by J.E. Sawyer
Holy shit! Do you like knife fights and tracking? If so, I bet The Hunted, starring Academy Award winnner Tommy Lee Jones, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro and Hot Danish Chick Connie Nielsen will be right up your alley! But boy, if you don't get off on a solid 94 minutes of tracking and knife fighting, you may be a little disappointed.
This is not The Fugitive. Hell, it's not even U.S. Marshals. It's just William Friedkin throwing bearded Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones at another dumb chase movie. In this dumb chase movie, Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro plays a renegade Special Forces assassin who's gone nuttier than a squirrel in September. He's running around in the woods of Oregon knifing up other Special Forces guys who have been sent to take him out. He says a few things throughout the course of the film about how people don't respect nature and animals and shit, but I was about to snap the neck of a spotted owl if TLJ didn't track BDT down fast enough to have another knife fight.
Please note the presence of the knife in the previous passage. Now, let's move on.
Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones is the man who trained him and, ergo, must hunt him down. In several flashback scenes, we learn that the vast majority of his Special Forces training consisted of tracking, knife fighting, and making knives out of the raw elements of the Earth -- like busted up cars, rocks, and chifforobes. This last part becomes important later, when both men lose their knives.
Connie Nielsen is the token pseudo-romantic interest (and there's about as much chemistry between her and TLJ as a 6th grader's vinegar and baking soda volcano). She is the FBI Special Agent sent to bring BDT in for his grisly murders. However, her character is irrelevant to the plot because she's completely ineffectual at finding Academy Award winner Benicio Del Toro without the mad tracking skillz of Academy Award winner Tommy Lee Jones. She doesn't even use a knife once in the whole damned movie. Clearly, William Friedkin is trying to tell us something: dumb broads bring guns to knife fights.
I think I've pretty much summarized the movie for you, so I'll move on to the quick recap. There's tracking in the forest, tracking in Portland (above and below ground), tracking in houses, tracking in Canada, and knife fights in the forest, Portland, and by some rapids. The knife fight by the rapids is preceded by, I shit you negative, Tommy Lee Jones crafting a knife from rocks and Benicio Del Toro forging a knife from the top of a car windshield in a small campfire. At this point, I was beginning to expect that the final duel between the men would be a Raingutter Regatta or Pinewood Derby held at the Boy Scout Troop 137 pot luck.
If I had to pick a literary equivalent to The Hunted, it would probably be The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss. Basically, Benicio Del Toro is like the Lorax but, you know, with a knife. Society is, of course, the Onceler. I think that leaves Tommy Lee Jones as a Brown Bar-ba-loot and Connie Nielsen as a Swomee-Swan. However, I think I'd rather read The Lorax fifteen times in Polish than watch The Hunted again. Because it sucks ass.
P.S.: I wrote this review because I know Anna wants to make out with Benicio Del Toro and I live to break Anna's heart.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
EXTRA! Baghdad Falls!: 21 Day Collapse Eclipses French Record
(From ECA's Wire Services)
The rematch of the controversial 1991 draw between Coalition forces and the Iraq army came to a sudden and early close Wednesday in Baghdad, as the Iraqi corner surprisingly threw in the towel. The debacle has not only interfered with the plans of TV journalists for an extended stay in warmer climes, but it replaced the longstanding benchmark of military ineptitude, established by France in 1940.
Analysts were surprised by the unexpected demise of the Saddamites, since the Coalition was operating without three crack squads of German army cooks and the platoon of elite Saudi Mercedes mechanics who played such an important role in the 1991 precursor to this match. Moreover, the Coalition had misplaced the U.S. 4th Infantry Division, its vaunted "sucker punch". Coalition commanders had only recently located the lost division and had not yet moved it into the ring.
In the opening moments of the rematch, in fact, the Saddamites had put up a ferocious battle. The sons of the late Saddam Hussein, the late Uday and the late Quasay, had "keyed" the doors of seven Bradley armored vehicles parked on the front lawn of one of the late Saddam's palaces and late members of their gang had slashed the tires of two M-1 Abrams tanks, before inadvertently discovering that the tanks did not have tires and that tanks are quite heavy.
In fact, this determined resistance led seasoned war correspondents, R.W. Apple of the New York Times and Robert Fisk of the London Independent, to report that the Iraqis had pushed the Coalition forces into the sea and were proceeding to butcher thousands of ringside civilians who had not cheered loudly enough for the late Saddam. This report was picked up by most American news outlets and the BBC, since informed observers had expected this result and the Iraqi army had a long history of butchering nearby civilians. However, some dissident voices in the U.S. Defense Department, speaking only on background, pointed out that the nearest sea was the Caspian Sea, 1500 miles from Baghdad in the other direction, and no Iraqi military unit in history had ever advanced successfully beyond Kuwait City.
President Jacques Chirac of France was magnimonious about the fall of the hoary French record. President Chirac gave substantial credit to the late Saddam Hussein, with whom he had long-time business and personal relationships. Chirac stated that, although the French had given much to establish the Saddamite regime, the late dictator had taken French principles to a new level. Nonetheless, Chirac said, "I doubt that the French motto, 'All hat and no cattle' will ever be replaced with the new Iraqi chant, 'It ain't over 'til....whoops, it's over'." American journalists on the scene were awestruck by the fact that Chirac could say "It's over" in seven languages.
Other French officials were less sanguine. Foreign Minister Dominique de Villipen pointed out that the technology of war has changed substantially since the French set the world standard for surrender. "The French army had to retreat through vineyards and cities full of dog droppings," he argued. The Iraqis were able to flee across the open desert with the best of French technology at their command."
Villipen went on, "In American baseball, although Mark McGuire hit 70+ home runs, everyone remembers Babe Ruth for his performance and his larger-than-life personality. Despite the Iraqi futility, I expect that France will be similarly remembered, for a longstanding combination of pusillanimity and poor personal hygiene."
...In Other Sports News
April 9, 2003 Democratic Republic of Congo
The United League of Nations traveling team, the Blue Hat Bureaucrats, known and loved back in New York as the Newmans (for Alfred E. Newman, quote: "What, me worry?"), took it on the chin again today, as a thousand people under their protection were massacred in the Northern part of that country.
This runs the Newmans' string of road losses to at least three, following similar performances in Bosnia and Rwanda. The Newmans were apparently concentrating on polishing their helmets, as they were again unable to control the offensive movements of the more highly motivated murderers. Coach Kofi Annan was, however, upbeat. "There were only a thousand innocent civilians murdered in this match-up. That is a much lower number than in any of our past performances. At this rate of improvement, we should be down to the hundreds in the near future."
Asked, back in New York, whether the coach's job was in jeopardy, Libya, which currently chairs the ULN Human Rights Committee, responded, "Heh."
... Today's Sports Quiz
What is a Mirage?
a. A French fighter jet
b. A French military force
c. A French promise
d. All of the above
Answer in the next issue.
The rematch of the controversial 1991 draw between Coalition forces and the Iraq army came to a sudden and early close Wednesday in Baghdad, as the Iraqi corner surprisingly threw in the towel. The debacle has not only interfered with the plans of TV journalists for an extended stay in warmer climes, but it replaced the longstanding benchmark of military ineptitude, established by France in 1940.
Analysts were surprised by the unexpected demise of the Saddamites, since the Coalition was operating without three crack squads of German army cooks and the platoon of elite Saudi Mercedes mechanics who played such an important role in the 1991 precursor to this match. Moreover, the Coalition had misplaced the U.S. 4th Infantry Division, its vaunted "sucker punch". Coalition commanders had only recently located the lost division and had not yet moved it into the ring.
In the opening moments of the rematch, in fact, the Saddamites had put up a ferocious battle. The sons of the late Saddam Hussein, the late Uday and the late Quasay, had "keyed" the doors of seven Bradley armored vehicles parked on the front lawn of one of the late Saddam's palaces and late members of their gang had slashed the tires of two M-1 Abrams tanks, before inadvertently discovering that the tanks did not have tires and that tanks are quite heavy.
In fact, this determined resistance led seasoned war correspondents, R.W. Apple of the New York Times and Robert Fisk of the London Independent, to report that the Iraqis had pushed the Coalition forces into the sea and were proceeding to butcher thousands of ringside civilians who had not cheered loudly enough for the late Saddam. This report was picked up by most American news outlets and the BBC, since informed observers had expected this result and the Iraqi army had a long history of butchering nearby civilians. However, some dissident voices in the U.S. Defense Department, speaking only on background, pointed out that the nearest sea was the Caspian Sea, 1500 miles from Baghdad in the other direction, and no Iraqi military unit in history had ever advanced successfully beyond Kuwait City.
President Jacques Chirac of France was magnimonious about the fall of the hoary French record. President Chirac gave substantial credit to the late Saddam Hussein, with whom he had long-time business and personal relationships. Chirac stated that, although the French had given much to establish the Saddamite regime, the late dictator had taken French principles to a new level. Nonetheless, Chirac said, "I doubt that the French motto, 'All hat and no cattle' will ever be replaced with the new Iraqi chant, 'It ain't over 'til....whoops, it's over'." American journalists on the scene were awestruck by the fact that Chirac could say "It's over" in seven languages.
Other French officials were less sanguine. Foreign Minister Dominique de Villipen pointed out that the technology of war has changed substantially since the French set the world standard for surrender. "The French army had to retreat through vineyards and cities full of dog droppings," he argued. The Iraqis were able to flee across the open desert with the best of French technology at their command."
