I topped out at about 270 pounds in high school. So when I say I'm in better shape than I was then, I'm telling the truth, but that truth doesn't mean a lot. I'd been a fat kid since third grade or so, but for most of my youth, the fatness would be covered by a series of growth spurts. Gain forty pounds, grow a few inches, repeat. As a result, I was usually just "the big kid:" obviously fat, but literally heads and shoulders above my peers, so it was a wash (also, basketball was awesome). However, some time into high school--10th grade, maybe?--I leveled out at 5'11" and it was clear that my luck had run cold.
I don't recall what my wake-up call was exactly, but I knew that I didn't want to be relegated to a Rascal scooter before the age of thirty. So, the summer after 11th grade, I would go out running every morning; walk-running at first, building up strength until my fat didn't hurt and I could run a few miles without blowing out a lung. I also cut my meal portions down. Way down. Honestly, it probably wasn't the healthiest way to lose weight, but teenagers can get away with that type of that thing more easily.
Over that summer and into the fall, I lost 65 pounds. The first comment I got upon my return to school was "Did you just get out of surgery?"
I've fluctuated up and down in the years since, most notably in college, where chicken tenders were plentiful and the gym was all the way down there. Then I graduated into the sort of plush office job that the human body has in no way evolved for (eight or nine hours sitting in a chair; who'd have thunk that would've been deleterious for our health?). Turns out that losing weight is relatively easy; the body responds well to minor shocks and the first weeks of a resolution pack enough adrenaline to help you fight through the irritation of hunger pangs and the indignity of shorts. It's maintaining any loss that's tricky.
Still, I've never gotten back to anything like what I was as a teenager. It helps, in some ways, to have that low bar. As long as I don't drift north of 230 or so, I always felt okay. But a low bar is still a low bar. Just because I'm doing better than I was in high school, doesn't mean I don't look like hell compared to other people, particularly my own wife, who kicks her ass a few times a week to continue looking hot.
Last New Year, sitting at 225 pounds, I resolved to drop twenty. I lost twenty-six. I then gained back eleven. Score this year
as another wash. Now, I don't like doing endorsements, but I can't not recommend myfitnesspal.com, which despite its irritatingly twee name was crucial to the weight loss I did achieve. I only really started gaining it back once I stopped using their calorie counter. I never saw myself counting calories because I hate dieting and math (in that order). But with their exercise calculator I discovered something about myself: I like working out. While the thought of dieting in any way makes me want to punch celery sticks and rice cakes, an hour or so at the gym actually sounds kind of nice. More time at the gym in order to eat some cake? Why the hell wouldn't a person do that? Obviously going to the gym will not excuse every sin of ingestion and there's no good reason for some of the portion sizes we foist upon ourselves, but if I need to hit the elliptical a little harder to work off an anticipated beer night, I will gladly make that trade.
And once I started going to gym, I discovered other benefits of shape-building that blubbery, 13-year-old me would've dismissed as the rationalizations of a sell-out; seriously, that version of me and the current version of me would come to some serious blows... and current me would totally win. Getting up at 5am on a weekday does suck, but not only does it beat going after work (time which belongs to my precious X-Box and/or wife), I feel more awake when I finish at 6am than I do when I try to wake normally at 6am and that alertness remains throughout the day. Plus--while this should sound incongruous--I get better sleep at night, too. Repeated over time, it gets easier and easier to force myself out of my comfy, comfy bed, which, really, is the hardest part of those mornings. Everything after is pretty smooth sailing.
And weekends, though most gyms are usually busier then, allow for longer workouts, incorporating different exercises--cardio and weight-training. Weekends is actually when I prefer to do weights; you can dismiss this as my hatred of math shining through, but reps are harder to count at 5am than at any other time of the day. And back to that whole dieting thing that I hate: when I've gone to the gym and I'm better rested, I get fewer hunger pangs during the day. Not to mention the psychological aspect of not wanting to blow burned calories on the more fleeting culinary pleasures. I love you, Cheez-Itz, but damned if I'm going to undo my work on the treadmill for a few handfuls of you; better to save that for something more satisfying. Burger and a beer, perhaps.
Really, my hopes are relatively simple. I don't want a bro-ish P-90X type system, whose results are negligible and bank account clearing at best. I also don't want to slim down; I have a larger than average-sized head, something that could be quickly spotted on a smaller man. And I certainly have no interest in becoming an engorged anatomy chart. My ideal body type for myself is early 20th Century boxer: square, blocky muscles separated by formidable strips of fat. A solid, utilitarian
machine fueled by whiskey, flapjacks, and mustache wax. The kind of thick and
impenetrable torso advocated by Ron Swanson.
My goal this year is to drop fifteen pounds and then maintain that. One I'm pretty sure I can do. The other, we'll see.
