From Chicago to Chisago and back again

I started a brief description of my trip to the Galena Triathlon back in May, then I started getting carried away and never finished it, so I'm breaking it into excessively long, self-indulgent chapters. The sad thing is I only started writing it so I could set up this elaborate strained joke about Guns & Roses and this woman I met for like five hours (which will appear in chapter four). But nevertheless, with apologies to Messrs. Bailey, Isbell, and Hudson, here's chapter one.

Chapter One: You know where you are? You're in the Jungle, baby...

I've recently had a breakthrough when it comes to my navigational skills, passing through denial, anger, bargaining, anger, depression, and into acceptance of the fact that I don't have any. It shouldn't have taken this long, since an ex-girlfriend used to constantly remind me that I couldn't walk across a large room in a straight line, and during the bargaining phase I got a GPS to give me audible directions, so now I still miss all the turns, so it spends most of its time telling me “Please make a legal U-turn” in a pleasant female voice.

Unfortunately the most direct paths to Galena all involve plunging into the woods with a lantern and a bloodhound and hoping you come out the other side without being eaten by trolls, and the only way I've ever gotten there without getting lost was by insisting that any road I used had to be illustrated on the map with a red line as thick as Peter North, and as a result took a decidedly unscenic trip through several hours of Iowa cornfields. Wanting to cut a couple hours off the trip but not wanting to ask directions from a Wisconsin survivalist selling fireworks out of a camouflaged schoolbus (at least not again), I thought I'd try the wisdom of my Great Uncle Burr, who forsook the use of maps and street names and instead navigated entirely by the use of the stars and a photographic recollection of the terrain, yet knew the best route to get anywhere... a true Magellan of the Maid-rite. Since Burr's wisdom was accumulated and distilled through my father's recollections and tendency to include detours through every state park he could reach before anybody asked where he was going, and I was concerned that the inevitable “clump of trees” that forms a critical signpost in all of Burr's sui generis routes might have been cut down and made into somebody's deck, I thought I'd check this against a map and make my own decision, which turned out to be unwise.

The best route through the back roads of Iowa involves finding a way south to US-20, which is a nice wide, level road designed for high speeds with proper passing lanes, but it takes forever going straight south down I-35, plus there's always that risk I'd space out and end up asking directions at the Alamo. So you have to figure out a way to get east to US-218, which at least in Iowa, has been rebuilt into another modern 4-lane highway. I got really clever and decided to pick up 218 as early as possible back where it hits I-35 in Owatonna, home of the fighting Magic Pumpkins, and pass into Iowa through Austin, MN, which served as nursery to both spam and the Gear Daddies, given my extensive collection of Gear Daddies, Martin Zellar and the Hardaways, and Billy Dankert and the Real Austinaires albums. The classic route to Galena goes down highway 61 and has that whole Bob Dylan, God said to Abraham kill me a son, how many roads must be blocked with tipped over bales of hay sort of thing going, so I thought I might have better luck with 218 and the more upbeat tunes of the Gear Daddies, mainstay of the Mower County Fair. As it happens, parts of highway 218 are about a step above a dirt road, with years of patches of blacktop cobbled together into a narrow road swarming with junebugs, rhythmically pattering into my windshield, and then I remembered that track off of Can't Have Nothin' Nice that goes “218 is a lonely road for me”, and it certainly was. It is kind of nice to get out there into the countryside of scenic Mower County, teeth chattering as you you speed down the cratered road, up and down hills, until you slam on the brakes to avoid plowing into a dump truck going 25mph with no way to pass him for a half hour.

I figured it would open up past Austin, but then I discovered something that should have been obvious, when you consider the music of Billy Dankert, Austin resident and former Gear Daddies drummer, a generally talented guy who manages to combine this pleasant sound with a slightly disturbed romantic wit. He captured really beautifully this sense of growing up in a small town and feeling the steel jaws of a trap close over him as he got older in “Open Wide”, and especially “One Voice”, a pleasant yet haunting ditty that later turned into a cautionary tale about killer bees (seriously, don't let your children play around that apiary). What Billy Dankert was trying to warn me about is that as happens all too often on the back roads of the US highway system, once you get to Austin, the road signs all disappear, and US 218 seems to plunge into a residential neighborhood and disappear, with no hint of coming back out. Lost in the birthplace of spam, I feared I had wandered into some sort of Upton Sinclair inspired nightmare in which sausages rose up out of the asphalt to ensnare my tires, and I'd spend the rest of my life feeding pig snouts into a meat grinder while getting terrorized by a supervisor in an ugly striped sweater with knives on his fingers. And it's not like I wasn't warned: like the creepy gas station attendant in the first reel of every horror movie who warns our heroes to get out of town before sundown, my GPS spent all the time after I passed Owatonna telling me to turn around and periodically suggested an updated route back to the interstate.

I headed east on the last cross street, figuring it was at least the right direction, and hoping to find a southbound road that didn't have a stop sign every two blocks, and of course, that road came to an abrupt end at the beginning of a large wooded area, where a wolf in a dress and bifocals wiping his mouth with a red hood beckoned from behind a tree. Fortunately, figuring I was good and screwed, my GPS relented and smugly gave me the way out of Austin heading south into Iowa. To any tempted to take this route, around Osage or Charles City or somewhere 218 does turn into a decent highway all the way to US 20, and from there it's open freeway and smooth sailing all the way to Dubuque, but for god's sake just don't stop at the gingerbread house. Okay, I made that part up, but I did stop off for something sweet at a DQ in Cedar Falls, only to have the girl at the counter go back and fetch this old hag out of the back who insisted on feeling my arm before making my Misty Freeze. Make of that what you will, and pack plenty of breadcrumbs. I eventually did make it to Galena, and due to the hospitality of dear friends, spent a couple of enjoyable days in idyllic surroundings in a hotel on a hill overlooking rolling green countryside, enjoying the fresh air and sounds of nature, and sleeping on the nastiest urine stained hide-a-bed I've ever seen.

Chapter Two: Bitch slap rapping but nothing done (and no cocaine tongue)

I was in Galena for a triathlon, or more accurately to watch a triathlon, since I wouldn't run five miles if Big Foot was chasing me (a situation I occasionally thought I might encounter driving to Galena through the morass of unmarked trails that is southwestern Wisconsin). The Galena triathlon is a tough one, starting in a chilly lake and winding over rolling hills into a town clinging to the side of the Mississippi River valley, but it's through verdant, fresh countryside, which may or may not be better appreciated with tears in your eyes from the pain and adrenaline high. For my part, I quickly discovered that the triathlon is really not a great spectator sport, since 1400 people on a beach in matching black wetsuits all kind of look the same so I had no idea where my friends were, and a couple hours of watching heats of people dive into an icy lake seemed like a pretty stupid way to spend the morning. Eager to avoid getting trapped when the roads were closed for the bikers, I started the trek back to the field where my car was parked, with the help of a kindly man on a golf cart with a thick German accent. He drove me part of the way, but then I don't know if he was Adolf Eichmann or something, but when I asked what part of Germany he was from and how he came to be in Galena he threw me out of the cart and drove away. I did get out scant minutes before they closed the lot and the entrance to the road, and I tried to race back to town before the entire road was closed, passing what I figured had to be most of the local law enforcement establishment at road blocks, including one guy, I swear to god, in a leather vest with a cowboy hat and a tin star like he thought he was Wyatt Earp. Since I thought Marshall Earp couldn't catch me on horseback and I had a wide-open Stagecoach Trail in front of me I figured I'd open it up as much as I could to get back before spectators gathered at the finish line only to have me come crashing through, horn honking. It's a nice drive, up and down those hills at 80 mph, when you know you won't come over a hill blind and crash right into a combine going 20mph down the road (or at least I hoped not).

Unfortunately the Jo Davies Sheriff's Department had other ideas, and I was diverted down a series of gravel roads back to town, where I hit on an idea to entertain myself while waiting for my friends to finish the race. Since the entire Sheriff's Dept. seemed to be out on Stagecoach directing traffic, I figured Galena would be wide open for an epic crime spree, like a full-on Batman villain, purple suit and white clown make-up orgy of mayhem leaving a smoke and graffiti scar down main street. Any supervillain will tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I sat down for a waffle first, and discovered the fatal flaw in my plan when the Sheriff sat down opposite me at the counter. Talk about intelligence-led policing, that guy was on me like white on rice before I even designed a supervillain costume. So instead I hit a couple art galleries and a frame shop, and broke something which I then had to purchase and hang on my wall. Bumbling around I managed to miss the whole race except for the big barbecue at the end, where the stragglers were tossed on the fire to feed the winners, who then received their “I am a Triathlete – Biker – Swimmer – Cannibal” tattoos. Seriously, when they say the Galena triathlon is tough, they aren't just talking about the rolling hills. Okay, that didn't happen, but nobody's reading this anyways so I can tell it any way I want. And this part is true, Amstelboy got spanked by his woman in that race, and he wasn't happy about it... like the poet says, sometimes he gets so tense but he can't speed up the time.