Villipen went on, "In American baseball, although Mark McGuire hit 70+ home runs, everyone remembers Babe Ruth for his performance and his larger-than-life personality. Despite the Iraqi futility, I expect that France will be similarly remembered, for a longstanding combination of pusillanimity and poor personal hygiene."
...In Other Sports News
April 9, 2003 Democratic Republic of Congo
The United League of Nations traveling team, the Blue Hat Bureaucrats, known and loved back in New York as the Newmans (for Alfred E. Newman, quote: "What, me worry?"), took it on the chin again today, as a thousand people under their protection were massacred in the Northern part of that country.
This runs the Newmans' string of road losses to at least three, following similar performances in Bosnia and Rwanda. The Newmans were apparently concentrating on polishing their helmets, as they were again unable to control the offensive movements of the more highly motivated murderers. Coach Kofi Annan was, however, upbeat. "There were only a thousand innocent civilians murdered in this match-up. That is a much lower number than in any of our past performances. At this rate of improvement, we should be down to the hundreds in the near future."
Asked, back in New York, whether the coach's job was in jeopardy, Libya, which currently chairs the ULN Human Rights Committee, responded, "Heh."
... Today's Sports Quiz
What is a Mirage?
a. A French fighter jet
b. A French military force
c. A French promise
d. All of the above
Answer in the next issue.
Monday, March 31, 2003
Deep in the Heart of Texas (The State)
by Stephanie Anderson
I have stepped up the art of administering systems. While I never thought I would be able to accomplish the main goals of the job, this week I achieved the miraculous. I spent two days with one goal: to print. It sounds like a simple task, especially when everyone else in the office, working on computers that I configured, is printing with ease. But no matter how many times or ways I try to send my batch of fifty letters to the printer, nothing comes out. I am losing a signal somewhere between the computer saying it is printing, and the printer who denies, denies, denies.
This elusive signal remained ambiguous for 2 days, and then the phone rang.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Are you trying to print something?" drawls the voice on the other end.
"Well, yeah, actually, who's this?"
"My name is Rudy Rodriguez. I am in San Diego, Texas. Your letters are printing on my printer." ???
I say nothing because I cannot form words and simultaneously accomplish the look of awe, frustration, and confusion I am delivering to the receiver.
"Ma'am? Could you stop printing? We've gotten at least 50 pages already, and I don't think you can use these letters on our stationary."
"OK. Yeah. I'll figure it out. I'm sorry, I guess?"
Bewildered, I hang up the phone and turn to my coworkers. "Guess where that document is printing," I say hesitantly. In response to their feigned half-interest, I announce, "Texas."
"The State?" is their unison, quizzical response.
Yup, the state of Texas. I thought that the fascinating part of the problem was that the computer is mysteriously whisking off my orders to a completely different office and executing them on a completely different printer. But, my co-workers seem to be hung up on the fact that in 1845 Texas joined the union.
Next, I email a techie to try to get some insight towards correcting this interstate error. "Hi. I don't know if you can help me, but my computer is printing in Texas."
Seconds later, my clever new mail noise alerts me to his response: "The state?"
That's right. Only shortly after parting ways with Mexico, Texas became a state. Now I am printing there, on a brother printer, even though my impressive computer claims to be printing on a Hewlett Packard.
Showing a true lack of professional decorum, I picked up my keyboard to launch it at the next person who questions Texas' statehood. In my fury, all I manage to do is slice my finger on a loose piece of plastic.
Hours later, allowing time for everyone to digest this lesson in national history and geography, a voice on the telephone is able to bring my computer back to participate in the day's scheduled activities here in Washington. The District.
That evening, after coming home and allowing my frustrations melt away into reruns of 7th Heaven, I call a friend from whom I can expect empathy for my ridiculous day. I carefully dial an intelligent girl who grew up in the Lone Star State. She would certainly not ask any inane questions about location. I wove her my tale. She paused and then clarified: "So you printed in Texas, ____ _____?" You may guess at what those last two words were. When you figure it out, call the poor girl and explain why that was the point at which I hung up.
Michelina's: An Expose
by Anna
Much like Streganona's pot of spaghetti, the cult hatred of the Michelina's/Macarena ads is bountiful and unending. To the microscopic percentage of readers with Internet access but no television, here is a description of the campaign I am talking about:
Television Ad number 1: A fun-loving, Casual Friday-type Macarenas her way around the office kitchenette while the no-nonsense boss approaches hotly down the hall. While her outstretched hands flip and flop at the appropriate times she sings something along the lines of: "...Top-a quality-a and the price a nice surprise-a. Hey! Michelina's!" The original Spanish has been changed to ridiculous Spainglish.
Television Ad number 2: A So-White-It-Hurts shopper Macarenas through the frozen food section of your neighborhood supermarket. Her sensible bob and mock-turtleneck tucked into her high-rise khakis leave us wondering, "Is this lady much fun?" But when the store transforms into a non-decade-specific discotheque (playing the modified dance "hit"), we know she is a cool cat, and it's gotta be the Michelina's. Wink.
No one in the United States likes these commercials. Especially no one who had the Macarena pounded into his or her head 6 years ago. The choice of this pulsing Latin tune to sell frozen entrees to the Lean Cuisine crowd has everyone baffled. Chat rooms, blogs, everyone I talk to wants to know: What's going on?!?
People were paid to think up, act in and produce this commercial. Unbelievable. In my Internet hunt I could find only a lone production manager who fessed up to the work. Dale Dreher (http://www.ad-upmnet.com/dreher/), was it really worth it?
It turns out, my fellow Minnesotan's, the roots to this whole problem lie within our very backyard. Read on: "My mother, Michelina, came to Minnesota's Iron Range, a melting pot of people of more than 25 nationalities who lived side by side, sharing customs, beliefs and recipes from the "old country." From this rich resource came Michelina's® international cuisine." How could that cute old Italian allow the monster that is the Michelina's Macarena? El dinero?
This commercial may be a sign of the apocalypse. We can be certain that the end is nigh when the following songs and products are united:
"Mmmm Bop" & Malto Meal
"Achy Breaky Heart" & Oxy 10
"Bust A Move" & Metamucil
Much like Streganona's pot of spaghetti, the cult hatred of the Michelina's/Macarena ads is bountiful and unending. To the microscopic percentage of readers with Internet access but no television, here is a description of the campaign I am talking about:
Television Ad number 1: A fun-loving, Casual Friday-type Macarenas her way around the office kitchenette while the no-nonsense boss approaches hotly down the hall. While her outstretched hands flip and flop at the appropriate times she sings something along the lines of: "...Top-a quality-a and the price a nice surprise-a. Hey! Michelina's!" The original Spanish has been changed to ridiculous Spainglish.
Television Ad number 2: A So-White-It-Hurts shopper Macarenas through the frozen food section of your neighborhood supermarket. Her sensible bob and mock-turtleneck tucked into her high-rise khakis leave us wondering, "Is this lady much fun?" But when the store transforms into a non-decade-specific discotheque (playing the modified dance "hit"), we know she is a cool cat, and it's gotta be the Michelina's. Wink.
No one in the United States likes these commercials. Especially no one who had the Macarena pounded into his or her head 6 years ago. The choice of this pulsing Latin tune to sell frozen entrees to the Lean Cuisine crowd has everyone baffled. Chat rooms, blogs, everyone I talk to wants to know: What's going on?!?
People were paid to think up, act in and produce this commercial. Unbelievable. In my Internet hunt I could find only a lone production manager who fessed up to the work. Dale Dreher (http://www.ad-upmnet.com/dreher/), was it really worth it?
It turns out, my fellow Minnesotan's, the roots to this whole problem lie within our very backyard. Read on: "My mother, Michelina, came to Minnesota's Iron Range, a melting pot of people of more than 25 nationalities who lived side by side, sharing customs, beliefs and recipes from the "old country." From this rich resource came Michelina's® international cuisine." How could that cute old Italian allow the monster that is the Michelina's Macarena? El dinero?
This commercial may be a sign of the apocalypse. We can be certain that the end is nigh when the following songs and products are united:
"Mmmm Bop" & Malto Meal
"Achy Breaky Heart" & Oxy 10
"Bust A Move" & Metamucil
Sunday, March 02, 2003
Johnny vs. Saucy Jack
by Anna
There are only two reasons that I should ever write about movies; I am neither a skilled nor authoritative movie reviewer. If I see a lesser-known movie that I want others to see (Hedwig & the Angry Inch, for example) OR if I have a fundamental problem with a movie and just need to complain about it, I may be known to bang a little something out. The latter reason drives this piece. I had two big beefs with the 2001 Jack the Ripper thriller, From Hell, starring Johnny Depp and Heather Graham.
The first is the way they chose to mix facts, theories and fiction. The real story of Jack the Ripper is scary and intriguing because so little is known. A crazy Hannibal Lector type crept around Victorian London tearing up women, leaving cryptic, taunting messages for the police in his wake . And that’s pretty much all anyone knows for sure. The movie takes one of many theories surrounding the mystery and presents it as fact. It wants to be an historical horror film. But what makes the real story so scary is the fact that it remains unsolved. The movie, on the other hand, fingers someone as Jack the Ripper and shows him getting his just desserts. No! Everyone knows that “I’m having an old friend for dinner” is a great ending to Silence of the Lambs. And why? Because he’s still out there!
Beef #2 is the accents. Everyone knows Johnny Depp and Heather Graham, among others, are Americans. Acting is a competitive industry where hundreds of people audition for single roles. Can’t the moviemakers pick someone who sounds the part rather than paying the gianormous bucks for the big names and dialect coaches? I just didn’t believe ol’ Johnny’s from Souf London, yeah? I’m not an accent snob, but these Yanks were performing alongside of born and bred British actors and the difference was glaring. England’s got actors to spare- take pity on my ears and put them in your movies.