The Half-Drunken Scribe will not become a weight loss blog, I swear. I don't do peppy boosterism. And tracking my own progress is likely to attract even fewer page hits than my usual topics. But putting this in writing, in front of tens of regular readers, should help keep me more honest this time 'round. Too many people to lie to, you know.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
In Brief: NFL Rivalries
I'll address my pre-season NFL picks next week, when all the results are in. They're looking okay so far, but that's what happens when you pick chalk in the NFL. As for this weekend:
The talk in town is all about Sunday night, as it should be, since Cowboys-Redskins is by far the most interesting match up in Week 17. I can't tell you how much I threw up just typing that sentence (hint: my monitor is visible, but streaky). See, there is a persistent belief among Redskins fans that the Cowboys-Redskins rivalry is special. It's not. The Redskins have exactly the same relationship with the Cowboys that the Eagles and Giants do. And what the fanbases of the NFC East frequently forget is that everyone hates the Cowboys. You could move them to any division tomorrow and they'd be the most hated team in that division by the end of the week. This is a testament to the instant, reliable unlikability of the franchise, its players, its fans, its continually fawning media coverage, and its ownership (an ownership that remains only marginally more detestable than Redskins owner Dan Snyder). Anyway, I, like the rest of the nation, am calling for a Redskins win. Let's say, 24-13.
Turning toa better the best rivalry, I want to get this on the record: as a Bears fan, I'm not thinking of it as cheering for the Packers. Rather, I'm cheering for the Vikings to shit the bed, something precedent should bare out. But, mostly, it spares me the cognitive dissonance of having to cheer for State Farm reps, giving their spoiled, nothing-else-to-live-for fans the satisfaction of being a booster for their over-saturated, nationally beloved franchise that, historically speaking, does nothing more than win a lot while playing in an anomalously small market in which every citizen is literally invested in the team, forcing you to wonder if your large market, underperforming, one or two amazing years in the Super Bowl Era franchise isn't actually the bad guy of the division.
No. No, it's Packers fans who are wrong.
The talk in town is all about Sunday night, as it should be, since Cowboys-Redskins is by far the most interesting match up in Week 17. I can't tell you how much I threw up just typing that sentence (hint: my monitor is visible, but streaky). See, there is a persistent belief among Redskins fans that the Cowboys-Redskins rivalry is special. It's not. The Redskins have exactly the same relationship with the Cowboys that the Eagles and Giants do. And what the fanbases of the NFC East frequently forget is that everyone hates the Cowboys. You could move them to any division tomorrow and they'd be the most hated team in that division by the end of the week. This is a testament to the instant, reliable unlikability of the franchise, its players, its fans, its continually fawning media coverage, and its ownership (an ownership that remains only marginally more detestable than Redskins owner Dan Snyder). Anyway, I, like the rest of the nation, am calling for a Redskins win. Let's say, 24-13.
Turning to
No. No, it's Packers fans who are wrong.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Corsendonk Christmas Ale
Corsendonk's Christmas Ale pours reddish brown, a shade or two lighter than their flagship Tripel.
Caramel greets the nose first, followed by some floral alcohol notes, the only hint of the Strong Dark Ale's 8.5% ABV.
Whatever promise is offered by the Monastic pedigree and agreeable nose is dulled in the taste, however, hitting the tongue first with a nice, wheaty character that is supplemented with a bit of fruit. But the beer follows up with a sugariness that borders on too sweet, smothering the few hints of smoky spice that--with a stronger presence--might have made all the difference.
The smooth, light-body is pleasant enough, but seems to belong to another ale, not something meant to satisfy yuletide appetites and warm the Christmas spirit.
A promising yet ultimately disappointing Strong Ale doesn't quite match the spirit of the season. Too bad it doesn't seem to fit anywhere else on the calendar, either.
Grade: B-
Caramel greets the nose first, followed by some floral alcohol notes, the only hint of the Strong Dark Ale's 8.5% ABV.
Whatever promise is offered by the Monastic pedigree and agreeable nose is dulled in the taste, however, hitting the tongue first with a nice, wheaty character that is supplemented with a bit of fruit. But the beer follows up with a sugariness that borders on too sweet, smothering the few hints of smoky spice that--with a stronger presence--might have made all the difference.
The smooth, light-body is pleasant enough, but seems to belong to another ale, not something meant to satisfy yuletide appetites and warm the Christmas spirit.
A promising yet ultimately disappointing Strong Ale doesn't quite match the spirit of the season. Too bad it doesn't seem to fit anywhere else on the calendar, either.
Grade: B-
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Assassin's Creed III
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD
Assassin's Creed's greatest strength has always been its focus and commitment to history in a way that only the video game medium can provide: gorgeous, immersive renditions of historic cities and landscapes, with stories drawn from history--albeit a vaguely alternate universe history. AC at its best is the anti-Call of Duty. Unfortunately, AC's best runs right alongside its worst.
From the beginning, Ubisoft felt the need to give its alternate history lesson some context. This context came in the form of the charisma-less Desmond Miles and the hunt to save humanity from the evil Templars. Also from the 2012 apocalypse, though the Mayans don't appear to be involved (admittedly, I zoned out more than once during the exposition). These cutaways from the historical action have always been a brief nuisance. But in ACIII they cease to be brief, forcing the player to spend more and more time with Desmond and his Assassin comrades in their makeshift cave base. The only plus to this focus is that Desmond ends up dead.
