ll call it a day after Ralph has to implement his powerful wrecking ability to achieve something heartwarming. Or maybe he’ll choose not to.

Come on, guys.

My Favorite Toy, Ever

When I was a kid I was more than just a little bit into action figures. Me and my friend Connor lived to wage wars. I’d bring all of my action figures to his house, he’d bring his to mine. We’d battle them in tree houses, the backyard, the living room, public swimming pools. It was the cornerstone of my first best-friendship.

It wasn’t competitive. I had my action figure good guys who were bound in unity with those of Connor’s. Both our legions of villains worked together. In retrospect we were just playing by ourselves, but next to each other.  Sure, we plotted schemes. But as I scrape together the images, we really only interacted during the action scenes to inform the other of upcoming highlights and pivotal moments. And to join in awe when a toy fell off a dresser and an appendage snagged some obstruction to save him from falling to his death as if these characters willed themselves to survival. “So realistic!”

Also, and this is a bit unusual, we called it “men”. We were playing “men”. This handful of colorful plastic soldiers, those were my men. The pile over there? Those are Connor’s men. “Robert you left your men all over the living room”. Even the rare, occasional female action figure (I had Storm, although she was not often selected for duty) was one of the men.

And my mother was always a bit disappointed when the calendar obligated her to purchase me a gift because as the eldest son, I was to be the vessel for first-time parenting moments. That included “the time we got our son that great amazing present despite the staggering inconvenience it caused.”

I tried to appeal to her romantic sensibilities. I recommended she liquefy whatever funds she had prepared to splurge on a pair of ice skates or Power Wheels towards manning these heavily contested front lines. She wasn’t really interested.

Some stupid electric car would have cost what? $80? $100? An action figure, back then cost $5. Let’s do some simple math. 100 divided by 5 is 20. If my birthday came around, and I saw 20 presents all of them being action figures, well, that would have been the single greatest moment in my life. I probably wouldn’t remember it that way. I’d probably recall seeing some kid being born as more significant. But as far as actual joy pulsing through my brain, that moment would have caused literal blisters.

At Christmas I would identify the silhouettes of gift wrapped action figures as a larger reward than any cube-shaped gift, regardless of its size. They all had a similar shape when wrapped, like a lower-case b. The bulbous case juts out (that’s where the action figure goes) and at the top you have the flat cardboard where it says something like X: Men – Third Edition – Wolverine (street clothes) in multi-colored boxed lettering. There was usually a group photo of all the toys in the set on the back. Sometimes you got a little information on the guy. Anyway, the giftwrap had a distinct incline from the flat cardboard up to the plastic container and when I saw that, I knew what was about to go down.

But among these action figures, I had one favorite. I didn’t come across him until a little later. He was not my first favorite. But when I got him I knew that we were meant to be together. I’d like to introduce you to someone special:

This is Havok

A little background: Havok is, at best, a B-lister in the Marvel universe. His real claim to fame is that he’s Cyclops’s brother. He is also the leader of Xavier’s castoffs: X-Factor (sounds cooler than  X-Men to me).

None of that particularly mattered because I saw everything I wanted the adult me to be in this toy. Barrel-chested. Flowing blonde hair. Fingerless gloves. Leather jacket. Mutant powers. Cool pants.

Havok instantly became the leader of whatever faction he was in, which was usually a brand of scrappy rebel resistance group existing outside a slave-trading imperialistic controlling party and a bland single-minded faction of justicars. His powers were limited to the psionic rings he could project from his hands, but the potency of this blast knew very few boundaries.

“How can he even do that?” – Adam Genuario

“That’s fucking bullshit.” – Eric Genuario

“Shut up” – Robert Genuario

Now he did sometimes lose. Sometimes darkness prevailed. It had to. The game lost its fun without variance. And sometimes he wasn’t the star of the war. One of the benefits of him being a member of the rebel faction was that he could easily be tied to interesting side stories, leaving others the opportunity to seize greatness and thus creating a myriad of unique battles. But Havok still managed to put together a first-ballot Hall of Fame career. And I still occasionally hear a complaint about the inconsistency of his power level. But that’s what greatness is. It’s digging deep when you need a little extra. Performing above your head. You wish you had a leader like Havok on your team.