Chapter Three: Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty

We celebrated the race in style, gathering for what strikes me as the antithesis of the Independence Day bash with Toby Keith and exploding bombshells, as the more progressive end of town gathered for dinner on a sheltered porch watching woodland creatures rummaging through the creek bed, and discussing the usual liberal topics: the way our hands our tied while the billions shift from side to side and the wars go on with brainwashed pride for the love of God and our human rights are swept aside, things of this nature. After heading into town for a knees-up with some local bands and a 12 year old kid doing the time warp, our footsteps were drawn as they always are to the Paradise, which I always remember fondly for being there in years past watching the 4th of July parade with Butch, the Earl of Jo Davies County... I can't help a little smile stepping into the Paradise. It was in full swing on a Saturday night, with cash trading hands around the pool table and batting eyelashes everywhere asking oh won't you please take me home. Some of my friends got snookered into a high stakes pool game with the local gentry, and upon losing were sent scurrying to the bar to refresh the victors' throats with the most expensive sipping whiskey in the house ($5), while I had a fascinating time with a Gaelic scholar and a sapphist and sometime cougar (she insists it's just a phase), until a Guns & Roses song came on. Then I got the first clue to a mystery that has plagued me since 1993... is Axl Rose is still out there somewhere? Because I tell you, I met somebody in the Paradise whose intimate familiarity with all things Axl went beyond what a fan gleans from wikipedia and years of Rolling Stone interviews, going back to Axl's childhood, and I think she was trying to tell me something. I didn't assign much significance to it until I mentioned his dancing style and she insisted she could recreate it, to my amusement, since I love impressions. Then as I was preparing to leave, “Sweet Child of Mine” came on, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her start to dance... I turned to say goodnight to the dancing girl but she was gone and in her place the specter of Axl Rose, wistfully swaying to his own twenty year old tune, in that eclectic, willowy dancing style, and the way she captured that vision of Axl was beyond eerie and into something else. Stepping back out into the night, I planted a kiss on the window in one of those “I hope that was funny and not creepy” sort of gestures to get a laugh out of Axl and the Cougar, and wandered back down Main Street.

I've seen some of the world's greatest works of art, creations that have stood the test of time for hundreds and thousands of years, and many more beautiful things that have not, and as a certain Redwood Rapunzel used to point out to me, the ones that bring me to tears more likely than not capture a moment in time that ties together long threads into an inseparable knot on which for that instant the entire world turns. That gigantic statue of Laocöon being tormented by the serpents, or Canova's statue of Cupid and Psyche at the moment of embrace, or the last touch of the blood-stained shirt at the end of Brokeback Mountain, when the tragic enormity of a lifetime's worth of decisions is contained in that gesture and a deeply stifled sob (make fun of me all you want, Amstelboy, it's still a good movie). And in that moment, it was if Axl had stepped into the smoky shadows of the 1980's LA clubs (where he rose to prominence and will live on in perpetual youth in the memories of aging clubbers) and emerged into the Paradise to enjoy his legacy in permanent rotation on the jukebox. And Axl was looking good that night.

Next: Now he's a court jester with a broken heart

Piranhas 8 - 5 BJ's

Yesterday, the Twins lost a close game because too many scoring opportunities slipped by, and while they held the BJ's to 5 runs, the Twins came up just short. There were too many rallies where one more break could have locked up a win, but this afternoon the Twins didn't let those opportunities dribble away. The BJ's took a commanding early lead by stringing together three hits on Silva before Frank Thomas hit the 500th home run of his career, scoring three and putting the BJ's up 4-0. Thomas has been such a Twin killer over the course of his career that when he came into a four game series with 499 home runs, it seemed unlikely he'd leave Minnesota without #500, and even for a former Black Sock, the crowd rose to applaud him becoming the 21st ever to hit 500 home runs. Silva gave up another run in the third, but then he and the bullpen closed the door, only allowing two more baserunners and nearly snagged both on double plays anyways.

On the other side of the ball, the Twins had another new and fascinating line-up, due to injuries and availability of players. Justin Morneau is back from recuperating his bruised lung, but not quite up to playing first base and Mike Redmond caught last night's game, so Cuddyer played first while Mauer caught Silva with Morneau at DH. Jason Tyner and Jason Bartlett led off, while Nick Punto played second in place of Castillo... kind of interesting, surprisingly effective. Tyner led off with an infield single, beating the throw from third base, and then Jason Bartlett came up, and got hit by A.J. Burnett. I immediately started wondering who was going to replace Bartlett, since I wasn't sure if we had any infielders left (forgetting Cirillo could come in at third, and Punto and Rodriguez would cover the middle infield), but after a long time on the ground surrounded by trainers, Bartlett shook it off and headed to first. I think pretty highly of Jason Bartlett, so I enjoyed seeing him come back and spend the rest of the game punishing Burnett. Cuddyer sent Tyner home with a single, but Mauer and Morneau both looked pretty rough, both striking out swinging on three pitches. Bartlett started sticking it to Burnett by leading off the third with a home run, and Torii Hunter added another solo homer to start the fourth, and bring the Twins within reach.

The turning point was the fifth, starting at the top of the order, with a pair of singles by Tyner and Bartlett. Continuing last night's pick-off fiasco, with runners at the corners Burnett seemed determined he was picking off Bartlett at first, which seemed stupid until you consider the BJ's infield all seem to have really horrible throwing arms. Last night they were irritatingly good fielders and kept snagging line drives (while today they got through and the Twins doubled their run production) but in two games they had six errors and two passed balls. Burnett was nowhere near picking off Bartlett, but then when Bartlett decided to give him a big fuck you and steal second, the late throw from the plate showed why Burnett was concerned about discouraging stolen bases. (In the sixth, Bartlett and Rodriguez each had a steal and Rodriguez advanced on a passed ball, with no throw from the catcher.) Mauer and Morneau continued to struggle, but critically both had productive outs, grounding out to the right side to send home Tyner and Bartlett and tie the game. Burnett walked Cuddyer to set up a 2-run homer by Torii Hunter, his second of the game, and the Twins took the lead. In the sixth, Luis Rodriguez reached first on an error by first baseman Matt Stairs, then stole second and took third on a passed ball, before Jason Tyner drove him in the culmination of the piranha mentality, using speed and tenacity to make their own luck.

Some questions were raised during the game (mainly by my dad) as to the Twins failure to sign Frank Thomas as a DH, when the Metrodome obviously agrees with him, although one explanation was offered when he got ejected for arguing a call then continuing to scream at the umpire from the dugout, meaning his historic home run comes in a game he lost and didn't finish. The girls behind me also raised questions as to the verse order of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm", which they wouldn't stop singing. And there's still some question as to whether Justin Morneau is healthy enough to be back in the line-up, but I was just happy to see him get an RBI and a walk so perennially bitter local sports radio couldn't resurrect his "Morneau-for-4" moniker.

W - Carlos Silva
L - A.J. Burnett
SV - Joe Nathan

Blue Jays 5 - 4 Twins

The Blue Jays are really starting to piss me off. Tonight the Twins had several breaks that set up juicy scoring opportunities only to have the BJ's keep wriggling out of them. Like in the first inning, when Joe Mauer hit into a double play, but he and Jason Bartlett took advantage of a fielding error and beat the tag and the throw to first. Then they executed a double steal, so the Twins had two extremely fast runners on second and third, but failed get them home. Then there was Cuddyer getting thrown out at home to kill a rally in the third... the whole game was close enough that any missed opportunity could have made the difference. Like sending Boof back out to start the 7th, when he'd given up three doubles in the 6th, and he gave up a lead-off double that turned into the winning run. Then again, 11 hits and 4 errors (two on the same play) by the BJ's should have turned into more run support. When Josh Towers had a disastrous attempt to pick off Nick Punto, missing 1st base entirely and letting Punto run to 3rd while a search party was being gathered to track down the ball, and followed that up with a pitch over his catcher's head that allowed Punto to dash home while Gregg Zaun chased the ball to the back stop, I really couldn't have imagined he'd come away with the win. And Zaun even got charged for a passed ball on that horrid pitch, proof that Towers has a deal with the devil. Frank Thomas, always a Twin killer with the Black Sox, is still stuck on 499 home runs with another game to play tomorrow, so that should be interesting.