All this time in the present day helps to fog the dullness of main character Conner, another charisma-less lead around whom things happen (the AC franchise seems to have spent all its likable protagonists; we were spoiled by Ezio Auditore). After some initial stop-start fun playing as Haytham Kenway, we transfer into Conner, Kenway's illegitimate half-Native American son. From there we run around the wilderness hunting animals and learning our way around ACIII's various collectibles (seriously, so many collectibles). Conner later becomes an Assassin, but the allegiance seems little more than a hobby for Conner. And he's slightly more interested in secret society-ing than he is in the American Revolution, which is another thing that happens here and there in a herky-jerky plot that never gains a solid foothold anywhere. The game seems almost aware of the fact that no one mission-type is especially fun and so offers seemingly dozens of different of mission types and mini-games in an attempt to distract players from the creeping monotony. Naval battles, for example, start out tedious, but become genuinely fun with a little practice. Unfortunately, when an aspect of a video game starts tedious, it's not usually a sign of a job well done.
The parkour remains the same as ever, if a little more fluid than past games, though this is broken up by environments that aren't as flush with easily traversed rooftops. This is not to mention the intense attention the player can draw from redcoat guards, who are T-1000-like in their persistence when they get a smell of Conner. When free-running is your second-biggest draw, it doesn't seem a great idea to actively make that harder to do.
It's some small consolation that the main game missions and grinding missions alike take place in some gorgeous environments. 18th Century cities, the open seas, the wilderness areas: all beautiful and fun to explore. I can almost forgive Ubisoft for making the "frontier" stage so large: it can't have been easy to stop painting that canvas. In the midst of the hunting and stalking in beautiful scenery, I was reminded of Red Dead Redemption, which is good because I love RDR and bad because ACIII is not RDR.
The game features a few additional triumphs. Among others: never giving into the America Fuck Yeah approach that would've been so easy. And neither was ACIII a full indictment of the occasional hypocrisy of early American leaders, which must've been tempting. The game instead opts for a neither totally good nor totally evil that might strike some as CNN-esque false equivalence, but sits reasonably well with my understanding of the period.
ACIII continues to do a few AC-type things well, though it's several less than previous games managed. It is, overall, a dull ride with a few, not as frustrating, high points scattered throughout. With Desmond gone, the franchise may finally be ready to move on to its full potential of historical Assassin-ing in immersive environments that other games never offer: ancient Babylon, feudal Japan, early 20th Century Russia. The possibilities should be endless. Ubisoft has the tools and the care, they just need to throw caution to the wind again.
Grade: C-
Assassin's Creed's greatest strength has always been its focus and commitment to history in a way that only the video game medium can provide: gorgeous, immersive renditions of historic cities and landscapes, with stories drawn from history--albeit a vaguely alternate universe history. AC at its best is the anti-Call of Duty. Unfortunately, AC's best runs right alongside its worst.
From the beginning, Ubisoft felt the need to give its alternate history lesson some context. This context came in the form of the charisma-less Desmond Miles and the hunt to save humanity from the evil Templars. Also from the 2012 apocalypse, though the Mayans don't appear to be involved (admittedly, I zoned out more than once during the exposition). These cutaways from the historical action have always been a brief nuisance. But in ACIII they cease to be brief, forcing the player to spend more and more time with Desmond and his Assassin comrades in their makeshift cave base. The only plus to this focus is that Desmond ends up dead.
All this time in the present day helps to fog the dullness of main character Conner, another charisma-less lead around whom things happen (the AC franchise seems to have spent all its likable protagonists; we were spoiled by Ezio Auditore). After some initial stop-start fun playing as Haytham Kenway, we transfer into Conner, Kenway's illegitimate half-Native American son. From there we run around the wilderness hunting animals and learning our way around ACIII's various collectibles (seriously, so many collectibles). Conner later becomes an Assassin, but the allegiance seems little more than a hobby for Conner. And he's slightly more interested in secret society-ing than he is in the American Revolution, which is another thing that happens here and there in a herky-jerky plot that never gains a solid foothold anywhere. The game seems almost aware of the fact that no one mission-type is especially fun and so offers seemingly dozens of different of mission types and mini-games in an attempt to distract players from the creeping monotony. Naval battles, for example, start out tedious, but become genuinely fun with a little practice. Unfortunately, when an aspect of a video game starts tedious, it's not usually a sign of a job well done.
The parkour remains the same as ever, if a little more fluid than past games, though this is broken up by environments that aren't as flush with easily traversed rooftops. This is not to mention the intense attention the player can draw from redcoat guards, who are T-1000-like in their persistence when they get a smell of Conner. When free-running is your second-biggest draw, it doesn't seem a great idea to actively make that harder to do.
It's some small consolation that the main game missions and grinding missions alike take place in some gorgeous environments. 18th Century cities, the open seas, the wilderness areas: all beautiful and fun to explore. I can almost forgive Ubisoft for making the "frontier" stage so large: it can't have been easy to stop painting that canvas. In the midst of the hunting and stalking in beautiful scenery, I was reminded of Red Dead Redemption, which is good because I love RDR and bad because ACIII is not RDR.
The game features a few additional triumphs. Among others: never giving into the America Fuck Yeah approach that would've been so easy. And neither was ACIII a full indictment of the occasional hypocrisy of early American leaders, which must've been tempting. The game instead opts for a neither totally good nor totally evil that might strike some as CNN-esque false equivalence, but sits reasonably well with my understanding of the period.
ACIII continues to do a few AC-type things well, though it's several less than previous games managed. It is, overall, a dull ride with a few, not as frustrating, high points scattered throughout. With Desmond gone, the franchise may finally be ready to move on to its full potential of historical Assassin-ing in immersive environments that other games never offer: ancient Babylon, feudal Japan, early 20th Century Russia. The possibilities should be endless. Ubisoft has the tools and the care, they just need to throw caution to the wind again.