He was the best of the best.

LeBron James Sith Lord

I found myself explaining this on Saturday Night’s game 7, and it’s why I’ll never understand people who aren’t captivated by sports. Does the warfare of competition frighten them? Are they too dense or lazy to breach the evolving narrative, the real-life reality show where legacy is burned permanently into the cultural zeitgeist? Or are you going to tell me Lost is simply too good? Laughable.

LeBron James is the world’s greatest athlete. In a world where athletes are better than they’ve ever been, he transcends the cliche “physical freak” leaning toward some kind of mobile assault fortress. Autonomous chainsaw. Art imitating life on another planet.

And while plenty has been said to rescue his soul from the caged classification of villainy, why would we want to do that?

This guy is the grinning blade of villainy.

Perennial professional sporting villains, the New York Yankees, cornered the market on modern corruption. They abused a cap-less MLB with bottomless pockets. And title after title was secured with super-teams, filled with all-stars and cheered on by heartless droves hell-bent on victory. To see me continue to be unfairly critical of the Yankees click here.

But LeBron found a way to surpass this illusory bar, cementing his heel status. And in doing so he betrayed the hero he was destined to be. The hero we wanted and thought we had.

*      *      *

LeBron James bypassed college to enter the NBA lottery. Born in small-market Akron, Ohio, it had seemed LeBron was destined to fulfill his Braveheartian legacy when he was drafted first overall as the Cleveland Cavaliers won the first overall pick.

Semi-important note: in any other of the major sports’ drafts the picks are predetermined by the previous year’s standings. In basketball, all the bad teams have a chance. The Cavs only had a 22.5% chance of securing the pick. Chances are LeBron would be heading elsewhere. When Cleveland won the draft NBA fans and supporters of underdogs alike salivated at the prospect of our new era Knight. (Bestowed the nickname of King James for both the potential of his Arthurian legacy and as a reference to the biblical salvation he would bring to the NBA; actually just nicknamed King James because he was a beast and it fit his name. That’s how we do nicknames now.) It’s a timeless tale. An unassuming farmboy rises to protect his humble land, restores prosperity through honor and perserverence, etc. etc.

Other cool sidenote: LeBron James entered the league amongst a flurry of scary talent, including Syracuse one-and-doner Carmelo Anthony, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh. Try to remember those names.

And for years he battled for the home-team. Fought the good fight. He was the polar opposite of other NBA super-star, the nefarious Kobe Bryant, likely rapist and greedy inheritor of the Los Angeles Lakers. Kobe was the spoiled, the entitled, heir to the throne of Magic Johnson, Dr. J, and Jerry West. Even the way Jack Nicholson looked on from his floor-seats conjured memories of Palpatine grinning at Vader’s handiwork. Kobe accrued wealth and power, most importantly in the form of championship rings.

But we had time! We had youth! We had our rising star LeBron to smite down the cold-blooded Bryant. And one time, this one time, a time called 2007 he made it to the Finals, but was struck down by the Spurs. We wanted LeBron to learn from this. We wanted him to be wounded and humbled but to rise again stronger and mightier. But it was here that dark tendrils begun to grip the heart of the young padawan.

Inevitably his contract expired.

At this point, LeBron faced a difficult choice. But it is the way we act when faced with such choices that defines us. Could it be simple luck that granted this home-grown talent to the broken and tired Cavalier nation and not divine providence? Was it possible his dedication to revive the home-team only ran contract deep? LeBron spent a summer pondering, but not without listening to the tune of vile serpents from his past. The Miami Heat’s Dwayne Wade, who’s promise of power had already seduced Chris Bosh (semi-hero for perpetually struggling Toronto Raptors) to come to play in those smokey black and crimson jerseys.

But many saw this as a time for hope. The New York Knicks and soon-to-be Brooklyn Nets thought the Big Apple could win his favor. The Bulls thought they could entice him as the embodiment of Michael Jordan’s second coming. And Cleveland. Poor Cleveland thought there hero would carry their banner forever.