Overall it was just quite bad. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny Depp but the girls get picked off predictably and his opiate fueled premonitions are just dumb. I’m not so disgruntled that I’m going to send anthrax to 20th Century Fox or anything, but I am very glad I rented this movie for free from the public library.
There are only two reasons that I should ever write about movies; I am neither a skilled nor authoritative movie reviewer. If I see a lesser-known movie that I want others to see (Hedwig & the Angry Inch, for example) OR if I have a fundamental problem with a movie and just need to complain about it, I may be known to bang a little something out. The latter reason drives this piece. I had two big beefs with the 2001 Jack the Ripper thriller, From Hell, starring Johnny Depp and Heather Graham.
The first is the way they chose to mix facts, theories and fiction. The real story of Jack the Ripper is scary and intriguing because so little is known. A crazy Hannibal Lector type crept around Victorian London tearing up women, leaving cryptic, taunting messages for the police in his wake . And that’s pretty much all anyone knows for sure. The movie takes one of many theories surrounding the mystery and presents it as fact. It wants to be an historical horror film. But what makes the real story so scary is the fact that it remains unsolved. The movie, on the other hand, fingers someone as Jack the Ripper and shows him getting his just desserts. No! Everyone knows that “I’m having an old friend for dinner” is a great ending to Silence of the Lambs. And why? Because he’s still out there!
Beef #2 is the accents. Everyone knows Johnny Depp and Heather Graham, among others, are Americans. Acting is a competitive industry where hundreds of people audition for single roles. Can’t the moviemakers pick someone who sounds the part rather than paying the gianormous bucks for the big names and dialect coaches? I just didn’t believe ol’ Johnny’s from Souf London, yeah? I’m not an accent snob, but these Yanks were performing alongside of born and bred British actors and the difference was glaring. England’s got actors to spare- take pity on my ears and put them in your movies.
Overall it was just quite bad. Don’t get me wrong, I love Johnny Depp but the girls get picked off predictably and his opiate fueled premonitions are just dumb. I’m not so disgruntled that I’m going to send anthrax to 20th Century Fox or anything, but I am very glad I rented this movie for free from the public library.
The Inevitable Demise of Creed: A Saga of the Year 2007
by Brett Sheats, Prophet and Seer to the Stars
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.
Those of us in touch with our metaphysical side often gaze upon the face of the unseen world that shadows our existence. It is a confusing, paradoxical place full of curious quips and contradictions queer. Often travelers to this dark realm are forced to take journeys through the unworldly landscape and emerge enlightened on the other side. The stories they tell are fantastic.
I recently met with my spiritual guide, who appears to me in the guise of a green fairy. Like the talking coyote who led Homer Simpson through his Chili-induced quest, the green fairy leads me on paths made for my steps alone. This night, my journey was… into the future.
The future?
That’s right, Conan, the future. All the way to the year 2007. And once I arrived there, I saw incredible and glorious things. Paging through a newspaper I found along the way, I learned the following facts:
1. In the year 2007 our nation is ruled by a monarchy… and our ruler is King Garth Brooks! The national anthem has been changed to “The River.”
2. In the year 2007 humans are birthed from cow placentas. I have no explanation for this fact.
3. In the year 2007 Duke is 1-15 in ACC conference play. Their only ACC win came against 1-15 UNC at the Dean Dome. The two teams meet twice a year in what is becoming known as the ‘new Army-Navy game.’
4. In the year 2007 happiness has been replaced by ‘contentment’ and sadness has been replaced by ‘melancholy.’ In related news, there is only one color, and it is mauve.
I could continue for hours about all the interesting facts I learned along the way. But it is sufficient to tell you that the year 2007 is a scary and frightful place. I was eager to return to my native time, never to set foot in this hellish realm ever again. But, on the back page of the ‘distractions’ section of the paper, I found an article that almost convinced me to hold on with both hands and stay in this era of what I soon realized was bliss. The headline read:
'"Creed" front man Scott Stapp declares band formally broken-up.’
I couldn’t believe my mauve-soaked eyes. Creed was gone. Creed: The bastion of sinners, followers of Damien, son of Satan, was no longer. I was overjoyed. I looked to the heavens, arms wide open, and for once knew that He existed. I wanted to know all of the facts that led to this fall from grace, this breakup of the most insidious and dangerous group since the "Committee on Unamerican Activities." I ran to the nearest library.
After hours pouring through Seventeen and Teen Beat, the story had become ingrained in my mind. It was almost too fantastic to believe. But the green fairy assured me it was true by placing her finger aside her nose and nodding twice. In the summer of 2003, there was dissention amongst the band mates over the name and cover of their new album. Lead singer Scott Stapp wanted the new album to be called Crucifixion Demigods and the Insatiable Rapture. He envisioned the cover to be a close up of his left eyeball, with the reflection of a church in flames seen in the pupil. His lone figure could be seen standing in front of the burning alter with a dove in his hand. The dove would be clasping a smaller version of Stapp in its talons.
The other members of the band, Mark Tremonti and Scott Phillips, felt this was not ‘epic’ enough for the standard of the band’s previous albums. They instead wished the album to be simply titled We are Gods, and the cover to picture the three band members completely rebuilding the World Trade Center by themselves, brick by brick. The South Tower was pictured to have a large crimson ‘C’ emblazoned on its side.
In the end, Stapp won out due to his amazing good looks and luxuriously shampooed and conditioned hair. The album was a commercial success, selling a bazillion copies worldwide. The damage to the band’s psyche, however, was severe. Stapp reportedly went into isolation after the fight with his bandmates, and at one point even considered switching shampoos. His family staged a group intervention in time and his locks were saved.
The band took some time off following the fall-out and even worked on some solo projects. Tremonti released the critically-panned $oaking in the Million$ on his own label. Phillips debuted a short-lived modern jazz quartet called The Hot Stick Boys comprised of four drummers. Their album, Beatin’ it, was a commercial disappointment.
During these lean years, Stapp took a shot at the silver screen-- writing, producing, directing, and starring in Wall, his own personal declaration of the isolation of stardom. Stapp released, in conjunction with the film, a two-CD rock opus (Also called Wall) that spoke of his lonely days living at the top. An excerpt from the album is as follows:
“Oh, I’ve rocked the world, I’ve rocked the house. Why can’t I rock down this wall-eee-all?
Let me rock it down, cast it asunder, down six feet under.
Down it gooooes, dow-eee-own it gooooes.
Oh father, in your golden throne, how can I rock down this wall-eee-all?”
The film, which cost in excess of $120 million to make, was a box-office blunder, grossing just over $400,000. At this point, with money in short supply and the band members applying for food stamps, they knew it was time for Creed to rise forth once again, calling upon its fan base of millions. In 2006 they reunited for a nine month stay in the studio. Recording with Phil Spector in Stapp’s own personal facility, the buzz was that the new album was ‘a modern day Let it Be, mixed with a dash of the magic of Styx.’
In the end, the public had other thoughts. The album, titled The Phoenix of God’s Divine Judgment debuted at #324 of the Billboard Hot 500. From there, it languished in the mid 300’s until it fell of the charts completely in week 7 of its release. The band was devastated, and completely stopped speaking to one another. Tremonti turned to the bottle for salvation. On two seperate occasions, Phillips was arrested for picking up transvestite prostitutes in Reno, Nevada. Stapp developed a well-publicized heroin habit that culminated in an extended stay in the Betty Ford Clinic and a short stop at the California Psychiatric Institute in Carmel. Band publicists called the treatment a ‘personal matter’ revolving around ‘trauma relating to his childhood.’
Less than a year later, in 2007, from the west spire of his personal compound, Stapp released the news that the band was now defunct. There would be no more Creed as far as he was concerned. He hoped the other members of the band would respect his ‘enlightened’ wishes and not tour as Creed, or face ‘assured eternal damnation.’
And those were all the facts available. As I walked from the library and hopped on my Segway to get back to the subway, I felt myself feeling a sense of sadness for the band that once ruled the charts. As the wind whipped through my hair and caused my eyes to water, I felt a strange feeling in my stomach. It almost seemed as if I was miraculously converted to being a fan of the once mighty band. But then I realized it was just gas. As the green fairy whispered in my ear that it was time to go back to the year 2003, I stepped boldly into the light and returned to the physical realm in which we all live. Once arrived, I turned on the radio and was greeted by a crooner who lamented, “What’s this life for?” All I could think was, “I don’t know, but you better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.
Those of us in touch with our metaphysical side often gaze upon the face of the unseen world that shadows our existence. It is a confusing, paradoxical place full of curious quips and contradictions queer. Often travelers to this dark realm are forced to take journeys through the unworldly landscape and emerge enlightened on the other side. The stories they tell are fantastic.
I recently met with my spiritual guide, who appears to me in the guise of a green fairy. Like the talking coyote who led Homer Simpson through his Chili-induced quest, the green fairy leads me on paths made for my steps alone. This night, my journey was… into the future.
The future?
That’s right, Conan, the future. All the way to the year 2007. And once I arrived there, I saw incredible and glorious things. Paging through a newspaper I found along the way, I learned the following facts:
1. In the year 2007 our nation is ruled by a monarchy… and our ruler is King Garth Brooks! The national anthem has been changed to “The River.”