Grade: C-
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
One Week Till Christmas
Kids like Snoopy. They might like Woodstock, too, I don't know. But they definitely dig Snoopy. More so than they do Charlie Brown, who, analyzed as the ostensible child that he is, always seems soaked in a self-pity that keeps him ever at a distance, however much we might want to relate to him. Or Linus, a savant who swaps back and forth between eloquent wunderkind and eminent pushover. Lucy's just a bitch. No, the World War I Flying Ace was always more relateable to a seven-year-old Half-Drunken Scribe than the rest of the gang ever was.
The staying power of Peanuts has always been its nostalgia, fueled by adults who strongly identify with Charlie Brown's myriad plights of conscience. Christmas is one week away, and while the smaller, Snoopy-liking version of myself would be ready to burst at the seams, adult-ish me frets and stresses over all that must be done in the meantime and all that will have to be done afterward. Kids don't have an after-Christmas. There is no after-Christmas for them. School just sort of starts up again. But adults have pre-Christmas, Christmas, and post-Christmas. And while our yuletide responsibilities change rapidly, our expectations are much slower to adapt.
At the risk of invoking White People Problems, I, like Charlie Brown (always full-named, by the way, never "Charlie;" Peppermint Patty calls him "Chuck," of course, but that's the joke... I think), can't help but wonder how much of it is worth it. How much should be scaled back, just so the holiday can have a chance to meet expectations without killing us. Because Christmas is a perfectly fine holiday. There's just too much baggage (sometimes literally).
And I don't even have kids.
Anyway, here's Linus' from-memory recital of Scripture, overdubbed with Orson Welles' "cuckoo clock" speech from The Third Man. Crude? Maybe. Childhood wounding? Definitely. Briefly funny? Oh yes. And in the end, isn't that what the holidays are about?
Probably not, no.
The staying power of Peanuts has always been its nostalgia, fueled by adults who strongly identify with Charlie Brown's myriad plights of conscience. Christmas is one week away, and while the smaller, Snoopy-liking version of myself would be ready to burst at the seams, adult-ish me frets and stresses over all that must be done in the meantime and all that will have to be done afterward. Kids don't have an after-Christmas. There is no after-Christmas for them. School just sort of starts up again. But adults have pre-Christmas, Christmas, and post-Christmas. And while our yuletide responsibilities change rapidly, our expectations are much slower to adapt.
At the risk of invoking White People Problems, I, like Charlie Brown (always full-named, by the way, never "Charlie;" Peppermint Patty calls him "Chuck," of course, but that's the joke... I think), can't help but wonder how much of it is worth it. How much should be scaled back, just so the holiday can have a chance to meet expectations without killing us. Because Christmas is a perfectly fine holiday. There's just too much baggage (sometimes literally).
And I don't even have kids.
Anyway, here's Linus' from-memory recital of Scripture, overdubbed with Orson Welles' "cuckoo clock" speech from The Third Man. Crude? Maybe. Childhood wounding? Definitely. Briefly funny? Oh yes. And in the end, isn't that what the holidays are about?
Probably not, no.
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Internet Likes Cats, Right?
Olivia was a months-old kitten when she was found abandoned in the woods of West Virginia. Starving and probably cold in the mountain air, she was nursed back to health by a co-worker of a friend. Said co-worker was unable to care for Olivia for long (work commitments, or something, I never got the complete story), and reached out to whoever could provide a decent home.
My wife--then my girlfriend--had been asking for a cat from (quite literally) the moment she could speak. She cites destiny for the fact that she was wearing black and white the day she learned that a small black and white cat needed a home. I classify it as something more like coincidence. Wearing a cat costume on the day she learned of Olivia: that would've been destiny. Nonetheless, Olivia would be L's a few days later.*
---
*I don't think I've mentioned this before, but my wife will remain unnamed here, per her request. I suggested some code names for her (she shot down both "Starfox" and "Shaniqua"), but she decided that the initial "L" will suffice, alternating with "the wife."
---
Olivia didn't yet know or trust L or myself--especially myself. During my first stay-over following Olivia's adoption, L woke in the middle of the night to find Olivia literally pissing on her; the wife blamed my apparently disconcerting presence, I blamed the cat. At several points, I reiterated my desire to name her "Goddammit" because, when it comes to cats, a name like "Goddammit" just saves time.
A few months later, we threw Olivia back into her carrier and moved her into our first apartment together. Three years and two apartments later, Olivia remains a crucial element to our household. A crucial, noisy, haughty, dumb, adorable element. The sort of element that mews intermittently during the night, occasionally climbing on top of us as a reminder that she's still awake and why the hell aren't we? An element which, in spite of some obvious learning disabilities, has figured out a way to make her nine-pound frame take up a third of the bed. An element that will demand to be played with, get us to play with her, grow bored two minutes later, start demanding more play ten minutes after that, and get us to go along with it every step of the way. An element who runs from everything and everyone and still gets it in her head that she'll hunt us: running after us at top speed down the hallway, pulling up short at the door, and then slapping her paws against the door frame, demented eyes staring up at us, as though to remind us that we only continue to live at her whim. This terrifies my wife and makes me fear for my wife's sanity; "it's not the ability, it's the intent," she testifies, each time that much closer to a psychotic break.
