Apocalyptico Now, A Movie Review

Myan Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The e.e. cummings Of The Lord
New Ethnomocumentary Proves Plausibility Of Retarded Insanity In Ancient Hollywood
By switters™
Posted Friday, December 8, 2006, at 12:56 PM CST

Man. What's with all the ancient Myan space alien zombies at the movies here lately? I'm beginning to think most of our civilization is outer space-based.

Still, Apocalyptico Now isn't your ordinary ancient Myan space alien zombie movie. It is, rather, an extraordinary ancient Myan space alien zombie movie. Or would that be "extra-terrestriadinary" ancient Myan space alien zombie movie? Hmm… Let me get back to you on that.

Harkening back to his documentary about the last days of Jesus, Mel Gibsen (Dances With Braveheart, The Patriotic Gladiators, Jesus Christ!) completes his trilogy, and trinity, by asking what it would have been like for us today if Jesus, during the lost years, had, actually, hung out with Aztecs and helped find and found the More Men Church, with all of the suggested homo-auto-eroticisms which that premise presupposes.

Answer: Caffeine would be illegal, as would celibacy. And ironic humor.

Apocalyptico Now tells the story of Joe Smith, religionist, linguist, and sometime polygamist, who stumbles upon an ancient race of pyramid builders no where near Egypt whilst collecting folk lore, dialects and wives in the southern tip of Mexico, only to become entwined in the intrigue that involves a particular tribe's proclivity toward the worship of a giant pyramid composed entirely of many cans of potted meat.

But faster than you can get un-circumcised, Jesus shows up in a nighttime vision induced by hanging upside down over a can of paint thinner, and invokes Joe to spread the "good news", which, it turns out, isn't that good, because parts of the Old Testament were cribbed from a discarded Martin Luther speech in Selma.

Meanwhile, wars a'brewin' at the rival tribe up the river, and Chief Waxes-His-Legs declares a jihad on all men above the age of 8 years old.

That, however, doesn't exactly sit well with King Smells-Like-Glue, leader of another tribe up the river, who proceeds to declare a counter-jihad on all women who are a little crazy. ("Uh, yeah, we're gonna need some more women.")

Meanwhile, Indy finds himself embattled with a secret tribe of Latin-speaking pygmies in the Outer Banks who worship polyester jumpsuits.

Talk about a whirlwind rollercoaster ride of emotional overkill. I haven't seen this much gratuitous violence since Air Supply's 1998 Reunion Tour: "We're Seriously Not Gay".

And with a twist ending that will squirt lime juice into a paper cut faster than you can say, "Boy I bet that sure hurt," Apocalyptico Now spawns a possible "postquel" in no short order and in so many words.

When the roll is called up yonder, folks, we don't want movies like Apocalyptico Now. We need movies like Apocalyptico Now, if for no other reason than it's comforting to know that you can deny The Holocaust™ while cashing in on allegorical narratives of it.

You're trampling out the wrong vintage, Jesus! That's okay. Those grapes of wrath were probably sour anyway.

…they were exotic badasses who knew how to whomp the hell out of one another, old-school.

[I mean, come on!]

Dear Rudence: Invisible Salami Edition

A parody of Dear Prudence by Emily Yoffe, a weekly column at Slate Magazine. Original post found here.

Well kids, it's time once again for another installment of Dear Rudence, or as Rudie has come to know it privately: "That thing he does for no fathomable or easily explained reason." It's like a calling, of sorts, except without the possibility of canonization. This week's installment of chuckleheads brought to you in the form of several examples of brazen asshattery, opulent cementheadedness, and epic displays of serial fuckwitry. Our weekly gaggle of dullards reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys, only without the forlorn charm and possibility of a happy ending. Charlie in the Box has nothing on Balding Troglodyte who Can't Get Laid, and the Train with Square Wheels on the Caboose has given way to Mommy with Daddy's Phallus in her Caboose. Now all we need is a nerdy elf who desires a career as an orthodontist, a wishy-washy reindeer with a million candlepower schnoz, and a prospector who can't stop fellating his pick-axe.

It's mucho peligro from here on out, ladies and gentlemen, and I advise you to keep an eye out for the Bumble.

Dear Rudie,
Our 15-year-old daughter walked into our bedroom the other evening while we were having sex. She wasn't being nosy; she was just in a bit of a panic about a homework project due the next day. It was late, all the lights were out, but it was light enough for her to clearly see what was going on. Our daughter got quite an eye- and earful. We stopped immediately, of course, and my wife and daughter exchanged a few words about the project before our daughter left the room in a hurry. Since then, our daughter has acted as if nothing happened. Should we, as well? Or should my wife broach the subject with her? Our daughter does not date yet, but she is not innocent about the facts of life.

—Embarrassed Around My Daughter

Dear Ass-in-the-Air-Head-in-the-Sand,

If Rudie had his way, parental coitus when there is a child in the house, near the house, on the same street as the house... well, when there is a dwelling of any sort that could possibly house such an abomination of physical ardor... would be punishable by forcing the violators to go outside and parade in front of the neighbors. Talk about a deterrent.