2. In the year 2007 humans are birthed from cow placentas. I have no explanation for this fact.
3. In the year 2007 Duke is 1-15 in ACC conference play. Their only ACC win came against 1-15 UNC at the Dean Dome. The two teams meet twice a year in what is becoming known as the ‘new Army-Navy game.’
4. In the year 2007 happiness has been replaced by ‘contentment’ and sadness has been replaced by ‘melancholy.’ In related news, there is only one color, and it is mauve.
I could continue for hours about all the interesting facts I learned along the way. But it is sufficient to tell you that the year 2007 is a scary and frightful place. I was eager to return to my native time, never to set foot in this hellish realm ever again. But, on the back page of the ‘distractions’ section of the paper, I found an article that almost convinced me to hold on with both hands and stay in this era of what I soon realized was bliss. The headline read:
'"Creed" front man Scott Stapp declares band formally broken-up.’
I couldn’t believe my mauve-soaked eyes. Creed was gone. Creed: The bastion of sinners, followers of Damien, son of Satan, was no longer. I was overjoyed. I looked to the heavens, arms wide open, and for once knew that He existed. I wanted to know all of the facts that led to this fall from grace, this breakup of the most insidious and dangerous group since the "Committee on Unamerican Activities." I ran to the nearest library.
After hours pouring through Seventeen and Teen Beat, the story had become ingrained in my mind. It was almost too fantastic to believe. But the green fairy assured me it was true by placing her finger aside her nose and nodding twice. In the summer of 2003, there was dissention amongst the band mates over the name and cover of their new album. Lead singer Scott Stapp wanted the new album to be called Crucifixion Demigods and the Insatiable Rapture. He envisioned the cover to be a close up of his left eyeball, with the reflection of a church in flames seen in the pupil. His lone figure could be seen standing in front of the burning alter with a dove in his hand. The dove would be clasping a smaller version of Stapp in its talons.
The other members of the band, Mark Tremonti and Scott Phillips, felt this was not ‘epic’ enough for the standard of the band’s previous albums. They instead wished the album to be simply titled We are Gods, and the cover to picture the three band members completely rebuilding the World Trade Center by themselves, brick by brick. The South Tower was pictured to have a large crimson ‘C’ emblazoned on its side.
In the end, Stapp won out due to his amazing good looks and luxuriously shampooed and conditioned hair. The album was a commercial success, selling a bazillion copies worldwide. The damage to the band’s psyche, however, was severe. Stapp reportedly went into isolation after the fight with his bandmates, and at one point even considered switching shampoos. His family staged a group intervention in time and his locks were saved.
The band took some time off following the fall-out and even worked on some solo projects. Tremonti released the critically-panned $oaking in the Million$ on his own label. Phillips debuted a short-lived modern jazz quartet called The Hot Stick Boys comprised of four drummers. Their album, Beatin’ it, was a commercial disappointment.
During these lean years, Stapp took a shot at the silver screen-- writing, producing, directing, and starring in Wall, his own personal declaration of the isolation of stardom. Stapp released, in conjunction with the film, a two-CD rock opus (Also called Wall) that spoke of his lonely days living at the top. An excerpt from the album is as follows:
“Oh, I’ve rocked the world, I’ve rocked the house. Why can’t I rock down this wall-eee-all?
Let me rock it down, cast it asunder, down six feet under.
Down it gooooes, dow-eee-own it gooooes.
Oh father, in your golden throne, how can I rock down this wall-eee-all?”
The film, which cost in excess of $120 million to make, was a box-office blunder, grossing just over $400,000. At this point, with money in short supply and the band members applying for food stamps, they knew it was time for Creed to rise forth once again, calling upon its fan base of millions. In 2006 they reunited for a nine month stay in the studio. Recording with Phil Spector in Stapp’s own personal facility, the buzz was that the new album was ‘a modern day Let it Be, mixed with a dash of the magic of Styx.’
In the end, the public had other thoughts. The album, titled The Phoenix of God’s Divine Judgment debuted at #324 of the Billboard Hot 500. From there, it languished in the mid 300’s until it fell of the charts completely in week 7 of its release. The band was devastated, and completely stopped speaking to one another. Tremonti turned to the bottle for salvation. On two seperate occasions, Phillips was arrested for picking up transvestite prostitutes in Reno, Nevada. Stapp developed a well-publicized heroin habit that culminated in an extended stay in the Betty Ford Clinic and a short stop at the California Psychiatric Institute in Carmel. Band publicists called the treatment a ‘personal matter’ revolving around ‘trauma relating to his childhood.’
Less than a year later, in 2007, from the west spire of his personal compound, Stapp released the news that the band was now defunct. There would be no more Creed as far as he was concerned. He hoped the other members of the band would respect his ‘enlightened’ wishes and not tour as Creed, or face ‘assured eternal damnation.’
And those were all the facts available. As I walked from the library and hopped on my Segway to get back to the subway, I felt myself feeling a sense of sadness for the band that once ruled the charts. As the wind whipped through my hair and caused my eyes to water, I felt a strange feeling in my stomach. It almost seemed as if I was miraculously converted to being a fan of the once mighty band. But then I realized it was just gas. As the green fairy whispered in my ear that it was time to go back to the year 2003, I stepped boldly into the light and returned to the physical realm in which we all live. Once arrived, I turned on the radio and was greeted by a crooner who lamented, “What’s this life for?” All I could think was, “I don’t know, but you better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Stephanie goes to Washington (No, this is not a reality series)
by Stephanie Anderson
Against all odds and intentions, I somehow got myself a job, and in Washington, DC nonetheless. I have to get up at 6 in the morning and join the army of people in grey suits and blue shirts (tie choice: red or yellow) as they push onto trains and highways.
It’s hard to wake up when the sun is still hiding, and so I look to employ the services of an alarm clock. It having been so long since I figured out which button to hold while pushing the “min” and “hour” buttons, I was utterly baffled by the apparatus at my disposal. No worries, I’m up on technology, so I’ll use the alarm on my cell phone. The problem is that when it goes off, I pick up screaming “HELLO!” and when no one is there, I go back to sleep.
The office I was hired into is a brand new entity, due to the much-appreciated fickleness of the American populous. Setting up the office was done with all the thought and organization of dorm move-in, except the furniture all matches. Something I have noticed is that the Federal Government loves marking its territory even more than dogs do. Whatever it is, it needs a seal. Letterhead is stamped with the name of the appropriate office, and a seal. Rugs are plastered with a big eagle for people to wipe their feet on. Letter openers are embossed in gold, with a seal. Even the trash can in the bathroom has a bird with a big circle around it and letters proudly proclaiming: “US House of Representatives.”
They put me in charge of the computers. Considering my alarm clock literacy and the fact that my grandmother passed me in email proficiency years ago, this may not have been the best decision. But government employees need no legal qualifications- only a title. My coworkers were told that I am the “Systems Administrator,” so each day they come to my desk and request my attention for operating or programming problem. I stop desperately struggling with my own machine, and follow them to their's. “You see, when I move the mouse, nothing happens.” They say, showing me the blank screen. I give them a bewildered look and explain this is a problem beyond my expertise and promise to call a technician to come look at the problem. A few hours later, after I’ve desperately plead my case to the voicemail of every techie I know, the person comes back to my desk and says thanks, but they figured it out. “Oh really? What was the problem?” “The power wasn’t on.”
I meet new people every day. This was something I was a bit nervous about being as I can never remember names or anything about anyone, but here in our nation’s capitol, they simplify things for you. People proudly bear their entire belief system on their lapel. Do you love the president, think terrorism is bad, and believe we should send vast fighting forces to the Middle East and France? A small American flag conveys that message swiftly. Are you desperately trying to spend more federal dollars fighting AIDS in remote island countries? A properly colored ribbon on your left breast will do smartly. Do you want abortion doctors to be tarred and feathered? Silver footprints claimed to be the size of baby’s feet at x weeks after conception will do. There is a lapel pin for each strain of political thought and people proclaim their innermost cares on their collar. Lapel Pin Manufacturers have neglected no opinion. When they bring around their silver on velvet depiction of anarchy, I’ll snatch a handful.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Casting Call for Movie of the Year, 2002
It's the beginning of another year and Hollywood is about to force the world's bored souls (you know, the type of people who sit around reading humor sites on the Internet) through another year of bland to bad movies.
But before we dive any further in, we here at Re:Whatever must make a great decision: Which movie gets the grand prize for 2002? We are not the Academy. No one is paying us off, and there is nothing political going on (except the partisan battle every week over who is slacking the most on the update). We will give the "Best Damn Movie of the Year" award based completely on fact-- our opinion.
But just to add to the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy, we want you to tell us what should get the grand cash prize, or, if you like, which film should be considered under no circumstances. At least one reason, however inane, must accompany each entry.
Those of you that have spent the past year whining that you want to write for us, but you don't know what to write about- NOW is your chance. So write a title and a sentence or two or 100. I anticipate great things. At least they had better be great things to change my mind (yes, of course it’s already made up).
Then sit by your computer and wait until we deem it the time to run another update. Anticipate with bated breath the chance that you may have chosen a winner. Too bad this is the internet and not a race track, because, frankly, you could make more money forwarding one of Bill Gates’ emails than off of us.
But before we dive any further in, we here at Re:Whatever must make a great decision: Which movie gets the grand prize for 2002? We are not the Academy. No one is paying us off, and there is nothing political going on (except the partisan battle every week over who is slacking the most on the update). We will give the "Best Damn Movie of the Year" award based completely on fact-- our opinion.