W-Towers
L-BOOF
SV-Accardo

Voltron enters fight for Dutch bank

I was flipping through this morning's Financial Times, looking for an article about the risks of biofuels, only to find... actually, briefly on the topic of the biofuels article, it turned out the person whose perspective was being offered was the CEO of Exxon-Mobil. I'm sure he has a far deeper understanding of the energy industry than most people in the world today, and certainly better than my own, but when he's offering warnings against investing in bio-fuels, I have to ask... how the fuck is this news? Exxon recommends their gas over biofuel you buy from British Petroleum, up next, our exclusive interview with Colgate CEO Ruben Mark on why he says Aquafresh makes your mouth taste like bird poop. There was a bit of an interesting element to that Exxon story about how Exxon's business is built for $20/barrel oil and tight margins at refineries, and I would have been interested to know how that impacts the current gasoline situation, if Exxon is still operating for efficiency and maximizing marginal return rather than focusing on increasing capacity and gross revenue, and if that's a successful short term strategy for Exxon. Unfortunately questions like that took a back seat to Tillerson's opinions on how his hearse would be powered: gas or diesel. And seriously, when you can design a security system robust enough to keep guys in Tiger suits from dancing on your roof, that's when I'll start considering your advice on revamping a global energy infrastructure, E-M.

Back to my original point about Voltron, I was looking for that biofuels on the wrong page, so I was surprised to turn to page 16 and see a headline about Voltron's involvement in the three month long conflict over the future of ABN-AMRO between Royal Bank of Scotland, Barclay's, and ABN-AMRO itself. I've been following this with some interest due to the issues of shareholder rights in Europe, global consolidation and competitiveness, loss of national champions and issues of oligopoly and financial regulation, but you'll notice something missing from my list: giant fighting monsters. And it's not immediately clear how this would fall under Voltron's charter as "Defender of the Universe".

Just to bring anybody up to speed, Voltron was a name given to two giant fighting robot composed of smaller piloted vehicles, in one case from robotic lions (imaginatively referred to as the Lion Voltron), and in the other air, land, and sea vehicles (which could also helpfully fly in space) combined to form Vehicle Voltron. My first instinct was to assume that Lion Voltron was the one involved in the current banking crisis, because it seemed appropriate that Voltron would be scouring the Netherlands looking for an Orange Lion to add to his current Black, Green, Red, Blue, and Yellow Lions, but then I started wondering how it would fit in and for what purpose. Voltron's particular interest seems to be prising away ABN-AMRO's retail and private banking operations, so the Orange Lion would presumably serve as a retail banking services arm, to go with the red arm that held the energy sword, and the green one, which... well I don't want to speculate on what Voltron did with that hand. Or possibly Voltron have a third leg, which would do to evil monsters what my bank is doing to me with the $400 in fees they just charged me. Bend over for Wells F-- for Voltron, baby.

This of course was ridiculous speculation on my part, but consider this: there was a third, previously unrevealed Voltron, and I believe that is what we are seeing here today. This "Gladiator Voltron" was to be composed of three parts, the Black Gladiator representing Fortis, the Blue Gladiator representing the Royal Bank of Scotland, and the Red Gladiator representing Banco Santander. Together they seemed like an unlikely set of suitors for ABN-AMRO, bringing different strengths and needs, much like the helicopters, fighter jets, trucks, and submarines never seemed like they could be mashed together into Vehicle Voltron. And after the recent court ruling favoring Bank of America (who spirited away LaSalle Bank like that evil witch in Voltron), it seemed there was no hope they could overcome the bid by Barclay's. But then I read that they not only plan to reevaluate and submit a new bid to the shareholders, but they've combined their powers to form Voltron, whose main problem-solving tool was to take a monster (which started out small but was inflated by evil magic like ABN's voracious series of acquisitions in Europe) and slash it twice across the midsection, until four pieces fell away cleanly, like private banking and asset management, wholesale banking, retail banking, and the corporate offices. It's Voltron with a Scottish accent, and boy is he pissed off.

On Sopranos and Sopressata, and the charm of James Gandolfini

I've been rewatching and filling in the blanks on some of the first season of The Sopranos, and seeing again what a brilliant and innovative show this was, particularly for the TV climate of 1999. Now seemingly every show that isn't a reality show or a Law & Order spin-off is highly serialized and available on DVD, and it's unquestioned that people will follow long storylines and slow character development, and more importantly, pay the owners of the property directly by buying DVDs, so they can sell quality to consumers and not just bored eyeballs to advertisers. Some also credit Joss Whedon, the only guy working on broadcast TV doing season long story arcs and depending on creativity and quality to suck people in, because the success of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel gave credibility to pitches for shows like 24, Alias, and Lost. But seriously, I didn't realize how much there was packed into just the first few episodes of The Sopranos, and while I had maintained a long admiration for James Gandolfini, seeing this definitive role again I realized I'd forgotten just how good he was as Tony. What sparked a brief homage is watching a scene where Tony, as the underboss everybody knows is running the show behind the scenes, has to arrange something then have a fake meeting with all parties in front of the don, his uncle Junior, to make it seem like he really made the decision. I just enjoyed that scene because every character overplays their part a little bit, hamming it up in front of Junior, and for some reason I love it when good actors portray bad acting, because I think that's got to be hard, playing Tony playing a part, with enough of a crack between Tony's face and the persona he's playing to let some daylight in.*

To play a part that requires equal parts slovenliness and sexiness with the style of Gandolfini is incredible, and he's been doing stuff like that his whole career, creating these tremendous performances, just never where anybody can see it. I still love his character in The Mexican for being so far from Tony Soprano yet still having that mesmerizing violent charm, as a gay hit man who dances to Men Without Hats. Tired as I am of people like Robert Redford posturing, Gandolfini was a show stealing villain in The Last Castle, completely human in his flaws, noble in his ambition and self-image but ultimately sliding easily into being an truly evil bastard over nothing but pettiness and a bitter lack of empathy. He's about the only guy in 8MM who doesn't seem ridiculous, although Peter Stormare actually hits a nice note playing a ridiculous character (and okay Joaquin Phoenix wasn't bad), and I'd even consider seeing Surviving Christmas just to see him. I really wish he'd gotten Catch Me If You Can, because while I'm not disparaging what Tom Hanks did with the part, I think the whole style Gandolfini would have brought and his scenes with Leonardo di Caprio would have been great... I always picture him in their on-screen first meeting, excited and gullible, or as the shy fat guy nobody wants to listen to droning on about fake checks at the FBI. To see him in a movie with that kind of promotion, with Steven Spielberg at the helm, I wonder what it could have done for him as an actor. Until then, in my circle of acquaintances nobody but me will appreciate James Gandolfini, but I really wish you all could all see something like the first season of The Sopranos and see what the world is missing putting the maniacal stares of Tom Cruise and Nicholas Cage into every movie ahead of Gandolfini.

*-As a brief aside on portraying bad acting, it helps Gandolfini and others to have enough natural screen time to have something to compare it to. Danielle Pannabaker in Mr. Brooks is self-conscious and over emoting in every scene but one, and it's hard to tell if she's just a bad actress until the plot starts to unravel, and it's clear her character is lying in every scene, lying through her teeth, and desperately trying to build a foundation of half-truths as the ground crumbles around her. It's obvious to her father watching her, and becomes more obvious over the course of the film that there's this persona being built, until the final scene when we can believe her character takes off the mask in chilling fashion. Plus she's got that whole smoking hot thing going with the dark red hair set off against pale white skin, so er, my judgment may be impaired as my analysis of Northwestern softball. (Seriously do you think their catcher's single?)

To shoehorn in another note about acting and natural human empathy, I found a link on slashdot to a magazine that tried to administer the Voight-Kampff test from Bladerunner to San Francisco mayoral candidates to see if replicants had infiltrated the Democratic Party, and apparently the answer is they have. That just struck me as a great idea, but so far Congressman Ellison's office has refused my request for an interview with a giant magnifying glass and a camera to measure his pupil and capillary response to emotional stimuli. I wonder who else is dreaming of electric sheep?