There are fewer things more horrifying than married couples who've squeezed out one grotesque little shit machine, let themselves go to pot, and proceed to mash their cellulite and atrophied musculature together like something out of a B-grade horror flick or a documentary about the life and times of slime molds.

If anything, you've put this poor girl off of sex for life, forcing her to remain best friends with her teenage companions, Ms. Digit the Randy Spelunker and her trusty sidekick, Vibrotron the Magic Happy Robot... That is, if she can put the mindsearing sight of two vile lumps of flesh sweating all over each other out of her mind long enough to achieve climax.

Of course she hasn't said anything to you since... the horror of watching two walruses hump each other in a spray of baby oil, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and rancid milk, and braying like a pair of Kodiak bears with their limbs caught in a woodchipper has made her mute. Just be thankful she still has her eyesight. The vision of two flabby hairless apes with cottage-cheese filled, enwarted asses in the air and cankles akimbo would make Medusa go back to her day job.

Rudie would let this sleeping gorgon lie and proceed from the assumption that years of therapy costing tens of thousands of dollars might just be enough to help her lead a normal life... well as normal as you can expect from a person who's watched Jello have sex.

—Rudie, see-it-wiggle-ly

Dear Rudence,
After last evening's latest installment of my dating reality show, I'm quite ready to go write manuscripts in a monastery. The woman in question and I met through an online dating site. We spent the last week connecting quite nicely via phone and e-mail. When she got off the train, she was looking around for me. I could tell that the minute she turned and saw me, it was over. As we sat down to dinner, she apologized and said, "I'm sorry. We can't go on. You are the best guy I've met, but ..." To paraphrase her, I have intellect, emotion, and love to give. However, I don't have it in the physical-attraction department. I'm short (so was she), but she said she always dated football-player types, even though she added that they've always been wrong for her. So, she decided to do the "George Costanza opposite" with me, but it didn't work. I thanked her for her honesty, enjoyed a strained dinner, and got her back on the train to go home. I'm 42 years old, and have lost my patience with hearing how nice I am, that I'm loved like a brother, will make someone very happy someday, and so forth. Despite the above, I am quite happy with who I am and am not willing to change (nor can I) who I am, which is, well, a nice guy. So, is it true? Do nice guys finish last?

—End of the Rope Approaching Fast

Dear Rope-a-Dope,
Nice guys don't finish last... they don't even finish. Since when has proficiency at getting laid ever been enhanced by nice-guy-hood?

Rudie will wait for a few seconds as you ponder this...

Very well, let's proceed. Rudie is picturing you as middle-aged, with male-pattern baldness, a physique inaccurately described as 'pear-shaped' and much more accurately described as 'oblate spheroid', and having an abiding knowledge that this sort of physical appearance is not going to win you any beauty contests. As far as your own personal self-image is concerned: you envision yourself at a bar, you're talking up some girl, and you think you seem to be getting on pretty well, even though she's looked at her watch twice and eyed up the knife they use to cut up the limes a few more. Just then, a guy walks in who could be the spitting image of a child of a union between Rowan Atkinson, The Elephant Man, and a 200-pound tumor. The woman, comparatively enthralled by this somewhat lessened display of physical atrocity, starts chatting up this missing link while you stand there with your dick in your hand.

Does that sum up your personal perspective with reasonable accuracy?

You know you aren't gifted with a squared-jaw, a six-pack, and a flawless smile. You're more gifted with a recessive chin, a one-pack, and a flawless smile... if you don't count the one rotted molar and the haphazard arrangement of cuspids, bicuspids, and incisors which bears a striking resemblance to a pongi stick trap, only much less inviting.

This is not your problem.

She had you zeroed the second she stepped off the train, and you know it. You knew it was over before it began, and you were nice about it. This, my troglodyte friend, is your problem. She was totally gettable, and you let cordiality, understanding, and good manners ruin it for you.

Let me explain, oh, milquetoast one.

When you saw that expression, you knew she was repulsed, but here's the full text of what she was thinking on a subconscious level:

"I am a woman, and as such know what men are all about. When it comes to the relationships, we rule, they drool. I know I'm hot shit, inside and out, and they'd better respect that. Furthermore, I... (glances over your way) ...holy cats, it's an Oompa Loompa with glandular issues. Shit, I can't even begin to imagine how I'd have sex with that. Besides, I'm way too attractive for the likes of him. Lessee... (flips through mental Rolodex)...ah, here it is, Gentle Rejection with A Side of Harsh Truth About Your Looks... good old #23. Look at how forlorn he is... he knows its coming. No sense putting it off."

What you should have done was Interception Attack #5: Beat Her to the Bad News Punch. Before she even got a word out, you should have been saying something along the lines of: "Hi, um, before we go any further, I should tell you that when you got off the train, I was... well, I was expecting someone... you know... prettier... and taller... Nothing against you, you are such a lovely person but you're just not my physical type. I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here... tell you what, let's go have dinner, I do enjoy talking to you... as a friend."

What, too forward? Haven't got the chops for a frontal assault?