But just to add to the warm fuzzy feeling of democracy, we want you to tell us what should get the grand cash prize, or, if you like, which film should be considered under no circumstances. At least one reason, however inane, must accompany each entry.
Those of you that have spent the past year whining that you want to write for us, but you don't know what to write about- NOW is your chance. So write a title and a sentence or two or 100. I anticipate great things. At least they had better be great things to change my mind (yes, of course it’s already made up).
Then sit by your computer and wait until we deem it the time to run another update. Anticipate with bated breath the chance that you may have chosen a winner. Too bad this is the internet and not a race track, because, frankly, you could make more money forwarding one of Bill Gates’ emails than off of us.
Boxing Day: A Reform of the American Holiday Season
by Anna
As you return to your boring old daily routine, following the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, are you left with a feeling of exhaustion and relief that it’s all over? Or are you thinking, “More! More! MORE!”
If you are like me, you could use one extra day of fun in there with Hanukkah, my birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s Eve, boys and girls, there’s an answer: December 26th, Boxing Day. (Yes, Kwanzaa also begins on the 26th, but no one gets the day off for Kwanzaa. I’m talking closed post offices here- the works.)
We don’t celebrate it for the same reason that we don’t drive on the left side of the road: we think the British are silly. But is a free holiday silly? Are we fine putting in a full day’s work on a day that Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and Brits are dancing around and partying with their friends? Boxing Day has nothing to do with religion or the Queen, so everyone gets a go.
The holiday originated in England a long time ago when people had servants, and the servants had to work on Christmas. But the rich people would give the servants the day after Christmas off to go be with their families. Supposedly, their employers sent the servants on their way with some boxed gifts (possibly some of the rich family’s reject presents, like that sweater from Aunt Gertrude). . . Or it might have something to do with alms boxes and giving money to the poor. Whichever is fine with me.
If Christmas is on a Friday, everyone gets the following Monday off. It’s brilliant. The British have recognized it as a bank holiday since 1871. Do you see what we’re missing? This year, Friday December 26, 2003, don’t go to work. They can keep Boxing Day from us no longer!
As you return to your boring old daily routine, following the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, are you left with a feeling of exhaustion and relief that it’s all over? Or are you thinking, “More! More! MORE!”
If you are like me, you could use one extra day of fun in there with Hanukkah, my birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s Eve, boys and girls, there’s an answer: December 26th, Boxing Day. (Yes, Kwanzaa also begins on the 26th, but no one gets the day off for Kwanzaa. I’m talking closed post offices here- the works.)
We don’t celebrate it for the same reason that we don’t drive on the left side of the road: we think the British are silly. But is a free holiday silly? Are we fine putting in a full day’s work on a day that Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and Brits are dancing around and partying with their friends? Boxing Day has nothing to do with religion or the Queen, so everyone gets a go.
The holiday originated in England a long time ago when people had servants, and the servants had to work on Christmas. But the rich people would give the servants the day after Christmas off to go be with their families. Supposedly, their employers sent the servants on their way with some boxed gifts (possibly some of the rich family’s reject presents, like that sweater from Aunt Gertrude). . . Or it might have something to do with alms boxes and giving money to the poor. Whichever is fine with me.
If Christmas is on a Friday, everyone gets the following Monday off. It’s brilliant. The British have recognized it as a bank holiday since 1871. Do you see what we’re missing? This year, Friday December 26, 2003, don’t go to work. They can keep Boxing Day from us no longer!
Someone Hit John Mayer
by Stephanie Anderson
Legend tells us: “Video killed the radio star.” But, unlike many trusty camping axioms (i.e. “If your feet are cold, put on a hat.” and “A fed bear is a dead bear.”), this old standby about the music industry is utterly false. Video did not murder anything. The true culprit is the DJ.
Music, I think it can be said without much evidence provided, is an OLD thing. Thousands of years of Top Forty charts leave us with quite a selection (though in the beat-stick-on-rock days there was no Casey Casem). This day in age, you could listen to music your whole life, without ever repeating the same song, and still not hear everything.
Why then, WHY, do Radio DJs only play a list of 15 (give or take two) songs? I have run an professional field test on a number of occasions in various locations and discovered this: If you listen to any given radio station, in any city, for three hours, you will hear at least one song at least two times. If you try to compensate by switching stations periodically, you will hear those same songs more than twice in the given period. A law has apparently been decreed from the radio gods to all disc jockeys that playing any piece of music to death is, in fact, the ultimate goal.
This problem is only magnified if the song happens to be one you hate. Currently, “The Zephyr Song” by RHCP, is topping my list of ear numbing strikes per hour.
But, I personally would listen to nothing but the “puff of wind” song if it meant that I did not ever again have to hear “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer. (For a long time, I contended that the song was really titled “Thaddeus Wonderland,” probably because I had too much wax in my ears. Honestly, I think I liked “Thaddeus” better because it did not include the stupid imagery of a naked woman with “bubblegum toes,” and, it was also the name of a strange kid I sat behind in high school religion.) What’s worse than hearing this song sixteen times a day is that one of the DJs in the DC area has officially declared it the “Valentine’s Day Song of 2003.” What?!? I didn’t even know that Valentine’s had been officially declared a holiday, and now they’re using it as an excuse to fill my ears with “swim in a deep sea--- of blankets.”
I may become a pariah of pop culture, but I can’t carry on like this any longer. I am switching to the no-talk, easy listening jazz station and will even suffer through “Salsa Sunday.” (Except for popping in on a few of Casey’s “Long Distance Dedications.”) At least I will no longer have to listen to morning crews hawk restaurant gift certificates for whoever can call in and share the “zaniest story of a coworker stealing their lunch.”
Legend tells us: “Video killed the radio star.” But, unlike many trusty camping axioms (i.e. “If your feet are cold, put on a hat.” and “A fed bear is a dead bear.”), this old standby about the music industry is utterly false. Video did not murder anything. The true culprit is the DJ.
Music, I think it can be said without much evidence provided, is an OLD thing. Thousands of years of Top Forty charts leave us with quite a selection (though in the beat-stick-on-rock days there was no Casey Casem). This day in age, you could listen to music your whole life, without ever repeating the same song, and still not hear everything.
Why then, WHY, do Radio DJs only play a list of 15 (give or take two) songs? I have run an professional field test on a number of occasions in various locations and discovered this: If you listen to any given radio station, in any city, for three hours, you will hear at least one song at least two times. If you try to compensate by switching stations periodically, you will hear those same songs more than twice in the given period. A law has apparently been decreed from the radio gods to all disc jockeys that playing any piece of music to death is, in fact, the ultimate goal.
This problem is only magnified if the song happens to be one you hate. Currently, “The Zephyr Song” by RHCP, is topping my list of ear numbing strikes per hour.
But, I personally would listen to nothing but the “puff of wind” song if it meant that I did not ever again have to hear “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer. (For a long time, I contended that the song was really titled “Thaddeus Wonderland,” probably because I had too much wax in my ears. Honestly, I think I liked “Thaddeus” better because it did not include the stupid imagery of a naked woman with “bubblegum toes,” and, it was also the name of a strange kid I sat behind in high school religion.) What’s worse than hearing this song sixteen times a day is that one of the DJs in the DC area has officially declared it the “Valentine’s Day Song of 2003.” What?!? I didn’t even know that Valentine’s had been officially declared a holiday, and now they’re using it as an excuse to fill my ears with “swim in a deep sea--- of blankets.”
I may become a pariah of pop culture, but I can’t carry on like this any longer. I am switching to the no-talk, easy listening jazz station and will even suffer through “Salsa Sunday.” (Except for popping in on a few of Casey’s “Long Distance Dedications.”) At least I will no longer have to listen to morning crews hawk restaurant gift certificates for whoever can call in and share the “zaniest story of a coworker stealing their lunch.”
Friday, December 13, 2002
No, You Cannot Have My Number
by Anna Skorczeski
As a recent college graduate, I am entering the "It's hard to meet new people" phase of my young social life. Let's be honest, high school and college were both 4-year-long group dates. Meeting people was not hard. But now I am no longer surrounded by people of all the same age that share many of my interests. I have had my first glimpses of The Bar Scene, and based on what I've seen, things look bleak. From my preliminary observations, I have found a predictable interaction between total strangers:
Man approaches woman in bar. Possibly orders her a drink. Creates awkward unsolicited small talk that often manages to include his yearly income. As last call nears, a fear of never seeing this wonderful lady ever again mounts. He asks for her number, or slips his to her.
The man knows three things about the woman:
her general physical appearance
that she goes to bar
that she speaks English
Is that really enough? Maybe she has anthrax. Maybe she eats her toenails. Maybe she has jars of spiders in her closet. Maybe she puts mustard on her ice cream. Maybe she doesn't brake for puppies. Maybe she gets heavy bloody noses once every 6 hours. Maybe she has a tattoo of Weird Al covering her entire back. Is anyone willing to risk all these things for the minute chance that someone will sleep with you?
This abrupt approach leads to the option of the Fake Name and Number. Giving out false numbers and telling strangers false names upon introduction is a very common defense, it turns out. Having been raised under the Judeo-Christian ethic of "Do Not Lie To People," this Bar Tactic has not come easily to me. My first impulse, when asked my name, is to tell my name. No, no, no. Always have a pseudonym ready as unlike your real name as possible so they can never track you down. I made the mistake of just going with Anne the other night. I'm still a beginner.