Sparkle gone out of 4th of July

I have to admit, I'm just not that excited. Fireworks are a lot less cool ever since that time that mortar shell exploded in front of me, and as I was stumbling around shell-shocked, a cake tipped over and started firing at me, and blinded by the flash I tried to stumble my way to cover on a field strewn with shotgun shells. Ever since that time I half walked, half crawled from Manarola up to Corniglia in Europe's deathly heat wave of 2003, sitting around in the sun in hot and humid July weather has never seemed quite so much fun as it used to be. So really I was just looking forward to sitting in the Paradise, where Johnny Walker Blue goes for $4.50 a glass, and watching the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest from Coney Island. And this is when I really got discouraged, because checking the injury report on ESPN, Kobayashi has announced his sprained jaw will not be healed in time for him to compete. Without Kobayashi setting the pace, it's no longer the Wimbledon of Gluttony, it's just a bunch of guys eating hot dogs. So I'll be in the VFW, where $20 will get me ten drinks and a place to hide from my bookie. Seriously, with Kobayashi in the field, the over/under on the winner was ludicrously low, and I needed a quick double or nothing to get even after my last bet... I though the Generals were due!

Garnett and Henry moving on

Thierry Henry's often rumored, never consumated transfer from Arsenal to Barcelona is reportedly finally happening, as he hits 30 and debt-laden Arsenal can't tie up resources on a player with his growing risk of injury. Coming off a rocky season with popular speculation that they may drop out of the Big Four who currently dominate English football (Chelski, Manchester United, and Liverpool) losing a player of Henry's charisma and mesmerizing ability is a serious blow. If the 16m pounds his sale is supposed to bring in goes entirely to paying off the stadium debt, the club may be announcing they want to give up on European ambitions, and settle firmly into the second tier of England with Newcastle United, Tottenham Hotspur, and other teams who previously couldn't stand up to Arsenal's reserves. On the other hand, maybe Robin van Persie (the Dutch striker who runs like a girl) will be back in form, Henry's sale to Barca and Jose Antonio Reyes' transfer to Atletico Madrid will buy RvP a strike partner, and some of the younger talent will break through. If they hang on to fourth place, make a decent showing in Europe, and challenge in the cups, it'll be a good year financially and stave off the collapse that the rest of England seems to be drooling for, and that'll be good for a few laughs.

While Henry has always been linked to Barcelona but nobody has been sure if Arsenal would pull the trigger, Kevin Garnett is definitely out the door for the Timberwolves, but the problem is nobody knows where he's going. All that's definite is he won't be in Minnesota, and apparently he won't be in Boston either, since he came out and said he won't permit himself to be traded to the Celtics. Wild theories abound, some have died down, like the talk that he would go to Chicago, and the favorites are the Phoenix Suns, who have plenty to offer, but pretty good reason to stand pat. This does speak to how terribly unbalanced the NBA has become though, since the entire Eastern Conference has been written off as junior varsity, too weak to be worth his time. Personally I'm rooting for the rumored huge multiple player trade to the Knicks where Minnesota gets horrendously overpaid players nearing the ends of their bloated contracts, so they can all be cut and the Wolves can basically burn the place down and start over, having wasted the bright future they looked like they had back in 1996 when they had a core of Kevin Garnett, Tom Gugliotta, and Stephon Marbury. Rest assured, I'll be ranting about any future developments.

Estados Unidos 2 - 1 Mexico

Today the EEUU faced Mexico in the final of the Gold Cup, the continental championship of North and Central America and the Caribbean. Mexico have been the undisputed kings of the region, and have started to take a bigger place on the world stage in the Copa America and World Cup, playing one hell of a game against Argentina last summer. However, in the last six years, their big local rivals to the north have lost all fear of Mexico and become a thorn in their side. In the Americas, a rich diversity of geography allows many teams to use a venue as a stronghold, in a steamy jungle, on top of a mountain, or for teams sponsored by SPECTRE, the inside of an active volcano. Six years ago we finally decided to do the same thing, and played a world cup qualifier against Mexico in Columbus, Ohio in February. With two key players leaving the game early, Josh Wolff and Clint Mathis came off the bench and went nuts en route to a 3-0 win. The biggest match the two teams have ever played was in the World Cup the following year, and the EEUU won again, 2-0, and after taking their balls in that game, every meeting since has been a grudge match, but the only place we can't beat them is the Azteca in Mexico City.

Those were the stakes today when the two teams met at Soldier Field, in front of what looked to be a crowd of Swiss cycling enthusiasts, judging by the couple in the Swiss jersey and maillot jaune I saw on ESPN. Mexico took an early lead by exposing a couple weaknesses of the Norteamericanos, the first being the defenders playing a high line and leaving space behind them, and being stupid. If you're going to play an offside trap, keep the guy offside, don't do what a US defender did on Mexico's goal, which was to see somebody making a run behind him and chase him down right at the moment of the pass, playing him onside. The speed that allowed that mistake ironically allowed a defensive recovery, giving him nowhere to go, but there was another problem. Nobody seemed to cover the back side of every Mexican attack, leading to numerous opportunities, and this one went in.

The US had opportunities, despite bizarre finishing, and came back with a penalty won by Brian Ching and converted by Landon Donovan following some sort of pre-shot meditation, like in that last Rambo movie where he's chilling with the Buddhist monks when he's not stick-fighting. On a US corner kick, Mexico cleared the ball out of the box but straight to a lurking Benny Feilhaber, who volleyed it across the box to the back post in a beautiful winning goal. It might have been 3-1 a couple times, like when Brian Ching broke down the defense, pulled back and chipped a shot over the keeper, only to hit the near post, something of an accomplishment on its own to miss the goal. In the closing minutes Landon Donovan picked up a cleared Mexican corner, and faked out the only defender anywhere near him so badly the guy fell down, took the ball the whole way and dropped it off for the wide open Damarcus Beasley to do his best Patrick Kluivert impression and put it over the bar... come to think of it, he has been playing in Holland, maybe Amstelboy's cousins can get drunk and piss on posters of him too.

So there it is, 2-1 over Mexico and kings of CONCACAF, spanking Mexico (and Canada in the semis) just in time for the 4th of July. Hopefully this will have them riding high going into the Copa America, which is really the big show. The US will rest European based players and let MLS players go back to their clubs during that tournament, instead opting to play... well, I don't know who's left, but I hear it's a really young team. Stars and Stripes forever.

What got into Johan Santana tonight?

What a difference a new pitcher makes. Last night at Shea Carlos Silva had a rough night, and the Twins couldn't get anything going on offense off of John Maine, and lost 8-1 to the Mets. Tonight Santana pitched a complete game shut-out, cashing in a promise from Bert Blyleven to shave his head if Johan got the shut-out. Bizarrely he only had one strike-out coming in the 9th inning, when that's usually Santana's bread and butter, and as Blyleven noted, he was using Silva's game to do what Silva failed to do the night before. It wasn't enough to strangle the Mets offense, since Santana also had a good game at the plate, warding off a pinch hitter and letting him stay in all nine innings. Seriously, for an American League pitcher that was just ridiculous, he was getting way ahead in the count against Jorge Sosa, drew a walk and got an extra base hit (with first base coach Jerry White frantically shouting at him not to get carried away), and scored a run himself to insure the win. Johan just missed getting an infield single to really stick it to the Mets, but with Johan going nuts, the game was over in the second inning when the Twins put six runners on and scored five, never looking back. After that thrashing, I'd love to predict doom and gloom for the Mets tomorrow night, but I have an unfortunate feeling they may bounce back against Scott Baker.

Piranhas 9 - 0 Mets
W-Santana
L-Sosa

Piranhas 10 - 9 Alkies

That was certainly a crazy game, in a weird atmosphere, all wholesome for Father's Day, except for all the drunks who weaved their way across the bridge for the game, wearing their hats with the baseball glove logo like a note from their mother pinned to their lapels, in case they lose their way in a foamy haze of Miller Lite and forget where they are or where they're going and need passers-by can point them in the right direction on game day. “You're lost? What does “Wango baishbahl” mean? Oh, baseball? Just this way down 6th to Chicago... yeah, you're welcome, no hugs, and don't throw up on my shoes, please.” Seriously, every time we play a Wisconsin team, the biggest bunch of drunken freaks with no ability to follow the game show up, like the guy behind me who could divine the results of double play attempts before the ball was even thrown, and screamed “Double play!” at random moments for a few innings, like when the pitcher was warming up. It's a blast when the Chicago and Detroit fans come to town, because while they're seriously all fucking nuts, they at least come for the game, not to drink and drool on people. Also an oddity for Father's Day, as a prostate cancer tie-in, they had the seventh inning stretch in the sixth inning, which was supposed to encourage all the fathers to go get prostate exams. It is important to have the doctor stick his finger up your bum every once in a while, but I can't say this enough, the guy at Steamworks wearing nothing but a stethoscope who checks your prostate with both his hands on your shoulders is NOT A REAL DOCTOR.