Well then, let her get her spiel out first and go for Mental Jujitsu Hold #3: Start chuckling, then let out a breath of relief, wipe your forehead as though you're cleaning up some sweat if you can pull it off without it looking too fake, and say: "Whoa. Talk about a load off my mind! I'm so glad to hear you say that! I was wondering how I was going to break the same thing to you. Seriously, I had you pictured so... differently... well, no matter, we can still go have dinner... as friends."

If you've pulled either of them off correctly, you should see a look on her face which may be either her lips pulled into a near horizontal line with widened eyes or a slightly... drugged... look. You should also hear, if you listen very carefully, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. This is her subconscious driving into her ego. You see, up to that point, she had convinced herself that she was in charge of the situation. You wanted her, she didn't want you, ergo she's in control. Now, you've turned the tables, and Rudie has yet to meet the woman who can stand the thought of being rejected physically by any man, let alone by someone who they consider their physical inferior.

Congratulations, you now simultaneously frustrate her and anger her, but more importantly, you intrigue her. You may even represent a challenge to her. She may spend the rest of the evening trying to get your pants off, just to prove to you that you are powerless against her feminine charms. Don't make it too obvious, but the right move here is to let her win.

-Rudie, lots-of-luck-ly

Dear Rudie,
I have been with my boyfriend for about four years, and we've talked about getting married in a couple of years. However, I have one dilemma—his family. They're all really nice people and I appreciate their tendency to be themselves and act comfortable around each other. However, I come from a family/culture that is big on being polite and formal, and therefore am not used to all the sex talk (even as jokes) and other super-informal discussions, especially at events like holiday dinners. In addition, I can be a bit shy around people who make me uncomfortable. It doesn't help that they know this about me and constantly bring it up and joke about my properness/shyness. My boyfriend and I do actually share a lot of common goals and dreams, and we're able to have tons of fun when hanging out alone. Is our relationship doomed, since we come from such different backgrounds? I am so frustrated about facing the same problem every time we go to one of his family gatherings.

—Family Issues

Dear Prim-and-Proper,

May the maker forbid any conversation at the dinner table that doesn't involve please, thank you, and insipid comments about the weather and tea cozies. May the holiest of holies strike down anyone with the temerity to say what they really think around people they should feel most comfortable around. And dare the topic of fornication rear its blasphemous head up above the same table you have thanked your maker for the bountiful feast you receive, verily smote shall the violators be.

Get thee away from this den of turpitude and seek out the gentle embrace of smooth words and conversation of level suitable for high society. Go forth, with thine broomstick lodged firmly within thine hairy backside, to a world of sun, bunnies, dancing flowers, and dainty manners. For these, and only these, will sate the brewing disgust you feel at being privy to such... such... commonness and familiarity. Banish the thought of further contact with these wretched vermin, lest thou come away with the stink of impropriety and infested with the fleas common to such serfs and peons.

Or...

Maybe you could just unlodge that broom handle from your browneye, join your boyfriend's wonderously profane and vulgar family at the dinner table, and start singing The Penis Song with the rest of them. Get shitfaced first. It usually helps.

-Rudie, sing-along-if-you-know-the-words-otherwise-just-hum-ly

Rudence,
My roommate and friend is a nursery-school teacher and is constantly exposed to every germ and bug that goes around. She has brought home three viruses since the school year began just two months ago, and she's passed on every single illness to me. I have asthma, so a three-day cold for her can turn into a two-week ordeal for me. She isn't doing this on purpose—obviously, she doesn't want to get sick either—but at the same time, I can't help feeling resentful that she keeps making me ill. Short of breaking my lease, is there anything I can do to keep myself healthy? And how do I handle my anger when she comes home with yet another cold?

—Sniffly

What?! Not Dear Rudence? Why if Rudie didn't know better, he'd swear you had an attitude problem.

Clearly, you are a victim here, though, so Rudie will put aside the rather... imperative... manner in which you have addressed him, and address your anger before he starts indulging his own.

I mean really, how dare your roommate do her job when in the course of so doing, she's giving you a case of the sniffles. You have every right to be pissed off at her. I mean, you have asthma for chrissake, and you know what she does for a living and moved in with her anyway, but still, what a heartless wench for subjecting you to such misery and agony. And those kids... lordy, lordy, lordy, don't get me started on those abominable little germ symbiotes for one second. Don't they know not to wipe their nasal discharge on every available surface?! Haven't they the common sense not to use their clothing as Kleenex? Clearly, you knew in the womb that you were not supposed to do this, so what's wrong with these intellectually underdeveloped snot factories?! Seems that the educational system is failing them, so what good is your friend really doing to advance the intellects of these remedial, hopeless dimwits? Why waste the time?

You know what you should do? You should demand that she quit because it's putting you out, and Rudie'll be the first to agree with you that your comfort and freedom from rhinovirus should come before paying the rent or molding young minds. What's the point of living if you can't bend people's will to accommodate your own pursuit of pleasure.

I mean, really, where the fuck does she get off?

-Rudie, nasally

Well folks, the time has come to say farewell once again, and remember, a stitch in time saves nine, but Rudie hears torn clothing's probably coming back in style soon, so fuck it.