Cell phones are an added curse. The stranger is able to immediately check the validity of the number you have just given them. And, when your phone doesn't ring as he dials the number you gave him, the poor fool says, "Oh, you seem to have accidentally given me the wrong number." Of course it's the wrong number, and you're an ass for pointing it out. It's like saying, "Oops, you forgot to invite me to your party." To these people I assign writing out the definition of "intentional" 100 times on the blackboard.
No amount of good will or even pity is going to make it worth my while when you drunk dial me at 3:24am. So sorry, but my name's Shaniqua and my number's 777-1100. Call me.
As a recent college graduate, I am entering the "It's hard to meet new people" phase of my young social life. Let's be honest, high school and college were both 4-year-long group dates. Meeting people was not hard. But now I am no longer surrounded by people of all the same age that share many of my interests. I have had my first glimpses of The Bar Scene, and based on what I've seen, things look bleak. From my preliminary observations, I have found a predictable interaction between total strangers:
Man approaches woman in bar. Possibly orders her a drink. Creates awkward unsolicited small talk that often manages to include his yearly income. As last call nears, a fear of never seeing this wonderful lady ever again mounts. He asks for her number, or slips his to her.
The man knows three things about the woman:
her general physical appearance
that she goes to bar
that she speaks English
Is that really enough? Maybe she has anthrax. Maybe she eats her toenails. Maybe she has jars of spiders in her closet. Maybe she puts mustard on her ice cream. Maybe she doesn't brake for puppies. Maybe she gets heavy bloody noses once every 6 hours. Maybe she has a tattoo of Weird Al covering her entire back. Is anyone willing to risk all these things for the minute chance that someone will sleep with you?
This abrupt approach leads to the option of the Fake Name and Number. Giving out false numbers and telling strangers false names upon introduction is a very common defense, it turns out. Having been raised under the Judeo-Christian ethic of "Do Not Lie To People," this Bar Tactic has not come easily to me. My first impulse, when asked my name, is to tell my name. No, no, no. Always have a pseudonym ready as unlike your real name as possible so they can never track you down. I made the mistake of just going with Anne the other night. I'm still a beginner.
Cell phones are an added curse. The stranger is able to immediately check the validity of the number you have just given them. And, when your phone doesn't ring as he dials the number you gave him, the poor fool says, "Oh, you seem to have accidentally given me the wrong number." Of course it's the wrong number, and you're an ass for pointing it out. It's like saying, "Oops, you forgot to invite me to your party." To these people I assign writing out the definition of "intentional" 100 times on the blackboard.
No amount of good will or even pity is going to make it worth my while when you drunk dial me at 3:24am. So sorry, but my name's Shaniqua and my number's 777-1100. Call me.
Ode to Algona
by Bryce Wilson
They can't believe I could spend an hour of my day getting to work.
They can't believe they drive an hour to a mall.
I have moved from a large city to a small town.
I don't hear planes now.
I hear trains a lot, though.
A lot of cars don't make me late from work.
Grain trailers make me late for work.
I know what a grain trailer looks like.
Now.
After high school I never went abroad.
In fact, I still haven't.
It kinda feels like it though.
It seems a poem on living in a small town doesn't stand a chance of being interesting.
If I had some funny anecdotes, then maybe.
I like funny anecdotes.
I have no funny anecdotes.
They can't believe I could spend an hour of my day getting to work.
They can't believe they drive an hour to a mall.
I have moved from a large city to a small town.
I don't hear planes now.
I hear trains a lot, though.
A lot of cars don't make me late from work.
Grain trailers make me late for work.
I know what a grain trailer looks like.
Now.
After high school I never went abroad.
In fact, I still haven't.
It kinda feels like it though.
It seems a poem on living in a small town doesn't stand a chance of being interesting.
If I had some funny anecdotes, then maybe.
I like funny anecdotes.
I have no funny anecdotes.
Bowling for Controversial Film
by Stephanie Anderson
None of the Young Republicans wanted to go see Bowling for Columbine with me. This may be because I smell, but they say that it is because "Michael Moore is a piece of s**t." (You may note that I was a little too conservative to actually spell out a curse word and print it on the Internet, and even in my head, I said "beep" while I typed it.) Despite the advice of those feeling more self-justified, I temporarily teamed up with a couple of Donkeys and went to see what all the fuss was about.
To my amazement, Michael Moore, who cleverly stars in his own documentary, does not even resemble South Park's "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo." Yes, he is slightly obnoxious and self-righteous, and no one could rightly accuse him of following through on a train of thought, but his film brings up some excellent points.
Influenced by pre-movie criticism or not, I expected the film to be one long tirade basically saying: "Guns suck. If no one in America had a gun, we would all hold hands and sing 'We are the World' every day before we sat down for warm cookies and milk." While Charlton Heston took more abuse than Moses ever should, that wasn't exactly the point. The movie seemed to think that guns cannot be the problem, citing Canada's giant gun ownership numbers as proof.
Instead, the film had three basic contentions: 1- The US government is violent. 2- Fear is ingrained into our citizens through the media. 3- That same fear stems commercialism. The thought process connecting these points, if drawn, would look something like a child's interpretation of cartoon tumbleweed.
The film raised interesting questions: Are we a more fearful culture than others with lower homicide rates? Is a combination Bank/Gun Shoppe a good idea? Does government foreign policy affect young people's attitudes toward each other and the world? How far will the media go to sell us something? Is bowling the root of all evil, and more importantly, can it be considered a sport?
But less philosophical questions also came up. Such as, Michael, could you accompany those numbers with percentages to make them at least marginally comparable? Do you know that it is not ethical journalism to only present the facts that support your side of the argument? And, do you ever consider shaping the bills of your hats? It's not enough that the hats are plain ugly, you could also cleanly slice cheese with his visor.
Though my head is mostly full, a little bit of learning and even an independent thought or two crept in as a result of seeing Bowling. I suppose that by entertaining views you disagree with, you run the risk of your mind being changed, or, even worse, your own views being validated.
None of the Young Republicans wanted to go see Bowling for Columbine with me. This may be because I smell, but they say that it is because "Michael Moore is a piece of s**t." (You may note that I was a little too conservative to actually spell out a curse word and print it on the Internet, and even in my head, I said "beep" while I typed it.) Despite the advice of those feeling more self-justified, I temporarily teamed up with a couple of Donkeys and went to see what all the fuss was about.
To my amazement, Michael Moore, who cleverly stars in his own documentary, does not even resemble South Park's "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo." Yes, he is slightly obnoxious and self-righteous, and no one could rightly accuse him of following through on a train of thought, but his film brings up some excellent points.
Influenced by pre-movie criticism or not, I expected the film to be one long tirade basically saying: "Guns suck. If no one in America had a gun, we would all hold hands and sing 'We are the World' every day before we sat down for warm cookies and milk." While Charlton Heston took more abuse than Moses ever should, that wasn't exactly the point. The movie seemed to think that guns cannot be the problem, citing Canada's giant gun ownership numbers as proof.
Instead, the film had three basic contentions: 1- The US government is violent. 2- Fear is ingrained into our citizens through the media. 3- That same fear stems commercialism. The thought process connecting these points, if drawn, would look something like a child's interpretation of cartoon tumbleweed.
The film raised interesting questions: Are we a more fearful culture than others with lower homicide rates? Is a combination Bank/Gun Shoppe a good idea? Does government foreign policy affect young people's attitudes toward each other and the world? How far will the media go to sell us something? Is bowling the root of all evil, and more importantly, can it be considered a sport?
But less philosophical questions also came up. Such as, Michael, could you accompany those numbers with percentages to make them at least marginally comparable? Do you know that it is not ethical journalism to only present the facts that support your side of the argument? And, do you ever consider shaping the bills of your hats? It's not enough that the hats are plain ugly, you could also cleanly slice cheese with his visor.
Though my head is mostly full, a little bit of learning and even an independent thought or two crept in as a result of seeing Bowling. I suppose that by entertaining views you disagree with, you run the risk of your mind being changed, or, even worse, your own views being validated.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Confessions of an Earthquake Junkie
by Anna
It started with airplanes. Living and going to school near the airport was how I got the taste for it. The frequent rumbling of the low planes, especially on days when the clouds are thick and low. It does it for me.
Living next to train tracks is good, and so are some movies with heavy-duty surround sound. But on Sunday, November 3 at 1:12pm, I felt what I had been missing. Like a Muzak listener hearing Beethoven for the first time or a bologna sandwich connoisseur finally tasting filet mignon, I experienced an earthquake. Not just any earthquake, but the biggest to happen anywhere this year. A seven point frickin' nine on the Richter scale.
It was great, the walls twisted and the ground grumbled. Stuff fell off the walls and people ran outside, no one was hurt. Despite it being over by the time everyone realized what was going on, it was wonderful.
But luckily, that wasn't the end of it. Aftershocks followed for almost 48 hours. They were great because they snuck up. I knew they were out there, lined up and waiting to shake away, so I was always waiting expectantly for them. They would have made a good drinking game. Rumble rumble... "Did you feel that one? Bottoms up. And another one! Glug glug."
I found sitting on the floor allowed for the most accurate detection and enjoyment. Since we were spending our nights in sleeping bags, the fun just didn't stop. I got little earth massages all night long. But now, one month later in fault line-free Minnesota, I've got a hankering for some good old-fashioned seismic activity. I may have to make a pilgrimage to the San Andreas area.
Saturday, October 19, 2002
Put up your dukes, you limp wristed panzies
by Brett Sheats
I have just watched the "Fight of the Decade" between Iron Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis, and the taste left in my mouth is acutely described as quite bitter. Promoters, along with cable's usual extended onslaught of boxing "experts" (and I do use that term loosely) billed tonight's bout to be the heavyweight match of my lifetime, but instead it turned out to be a mismatch of an excellent technical fighter versus a bully whose time passed long, long ago.