I thought the Twins were in some serious trouble after the first inning, when after Ryan Braun (barely) broke up what would have been a double play to end the inning, Kevin Slowey turned into Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughn and threw about 12 straight balls, walking two and finally getting the third out when Johnny Estrada was dumb enough to swing at one of his pitches off the plate and grounded out to 2nd. When the Twins came up, Joe Mauer and Michael Cuddyer tore into Jeff Suppan early, and I still say Cuddyer would have scored Mauer from first if his double hadn't bounced over the outfield wall... three feet to the right and it would have bounced off the baggy, with Mauer already halfway home. Justin Morneau put the Twins ahead with a sac fly to score Mauer, so things were looking up. Then Torii Hunter took a ball off his hands, and had to call for Lew Ford to come in for him. With Slowey looking pretty rough, I thought losing our superstar center fielder was going to kill the Twins, and it nearly did. Mike Redmond drove Cuddyer in to extend the early lead, and Slowey and the Twins defense held off the Brewers for a while, letting a few guys on but never letting them score.

The heart of the Twins line-up continued to pound the Brewers, even the generally useless Lew Ford had a hell of a game at the plate in relief of Torii Hunter, driving in four runs and scoring one himself. By the fifth, the Twins were up 5-0, when the Brewers cracked Slowey wide open, opening the inning with two solo home runs, but the Twins answered with four more runs, so the game looked safe. Slowey gave up a 2-run homer in the top of the sixth just to get it a bit closer, but with a 9-4 lead the bullpen came in to finish things off, despite a lack of run support. Matt Guerrier got the Twins out of the sixth and through the seventh cleanly, and then Juan Rincon apparently decided as a personal favor to our closer to give him a save opportunity. After a lead-off double by Geoff Jenkins, Craig Counsell, master of the Julio Franco batting stance, sent him home on a single, and Corey Hart, best known for wearing his sunglasses at night, hit a two-run homer to put the Brewers within two. Once he set up the save situation for Nathan, Rincon finished off the eighth, and our closer Joe Nathan came in to pitch the ninth, and our troubles really began.

Prince Fielder, the Brewers first baseman, is a very large, bulky man. He's 6'0” and 260 lbs, which makes him not too quick around the basepaths. He's the son of Cecil Fielder, a very large man who played for the Tigers, who had no speed around the basepaths, and only stole one base in his career... against the Twins. His wife didn't congratulate him when he called to tell her, because she didn't believe him without video evidence and a note from the umpire. I don't know what kind of freakish karma the Fielders have against the Twins, but Prince Fielder cashed in some more of it yesterday. He hit a high fly ball to center field, which looked like a fairly routine catch, except he lost the ball against the dirty baseball colored roof, and Fielder had a lucky base hit. Unfortunately, the ball went so high it hit a speaker and dropped nowhere near where Lew Ford positioned himself guessing the trajectory in the dark, and left fielder Jason Tyner cleverly failed to back up Ford on the play, so Fielder got extra bases as a further gift. Ford, when he finally fielded the ball, hesitated on the throw, and Fielder, chugging and jiggling his way around the bases, so unused to doing so he had to stutter step at second and third to make sure he didn't miss them, beat the throw home. Just another half second and the cut-off man could have gotten the ball to home plate. I inwardly groaned, knowing that play was going to feature heavily on “Around the Horn”. Just like the missed double play shook up Slowey, after that gift Nathan started pitching like crap. Three straight base hits scored the tying run for the Brewers, and with two runners in scoring position, Joe Nathan got it together and took out the next three batters, striking out Sunglasses at Night to end the inning. A blown save for Nathan, no win for Slowey, and a Father's Day gift for Jeff Suppan, who really deserved the loss after giving up 9 earned runs in five innings.

In the bottom of the ninth, with their bats having gone a bit quiet since the fifth, the Twins had AL MVP Justin Morneau up to lead off the inning. After his sacrifice in the first, Morneau had picked up another RBI in the third sending Mauer home on a double, and then the Brewers walked him in his next couple at-bats, so he'd been having a good game, with four productive plate appearances. Well, the second walk was intentional and set up a force-out at second, and was kind of bizarre since the guy batting behind Morneau had five RBIs, but nevertheless, a good game. After taking one pitch, Morneau drilled the next one over the baggy in right field, the kind of ball you know is over the wall right off his bat, for the walk off home run. With the stadium errupting, My Dad, not generally a trash talker, turned around to sarcastically chant “Let's go Brewers!” at the alkies preparing to retreat back across the St. Croix with their tails between their legs, and all was right in the world.

Piranhas 10, Alkies 9
Winning Pitcher: Joe Nathan (Blown Save)
Losing Pitcher: Chris Spurling
Prostate: Healthy

Last minute gift ideas for The Big Wedding

10. A shovel for cleaning up dog crap and fighting off gigantic rats

9. A fondue pot and a copy of “Your Favorite Ethnic Jokes Translated into Romansh” by Adolf Uhler, M.D., to crack the ice at dinner parties

8. A bike rack, or more realistically a horse trailer to carry all those bikes, preferably with “Run-Bike-Swim: I am a Tri-Athlete” painted on the side

7. 80's video game t-shirt for him, and Mary Janes and a plaid skirt for her, so they can fit in with the hipsters over at the bar behind the warehouse by the municipal gas station

6. Get them each something they simply can't get on their own: dirty magazines from Frenchy's for him, and an adopted Namibian baby for her

5. 10,000 pairs of Crocs. Gotta keep that share price up to back those CDOs (CROCS Debt Obligations)

4. 1,000 cans of Turtle Wax so Old Man PJ can keep polishing that car

3. A golf cart, so Lian can drive (PJ's not letting her near the DMX) and PJ won't need to bother with golf as an excuse to drive a cart around, gleaming unused clubs flying out the back

2. Head over the bachelorette party and make it rain. Since they'll be using the same male stripper at the bachelor party, this gift will keep on giving.

1. Terminator rockets for him, earplugs for her. A bit obvious, but you know they'll always need plenty of both.

Or if like me you're short on cash, make your gift in the form of a cherished memory, like this wedding toast.

Piranhas 6-0 Tomahawk Chops

The Twins beat the Braves pretty soundly, taking a lead National League style and then cementing it American League style, and presumably will celebrate Zurich Street Parade style. In the first inning, with Joe Mauer on base Michael Cuddyer hit a double to put them both in scoring position, and bringing American League MVP Justin Morneau to the plate. In piranha fashion, Morneau hit a ground ball to score Mauer and advance Cuddyer to third, and then the Twins did something bizarre. With two outs and at least 8 more innings to go, Torii Hunter laid down a sacrifice bunt to give Cuddyer a fighting chance to score on a squeeze play, and then when the pitcher couldn't field it cleanly Torii beat out the throw to first for a 2-out RBI bunt single. Later in the game, the Twins quit manufacturing runs and just beat the shit out of Braves pitcher Chuck James by going yard on him three times. It could have been three in a row, as Michael Cuddyer led off the 3rd inning with a double that fell just short of the wall in center field, followed by back-to-back home runs by Morneau and Hunter.

The Braves did eventually get things under control, but it didn't matter, because on the other side Carlos Silva was pitching a complete game shut-out. Just to be a dick about it, Carlos let the lead runner reach first in the first few innings, just to make it funnier when he was stranded and the Braves couldn't get on the scoreboard. According to many armchair pundits, Carlos Silva shouldn't have even been on the roster, since he had lost his form of a few years ago and was holding back Matt Garza, but tonight was the Silva of old, never overpowering anybody, getting into trouble occasionally but using the D behind him and forcing guys to hit into double plays to get himself back out of trouble... three double plays for the Twins tonight, including my favorite when the Braves had two runners on in the 7th, and a nervous crowd was dreading a Braves rally and agitating for the 7th Inning Stretch. Nick Punto intercepted a ground ball up the third base line, stepped on third to get the force-out, and still managed to throw out Francoeur at first to end the inning and start the singing. My other favorite defensive play was one that didn't happen, when a Braves batter got a base hit to right field, rounded first on a tear and glanced over to see Cuddyer fielding the ball, and about fell down in his rush to change direction and get back to first, now that the whole league has seen Cuddyer throw guys out at the plate from right field... not the arm to run on.