Why I don't go out

So here's the plan last Saturday night: after nestling the kids snugly in their respective beds, I'd change up the routine a little, you know, grab a couple white Russians, and settle down and watch The Dude on DVD. My brother sent me some homemade kahlua last Christmas, and this would be a use that he'd approve. Moreover, it's the sort of night that suits my wife's absence (she hates "trashy" comedies) and my low level of disposable income just fine.

Of course any effort like this requires a chain of silly errands, and parental obligation says that I can't leave the little angels at home with a big bowl of food (like I can the cat) and two hats, four mittens, two coats, and two shoes--get back there you, shoes on outside, I mean it--four shoes later, we're out the door. Now I've got good kids, but the civility of their behavior during any excursion decreases exponentially with time and geometrically with the number of stops. As such, it's wise to keep the destinations to a minimum and make each one quick. Craftily, I save the video store till the end, bribing them for behavior with a promised rental of some godawful children's flick for themselves. The milk acquisition goes off without a single yowl, but even though the video store is only across the street from teh Kwik E Mart, I feel some tension growing in the car behind me.

In the video store, the kids tear off. Judging by their speed and volume, I can set my estimate my browsing window with atomic precision. I hasten to comedy. B, b, b... shit. Drama? As I look futilely in L, the twin terrors come racing back. Time to take drastic measures. I brave a discussion with the clerk:

"Do you have The Big Lebowski?"

"Huh?" Obviously, he's never heard of it.

Louder, "The Big Lebowski." (I hate, by the way, voicing my preferences to people I don't know.)

beepbeepbeep

"Kids, you can't walk through there with that!"

"...have to ask my boss."

"Just a minute, girls. Garfield? Seriously, you want this? Okay, I guess, now hold on..."

"...says they don't have it. Never even came out on DVD."

See, here's the sort of doofus I am. I'd thought, without ever really considering it, that by now every movie that any human could conceivably want to watch had been digitally remastered and lovingly transcribed to DVD. Certainly this one would be likely to qualify. After all, several copies each of Big Fish, Big Momma's House, Big Daddy, and Big Fat Liar are there cluttering up the shelves, and surely those have about four decades of unrentedness between them.

"Um, so do you have it on VHS?"

beepbeepbeep

"Kids, please don't do that."

"...don't rent VHS anymore."

"What are all those?"

"You can buy the old tapes, but we don't rent 'em anymore."

So what are the odds, I ask myself, and turn to the wall of plastic. Things One and Two take the opportunity to dangle forlornly from each arm, and I spend about five chatty, remonstrative minutes gazing at the selection of forgotten eighties flicks.

"You guys ever hear of the alphabet?" I mutter.

"Daddyyyyy, let's goooooo."

Several "one seconds" later, I walk out of the store with a DVD rental of Clerks II. It was raunchy enough to curdle the milk I'd bought, and even though I often found myself acknowledging the humor on an intellectual level, you really just can't go back. I managed to stay up through about 7/8 of it, before the white Russians did their finished their bit Cold War espionage and I nodded off. I watched the final bits when my older daughter was at dance the next morning, hammering on "stop" like a Jeopardy! buzzer each time my younger one's distractions didn't hold up in the other room..

I think next Saturday night, it's back to blogging and stuff. Lesson learned.

By Your Command...

Ms. Z's responses to the "Battlestar Galactica, I don't get it" post below, where she registers her loathing of the new series being a presumably ardent fan of the old, kind of left me inspired to share my thoughts on the matter in a manner more suited to a post rather than a comment.

While Z claims to be such a fan of the old series that she can't process the new one, I don't find myself in such a quandary, for some reason.

Here are my best guesses as to why...

First, let me just say that I am a fan of both. In my opinion, both series are meritous in the annals of sci-fi. Most of the complaints that I've heard regarding it tend to mirror the one I've mentioned, that the old and new series aren't spun the same way and that people who have come to love the old series, campy warts and hackneyed plots and all, will find themselves disappointed in the plot and betrayed by the characters.

Let's put aside the basic story line for another day, in which both series exhibit similitude at the outset but have diverged greatly since (and thus the most obvious difference), and discuss what I feel to be the greater stumbling block towards liking the new series: the characters.

The first "betrayal" that one will note is obvious from the very first episode: pilots Boomer and Starbuck are played by women.

Well, I suppose back in the late 70's you could get away with male dominance in the fighter ranks, but I doubt that this would fly now (please ignore this pun... please). The original series even took on this idea to laughable end when the entire pilot corps got sick and they needed to train fighter pilots out of the (entirely female) shuttle pilot corps. I was left with a feeling that the writers made a concerted effort to say, "Hey, she just banked left when she should have banked right! Oooh! Women are so cute when they try to fly Vipers." while watching that episode. Bleah.

The second "betrayal" that one will note it that, quite unlike the original characters, which were archetypically heroic and well principled, these new characters are flawed.

Perhaps, again, in the late 70's, coming off the heels of Star Wars and Star Trek, we became accustomed to the heroic swashbuckler archetype, but such an over-the-top caricature would be ill-received now.

So +10 to the new for not being limited in characterization by the older medium either in manner or gender.