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And yet.
As a matter of routine, we'll get home from work at the end of the day, crumple onto the couch, and flip on comforting, predictable Seinfeld reruns in order to summon the strength needed to rise and make dinner. And like clockwork, this little hairball plops down into our laps, looks up at us with those big, black pupils, and begins to rumble. And, knowing full well that it's a trick--a trick keeping us from doing something we need to do--we melt. Because that's what cats do to earn their keep: fifteen seconds of minimal labor per day that makes them absolutely indispensable once they've wormed their way into your heart. The rest is unreconstructed id. And you love them for that.
This post has nothing to do with acquiring page hits (it kinda does). There's context for this. Or, rather, this is the context for a future post that had grown too large already. But, as she would remind me--and as I'm sure the wife would agree--Olivia deserves her own post, anyway.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
It Was an Elementary School
I didn't write about Newtown yesterday because there's something dirty to me about writing while details of such an event are still coming in. And I didn't do it earlier today because there are qualified people writing about it. But with a shooting of this scale, with these targets, and being that it was the second shooting this week (and a third in Alabama this morning, though luckily only the shooter seems to have been killed), letting it pass would be an unforgivable oversight for me. So, two quick things:
1. Guns are not the full problem. And gun control is not the full solution. But a sane society would acknowledge the relevance of both of those things.
2. If you haven't seen this video following any of the how-many shootings we've witnessed over the last few years, please do it now. Your watching it won't fix anything, of course, but it deserves to be absorbed. The news media's pathological exploitation is usually merely irritating. But it can also be dangerous (let alone offensive) when put into the hands of self-absorbed prats, oblivious to the impacts of their desperate pandering. Umpteen interviews with small children who had just been through an intensely traumatic event does nothing for anyone.
Those kids and those teachers deserve more than squabbling over who's to blame. But they also deserve to have their lives be given some meaning beyond unfathomable tragedy. As so many others have written, I'd like to not be writing another post like this in a few months.
1. Guns are not the full problem. And gun control is not the full solution. But a sane society would acknowledge the relevance of both of those things.
2. If you haven't seen this video following any of the how-many shootings we've witnessed over the last few years, please do it now. Your watching it won't fix anything, of course, but it deserves to be absorbed. The news media's pathological exploitation is usually merely irritating. But it can also be dangerous (let alone offensive) when put into the hands of self-absorbed prats, oblivious to the impacts of their desperate pandering. Umpteen interviews with small children who had just been through an intensely traumatic event does nothing for anyone.
Those kids and those teachers deserve more than squabbling over who's to blame. But they also deserve to have their lives be given some meaning beyond unfathomable tragedy. As so many others have written, I'd like to not be writing another post like this in a few months.
Friday, December 14, 2012
In Brief: Susan Rice
John McCain got his wish on Susan Rice. In exchange, Obama is still president.
Rice may not have made for a great Sec.State. But it has nothing to do with Benghazi. It's because she's a lousy diplomat. Republicans could use that argument, but then they'd have to face John Bolton comparisons and admit that Rice is just the kind of condescending, truth-bending operative they usually adore. And then they'd have to let John Kerry keep his Senate seat, which is all they really want.
I was going to stay off of politics until January (a decision that partly explains the lack of production around here), but it's worth coming back to point out again what inconceivable jackasses the Republicans are. The party for whom elections only have consequences if they win. For whom everything is permissible, so long as it serves ideology. For whom politics is a game to be won or lost because governance is for nerds.
Seriously, fuck these guys. I hope they all get pink eye. And then they pick at it for a few weeks, making the infection worse and rendering them unfit to appear on Sunday morning talk shows without wearing paper bags on their heads. And the paper bag headed Republican leaders all blame Obama, their voices slightly muffled by the bags and the pus seeping down into their mouths. Then Obamacare kicks in and they all get the care they need and walk away from the hospital clean and healthy and ready to continue working. And as they try to cross the street, they all get hit by a bus. The bus doesn't even slow down, just keeps going.
That's what I seriously hope happens.
Rice may not have made for a great Sec.State. But it has nothing to do with Benghazi. It's because she's a lousy diplomat. Republicans could use that argument, but then they'd have to face John Bolton comparisons and admit that Rice is just the kind of condescending, truth-bending operative they usually adore. And then they'd have to let John Kerry keep his Senate seat, which is all they really want.
I was going to stay off of politics until January (a decision that partly explains the lack of production around here), but it's worth coming back to point out again what inconceivable jackasses the Republicans are. The party for whom elections only have consequences if they win. For whom everything is permissible, so long as it serves ideology. For whom politics is a game to be won or lost because governance is for nerds.
Seriously, fuck these guys. I hope they all get pink eye. And then they pick at it for a few weeks, making the infection worse and rendering them unfit to appear on Sunday morning talk shows without wearing paper bags on their heads. And the paper bag headed Republican leaders all blame Obama, their voices slightly muffled by the bags and the pus seeping down into their mouths. Then Obamacare kicks in and they all get the care they need and walk away from the hospital clean and healthy and ready to continue working. And as they try to cross the street, they all get hit by a bus. The bus doesn't even slow down, just keeps going.