Let’s take a moment to think about those Cleveland Cavalier fans.

The little boys in their oversize jerseys, melting ice cream trickling from the cones and running over their little knuckles.

Old men who’ve rooted their team on for years in dimly lit bars and on soda-stained sofas.

Entire classes of second graders scrambling for the ball at recess chanting “I’m Lebron” “No, I’m LeBron.”

Did LeBron make this easy for any of them. Did he simply declare his intentions to the world?

No.

He built this event up, culminating in an unprecedented 1-hour ESPN show entitled “The Decision”. Not a decision, for a basketball player choosing where he might end up playing. This was The Decision. It was the only decision that mattered. The fate of the NBA waiting for the King to make his declaration.

And it was at this event, where he stated the words that still smolder in the twinkling twilight of history. Where he signed his contract in the same crimson that he would don for years to come. 7 indelible words permanently wracking the landscape of sports.

“I’m taking my talents to South Beach”

He did not say “I’m going to sign with the Heat” or “I’ll be playing in Miami”.

He said: I am taking my talents away from you Cleveland. No longer will you pump your weary brittle fists for me. I’m bringing them to the ocean-side bars and prosperous lights and night-life of the lustful modern-day Gomorrah.

And instead of being our hero, LeBron had succumbed to the dark-side. With Wade and Bosh in tow his dominance seemed guaranteed.

He followed his decadent display in The Decision with an, again unprecedented pep-rally. Colored smoke and lazer lights as the newly aligned Big Three marched down a catwalk before the fervent Miami fans, clashing their blood-thirsty teeth together, the soft flesh of the NBA now theirs to tear in the slashing of their jowls.

For the sake of more symmetry it may be worth recalling LeBron’s old nemesis: Kobe Bryant – Los Angeles Lakers star who rose to greatness riding the curtails of Shaquille O’Neal to a couple of championships until he became strong enough to lead a team on his own. Now King James found himself aiding Dwayne Wade: Miami Heat superstar who had risen to power as Shaq’s #2 in his time in Miami, also achieving rings. The transformation of LeBron could not be more abrupt.

The Heat destroyed the NBA in the following year. They rallied through the playoffs, beat an aging Boston Celtics Big Three of Garnett, Pierce and Ray Allen now rejuvenated by the elevated play of young up and comer Rajon Rondo. But in a best of 7 series the once imposing Celtics could only muster to take 1 game from the Heat.

And then in the Finals, a glint of light shown through this dark age.

The Heat were to play the Mavericks, a team that had their last title shot repelled by the same Miami Heat, then led by Dwayne Wade and Shaquille O’Neil.

Dirk Nowitzki, a lanky power forward from Wurzberg, Germany (you can’t make this stuff up) refused to allow Miami’s long shadow to suffocate the league. Dirk fought tooth and nail, resembling an old lion bucking Darwinism and despite the tyrannous strength and speed and length of the star-studded Heat, was able to prevail. Peace was restored thanks to players like Tyson Chandler, the aging Jasons (Kidd and Terry) and the seemingly infallible leader Dirk Nowitzki’s tireless and unending valor.

Asgard was saved.

But as it always does, time ticked forward. It ticked towards a grim hour, one where the Mavericks lost vaunted big man Tyson Chandler. Age crept up on the stalwarts of the old guard. And the Miami Heat were given chance to rise again.

The Heat, returning to form, looked dominant – and were set to square off in an Eastern Conference final against Derrick Rose’s Bulls. But the speedy Point Guard was struck down by a vicious torn ACL in the first round of the playoffs leaving the Bulls to be easy prey to the 76ers. The Heat outperformed a defunct and overmatched Knicks team. And the Mavericks, heroes just a season ago had slowed too soon and were eliminated by the youthful Lost Boys of the Oklahoma City Thunder.

But if this narrative has attempted to express one sentiment it’s the value of heroism. And perhaps in this era, we’ve stopped believing in heroes. And perhaps in this era that has weakened it’s presence.