Now several dings:

While I appreciate the lack of limits, the failure to create the "cohesive trio" with Apollo as the hyperprincipled leader, Starbuck as #1 sidekick and ladies man, and Boomer as the straight man to Starbuck's comic relief damages the interplay which was probably the original series most laudable asset. By diverging too much from that recipe, you lose something important.

Apollo, still the leader, isn't particularly idealistic, has issues with his father, and has a love-hate-love relationship with Starbuck. While this allows for some interesting interplay between the two characters, you're left with the idea that the Galactica pilots don't have a center they look to for direction.

Starbuck is a complete mess from a standpoint of characterization. Easily the most troubled of the pilots (not so easy a trick when one pilot has discovered her Cylonity), I think that the complete divergence from devil-may-care huckster and horn-dog was a disservice to the character. I would have preferred a female version of the original Starbuck. While Kara Thrace is certainly a pilot who takes chances and gambles quite a bit, both within the cockpit and without, I find her unlovable because she has, by far, the lowest self-esteem quotient of the entire cast... always aggressive, always something to prove, and never happy about much of anything, a complete departure from the original character.

Now some specific kudos:

Boomer was always a bit nondescript in the original series, really just serving as a tag-along for the Apollo and Starbuck characters. Duty-bound, often exasperated, but really having no real character to call his own. That's just sad. So make Boomer a Cylon, a sexy female one at that. I love it. Have her shoot the Commander at close range. Fantastic. Let her have a Cylon-human hybrid. Excellent. And let's keep one copy of her around and put her back in a Raptor. Genius. Boomer's character went through an entire scope of exploration in three episodes what the original couldn't achieve in two entire seasons.

Colonel Tigh, in the original, was another character whose primary function, it seemed, was to consume oxygen on the set and whose secondary function was to be alternately astonished and exasperated with both Adama and the three pilots. So let's make him a gruff, curmudgeonly, happy-to-see-his-career-nearly-over, highly-functional alcoholic with an enabling, selfish, jerk of a wife who will turn out to be a Cylon collaborator. The success of this character can be seen in my ever-growing ability to hate his guts. I say success, because I firmly believe that this is entirely intentional.

Commander (now Admiral) Adama, once an over-the-top, father figure, wizened Jedi Master sort, comes down out of the rarefied atmosphere of near godhood to become a more reasonable character, questioning of his own decisions and actions as both commander and as father, as one would expect of a person grunting under the weight of responsibility in his position.

And Baltar. What can't I say about the new Baltar. I never really ever bought the original Baltar character. Firstly, with a personality so insipidly and obviously evil, I would think it difficult to near impossible to accomplish the destruction of the Twelve Colonies without someone becoming suspicious. You can't perfectly hide a personality like that. And I really doubt that I'm believing that a person as brilliantly villainous as Baltar would be as stupid as to expect that the Cylons would keep their promise to spare his colony and install him as leader. And the fact that once he got his own Cylon command, he had three base ships, entire regiments of centurions, and a free-and-clear from human justice, and what did he do? He spent the rest of the series in a Keystone Coppish vendetta against his nemesis, Adama. The comic-book villain archetype, done to ridiculous end.

The new Baltar is a brilliant man who harbors within him the soul of a sniveling coward, and as you'd suspect of someone of such ilk, preoccupied with his own survival and the continued reinforcement of his own ego. He bears no foolish grudgery... he hasn't got the time... he's got his own ass to save. Baltar represents the villainy of the real... the sellouts... the selfish... the craven. There are hints of him being Cylon. That would be nice, because I believe that is the thing that will bring his true self to the fore, after all, being granted Cylon "immortality", and thus no need to concern himself with the pedantry of survival, what will he become? What threat will he finally pose? The possibilities are certainly interesting.

I could go on, but suffice it to say that, in a world where depicting epic space battles no longer gets the ooh's and ahh's it used to back in 1979 (due to the proliferation and, in my opinion, overuse of CG) it is the characters that make the story. The new BSG is strong in this regard, and does it in fine fashion, minus a few hiccups here and there. The old series is also strong in this regard, but in a more prefabricated, plastic manner more befitting the polyester, disco-bound, late '70s entertainment ethic.

Weekend Sports Roundup

BCS, NFL, NHL thoughts below...

BCS "Mess"
I'm convinced that the BCS exists to give sports columnists an easy target to fill column inches. Here's my local example -- I'm sure your local newspaper has a column about what a travesty it is that the national football championship is being decided based on style points and computer algorithms rather than the novel ideal of being settled on the field.

Baloney.

First of all -- it will be settled on the field -- Ohio St. will play Florida, and the winner will be the national champion. Michigan had their opportunity to make it to this game, and the lost it on the field!!!! I'll agree that it is hard to say that Michigan is not the No. 2 team in the country after they lost on the road to the No. 1 team by only 3 points, but they were aware of the stakes, and didn't get the job done.

Second, it's not like the BCS is spitting out a completely nonsencial championship match-up. Really, there were two reasonable outcomes -- Ohio St. - Michigan or Ohio St.- Florida (I suppose someone could make a case for Ohio St. - Boise St.), They're not deciding that, say, Louisville should be in the champioship game in spite of their loss to Rutgers because their average margin of victory was so large.