That's what I seriously hope happens.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Man of Steel teaser, Take Two
I'm think I'm going through a reverse of that Statler and Waldorf bit. It's the same process I went through after the first Man of Steel trailer. And the recent poster, come to think of it.
I know that Zack Snyder movies and Superman movies have each had great trailers, only for the films to turn out passable at best. And I know that with Batman on the shelf and Justice League looking like more and more of a cluster-fuck of decent ideas and bad ideas, MOS is a hot target for a lot of frustrated expectations that I'm wont to temper.
But it's growing on me, this new Superman.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
I Forgot "Mr. Plow"
The A.V. Club acknowledges up front that no ten episodes can truly summarize The Simpsons. This admission takes some of the sting out of their snubbing of season five. One could nearly summarize the series by picking ten episodes from that season alone. Maybe it was an unadvertised challenge, leaving season five and making a difficult task even harder for no good reason. But then we scroll down and see "$pringfield" and "Bart Gets Famous" hanging out with the honorable mentions, teasing us. Like God teased Moses in the desert.
Still, it's not a bad list. It's not as though any of the ten episodes chosen by A.V. Club contributor Kyle Ryan fail to meet the criteria; "most quintessential" is easily conflated with "best" but is not the same. If I were allowed to list the thirty most quintessential episodes, I would surely hit all ten of Ryan's choices; and that would be thirty out of the 248 pre-fan fiction era episodes. That Ryan considered all 24 seasons for inclusion makes the job... well, marginally more difficult, anyway (his list includes the season eleven finale, "Behind the Laughter," while season fifteen's "The Regina Monologues" is among the also-rans). And that I agree with just four of his top ten has as much to do with the fact that the series is difficult to encapsulate as it does with the fact that Ryan is a stupid moron with an ugly face and big butt and his butt smells and he likes to kiss his own butt.
This is a difficult task and it's probable that no two lists would look exactly alike. But that's the point of lists. You see someone compile a list of the greatest albums of all time and they put Nevermind at 18, while Led Zeppelin IV languishes at 69. Now you have to make your own goddamn list because that'll show 'em! Then you get stuck, because you know that London Calling and Born to Run both belong in the top five, but one of them has to give and, Jesus, this is hard, but at least it'll be better than that other list!
I had narrowed this list down to about thirty entries when it began to get hard. Ten cuts later, it got heartbreaking. That's why God gave us honorable mentions. It helped to remember that this is not a list of best or favorite episodes (still, cutting "Homer Goes to College" really hurt).
- "Treehouse of Horror" - Included here as a stand-in for all the "Treehouses" that followed. As the show went to hell, you could usually expect good things from these, even when they were airing closer to Thanksgiving.
- "The Way We Was" - Ryan chooses this one for its indispensable Simpsons mythology. And while it wasn't the best flashback episode they'd do (that would be "Lisa's First Word"), it did make the rest possible.
- "Marge vs. the Monorail" - The Simpsons does singing and dancing better than the original musicals it parodies. Of course, it helps when you have Phil Hartman.
- "I Love Lisa" - Lisa gets an unfair rap from fans, oblivious to how important pathos is to comedy. And this episode has that in spades. And some prime Krusty material to boot.
- "Last Exit to Springfield" - Call and response time: "Dental Plan..."
- "Cape Feare" - You want to know how wrong Ryan's list was? No Sideshow Bob. On a list of the most quintessential Simpsons episodes, Bart's second mortal enemy goes unlisted. No stepping on rakes, no Die Bart Die, no H.M.S. Pinafore, no "Hello, Mr. Thompson." For shame, Ryan. I Kill You Scum.
- "Rosebud" - While "Last Exit" provides a decent dosage of Mr. Burns, no such list is complete without the full Monty.
- "Bart's Inner Child" - Two things: 1, Albert Brooks. 2, Springfield's easily provoked mob mentality, displayed more beautifully here than in perhaps any other episode.
- "Bart Sells His Soul" - The Simpsons did religion/spirituality better than anyone before or since and this one toes the line of spiritual crisis without spilling into melodrama, something the subject often seems prone to. The sheer volume of Milhouse doesn't hurt, either. Plus, you know, ALF. In pog form.
- "The Itchy & Scratchy & Poochie Show" - There, but for the Grace of God...
Also ran:Comic Book Guy: Last night's Itchy & Scratchy was, without a doubt, the worst episode ever. Rest assured that I was on the Internet within minutes, registering my disgust throughout the world.Bart: Hey, I know it wasn't great, but what right do you have to complain?Comic Book Guy: As a loyal viewer, I feel they owe me.Bart: What? They're giving you thousands of hours of entertainment for free. What could they possibly owe you? If anything, you owe them.Comic Book Guy: *pause* Worst episode ever.