But while time had worn unfavorably on the Mavericks, and while fate had cruelly plucked the strings of Derrick Rose and the Chicago Bulls. It had filled wells in the collective heart of Boston’s Big Four.

Boston fought back after losing the first two games. With the series locked at a pair a piece, Boston went into Miami’s den of iniquity undaunted. Boston faithful considered this a final impossible run for the beloved group and game 5 was their greatest moment. With a back and forth game, the Celtics brought their lead home when Paul Pierce, having a poor shooting night, nailed the biggest shot of all: a three pointer in the face of archdemon LeBron James. Up 3-2 the series returned home to Boston. The miracle was almost complete. Evil nearly dispelled and with a home game and two shots they needed to only land one silver bullet.

Then clouds rolled in over Boston.

LeBron James was vicious; an entity of furious might. 30 points in the first half. 45 over all. Garnett, who previously stood as a gargantuan throughout the series; enormous and lanky and powerful like a Toni Morrison character, playing with legendary intensity now seemed stiff and weak. And Paul Pierce. “The Truth” a gritty never-say-die slasher who was proving he was the elite players his fever-pitch fanbase made him out to be. That he is one of the timeless Celtics. That he is as much of a warrior as Bird or Russell. And Rajon Rondo who looked MVP-esque throughout the series was reduced to a man who was simply not LeBron James.

LeBron in one night convinced this team that they were all done trying to convince the world that they could beat him. That winning 3 games was quite the marvelous gesture, and their effort would not soon be forgotten, but victory was not for them. His stone-brow-serial-killer-straight-faced stare was the lasting image in TD Garden that night. The Celtics were not even close to the Miami Heat. These ragged old heroes, like a horse-mounted resistance blasted to shreds by mortars and bombs, could not compete.

And in Game 7 they went back to Miami. And they competed, but as the night stretched into it’s final quarter, the Celtics ran out of gas. The last 10 minutes transformed the series into the landslide everyone expected. What looked to be a back and forth game was thrown away on bad shots and harpooned by the trio of superstars, specifically LeBron burying an unimaginable deep three. Every possession we rooted for the Celts. Maybe this would be the one where they could swing back the momentum, and basketball is a game where momentum trumps everything. “A game of runs” as it’s often called. And this was no different. However it was the Heat that ran those last 10 minutes as the Celtics slowed to a crawl. The team knew it. The world knew it. It was over.

But as the Heat flexed their sculpted muscles in the East something was redefining the West. Those Lost Boys, the very young Oklahoma City Thunder that knocked out the Mavericks, kept winning. After defeating Dallas, they went on to play Kobe and his Lakers and beat them handily. Then came the Spurs, a team that formerly looked like an unstoppable machine – winning 20 straight, undefeated in the playoffs. San Antonio took the first two. But the Thunder would simply not stop playing. And the young guns of OKC, lead by 3-time scoring champ, 23 year old Kevin Durant had secured their spot in the Finals. A team constantly labeled “not yet” had defiantly emerged with their speed and elite shooting prowess and strong play from role players.

The future of history became dozens of scrolls rolling across the floor in different directions marked with different inscriptions. Is this where heroes are born? Is Kevin Durant the one? The warchief to stand up to the faux-messiac King James and usher in this honorable era of the small-town dream. A team built through the draft and with good intentioned youth opposing a man-made colossus. Could Westbrook and Harden stand toe to toe with Wayne and Bosh on the biggest stage? That all-star team assembled by devious emperor Pat Riley and viceroy Erick Spolestra. And can Kevin Durant defeat the imposing monstrosity of LeBron James, becoming, dare I say it, The Kingslayer? The sky is dark with uncertainty.

But it’s always darkest before dawn.

And I find myself praying for Thunder.

Before They Hatch: This Ain’t Reservoir Dogs

Pulp Fiction

Inglorious Basterds

Kill Bill 2

Reservoir Dogs

These are canonical. Having four of these is a huge deal. They’re great in the sense that lists without them owe slots in their Honorable Mention categories or a lengthy explanation.