Finally, I don't know when we decided that the object of the college football season is to determine a national champion. College football used to be about rivalries and tradition, and now it's about positioning yourself for the national championship game. Michigan gets to go to the Rose Bowl and take on USC -- that used to be a dream, but not anymore. I think it says something about our society that we've made this shift -- maybe it's not anything bad, maybe just the nationalization of the media with ESPN. Before ESPN, a Big Ten fan wouldn't know much about the SEC or Big 8 (now 12), and probably wouldn't care to. But now we do.

Anyway, it's always good for a cheap column -- the BCS tries to fit a round peg in a square hole -- to determine the two teams that will play for the championship, when there aren't always 2 clear contenders. It makes for easy pickings.

UCLA defeats USC
If you're a senior at UCLA, you must have been getting damn tired of hearing about the Torjans across town, so that victory must indeed have been sweet.

And that tip and interception in the 4th quarter was one of the best plays I've seen.

Rutgers loses in triple OT
And so instead of the Orange Bowl, the Scarlet Knights head to the Texas Bowl. Can't like that.

I do hope this was not a fluke. It would be a great thing for the Northeast to have a college team to get behind, and going into Morgantown and taking the Mountaineers to 3 OT's proved they were not a fluke.

No. 16 to be retired
The Blues will retire Brett Hull's No. 16 tonight, it what may be their only sell-out of the season.

I went to what I think turned out to be Hull's final home game in the playoffs against the Red Wings. He left the ice to a chorus of boos, and that always bothered me. So he didn't get along with Mike Keenan -- who did? This guy was The Franchise, and he gets booed out of town.

In any instance, I hope the Golden Brett gets a warm reception tonight, and that this is the beginning of a renewed partnership between the Blues and their greatest player.

Cowboys defeat Giants
So, I guess putting Tony Romo in was the right move, huh?

Say what you want about Jeremy Shockey, the guy goes out there to play, and gets the crowd going. That's more than you can say for then hangdog Eli Manning.

Cards defeat Rams; Bulger rips team
It seems that since Orlando Pace went down, the Rams' offensive line has pretty much packed it in. And Marc Bulger is getting killed back there. I'm surprised he's made it this long. When he trotted out there with 2 minutes left and the Rams down by 21 and took a sack, I was screaming at the TV for Linehan to take Bulger out of the game before a stretcher does it for him. I don't see how he'll last through next Monday night's game against the Bears.

So, I can completely see where he's coming from.

I think the team misses Marshall Faulk in a lot of ways, which is why I was excited to hear that he wants to come back, and wants to come back as a Ram.

I'm not expecting him to put up 2500 all-purpose yards again, but I think he would help the culture of the offense. His rant on Sunday aside, Bulger isn't really a rah-rah guy. Torry Holt and Stephen Jackson don't strike me as leaders, either. But if a rookie offensive lineman sees a guy like Marshall Faulk, with his place in the Hall of Fame already secure, going out there every day and working his tail off, I think it would make a big difference.

Eagles defeat Panthers
Didn't see this one coming -- the Panthers are the hardest team in the league to predict, and have been for some time. And now the Eagles have playoff life.

Coming attractions
Brace yourselves for my upcoming series on Mark McGwire's Hall of Fame candidacy.

"Roller skates! He was wearing roller skates!"

Perusing my favorite home for wayward scholars, poets, and wannabe political pundits this morning, I came across this post. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my adolescence had a number of similar moments.


While I was in high school, I worked for several years at a local roller rink. It was the perfect job, really – I got to skate free whenever I wanted, the work was easy, and for some peculiar reason the girls really seemed to dig the bright orange vest and whistle. I mean, REALLY dig it. During the summer, work at the attached waterslide produced an absolutely stunning tan (I’ll let you know when the melanoma shows up). My employment there put me into an entirely different league, so far as the dating scene went.

So, I’m sixteen and skating there one night, and a girl I’d been seeing steadily shows up with her friend – who also happened to be dating my friend. It seemed natural enough to give him a call, and ask him to join us – so we left to pick him up. I skated out to the parking lot, and his girlfriend started begging to drive. Figuring it gave me a good excuse to ride with my date on my lap, I tossed her the keys.

My friend lives, oh, maybe eight miles away. The trip is going fine, we’re all laughing, my girlfriend is indeed riding on my lap, in the passenger seat – a perfect moment. The driver tells a joke, starts to laugh, and I say, “There’s a stop sign up there.” She’s too busy laughing, so I say louder, “Watch out for the stop sign. There’s a stop sign!” Then, I see the truck headed for the intersection from the left.

Moments like this one are eerily reminiscent of those movies they used to scare us with in Driver’s Education. Time really does slow, and you snap into the surreal. I yell “Stop!” She looks up, sees the truck, and (get this) – throws her hand in the air and screams! We hit the truck doing about 30 – the truck was going about forty.