- "Homer at the Bat"
- "Homer the Heretic"
- "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie"- Possibly the first to ever to be dubbed "worst episode ever"
- "Lisa's First Word"
- "Homer Goes To College"
- "The Boy Who Knew Too Much"
- "Itchy & Scratchy Land"
- "You Only Move Twice"
- "Homer vs. the Eighteenth Amendment"
- "Behind the Laughter"
(Picture courtesy Simpsons quotes that nobody gets anymore)
Monday, December 3, 2012
Lincoln
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD (kind of... you know, if you fell asleep in history class, in which case you're probably not going to see the movie, anyway)
Lincoln was never going to match the expectations. The best it could hope for was to pull a King's Speech and not be quite as Oscar-baity as the trailers indicated. Spielberg accomplishes that. As a director, he's always excelled at taking in a lot of ideas, processing them down, and parceling them out without the audience gagging or getting bored. That sounds like a back-handed compliment, but the man deserves all the credit in the world for being able to create palatable dishes out of material girthy enough to choke an elephant. And even when that becomes a bit much, he can at least retain the verisimilitude, keeping us locked in the room of his choosing without suffocating us. In this case: Washington, DC, in early 1865. Lincoln does not suffer because of its director.
The acting is worthy of the material and then some. Just sorting through the central characters: Daniel Day-Lewis achieves a new method acting miracle by actually growing two inches for the lead role. Tommy Lee Jones' performance as Thaddeus Stevens steals the show through the noted advantage of having been right (his unrestrained distaste for pro-slavery pols is satisfying). Sally Field wisely does not go full tilt with Mary Todd and opts for frustratingly selfish (full Mary Todd crazy would've been immediately dismissed as campy and outlandish). And would it now be too weird to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt play John Wilkes Booth? Because I really don't think that guy's up for enough hypothetical roles. So the cast isn't the problem.
The issue, I'm tempted to say, is with the script. And that's not fair because the script is perfectly fine--the story is solid and the dialogue is generally engaging--but the trouble is in the bevy of source material that the script must draw upon. There is no way to tell the story of the Lincoln Administration through the passing of the 13th Amendment and do either any justice (Lincoln believes it can do both). We were never going to get a fifteen-hour epic spoon-feeding us every tidbit from Team of Rivals, so it's probably unfair to judge the movie based on what it decides to cut when cutting anything was near-criminal. Now watch while I judge it on that metric, anyway.
Criticisms of the film as a depiction of white superheroes saving blacks from a state those same superheroes had imposed are well-grounded. Black people in Lincoln are the object in a passive sentence. It's not as if President Lincoln wouldn't have come in to contact with freemen of the District. I mean, I don't expect a heartfelt speech from Lincoln's barber, but maybe a token appearance from Frederick Douglass? No. Something must give in historical dramas (which trend toward a bloated carriage, anyway), and so all we get is Mary Todd's confidant/dressmaker and Stevens' housemaid/lover, who only shows up after all is said and done. It's not that this is a particularly offensive omission (although it kind of is), but it is a gaping one. Lincoln, like Congressman Stevens, is served by historical advantage: it gets to ride its premise for so long because that premise is correct (slavery is bad). But no premise can be ridden forever and if Lincoln must go to Petersburg in order to comprehend the carnage he somehow hasn't comprehended until now, then we can at least be afforded a sit-down with a former slave. Or maybe a stand-up with a former slave: more scenes of Lincoln towering over everyone!
But if it must make these omissions, then at least it wrings all the drama it can out of what it keeps. Maybe it's because college zapped away enough of my soul, or maybe I just enjoyed watching James Spader being awesome, but I'll always love horse-trading scenes in smoke-filled back rooms, where sausage is being made. Lincoln's biggest success lies in not romanticizing the process. Until the end, when ratification seems assured (and I honestly can't recall whether that was a fair presumption at the time, or whether Lincoln is bluffing in order to change the subject with Confederate peace negotiators), the moral and political compromises are center stage and the film's drama is better for that acknowledgment. Yes, it makes for an incomplete dramatization, but you accept that sort of thing going in. The teary, elated celebration after the Amendment's passage through the House (spoiler number one) almost undercuts this, trading muddy politics for Spielberg's giving the audience what it wants, but as in real politics, the fact that something important got accomplished at all is worthy of celebration.
This disinclination toward romanticism mostly extends to it's its titular character. That is until the end, when Lincoln's assassination (that's the other spoiler) prompts a bleary-eyed flashback to his second inaugural address: the one that was supposed to lift our spirits and tell us what we could be, even while Lincoln's machinations sometimes involved everyone except the better angels. This is some of Spielberg's trademark manipulation, to be sure (see above), but it's not so different from our customary lionization of slain leaders, anyway. And while he's alive, we see every Lincoln action figure ever sold: tortured Lincoln; lawyer Lincoln; magnanimous Lincoln; shrewd politician Lincoln; happy family man Lincoln; reluctant family man Lincoln; backwoods, story-telling Lincoln (Secretary Stanton's reactions to the stories are a plus--that an actor has to wear that beard and play it straight is dichotomy at its finest). Day-Lewis plays them all wonderfully and these various versions ably highlight the man's many conflicting natures and his nimble, if over-wracked, brain. But they also remind us of just how difficult the man is to sum up in a 150-minute film. Surely, even after all that running time, there must be more here. And then we get thinking about all that could've, should've been. If we judge a film on what it's trying to do, then Lincoln has set the bar admirably high.
And we're back to the expectations thing. Like it's meta-textual subject (Lincoln is Obama, in case you missed it), we can't help but be underwhelmed when confronted with the real thing. And that feeling leads us to believe that the thing is less than it is, even if that thing isn't so bad in and of itself. Because truly, Lincoln is a fantastic piece of filmmaking whose only real flaw is being an impossible film to make.
Somebody should try for a James Polk biopic.