Flourish, or thanks for Jennifer Morrison, now go away

Well that was certainly weird. There's a lot of positives about Flourish, starting with the whole reason I saw it, Jennifer Morrison, and her House, M.D. co-star Jesse Spencer in a karate gi. But really mostly Jennifer Morrison. And given developments on House, it may have been my last chance to see her. Jennifer Morrison is brilliant as Gabrielle Winters, a woman who lost a teenager she was babysitting, being interviewed in a clinical setting and spinning a bizarre tale to explain what happened, showing he has a tenuous grasp on her faculties at the best of times, telling a story that shows her moving through an evening piecing her own life and identity together moment by moment from snatches of lucidity and whatever facts she can glean from hazy memories. Morrison's frenetic character Gabby is unable to keep words and concepts straight from sentence to sentence (dropping her coffee and looking for the car keys then asking her roommate for the coffee keys), and it's both funny and intriguing to watch the impossibility of communication with Gabby. Some of the mystery that hangs over the film is worthwhile, like wondering how the fractured Gabby can have stable relationships with other people like her rooommate, and why someone would trust her to care for their child. It really calls into question whether she was always like this, and Gabby gives some reason to believe she had a sharp mental break that caused her to be like this.

The story within the story, her recollection of what happened That Night proceeds in a linear fashion cutting between multiple characters and locations, a bizarre plot involving spycraft, rogue teenagers, adultery, dead bodies, and a feverish man with a karate gi and a gun. It's grounded enough that the reliability of Gabby as a narrator doesn't come into question until the end. The interviewer points out several problems we should have had with Gabby's story, like the parts she didn't witness, and the fact that he's in it. Everybody in the entire story seems very confused about what they're doing, and why, and inventively bridges the gaps between intentions and reality the same way Gabby does, which means it's impossible to be sure to what degree they're real people, and to what degree an extension of her imagination. Gabby can't find her car keys, and outside a car thief can't figure out how to start her car, she hitches a ride but the driver can't take her where she's going or explain why... when she tells the story everybody seems to share her problem with transportation. On some level this is fascinating, but after twenty minutes of searching, I really just wanted her to find her car keys. After an hour and a half, I just wanted one person to know where they were and what they were doing.

Flourish doesn't come to a satisfactory resolution of any subplot, so it's a hard slog, and other than Gabby, none of the characters are people I really wanted to know more about anyways. So good for Jennifer Morrison, not so good for the audience.

Wildcats 5-0 Lady Volunteers

This is a bit late, but the Arizona Wildcats climbed a pretty big mountain to come back and beat Tennessee in the Softball College World Series, in no small part due to the resurgence at the plate of their cute catcher, Callista Balko, the whole reason I was rooting for them. I'm not usually into blondes, but she's lanky and pulls off that hot pink glitter headband and a blue catcher's mask combo better than anyone. Seriously man, catchers are fine... Erin Dyer at Northwestern, Callista Balko at Arizona, and it goes both ways... I'm sure I hear a few contented sighs around me when the Piranha with the sideburns who sits behind the plate for the Twins hits the on-deck circle.

Monica Abbott looked unhittable in game one, to the point none of the Wildcats could get a ball out of the infield. Tennessee scored early, and Abbot's dominance made Tennessee look like a dead lock to win their first championship, with all the Volunteer Glitterati in attendance. But all the fawning over Abbott obscured the performance of Taryne Mowatt on the mound for Arizona in the final. Abbott pitched another seven shut-out innings in game two, but Mowatt wouldn't let anybody cross the plate for Tennessee, so they forced three more innings out of Abbott and the Lady Vols, finally cracking Abbott in the 10th. With one runner on base, Callista Balko, the catcher with the blonde curls, who was hitless for the tournament, rediscovered what everybody seemed to have forgotten, how to manufacture runs, and laid down about the first successful bunt of the whole tournament. She then then hustled to take advantage of a fielding error and beat the throw to first, saving an out which Arizona used to get the lead runner home for the win.

Game three was a reversal, as the Lady Vols still couldn't score on Mowatt, who stranded 26 runners in the last two games, and after Alicia Hollowell threw them two days of rise balls in batting practice, Balko and the Wildcat batters had a gleam in their eyes like they knew they'd worn down Abbott in game two and cracked her mystique. When the wall finally fell, it fell hard, and the Wildcats scored five runs on Monica Abbott, demolishing the carefully crafted storyline ESPN was feeding the audience, as the #1 seed showed why they have a pile of trophies in the case. And the more alluring and dangerous catcher (I'm just saying).

London 2012 logo worse than breakfast at DQ

I wondered how London came up with their new Olympic logo, which tasteful Britons tell us looks like a plate of sick. For 400,000 pounds, I'd think they could have done better, since other people submitted free alternatives that look a lot less stupid than this one. It's only recognizable as saying 2012 if you squint your eyes and bob your head a bit as if drunk, which makes me wonder if the 400K didn't go towards some fine English wine, explaining the incoherent scrawl and the vomit that served as inspiration. There is one alternative theory I like, although god knows how long it will stay up before they get an eloquent but nasty C&D letter.

Grindhouse

Robert Rodriguez created the first half of Grindhouse, a gory tale of zombies and rednecks titled Planet Terror, and it succeeds (largely) at creating a slightly more glamorous romp through the world of cheap-ass 70's horror movies, half homage and half parody of Romero's zombie movies amongst others. It's amusing for a while, but starts to drag after a while, and it's not Rodriguez's best work (thus far I'd nominate the Mariachi trilogy). There are some delightfully trashy elements to Planet Terror, like everything to do with Rose McGowan's amputated leg is fantastic in its excess, exactly why I went to see Grindhouse, and there are numerous other amusing elements, like Quentin Tarantino's thrilling acting performance as Rapist #1, and Naveen Andrews' giant jar of human testicles, or the naughty nurse with a collection of needles.

The Grindhouse theme that plays through it is a great piece of music for this film as well, especially in the opening over Rose MacGowan's crying go-go dancing. I would also acknowledge that a lot of the comedy of Planet Terror would go better with an audience, and I saw it with one old guy who left early, which probably contributed to it feeling a little flat. The grindhouse conventions like the scratchy film print, dropped frames, burned and misaligned segments are entertaining, particularly one of the “missing reels” that contains major plot points and one character's entire backstory. Rodriguez generally does a pretty decent job of finding the golden mean between parody and homage that allows it to work both ways, so I have to give Rodriguez credit for that, since so many attempts fail.

Another grindhouse element I loved was the inclusion of fake trailers in the break between features. Here again I missed out, because I arrived too late for the first round of fake trailers, but the ones in between the double feature were one of the most memorable parts of the film, contributed by even more directors. “Don't” and “Thanksgiving... in theaters this Christmas” were both hilarious, and given Nicholas Cage's recent work he should definitely give some thought to doing a whole feature film as Fu Manchu. On the other hand, Rob Zombie's “Werewolf Women of the SS” did capture one grindhouse element that's missing from Planet Terror, and that's the exploitive, risible amount of sex and nudity that's in these trashy films. This is a problem of reproducing that genre with people who appear regularly in People magazine: I knew they'd have to tone it down once I saw who was in it, and it's obtrusive to recognize the camera tricks and careful positioning being used to obscure Rose MacGowan, and know that there's a “missing reel” joke coming up to protect her nipples. (I think Jessica Alba already has the pin-up girl tease schtick locked up in Hollywood these days.)

I really enjoyed Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino's half of Grindhouse, even though most people seemed to disagree. Death Proof is briefly the story of a serial killer with a tricked out stunt car named Stuntman Mike, played with a malevolent charm by Kurt Russel. It can be split into two sections, and each does have a very long set-up of girls cruising around town and talking... and talking... and this is where it seems to have lost a lot of the audience, especially coming on the heels of Planet Terror for an audience with full bladders and empty popcorn buckets. I thought it was great, the dialogue really sparkles the way it does in any Tarantino films, but it's also not bank robbers and murderers trying to verbally outmuscle each other, so it's something new from Tarantino, which is good since he just took the whole Italian film industry to task for making every movie about a married couple having a problem or mentally retarded people on vacation.

Vanessa Ferlito is fascinating as the sultry focus of the first part of Death Proof, and Rose MacGowan's brief appearance as the first body thrown under Stuntman Mike's wheels is pretty intense. It's a rare case of Tarantino doing more with less, hearkening back to an era of slasher films before the excess of Friday the 13th and others in the 80's, when one well-executed scene of murder and mayhem set a macabre, edgy tone over the rest of the film, like the first killings in Psycho or Halloween. Death Proof takes so long in creating real characters for Stuntman Mike to murder, and doesn't dispense with MacGowan's character casually, creating a real chill of horror, and Tarantino escalates this, using the entire first half of his film to establish for the audience that he will do very bad things to his people he's made us care about.

