Dream Diary: 5/9/10

(Sunday morning between 7:15 and 8:45.)

I’m at work, on the day I’m supposed to leave for vacation at noon to catch a 2 PM flight to Los Angeles. I walk into the office to find out that every DVD copy of the webcasts I’ve done for the last five years have been taken off the spindles I had them on, put into individual plastic cases, and stacked over Nikki’s desk. And none of them are labeled. I now have to go through every single one of them every single time I get a request to find something, and I am TOTALLY pissed off about it. Who the fuck did this? I know without asking--it’s Mark Flavin. It’s always Mark Flavin. He’s sitting next to Nikki reading The Onion online when I walk into his office, and when I see him I just roar like a bull for ten seconds, which makes Nikki jump up out of her chair like I’ve stuck a needle into her ear drum. Flavin? Flavin ignores me. “Can I please ask you people not to rearrange things that I already have arranged, please?” I say in my best imitation of my father’s passive-aggressive angry voice. “Why, what are you looking for?” says Flavin without looking up. I pull a meeting name out of my hat. “The CNBC interview right after Bear Stearns folded.” Flavin gets up, goes over to Nikki’s desk, stares at the piles and piles of DVD’s, then reaches up and pulls one out of the middle. “Here you go,” he says, and hands it to me as he walks back to his desk. Oh great. Now he knows the system and I don’t. Fucking Flavin.

I’m trying to think of something politely insulting to say to him when I get a call from Liz upstairs. “It’s almost noon. You wanted me to call you and remind you to get out of here,” she says. I look at the clock. Ten to twelve. “All right,” I say. “One drink and I’m gone.” I take my luggage upstairs, check it in by the train station, and sit down next to Liz at the bar. “So who are you seeing in LA?” she asks. “This woman I haven’t seen since college,” I tell her. “She found me on Facebook.” “Which one is this?” “Amy.” “THAT Amy?” “That Amy.” “You’re gonna need another drink,” she says, and pours me a vodka shot.

Two more drinks later and I am on the train to the plane. I’m cutting it close. I’m reading a thriller called 1903 about a guy who discovers that Henry Ford was a secret member of the Nazi party and even got a membership card signed by Hitler, a card whose number (1903) is the year of the first Model-T. It’s damn good--so good that I totally forget for a while what stop I’m supposed to be getting off, and when the train comes to a halt and I hear the conductor announce, “Langley; Langley Station,” a little bell goes off in my head (“This is your stop! Get off now!”) and I close the book, grab my suitcase, and dash off. Ten seconds later, as the train pulls away, I realize that, not only is this NOT my stop, but because it’s nowhere near the airport, I am going to have to walk to the bus stop ten country blocks away in order to hopefully catch the bus that will take me to the airport in time to catch my flight. Which is in ten minutes. “You are such an idiot,” I say to myself as I head off down the street. “You are never gonna make your flight. You need to get to a phone and cancel the ticket, so you can get a partial refund. What was it, $745? Go back to the station and get on the phone and cancel the ticket.”

I turn around. The station’s gone. It’s just trees and lawns and houses here. And the sun is so bright that everything is almost colorless. As I watch, the trees and houses get whiter and whiter, and the wind rises up, and there’s a rushing sound like every leaf on every tree in the world is getting hit by a fifty-mile-an-hour wind, and that’s when I wake up.

Weekend Update: Only a matter of time

Friday night: I stopped counting at 10. I know, I know--I'm such a bad Irishman. A good Irishman would have lost count around #7. But it was a long week, and there were regulars at the bar, and I was writing like a possessed fiend until my right hand gave out and I had to soak it in a couple of tequila shots, after which it wrote everything in Spanish. Upshot of all this: I showed up at 8, filled six notebook pages with actually legible scribbling, drank maybe a dozen pints of Guinness, didn't make a fool of myself that I know of, got home at 3:45--and got up four hours later because Saturday was:


Saturday: Don't talk to him, he's reading an actual book. So: up at 7:30, showered and out the door by 8, coffee shop breakfast between 8 and 9, and a train to Midtown Comics on 40th Street where I was the 23rd person guy on line at 9:20 for an 11 AM store opening. I was standing behind two guys, one around my age, one a little younger, who were discussing the continuity ramifications of Blackest Night. Like all good comic book lovers, they invited me into their conversation as an equal. And I gotta tell ya--there is nothing--nothing--quite like the camaraderie of a bunch of guys discussing stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with the universe as we know it; it is so much more fulfilling than discussing sports statistics because sports players, unlike superheroes, have the drawback of being actual human beings. Not so with Green Lantern. I mean, crap--with Green Lantern these days, you have to be specific about which one you're talking about, something you don't have to do when you're talking about A-Rod. ("Which A-Rod do you mean? John Stewart A-Rod? Guy Gardner A-Rod? Kyle Rayner A-Rod?") But there is also nothing--nothing--quite like the cold shoulder you get from a comic book lover when you pull out an advance copy of Greil Marcus' new book on Van Morrison, When That Rough God Goes Riding, and read it cover to cover instead of bitching about how much Marvel's Siege sucks.

Saturday & Sunday: Hot as a bad Josh Hartnett movie.

Wait--is there a good Josh Hartnett movie?

Saturday: It's not the same when it's not Norwood Ave. Some people get depressed on their birthday. Some people get all reminiscent and shit on New Year's Eve. Me, I get misty-eyed on Derby Day. Back during the last century, my friend Tom used to host an annual Derby Day party in his apartment in Newton, MA, during which he would make mint juleps from scratch, and we would all try to remember who won last year's race while we picked horses for this year's race, and met Bob Hassey's latest girlfriend, and just talked (and talked) (and talked), usually while watching pre-pubescent girls do floor gymnastics with giant red balls and streamers on the TV. (This was back before the Derby pre-show became a day-long event, and the network used to broadcast counter-programming before the race started, which shows you how long ago those good old days were.) Derby Day is also special to me because (if I remember correctly) on that day in May in 1982, which would have been about six weeks before I moved to New York, Tom ran out of Bourbon and needed someone to make a run to the packy and get a new bottle. I volunteered, and what made the trip memorable was that my soon-to-be-30-year-old ass got carded when it was my turn to pay. Which is such a great treat when you're about to be ancient, which is what 30 is when you're 29. Bonus points because you're also five or six years older than the chick at the cash register. I can still remember her double take when she read my birthdate. And me going back to Norwood Ave and crowing for the rest of the weekend about how I got carded. So yeah: to this day, I cannot see a field of three-year-olds churning up a track without looking around to see where Tom is or wondering who Sue is rooting for or raising my mint julep to clink it with Hassey's mint julep and say, "Good times."

Good times indeed.

Saturday & Sunday: Mayday! Mayday! New York City's first post-9/11 car bomb was discovered on Saturday thanks to a sidewalk vendor who noticed a smoking SUV on 45th Street, which is kind of ironic, because street vendors are those quality-of-life nuisances whom our social-engineering Mayor is determined to clean off the streets before he finishes his tenth term as King of New York. (Not that I have anything against Bloomberg Rex, mind you. Although I do have to wonder what he's going to ban next in his quest to make Manhattan more and more like Disneyland. Public cursing? Public midriff-baring? Tattoos?)

Thanks to pure dumb luck, the bomb did not go boom. This time. Not to get too fatalistic, but it is indeed only a matter of time before one does go boom, with horrific consequences. And joking aside, if it goes off on a weekend in Times Square, it's going to take out more tourists than locals, because nobody who lives in this city goes anywhere near Times Square on the weekends unless they absolutely have to. Weekdays is another story. We're all here on weekdays. So we're all potential victims.

To be honest, I don't know how I feel about that. Mostly because it's beyond my comprehension. I have just as much belief in my own personal immortality as any normal human being--it's that little voice inside me that says: "I'm the exception; I'm gonna live forever"--but there is no comparable voice in me that says either "I'm maybe possibly not going to be here some day" or "There's an outside chance that a Ford full of fertilizer will blow me to smithereens some morning." Both of which are much more likely than me outliving Bernard Shaw. So does that mean I'm out of touch with reality? Because frankly, my version of reality includes the demise of everyone else on earth but me. It's like Michael Herr says in Dispatches: the one dead body I know I won't be able to stomach is the one I'll never get to see.

Incredibly selfish, right? But I think--in my selfish way--that it's a necessary selfishness. This is, after all, a city in which I could get taken out by exploding manhole covers, falling cornices, and flustered old ladies who hit the gas instead of the brake. I don't think about those, either. I think about what I'm going to write tonight when I get home, or do tomorrow when I see a friend. I think about what I'm going to get Liz for her birthday, and whether I'm going to be able to swing a trip to Virginia for Amanda's graduation party. I think about when I'm going to give Bill that Greil Marcus book to read, and I think about the Carole Lombard movies I watched last night, and how it's a damn shame she wasn't given the time to make any more. And I think about the time I've wasted, and the time I have ahead of me that I hope I will not waste, and wonder if I will be given enough of it to do all the things I want to do. (And I won't. None of us are. We all get kicked out of this party with a half-finished drink in our hands.)