I am left to ponder, "Is this as good as it gets for boxing in this day and age?" And my answer to that question is a resounding NO! There is a fight above all others that today's young and urbane audience demands. Yes, my friends, I speak of the fight of all time, the fight between the newly revered Heavyweight Champion of our era, Lennox Lewis, and the upstart scrapper whose heart exceeds even the greatest Philadelphian, Rocky Balboa. I speak of the one, the only, Little Mac.
Little Mac, whom I have personally witnessed overcome the gamut of fighters from Glass Joe to the unscrupulous Super Macho Man, possesses the will and the drive to defeat any titan that stands in his way. Outclassed by Lewis' superior reach? No problem, simply hit START and he will unload his mighty uppercut. Battered and bloodied by the Champ's left jab? It's OK, press back on your directional control pad and Little Mac will block even the mightiest of blows, excluding only Bald Bull's charging uppercut. Between rounds you can count on the fact that Little Mac is going to receive great advice including, "It's OK Mac, subscribe to Nintendo Power today!!!"
Who exactly is this challenger, you Nintendo neophytes may ask. His past is shrouded in mystery, but what little is known is that he was a young boxing prodigy led by masterful corner management and conditioning. Witnesses such as young Mary Ann Moser of Queens, NY remember Little Mac being a tireless trainer. "I used to relax on Ellis Island on the weekends, and I remember looking across the water to Liberty Island," said Ms. Moser, "and one thing that I could count on to be as regular as the ferry itself, was the sight of Little Mac, in full sweat gear, running beside his bicycle-riding trainer. After several months, I knew this kid was serious." That rigor spawned from his gaining of the Minor Championship Belt versus one-time champion Piston Honda. Honda reminiscences, "There no stopping him! He dodge my powerful combo! My chin no match for his mighty blow! Lay out flat on a big bopper he go-a me boom!" Go-a him boom in a second round TKO, he did indeed.
Little Mac then moved into competition for the Major Belt, where his competition increased in quality greatly. He was met by the up-and-coming Don Flamingo from Spain, and the equally mysterious King Hippo, with his notorious legion of fans, the "Hippo-drome." Little Mac remembers, however, that his toughest match in the Major division was against the magically delicious Great Tiger of India. "When the jewel on his turban started to flash, I knew that hell was about to spawn its fiery wrath within the ring," Little Mac remarked in a rare 1992 interview. "I just blocked all those punches and waited until I could counter while he was momentarily stunned." That strategy worked to perfection as Little Mac catapulted himself into the limelight with a third-round TKO and a shot at the Major Championship. Keeping his undefeated record alive, he beat Bald Bull in 3 rounds to capture the belt and moved into the most elite league of boxers after another period of off-time filled with tireless pink jumpsuit training.
Many boxing experts felt that Little Mac's small size would count against him in versus the most experienced and talented fighters, but their fears were allayed quite quickly when Little Mac dispatched the well respected Soda Popinski, who hails from the former Soviet Union. In the three-round epic battle, patriotism abounded, but the partisan Russian crowd was won over by Little Mac's resolve and sheer willpower, eventually cheering out "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Even Popinski was heard to say to his corner between the second and third rounds "He is not human! He is a piece of iron!"
But even young Mac's career was not sheltered from scandals that have plagued boxing in the past few decades. After a rematch against Don Flamingo, police arrested Flamingo as he was leaving the ring on charges of Child Pornography. Mac's only loss occurred in his next match, a three round decision for Mr. Sandman, where Mac knocked down Sandman six times in the bout while only falling to the canvas once himself. The bizarre decision by the judges resulted in riot after the match, and six people were killed by the angry mob. People close to Mac said that this loss was devastating to his ego and Mac turned to the bottle for salvation. But like he had done with so many demons in the ring, Mac won his battle with alcohol and now even runs Knock Out Alcohol!, a program for troubled, young alcoholics.
Eventually, Mac avenged his only boxing loss with a third round KO in the rematch. The result was a shot at the championship title against the brutally vain Super Macho Man, whose man-boobies were so big that he could shake them in time to the music while entering the ring. Dodging the Champ's patented Super-spin punch proved to be Mac's biggest challenge to date. In the end though, youth triumphed over beauty and Little Mac scored a TKO of Super Macho Man just before the final bell. The undisputed Champion of the World was the young Little Mac, and there was much rejoicing. What would Mac do now? Move to the WWF? Take Hollywood by storm? Insiders in Tinseltown have admitted that Mac was their first choice for the genie in Kazaam, but the part instead went to Shaquille O'Neal when Little Mac was sidelined with bronchitis during shooting. Mac's lasting legacy was to be found elsewhere, in one more fight that would decide once and for all who was the dominant fighter of the decade. It was official: Little Mac was going to fight Iron Mike Tyson.
And the match to end all matches lived up to the billing: it was an epic struggle, almost biblical in scope. In the end only one man was left standing, and that man was Little Mac. The first round, in which Iron Mike did not connect on a single punch that he threw, only highlighted Mac's third round TKO. Lucky for Mac, because those uppercuts were thrown with such ferocity that even one hitting the petite chin of the challenger would have spelled disaster. There was a new sports legend born that day, evidenced by the framed box of Wheaties that hangs above Mac's mantle in his swank Beverly Hills mansion.
Mac is older now, but reportedly still in top shape. Would he even consider taking on the Champ of the new millennium? Sources say the Mac camp is mum on the idea, but that Mac himself has started training again for 'unknown reasons.' Analysts question Mac's ability to go toe to toe with Lennox Lewis for 12 rounds, as all of Mac's fights have been just three rounds or less. "I take Lewis in four!" says former boxing star Evander Holyfield. "That damn Mac wouldn't be in my superior Evander Holyfield Boxing for the Sega Genesis!" Sounds like jealousy to this sportswriter. No matter what the pundits say, there is no doubt that the fans deserve to get what they want: A Mac/Lewis fight to decide who truly is the greatest fighter of the past two boxing eras. Although some in the boxing community say that Mac will need several tune-up fights to get ready for Lewis, others claim he will simply use a pass code to go directly to the belt holder. When he does decide to get in the ring and this legendary battle begins, you can bet this fan will be in the front row, close enough to heckle the Ref Mario.
I have just watched the "Fight of the Decade" between Iron Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis, and the taste left in my mouth is acutely described as quite bitter. Promoters, along with cable's usual extended onslaught of boxing "experts" (and I do use that term loosely) billed tonight's bout to be the heavyweight match of my lifetime, but instead it turned out to be a mismatch of an excellent technical fighter versus a bully whose time passed long, long ago.
I am left to ponder, "Is this as good as it gets for boxing in this day and age?" And my answer to that question is a resounding NO! There is a fight above all others that today's young and urbane audience demands. Yes, my friends, I speak of the fight of all time, the fight between the newly revered Heavyweight Champion of our era, Lennox Lewis, and the upstart scrapper whose heart exceeds even the greatest Philadelphian, Rocky Balboa. I speak of the one, the only, Little Mac.
Little Mac, whom I have personally witnessed overcome the gamut of fighters from Glass Joe to the unscrupulous Super Macho Man, possesses the will and the drive to defeat any titan that stands in his way. Outclassed by Lewis' superior reach? No problem, simply hit START and he will unload his mighty uppercut. Battered and bloodied by the Champ's left jab? It's OK, press back on your directional control pad and Little Mac will block even the mightiest of blows, excluding only Bald Bull's charging uppercut. Between rounds you can count on the fact that Little Mac is going to receive great advice including, "It's OK Mac, subscribe to Nintendo Power today!!!"
Who exactly is this challenger, you Nintendo neophytes may ask. His past is shrouded in mystery, but what little is known is that he was a young boxing prodigy led by masterful corner management and conditioning. Witnesses such as young Mary Ann Moser of Queens, NY remember Little Mac being a tireless trainer. "I used to relax on Ellis Island on the weekends, and I remember looking across the water to Liberty Island," said Ms. Moser, "and one thing that I could count on to be as regular as the ferry itself, was the sight of Little Mac, in full sweat gear, running beside his bicycle-riding trainer. After several months, I knew this kid was serious." That rigor spawned from his gaining of the Minor Championship Belt versus one-time champion Piston Honda. Honda reminiscences, "There no stopping him! He dodge my powerful combo! My chin no match for his mighty blow! Lay out flat on a big bopper he go-a me boom!" Go-a him boom in a second round TKO, he did indeed.
Little Mac then moved into competition for the Major Belt, where his competition increased in quality greatly. He was met by the up-and-coming Don Flamingo from Spain, and the equally mysterious King Hippo, with his notorious legion of fans, the "Hippo-drome." Little Mac remembers, however, that his toughest match in the Major division was against the magically delicious Great Tiger of India. "When the jewel on his turban started to flash, I knew that hell was about to spawn its fiery wrath within the ring," Little Mac remarked in a rare 1992 interview. "I just blocked all those punches and waited until I could counter while he was momentarily stunned." That strategy worked to perfection as Little Mac catapulted himself into the limelight with a third-round TKO and a shot at the Major Championship. Keeping his undefeated record alive, he beat Bald Bull in 3 rounds to capture the belt and moved into the most elite league of boxers after another period of off-time filled with tireless pink jumpsuit training.