So, my hot little VW Rabbit (totaled – as was the truck) is reeling slowly away, and I yell at her to brake. She screams “I am, I am!” But we’re not slowing at all; I look down and she’s pumping the clutch. We roll casually through the intersection (while I yank the emergency brake with no discernable effect), across some guy’s lawn, and hit his truck (truck number two) right behind the driver’s side door – right where the frame would be most damaged.

I open my door, go sprawling out onto the grass, and the guy comes out of his house, takes one look at me, and says, disgusted, “Roller skates! He was wearing roller skates!”

His mistake in identifying me as the driver caused some trouble, later, but not as much as the discovery that the girl driving was only fifteen (who knew?). My girlfriend? She broke up with me two weeks later – while I was lying in bed with a concussion (another story).

My father, capable of being an intensely judgmental and disapproving man, came to the scene, ascertained everyone was all right, worked out all the arrangements with the police, other driver, and man whose truck we’d impolitely rammed while parked innocuously in his driveway. He never yelled at me – even when he found out about the girl’s age – and he didn’t really punish me. It was his brightest moment as my father, really – he understood that lowering the boom on me, when I was already traumatized, would only make matters worse. He took the opportunity instead to model how such matters are best handled. It’s a lesson I took to heart.

My answer to the question at hand, by the way, is that I would certainly not lie for my son. The world is a scary place, but our fear of catastrophe so often outweighs the reality of actual challenges, and undermines out ability to effectively cope with disaster. By encouraging my teenage son to retreat from responsibility, I’d be teaching him a powerful lesson about the manner in which crises should be handled – a lesson I don’t want him to learn, least of all from me. What I would do is help him navigate it – be with him while we talked to police and insurance agents, hire an attorney if need be, and help him find ways to cope with the consequences.

Because that’s how you support the ones you love in difficult times – by encouraging or facilitating an accurate assessment and effective response that neither exaggerates the scope of the crisis, nor minimizes it.

Thanks dad.

Studio 60 Thread

For the first time I've seen, there was what I thought was a brilliant sketch idea -- Santa Claus being ambushed by To Catch a Predator. I haven't been watching SNL or Mad TV regularly, so I don't know if this was completely original, but the whole To Catch a Predator franchise was ripe for a parody.

Also, we left behind the red state-blue state stuff for a while, and took on the FCC! They want to turn up the heat on NBS because a soldier swore during a live inteview. BOOOOOO, FCC!!!!!! BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

So, is Danny the father of Jordan's baby? Or does he see an opportunity to live out his paternal ambitions? Or is this Sorkin's way of telling us that Danny is a Really Good Guy, that a woman's pregnancy would trigger his attraction to her? Hmmm...

UPDATE: Maybe it's to establish that Danny is NOT NOT NOT just Josh Lynam with a Hollywood job instead of a White House job. Josh didn't go out and get Donna, but lived in tension for eight years. But Danny declares that he's coming after the woman he wants, even though (or perhaps because) she's pregnant with a baby that may or not be his. See!! They're totally different!

The Passion Of The Nativity, A Movie Review

Born Again, Again
New Jesus Movie Proves Xmas Carol "Silent Night" Is Over 2,000 Years Old
By switters™
Posted Friday, December 1, 2006, at 12:00 PM CST

Ripped directly right out of some of the parts of The New Testament itself, literally, The Passion of The Nativity poses the question philosophers, Bible scholars and Jack Van Impe* have been asking for 25 centuries and counting, namely, What happens when you take a pregnant Jewish virgin with a bun in the oven, throw in a distant father with abandonment issues, a nutty band of wise-cracking wise men, and a Judean king with a Ramses-esque Passover complex?

Answer: a messiah with strangely Northern European features, one heck of a Peanuts xmas special, the "slaughter of the innocents", and a good, solid 2-hour nap. Yep, folks: Everybody wins. Except the first-born sons that is! (Ouch.)

Not to be outdone by sweeping factumentarian and sometime "sugar boobs"-blurting anti-Semite, Mel Gibson (The Last Temptation Of The Passionate Christ, The Last Tempted Tearing Of The Son Of God's Flesh, The First Attempted Head Chop-Off Of John The Baptist, Why The Jews Really Murdered Jesus The Christ), Kathy Hardwix (The Lord of Dogville, 13 Going On Slutty), lays out the first noel like a popup book. Or perhaps like a little wooden nativity scene hand-carved by a farmer in Iowa that sits on top of the television set next to the lava lamp at grandma's, whose house always smelled (vaguely) of chocolate chip cookies and, oddly enough, pipe tobacco.

[sigh]

Anyways…. Where was I? Hmm…

Right.

We follow little Mary (Keira Hughes Nightly [The Wail Writer]) and Joseph (Isaac Oscarson [the retarded kid in an episode of Law & Order: Special Education Unit, The Nativity Story]) on the bumpy road of unwanted teenage pregnancy, ostracization, and unwanted teenage childbirth from Judea all the way to Bethlehem. It's a fairly ill-conceived plan.

Then we follow the 3 wise men, Meshack, Shadrack and Abednego (as themselves) on the bumpy road of sight gags, pratfalls and myrrh, gold and frankincest jokes from the Far East all the way to the Middle East, and back again. "Moses schmoses. Camel urine is good for the skin."