So where does that leave me? It leaves me thinking about what exactly the words "wasting time" mean in this particular context. And to me, today, it means worrying about things over which I have no control--like exploding manhole covers, and falling cornices, and car bombs. Because if you want to know the truth, it's those fucking old ladies who hit the gas instead of the brake who scare me to death. There's a goddamn army of them out there, all of them ready to "hit the brakes" when they see me crossing the street. Them I worry about.

Excerpts from the Wishful Thinking Version of the Goldman Sachs Hearings

THE SENATE: The idea that Wall Street came out of this thing just fine, thank you, is just something that just grates on people.
GOLDMAN: Wow. You just said “just” three times in nine words.
THE SENATE: People think you didn’t just come out fine because it was luck. They think you guys just really gamed the system real well. You played both ends against the middle and made a boatload of money. How do you explain that?
GOLDMAN: You show a surprising ignorance about the purpose of investment banking.
THE SENATE: Do you think it’s morally right?
GOLDMAN: Moral, schmoral--it’s legal.
THE SENATE: That doesn’t make it morally right.
GOLDMAN: If you don’t like it, pass a law against it.
THE SENATE: You show a surprising ignorance about the job of a US Senator.

THE SENATE: What would you change in the regulatory system?
GOLDMAN: Clearly some things need to be changed
THE SENATE: Give me an example.
GOLDMAN: Governmental oversight.
CITIBANK & MORGAN STANLEY: Hear hear!

THE SENATE: I’m going to mention the little guys out there on Main Street for about twenty minutes, so if you need to use the bathroom, now’s the time.

THE SENATE: People feel like you are betting with other people’s money and other people’s future. Instead of Wall Street, it looks like Las Vegas.
GOLDMAN: I resent that comparison! We are not a casino! In a casino, the customer occasionally wins!

THE SENATE: I’m trying to home in on why I have so many unemployed people in my state--people who lost money in their pensions.
GOLDMAN: That’s what you get for making stupid investments.

BYSTANDER: How do you live with yourself?
GOLDMAN: I have my administrative assistants do that for me.

THE SENATE: How did you feel when you learned that Goldman employees used the word “shit” to describe the quality of certain Goldman deals?
GOLDMAN: I’m appalled.
THE SENATE: You are appalled that they called them shit?
GOLDMAN: I am appalled that they put it in an e-mail. And doubly appalled that our IT Department didn’t automatically delete them.

THE SENATE: Did you know the housing market was doomed?
GOLDMAN: I think we’re not that smart.
THE SENATE: How smart are you?
GOLDMAN: Your shoe lace is untied.
THE SENATE: Really? [Looks down at shoes.]
GOLDMAN: [snapping The Senate’s nose] Nyah nyah.

THE SENATE: Don’t you think your customers should know what your employees think about the deals they are selling?
GOLDMAN: Don’t you think your constituents should know what their Senator thinks about the bills he is passing?
THE SENATE: Well, when you put it that way, . . .

My other hand just stole your wallet.

THE SENATE: Don’t you feel regret for what you did?
GOLDMAN: Regret to me means something that you feel that you did wrong. Since when should you feel wrong for making money in a capitalist society?

THE SENATE: Do you think that your clients know that what they think is gold, you think is crap?
GOLDMAN: Hove you ever known anyone in sales who didn’t think his product was crap?
THE SENATE: You are making money by selling things and then making money hand over fist by betting that those products will fail!
GOLDMAN: I keep telling you--it’s not betting when you know what the outcome will be. And everything is doomed to fail. Except capitalism.

Just hearing the word "derivatives" puts John McCain to sleep.

If the US Senate Used Truth Serum . . .

. . . we'd probably see a lot more headlines like this:

Guide to Guys: See what you made me do?

In case you missed it, yesterday was Boobquake 2010 -- a totally scientific experiment initiated by blogger Jen McCreight designed to verify the statements made in this article:

"Many women who do not dress modestly ... lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes."

And what was that experiment? Quoting from Jen's blog:

Sedighi claims that not dressing modestly causes earthquakes. If so, we should be able to test this claim scientifically. [ . . .]