The rest of the rest? Deathproof? Don’t mind if I do. Kill Bill? Yes please. Jackie Brown? Don’t sleep.

Tack on the fact he wrote True Romance (True Romance!), delivered a robust presentation in Jet Li’s Hero, and has wandered successfully into  cooperative projects like Dusk ’till Dawn and Grindhouse, and you’re drawing up a resume’ with Doestoyevskian depth. He signed onto Sin City the way Wolverine joined the Avengers. He made Keitel, Buscemi, Fassbender, and Waltz. He casted Austin Powers in a war flick and the world was given a memorable drink order (“Whiskey, straight. No junk in it”).

When he’s got something new for the theaters, you’re going to be there. Because there won’t be anything like it for a while. Because it will be great. Because there is not another Quentin Tarantino.

So perhaps that’s why I feel guilty in having doubts about this:

Is it that Leo’s accent seems to carry the inconsistency of an air-bound Cameron Poe? And while I love both Leo and the Nicholas Cage of the 90’s (“Carla was the prom queen“); the wavering frequency of his voice evokes shakiness on what I expected to be terra firma. Perhaps I’m reading too much into the snippet. Perhaps Leo will deliver as he always (save J. Edgar) has.

And maybe it’s worth noting that the last time we saw a bounty hunter named Django we left the theater disappointed.

And maybe the whole Christopher Waltz as a seemingly-altruistic-vigilante-but-likely-harboring-insidious-intentions crusader seems less impressive now, post-Green Hornet and Water for Elephants, than it did after his stunning massive-audience debut in Basterds. Upon first glance that character appears as transparent as a staff member at Hogwarts.

I certainly am not entirely happy with the Red Dead Redemption font. How hard is it to find unique theme-appropriate handwriting? Maybe it was just me, but when Sony grabbed the Spiderman handwriting for the PS3 I got a little bummed. It’s like pulling a tattoo out of the book at the parlor.

I mean, Jonah Hill turned this movie down . So first of all it got turned down by Cyrus and secondly why was Tarantino offering this roll to Cyrus? Okay, fine, Jonah Hill probably doesn’t deserve that kind of hate. But come on, guy. How are you going to not work with Tarantino? You planning a Get him to the Greekquel?

But most importantly, I think, is the role of Django being played by Jamie Foxx. While Foxx is no longer the bellboy at King’s Tower, and he’s more than proved himself in Collateral and Law Abiding Citizen (and it’s awesome that he’s an idol of a certain Workaholic) are we ready to see him pick up these particularly heavy reigns?

Yet, these reigns were designed to be wielded by similar Hollywood-status-climber-slash-musician-with-sitcom-background Will Smith. So maybe Jamie Foxx is better suited for the role, although the Wild Wild West flashbacks would have been to die for. But what’s more noteworthy? It seems Smith turned this down to do a third Men in Black. A time-travel movie. More like the least fresh prince. So maybe the money was better in the franchise and maybe a controversial, violent role would have sullied the family-friendly star’s career, but surely anyone else offered the role would accept.

Then Chris Tucker turned this role down.

Probably for the best.

But then we got the good news. Word of Stringer Bell being linked  got the relocated Western prematurely ready for a Hall of Fame induction. Unfortunately they couldn’t see eye to eye. Every time I see Foxx in the trailer whether it be with Loc Dog afro or the Purple Reign velour I just wish it was Elba. Idris Elba is as cool as Samuel L Jackson thinks he is. Dude did all of Luther with a hangover and has gone too long without getting a character as unforgettable as Bell. Whenever I drink coffee in front of my class, I try to peer over the brim of the porcelain mug in a shoddy imitation of Stringer channeling the high expectations and burdensome disappointment with the Barksdale crew.

But I am no Idris Elba.

And unfortunately, neither is Django.

It’s still Tarantino, so it will be smart and full and will captivate with sound and visual clarity. It will be one of the best movies of the year, because how could it not be? So inevitably I’ll be wrong and the movie will bring me to the theater for repeat trips. But for now I just want to walk home, downtrodden, kicking small stones along the way.