Then we follow Herod (Cirian Hines [that one guy, you know, from The Romans and the Jane Eyre thingie on PBS years ago]) on the bumpy road of paranoia, control freakiness and infanticide from Solome all the way to The Dances of the 7th Veil. "Uh… You want what on a silver platter now, dear?"

Then we follow Linus (Christopher Shea [A Boy Named Charlie Brown {I'm extremely choosy about what I get right}]) on the bumpy road of self-realization from backstage all the way to center stage, where his "Lights, Please" speech is one of the most poignant, touching and revealing orations in the history of Christmasism itself. "That's what Christmas is about, Charlie Brown."

Then we follow little baby Jesus (??? [Omen III: The Final Conflict]) from the womb all the way to the birth canal. Then he pops out like a boiled ham and starts picking disciples and telling people not to hate and kill. Then his teachings are subsequently ignored by everyone for 2,000 years… !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!

Just in time for this season's observance of the pagan holiday celebrating the shortest day of the year and the Winter Solstice, The Passion Of The Nativity has something for the entire family and will have you seeing Mary Full Of Grace in a whole new production light faster than you can flip off some bitch who cut you off in traffic on your way to the candlelight service at the church you attend once or twice a year.

(Did you know that George Frederick Handel wrote the entire Messiah in about 2 weeks? Deadlines sure are a drag, especially when it's an oratorio about arguably the most significant event in the history of man. And woman. Oh well.)

Then Jesus was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate; He suffered and was buried; and the third day…etc., and so forth and so on.

The end.

On the eve of the "Silent Night", when push comes to shove and shove comes to push and another push comes to labor, folks, we don't want movies like The Passion Of The Nativity. We need movies like The Passion Of The Nativity, if for no other reason than when critics confuse straight-forward filmmaking for boring filmmaking, the odds are pretty good that those critics went into it knowing what they were going to write before they even saw the movie. And then proceed to trash Christianity as a whole not on its own merits but, rather, on the basis of the fucked-in-the-head insane followers* in its worst incarnation. Good call!

(I love the smell of disingenuousness in the morning. It smells like… chocolate chip cookies and pipe tobacco.)

Battlestar Galactica: I don't get it

So much hype for the show that even Slate has finally discovered it. After hearing about it for a while myself, I finally gave BSG a try for about three episodes, sometime during the previous season. (It was, if I recall, when Adama was convalescing, Tigh was mismanaging the ship, and a bunch of marines were planetside for some reason or other.) To put you in my frame of view, I really enjoy science fiction usually (and especially the character-driven post-new-wave stuff, ahem), and will cut a lot of technical disbelief for the service of a good story and interesting people.

But like I said, this show just didn't grab me. Some flaws I found:


Indistinguishable plots:
There were arcing threads in these episodes, which, to be fair were the engaging ones. I didn't resent being confused by these, as obviously they were works in progress. Each of the episodic threads was the same each time though, and less than compelling for their repetition. Marines on the planet go through some harrowing (yet strangely formulaic) ground combat (in one of the episodes I watched, it was fighter combat instead), and one character confronts some Scary Issues. Meanwhile cylons might be infiltrating the ship. Can the leadership effectively repel them? Ho hum.

- Plot-convenient threats:
Man, if those cylons really wanted to take over the ship, it looks like they could. They get in easily, lay some waste, and then get rebuffed at the last minute and at great human expense. Maybe they should send more than two next time.

- Confusing transitions:
Here they're on the planet, now they're on the ship. It's not clear why, when dirtside, they needed a ship to rescue them, nor is it clear why they ever needed to be walking around on an allegedly poisoned planet in the first place. Their modes of transport seem inconsistent in capability. What kind of drama can there be when they can scoot back up to the mother ship at a moment's notice?

- Unrevealing reveals:
The last episode I sat through ended with three prominent cylons (the blonde mindfucking one, the pretty asian one, and under the circumstances, I can't remember the third) somehow sitting together at evil alien HQ, after being dealt with convincingly in their plot-related locations (again with the confusing transitions), saying everything was going according to plan. Seriously, when after a setback, the evil overlords cackle over some counterintuitive plan, it usually means that they (the writers) have no plan. It's like the X-Files: too many grand dramatic twists and they eventually became meaningless. Evidently, it took BSG a season and a half to get to that point. (In this respect, it's a ballsy move to podcast the writer's meetings!)

- (I want to complain about the reversion to 21st century technology and mindsets when the writers can't think of something appropriately space-operatic (which isn't a complaint about war allegory, mind you, but more about poor technobabble generators and props). The setting doesn't get a consistent enough feel sometimes. I can't remember enough specifics for that one though.)

Good science fiction uses fantastic settings to pose questions that are difficult under normal circumstances, and then lets the consequences play out logically according to the premises as they're defined. It's not clear that BSG has managed that, and those three conniving cylons at the closing curtain was sufficient evidence of make-it-up-as-you-go-alongism that I was inspired to throw the remote across the room and re-devote my Saturday nights to drunken blogging. I'd be willing to give the show another shot, but at this point, I need to be convinced.