Grade: B
Lincoln was never going to match the expectations. The best it could hope for was to pull a King's Speech and not be quite as Oscar-baity as the trailers indicated. Spielberg accomplishes that. As a director, he's always excelled at taking in a lot of ideas, processing them down, and parceling them out without the audience gagging or getting bored. That sounds like a back-handed compliment, but the man deserves all the credit in the world for being able to create palatable dishes out of material girthy enough to choke an elephant. And even when that becomes a bit much, he can at least retain the verisimilitude, keeping us locked in the room of his choosing without suffocating us. In this case: Washington, DC, in early 1865. Lincoln does not suffer because of its director.
The acting is worthy of the material and then some. Just sorting through the central characters: Daniel Day-Lewis achieves a new method acting miracle by actually growing two inches for the lead role. Tommy Lee Jones' performance as Thaddeus Stevens steals the show through the noted advantage of having been right (his unrestrained distaste for pro-slavery pols is satisfying). Sally Field wisely does not go full tilt with Mary Todd and opts for frustratingly selfish (full Mary Todd crazy would've been immediately dismissed as campy and outlandish). And would it now be too weird to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt play John Wilkes Booth? Because I really don't think that guy's up for enough hypothetical roles. So the cast isn't the problem.
The issue, I'm tempted to say, is with the script. And that's not fair because the script is perfectly fine--the story is solid and the dialogue is generally engaging--but the trouble is in the bevy of source material that the script must draw upon. There is no way to tell the story of the Lincoln Administration through the passing of the 13th Amendment and do either any justice (Lincoln believes it can do both). We were never going to get a fifteen-hour epic spoon-feeding us every tidbit from Team of Rivals, so it's probably unfair to judge the movie based on what it decides to cut when cutting anything was near-criminal. Now watch while I judge it on that metric, anyway.
Criticisms of the film as a depiction of white superheroes saving blacks from a state those same superheroes had imposed are well-grounded. Black people in Lincoln are the object in a passive sentence. It's not as if President Lincoln wouldn't have come in to contact with freemen of the District. I mean, I don't expect a heartfelt speech from Lincoln's barber, but maybe a token appearance from Frederick Douglass? No. Something must give in historical dramas (which trend toward a bloated carriage, anyway), and so all we get is Mary Todd's confidant/dressmaker and Stevens' housemaid/lover, who only shows up after all is said and done. It's not that this is a particularly offensive omission (although it kind of is), but it is a gaping one. Lincoln, like Congressman Stevens, is served by historical advantage: it gets to ride its premise for so long because that premise is correct (slavery is bad). But no premise can be ridden forever and if Lincoln must go to Petersburg in order to comprehend the carnage he somehow hasn't comprehended until now, then we can at least be afforded a sit-down with a former slave. Or maybe a stand-up with a former slave: more scenes of Lincoln towering over everyone!
But if it must make these omissions, then at least it wrings all the drama it can out of what it keeps. Maybe it's because college zapped away enough of my soul, or maybe I just enjoyed watching James Spader being awesome, but I'll always love horse-trading scenes in smoke-filled back rooms, where sausage is being made. Lincoln's biggest success lies in not romanticizing the process. Until the end, when ratification seems assured (and I honestly can't recall whether that was a fair presumption at the time, or whether Lincoln is bluffing in order to change the subject with Confederate peace negotiators), the moral and political compromises are center stage and the film's drama is better for that acknowledgment. Yes, it makes for an incomplete dramatization, but you accept that sort of thing going in. The teary, elated celebration after the Amendment's passage through the House (spoiler number one) almost undercuts this, trading muddy politics for Spielberg's giving the audience what it wants, but as in real politics, the fact that something important got accomplished at all is worthy of celebration.
This disinclination toward romanticism mostly extends to it's its titular character. That is until the end, when Lincoln's assassination (that's the other spoiler) prompts a bleary-eyed flashback to his second inaugural address: the one that was supposed to lift our spirits and tell us what we could be, even while Lincoln's machinations sometimes involved everyone except the better angels. This is some of Spielberg's trademark manipulation, to be sure (see above), but it's not so different from our customary lionization of slain leaders, anyway. And while he's alive, we see every Lincoln action figure ever sold: tortured Lincoln; lawyer Lincoln; magnanimous Lincoln; shrewd politician Lincoln; happy family man Lincoln; reluctant family man Lincoln; backwoods, story-telling Lincoln (Secretary Stanton's reactions to the stories are a plus--that an actor has to wear that beard and play it straight is dichotomy at its finest). Day-Lewis plays them all wonderfully and these various versions ably highlight the man's many conflicting natures and his nimble, if over-wracked, brain. But they also remind us of just how difficult the man is to sum up in a 150-minute film. Surely, even after all that running time, there must be more here. And then we get thinking about all that could've, should've been. If we judge a film on what it's trying to do, then Lincoln has set the bar admirably high.
And we're back to the expectations thing. Like it's meta-textual subject (Lincoln is Obama, in case you missed it), we can't help but be underwhelmed when confronted with the real thing. And that feeling leads us to believe that the thing is less than it is, even if that thing isn't so bad in and of itself. Because truly, Lincoln is a fantastic piece of filmmaking whose only real flaw is being an impossible film to make.
Somebody should try for a James Polk biopic.
Grade: B
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