Many boxing experts felt that Little Mac's small size would count against him in versus the most experienced and talented fighters, but their fears were allayed quite quickly when Little Mac dispatched the well respected Soda Popinski, who hails from the former Soviet Union. In the three-round epic battle, patriotism abounded, but the partisan Russian crowd was won over by Little Mac's resolve and sheer willpower, eventually cheering out "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Even Popinski was heard to say to his corner between the second and third rounds "He is not human! He is a piece of iron!"
But even young Mac's career was not sheltered from scandals that have plagued boxing in the past few decades. After a rematch against Don Flamingo, police arrested Flamingo as he was leaving the ring on charges of Child Pornography. Mac's only loss occurred in his next match, a three round decision for Mr. Sandman, where Mac knocked down Sandman six times in the bout while only falling to the canvas once himself. The bizarre decision by the judges resulted in riot after the match, and six people were killed by the angry mob. People close to Mac said that this loss was devastating to his ego and Mac turned to the bottle for salvation. But like he had done with so many demons in the ring, Mac won his battle with alcohol and now even runs Knock Out Alcohol!, a program for troubled, young alcoholics.
Eventually, Mac avenged his only boxing loss with a third round KO in the rematch. The result was a shot at the championship title against the brutally vain Super Macho Man, whose man-boobies were so big that he could shake them in time to the music while entering the ring. Dodging the Champ's patented Super-spin punch proved to be Mac's biggest challenge to date. In the end though, youth triumphed over beauty and Little Mac scored a TKO of Super Macho Man just before the final bell. The undisputed Champion of the World was the young Little Mac, and there was much rejoicing. What would Mac do now? Move to the WWF? Take Hollywood by storm? Insiders in Tinseltown have admitted that Mac was their first choice for the genie in Kazaam, but the part instead went to Shaquille O'Neal when Little Mac was sidelined with bronchitis during shooting. Mac's lasting legacy was to be found elsewhere, in one more fight that would decide once and for all who was the dominant fighter of the decade. It was official: Little Mac was going to fight Iron Mike Tyson.
And the match to end all matches lived up to the billing: it was an epic struggle, almost biblical in scope. In the end only one man was left standing, and that man was Little Mac. The first round, in which Iron Mike did not connect on a single punch that he threw, only highlighted Mac's third round TKO. Lucky for Mac, because those uppercuts were thrown with such ferocity that even one hitting the petite chin of the challenger would have spelled disaster. There was a new sports legend born that day, evidenced by the framed box of Wheaties that hangs above Mac's mantle in his swank Beverly Hills mansion.
Mac is older now, but reportedly still in top shape. Would he even consider taking on the Champ of the new millennium? Sources say the Mac camp is mum on the idea, but that Mac himself has started training again for 'unknown reasons.' Analysts question Mac's ability to go toe to toe with Lennox Lewis for 12 rounds, as all of Mac's fights have been just three rounds or less. "I take Lewis in four!" says former boxing star Evander Holyfield. "That damn Mac wouldn't be in my superior Evander Holyfield Boxing for the Sega Genesis!" Sounds like jealousy to this sportswriter. No matter what the pundits say, there is no doubt that the fans deserve to get what they want: A Mac/Lewis fight to decide who truly is the greatest fighter of the past two boxing eras. Although some in the boxing community say that Mac will need several tune-up fights to get ready for Lewis, others claim he will simply use a pass code to go directly to the belt holder. When he does decide to get in the ring and this legendary battle begins, you can bet this fan will be in the front row, close enough to heckle the Ref Mario.
Hello Anzengruber! Discovery of the World's most outgoing and well-traveled Brachiosaurus
by Stephanie AndersonOne day, during a unlucky streak which included being unemployed, breaking a window, contracting tonsillitis, being kicked out of a flat, doused in boiling water, and 3 pianos falling on my head, I was on the No. 62 Streetcar in search of somewhere to live. There was a scuffle under my seat (which can probably be attributed to me tripping over my own feet) and a small dinosaur popped his head out.
As this Brachiosaurus was already strapped into his leash and with no owner to be found, I decided I had better take him for his walk (I mean really, who knows the last time he had been out?). As we strolled up Anzengruberstrasse towards a potential dwelling, I christened him after that very street.
Since then, Anzengruber has had many adventures, made many friends and traveled the world. He has gone swimming in Switzerland, hiking in the Alps, and shopping on Vienna’s chic-est street: Karntnerstrasse. His sixteenth birthday (determined by carbon dating and the year stamped into his plastic stomach) will be celebrated this weekend by friends around the world.
Please stay tuned for Anzengruber’s life and times to come.
Plitvice National Park
by Stephanie Anderson
Plitvice National Park, in inland Croatia not far from the Bosnian border, is a wilderness of sixteen crystal blue, terraced lakes. Between these lakes cascade countless waterfalls, constantly changing with time and the landscape. Rough wooden walkways have been laid as scenic paths along the lakesides. Stairs abruptly leave the pathways and lead to high viewpoints from which one can survey the grander scene. The water is so clear that even from 100 feet above, one can still see the forms of swimming fish. Electric ferries quietly carry visitors across the lakes from one trail to another.
The argument that this is one of the most beautiful places in the world need not even be made. The fact is granted. It has even been named a "World Heritage Site" by the people who name such things. What this title means is a bit mysterious, but the magnificence of the area must have something to do with it.
Obviously, everyone who has heard of such a tranquil wonderland wants to go there, and if they harbor a doubt, even one inadequate photograph would sell them completely. So how has this park not been inundated with swarms of people on their around-the-world Disney tours? Because getting there is no light task. The nearest train station, 1.5 hours from the park by bus, is in Zagreb. Zagreb is seven hours by train from Vienna, the easternmost city of the West. Most people's travel plans sadly do not include even one day in Zagreb (which is a beautiful city), and thus do not allow for this bus connection.
The majority of travelers in Croatia are on the coast, and many of them come by boat. These logistics leave really only one option besides a long bus ride: Rental car. Driving in Croatia is not the European Autobahn racing of legend, rather, the roads are two lane and twist through the mountains. Passing is hardly ever an option, and chances of getting stuck behind a cattle truck are high. But it can be done, and parking around the park is adequate and the road passing through the region is lined with rooms for rent and restaurants nightly serving creatures roasted on an open flame spit.
Though the scars of war are still obvious in her landscape, Croatia is a beautiful country, more than worth a visit. Plitvice makes the struggles and atrocities of recent Yugoslavian history seem to belong to another world.
Greetings from Uzbekistan
by Ellie Shirly
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
Friday, October 18, 2002
Road to Perdition
by Stephanie Anderson
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnít a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruiní, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnít a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruiní, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
Saturday, August 03, 2002
Le Pacte des Loups
by Anna
Last week I saw The Brotherhood of the Wolf (Le Pacte des Loups), a historical French fantasy-horror film currently showing in the cheap theaters of the Twin Cities. Genuinely scary in some parts, it recounts a French legend about a beast that went around the countryside snacking on peasants. Clearly before the birth of the Buddy System, The Beast takes down lone wandering girls against the terrifyingly isolated backdrop of rural France. This monster is a great big mystery so a young naturalist named Fronsac is sent from Paris to investigate and hopefully end the maulings.
Fronsac brings with him his sidekick Mani, a native Canadian priest with a John Dunbar-like connection to wild animals and some mad fighting skillz. Mani is the star of several impressively choreographed fight scenes, especially his first single-handed battle against the pack of freaky gypsies. The movie cashes in on some Crouching Tiger moves, like the gravity defying wall run. For the most part, the action is quite riveting but the weapons of choice are usually sticks. As a viewer raised in the age of semiautomatics, rocket launchers and proton-packs, sticks bore me. I realize it hurts to get hit by one, don't get me wrong, but by the end when Fronsac bursts into stick wielding revenge, I'd seen more than enough.
Playing second fiddle to the horror and action is a porcelain skinned aristocratic love interest with a creepy over-bred brother along with a clown car full of other subplots that spread the movie a bit too thin. The subtitles will weed out those with severe ADD, but even as a very patient and attentive person I discovered ants in my pants as the two-hour mark came and went. But for only two dollars and nothing else to do on a Sunday night I'm not complaining.
Last week I saw The Brotherhood of the Wolf (Le Pacte des Loups), a historical French fantasy-horror film currently showing in the cheap theaters of the Twin Cities. Genuinely scary in some parts, it recounts a French legend about a beast that went around the countryside snacking on peasants. Clearly before the birth of the Buddy System, The Beast takes down lone wandering girls against the terrifyingly isolated backdrop of rural France. This monster is a great big mystery so a young naturalist named Fronsac is sent from Paris to investigate and hopefully end the maulings.
Fronsac brings with him his sidekick Mani, a native Canadian priest with a John Dunbar-like connection to wild animals and some mad fighting skillz. Mani is the star of several impressively choreographed fight scenes, especially his first single-handed battle against the pack of freaky gypsies. The movie cashes in on some Crouching Tiger moves, like the gravity defying wall run. For the most part, the action is quite riveting but the weapons of choice are usually sticks. As a viewer raised in the age of semiautomatics, rocket launchers and proton-packs, sticks bore me. I realize it hurts to get hit by one, don't get me wrong, but by the end when Fronsac bursts into stick wielding revenge, I'd seen more than enough.
Playing second fiddle to the horror and action is a porcelain skinned aristocratic love interest with a creepy over-bred brother along with a clown car full of other subplots that spread the movie a bit too thin. The subtitles will weed out those with severe ADD, but even as a very patient and attentive person I discovered ants in my pants as the two-hour mark came and went. But for only two dollars and nothing else to do on a Sunday night I'm not complaining.
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