This makes the second half of the film an incredibly tense thrill ride, as cliche as that phrase may be, and after using the whole first half of the film as backstory on Stuntman Mike, so we'll know to shudder when we see him, in the second half of Death Proof I realized the entire movie for the first hour is all about one goal: setting up the greatest car chase ever. Tarantino needed a villain who was sufficiently evil to give it a real sense of jeopardy, he needed characters the audience would buy into, and a set-up and a setting that will feel real enough to keep it scary. He takes every last second he needs to introduce all the elements and gather them together, and it was well, well worth the wait. Zoe Bell, Tracie Thoms, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, and Rosario Dawson are a lot of fun to watch through the whole extended conversation that introduces their characters, particularly one scene of them all sitting around a table at a diner with the camera quietly moving around the table, until it catches a glimpse of Stuntman Mike's jacket at the counter, and this sense of doom settles in. The whole film is full of humor, intriguing characters with sparkling dialogue, and all leads to this incredible chase scene with Zoe Bell rolling around on the hood of a car for the whole thing. Seriously, well worth the wait, about the most invested I've been in a chase scene since the Dukes of Hazzard were on the air, and the way Kurt Russell and these women unravel the whole thing to April March's circa 1960's French Ye-Ye pop cover “Hang Up the Chick Habit” is just fantastic.

So I hope intelligent, sophisticated people will with a certain penchant for trashy cinema will give Death Proof a try, even if just to find out who killed Bin Laden... actually that was revealed in Planet Terror.

Claude Makelele considering a move to MLS?

I doubt there's any way in hell Claude Makelele jumps from Chelsea to MLS, but that would certainly be interesting. Claude Makelele was the workhorse supporting the Galacticos at Real Madrid by doing all the the tough work in midfield, chasing down balls and maintaining possession, until they didn't appreciate him and he shipped off to Chelsea. The Galactico era promptly imploded, as I recall, and Makelele became the unfashionable ballwinner in Chelsea's army of supermen. For France, he partnered with Patrick Vieira and Zinedine Zidane in central midfield, giving them the freedom to wander as a playmaker and in Vieira's case, to crash the box and terrify defenders. He's the kind of guy that gives a group of great players the opportunity to be a great team, adding his cipher to their vastness to multiply it further still (or however the Shakespeare line I'm cribbing goes), but in MLS with less to magnify and no shortage of athleticism, that cipher may just be a big fat zero.

Supposedly since Beckham jumped ship, every aging European player dangles the prospect of leaving for MLS in contract negotiations, but so far only Becks and Juan Pablo Angel have actually signed, and they're more what MLS needs: creative talent and strikers. Supposedly Becks is back with the national team, since Aaron Lennon isn't up to the weight of the #7 jersey yet, and Angel seems to be scoring for Red Bull, so hopefully some more of these guys do turn out to be serious. Brian Laudrup had that disastrous spell when he thought he'd ease into retirement and go back home to Copenhagen and collect one last paycheck in the Danish league, but the pressure on a hometown star was so great that within weeks he was off in Amsterdam playing for Ajax. Given those situations, MLS might yet be an attractive destination for the soon to be retired, since you don't have to do the walk of shame back to some little club in your home country where all anybody can talk about is how old and slow you are. On a completely unrelated note, if Frank Ribéry is actually leaving l'OM and going to Bayern Munich instead of Arsenal, who are suffering since the loss of their goal-scoring wingers, I vow heads will roll.

Lady Vols 3-0 Wildcats

I've been watching the Softball College World Series, which along with the World Series of Poker, give me hours of entertainment and obscure trivia with which I can bore my friends and enemies (a list that often overlaps). This weekend, Northwestern seemed to be the Obi-Wan of Chicago area diamond-based sports (what term covers softball and baseball, but not cricket or rounders, whatever the fuck that is?) after the Cubs, Black Sox, and DePaul softball team all lost on Sunday... and the Cubs had a pitcher in a fist fight with his catcher, for god's sake. I was glad Northwestern stayed alive, because I love it when an unfashionable Big 10 team gets their boots on and stomps on somebody... especially when, as in the case of softball, those boots have heels. My all-time favorite women's basketball moment is still watching April Calhoun and Janel McCarville setting up “Welcome to the Big 10, now wipe your blood off the floor and pick up those teeth” hits on girls from small conference schools in the early rounds of the '05 tournament... one point guard literally crawled off the floor after experiencing the Calhoun-McCarville pick and roll.

I also couldn't help but root for Northwestern because Erin Dyer looks pretty fine in a catcher's mask. There are a number of female athletes who do Cinderella in reverse, because their athleticism gives them a tremendous allure, making them just a pleasure to watch, but when they put on a dress and slap on a little make-up, this excruciatingly sexy woman is mysteriously transformed into... nothing special. They're magnificent, but not made for glass slippers. It's partly just in how they move, since as Bert Blyleven noted in last night's Twins-Angels game, baseball requires players to be relaxed, supple, and able to move fluidly, which is why he did yoga. The traditional female posture for elegance is the opposite, awkward, folded in, and tense, like a ballet dancer on her toes. Lots of softball players have that real girly body language, standing on 1st base with one leg forward, slightly off their heels, tugging their jersey with a thumb and forefinger, brushing one stray lock away from their eyes under their over-sized batting helmet. It's sort of odd and off-putting in that setting, but the extreme example is that whole muscular Lolita thing Olympic gymnasts have going, which is nothing short of creepy. Some are different, like the pitchers, shortstops, and especially the catchers, squatting and shifting on their feet, reading their pitcher and sliding up and out for stray balls, and springing to their feet to threaten runners against stealing bases. And that's where Dyer looks really fit, springing out of a crouch and in one motion nailing the shortstop's glove at second, or doffing her mask to field a throw home, diving to tag a runner and whirling back up with the ball cocked in her hand, wary dark eyes checking baserunners. I'm just saying, that mask really brings out her eyes, and the out in the sunshine her light skin against her dark hair and navy blue pads... it's pretty sexy. In her bio on the Northwestern team website, in a pink shirt and jewelry, eh, she's alright. I'm just saying, if she was my woman, I think foreplay would be playing catch in the yard.

Unfortunately, Erin Dyer and the Wildcats got run over by the freight train that is Monica Abbott and the Lady Vols, including one tragic play where Erin made a nice catch at home at full stretch in her pads, dragging a foot across home plate for the force-out and stepping forward to look for a play at first or third, not realizing the shortstop had already tagged the runner from second, meaning there was no force-out at home plate (but she still looked pretty sharp doing it). Abbott has been dominant, and the storyline has been set, with Peyton Manning, Pat Summit, and the rest of the Tennessee coaches and alumni including the football coach all showing up for her (which is actually pretty cool), so the refs are giving the Lady Vols every 50/50 call. So in the final, I'll be rooting for the Arizona Wildcats, because of the underdog factor, because I groan at every women's team that has “Lady” in their nickname, because I used to root for alumna Alicia Hollowell (a full-figured woman who used to pitch with three long uneven braids swinging around) who threw BP for the Wildcats to prep them for Abbott, and also because their catcher looks pretty good with her wavy blonde hair streaming out the back of her mask, in a cutesy ribbon. Her signature move is fielding a pitch and rotating to third as she drops to her knees and rifles the ball to third to pick off aggressive baserunners... I'm just saying, RROWRRR.

Also since this seems the best place to put this, a morphing montage of images of Women in Art that I found briefly interesting.

Mr. Brooks and Black Christmas

(Spoilers for Mr. Brooks)

Dane Cook isn't funny. He's not funny when he does stand-up, he wasn't funny hosting Saturday Night Live, and his big movie wasn't funny either, and it's not just me that says so, nobody saw his movie, and even he hates his own exuberant frat boy, “it's funny 'cause I'm loud” material, saying he'd “rather learn brain surgery than do stand-up again.” (See? There is useful information in the pre-movie slide show.) Since he's so unfunny, I thought maybe he just needed a more serious genre. He didn't. In Mr. Brooks he plays a guy who witnesses a murder and enjoys the thrill so much he decides to join in, blackmailing Kevin Costner (and his imaginary friend, played with gusto by William Hurt) into taking him along when he kills people. Kevin Costner's not bad as Mr. Brooks, and William Hurt does pretty well with a slightly silly part, and the conversation between Costner and Hurt works as a way to get to the inner monologue of the deeply secretive Mr. Brooks. I was in the mood for a slightly overblown thriller, and for the most part I was okay with Mr. Brooks, but I couldn't avoid a strange twinge of embarrassment for being in the theater. That feeling really came from a couple of the supporting cast members, and associated subplots... there was just a little voice piping up on my shoulder asking “Why are you watching a Dane Cook movie?” I just couldn't take his whole overacting persona seriously, and he wasn't the only problem. Demi Moore has been the kiss of death on Hollywood movies for fifteen years, but has some sort of deal with Satan that required she be in this movie, cast as a not exactly believable tough-as-nails serial killer profiler who only works Portland's vast serial killer population. She tries to steal the movie with two subplots about an escaped serial killer who's after her and a former boytoy who's squeezing her for money, both of which have to be resolved by Mr. Brooks. It may have been some sort of warning to Ashton Kutcher, like “Don't get greedy, because I know some crazy-ass people like Kevin Costner who'll put a cap in your ass do a rain dance on your dead body,” but it does distract from the actually interesting plotlines of this movie. This is always the case when she's in a movie: her Tabloid Royalty status always overshadows her part, and she's not a good enough actress to disappear into a character, and as a result I can never take her seriously. It appears nobody else does either, since she's been the kiss of death at the box office in everything since A Few Good Men.

Danielle Panabaker has some nice scenes as Mr. Brooks' daughter with a few secrets of her own as she may have inherited her father's homicidal mania, but mainly I just liked her because she was a hot redhead. She features in the most powerful scene in the film, which would have been chilling if the filmmakers hadn't copped out and made it a bad dream, which again just made me feel more embarrassed for being there to see it. Really, there's a whole movie to be made about Mr. Brooks and his daughter with William Hurt as a venomous Mr. Snuffleupagus for Brooks to confide in, but he's the archetypal distracted father, not having time for his daughter because he has to rush out and help Dane Cook kill people, and set up Demi Moore twice to be murdered and framed for murder to get her off his trail, fake his death and set up Dane Cook to make his trail go even colder... and then he calls Demi Moore so she knows he's still alive, that Dane Cook's not the killer, and gets Demi more fired up about chasing him, so he can ask her a really dumb personal question. Somehow whenever Dane Cook and Demi Moore show up, this movie really starts to wobble off the rails.

As long as I'm talking about a failed serial killer movie, and since Amstelboy kept asking how this was last Christmas, I'll squeeze in here everything I have to say about Black Christmas, which was far more terrible. None of the excess of sexuality, nudity, and gore a trashy horror movie calls for, and certainly no pretense of quality, character development, or cinematography... just faceless characters talking about nothing and getting beheaded in the dark. Actually there was one memorable moment, since I only rented this to see what Michelle Trachtenberg was up to, because the jaundiced killer somehow manages to lop off her head with a pair of ice skates in a nod to Ice Princess. Other than that, I'm not sure what the point was of doing this remake.

The Ten Plagues of A.J.

Since Chicago seems to be laboring under one of the ten plagues of Egypt with the influx of cicadas, I felt I should inform my Chicagoland readers what's coming next. You've already got the locusts, and I'm willing to bet the rivers have already turned to blood, and the city fathers are vainly attempting to dye it blue, hence that mottled brown color from all the paint mixing. (It's not so far fetched, they already have the infrastructure to dye it green for St. Patrick's Day.) Hail mixed with fire sounds like should be hard to miss, but I'll give that one to all those black cats I hear crackling across the sidewalks every time I stay in Chicago, to say nothing of Amstelboy's plans to unleash hell with those Terminator rockets after his wedding. Exodus also predicts a disease on livestock, I give you the Curse of the Goat, a disease caused by a piece of livestock who couldn't get Cubs tickets. Actually, wandering the Magnificent Mile and popping down to lower Michigan for a drink is quite an adventure for a goat and implies the guiding hand of a higher power on that journey*, and Moses did promise an influx of wild beasts as the fourth plague. Murphy the goat wasn't the only nefarious piece of livestock to bring ruin on Chicago, see also Mrs. O'Leary's cow, and the total collapse of the Chicago Bulls. As for the incurable boils, a certain somebody did confess to me they have a raging infestation of herpes they're hoping their spouse-to-be won't discover until the legal documents have all been signed... fortunately anybody with lice is keeping it to themselves. I think it's safe to say a warm winter will produce a cloud of gnats and mosquitoes and bees so bad you'll think Moses thumped his staff in the dust to produce them, can there be any doubt that the harvesting of the first-born will be next? Personally, before the sun goes dark and French marines start landing on North Ave Beach (Exodus 7:26-8:11**) I'd do something about all this, like releasing Justin Morneau's foot! You heard me, A.J. Pierzynski, LET MY 1ST BASEMAN'S FOOT GO!-***

*-The goat actually wandered in to the Lincoln Tavern across from Chicago Stadium after falling off a truck way out on the west side, before William “Billy Goat” Sianis moved his tavern to lower Michigan, but it's a better story to claim there was a plucky goat wandering the Mile, so all you nitpicking historians with Doris Kearns Goodwin books on their coffee table and 43 presidential biographies on the shelf can bl*w me. You know, getting preemptively hostile before anybody even argues with me may be detrimental to my mental, physical, and social well-being, but nevertheless, f*ck you for suggesting so.

**-Exodus 8-2: "And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs". It's a dumb joke, but I think you've all had ample warning by now.

***-A.J. being A.J. stirred up some bad blood in the Twins-Black Sox series last week when he stomped on Justin Morneau's ankle running over first base, twice in the same game. The Twins didn't retaliate, but did sweep the Black Sox.

Piranhas 3-2 A's

The Twins came up with enough to squeak past the A's in the 10th inning last night, in pitcher Kevin Slowey's first major league start. The game was tied 1-1 going into the 10th, and in true piranha fashion, Nick Punto had scored the first run by reaching first on a bunt single, stealing second, getting a sacrifice bunt to move over to 3rd, and coming home on a sacrifice fly, while the A's scored off a solo home run. The Twins added a couple in the 10th by getting a couple piranhas out on the base paths and keeping things moving: three hits, two walks, and a ground-out all moved enough runners in scoring position to send two home, until Lew Ford grounded into a double play and ended the inning... more on that later. The A's started their own rally (and presumably put their caps in the rally position, which some Chicagoland be-seens apparently balk at) and got the tying run to second base with the winning run on first, but used two outs getting the first run, and lost the game when Bobby Crosby struck out swinging. I kind of wonder about leaving the guy who's gone 0 for 4 to face Joe Nathan with two outs, but then I don't really know much about the A's roster, Nathan wasn't looking lights out, and there was a potential 11th inning so maybe yanking the shortstop wasn't a great option. I do think it's ironic that he might have avoided this situation if Travis Buck hadn't dawdled so long on second base. Milton Bradley hit a single into deep right field, where Michael Cuddyer was playing so deep Buck could have made it home if he'd taken off right away, instead of wavering and being held at third, requiring the A's to sacrifice an out to get him home.

There's also something I associate with the A's that was interesting in light of Ozzie Guillen's comments to reporters after the Twins swept the Black Sox to start the week. The part of Guillen's comments the press has focused on was his statement that if anybody was looking for somebody to blame, they should blame him, and this fueled some overblown speculation as to whether Guillen was trying to get fired. The actual intelligible point he made though was that in his opinion he had just faced a very good team, where 25 guys all work together and as a result, the Twins keep winning division titles. I thought Guillen's meaning was obviously that the Black Sox under his leadership were failing to work well together as a team, and this was the explanation for their slump. When A.J. Pierzynski recently called out teammates publicly, Ozzie expressed exasperation about bickering teammates, and his latest comments struck me as in keeping with that spirit. As I understand it, the whole key to the Black Sox putting together a World Series win was when they stopped fielding nine mercurial power hitters and trying to overpower everybody, and instead retooled their roster to put out nine guys who could work together in the field to prevent some runs, and work together on offense to manufacture runs instead of praying for home runs. In essence, they were more like the Piranhas that Ozzie was praising, noting that he's the only person in baseball who gives the Twins credit for being as good as they have been in the past few years. This was in contrast to the Twins-A's play-off series in 2002 that always comes to mind when the Twins go to Oakland, where after losing three straight, including blowing two home games to never say die late inning rallies by the Twins, the homer broadcast crew assured the viewing audience that this just proved the best team doesn't always win. That kind of lack of class pretty well soured me on the A's, and makes me appreciate Bert Blyleven that much more. He's a wise-ass but still manages to be familiar with the opposing players, and not act shocked when anybody outside California wins a game. Ozzie Guillen may be nuts, but at least he doesn't finish a series by claiming his team of supermen got struck by lightning three times in three days.

(Of course I forget to post this Friday night when I was basking in the glow of victory, and now the Twins are behind 4-2 in the 6th after dropping the second game of the series.)