Time for a Boobquake.

On Monday, April 26th, I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own. Yes, the one usually reserved for a night on the town. I encourage other female skeptics to join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts. Or short shorts, if that's your preferred form of immodesty. With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake. . .

Well, we're all still here (or at least I am; did the earth move for you?), and outside of an earthquake near Taiwan, I can't see any other evidence of tit-based tectonic movement in the last 24 hours. Which either means that God has really got it in for Chinese mammaries, or, y'know, there might actually be a rational explanation for the unpredictability of earthquakes. (Sidebar topic: why is is that God is always the cause of the unpredictable? Or the disaster? Why isn't it Satan, for instance? Why is it always God's punishment for something, instead of evidence of Satan's ever-increasing power over this sinful vale of tears? Or can Tom Waits be right? Is Satan really just God when he's drunk?)

Personally? If there were any earthquakes yesterday, they were all caused by guys face-planting trees and lamp-posts while staring at hectares of unclothed female flesh. A situation which would occur during MiniSkirtQuake or TankTopQuake or even OhMyGodShe'sLickingHerLipsQuake. And why is this true? Oh dear--didn’t you know? Because men can’t control themselves. They just can’t. You show a guy a knee--a knee, okay?--the ugliest outpost of the female frontier--you can scratch a match off a knee, for Chrissakes--and ten seconds later he’s attacking you like the Greeks attacked Troy. If not physically, then in his head. It's like showing a loophole to an investment banker.

One thing that needs to be clear, though. Guys like that Iranian cleric and (if he was heterosexual) the Pope are not saying that women are the devil. They are saying that women bring out the devil in men. (And God too, if He causes earthquakes over nipple slips.) This is why, in certain areas of the world, the phrase "It's her fault, she was wearing a skirt," is a valid legal defense for just about anything a man can be accused of. Hell--I firmly expect some guy from Goldman Sachs to use that excuse when testifying in front of Congress today.

CONGRESS: So tell us again why you took advantage of your customers?
GOLDMAN: Because they were asking for it.
CONGRESS: Oh well in that case.
GOLDMAN'S CLIENTS: Hey wait a minute!
CONGRESS: Sorry. That's what you get for traipsing around in the financial equivalent of a see-through blouse.
GOLDMAN'S CLIENTS: So wait--it's our fault for making them take advantage of us?
CONGRESS: Yup. You're the girl; they're the guy. Case dismissed, after a slap on the wrist.

Late Night Thoughts on Shakespeare's Birthday

The town of Stratford taxed you for every elm tree you had on your property. Oaks? Plant as many as you like. Willows? We're givin' 'em away. Elms? Sorry, that's gonna cost ya. Specifically between one and two shillings per elm. Since a shilling (an average day’s wages for a craftsman) is generally calculated to be between $25 and $30 US dollars, a house with, say, 10 elms on it would be taxed an additional $300 a year, or about two weeks worth of wages.

In Elizabethan England, TH was pronounced T. Anthony? Pronounced like it was Antony. Othello? Otello. (Yeah, I know, just like an Ithalian opera.) Death? Pronounced like it was debt. (Major lost laughs here.) Nothing? Pronounced like it was noting. As in: Much Ado about Noting, which kind of tells you right there that the play is all about misunderstandings. And kind of makes “O, tat tis too too solid flesh would melt” the Elizabethan equivalent of an Elmer Fudd speech.

Hamlet was 33 years old and weighed 220 pounds. Which describes Richard Burbage when he first played the part in 1601.

The importance of stage directions. Claudius is never once called by name in Hamlet. If it wasn't for the fact that he's name-checked in an entrance, you could add another 25,000 books to the Folger library speculating on whether or not he was called Feng.

The unimportance of stage directions. And then there's Innogen in Much Ado About Nothing: mentioned in the opening stage direction, and forgotten for the next two hours.

Funny ha-ha. Of the 12 characters called "Clown" in the stage directions of Shakespeare's plays, six are found in the Tragedies, six are in the Comedies, and the balance are in the Histories.

And Romeo and Juliet would have met on FaceBook. Cleopatra plays billiards, a clock strikes in ancient Rome, spectacles are worn in ancient Britain, and Prince Hector has read Aristotle. If there had been cellphones in 1607, Antony and Cleopatra would have texted each other.

There are no unqualified verbs in a Shakespeare biography. In Chapter 6 of René Weis’ Shakespeare Unbound, “Bound for London,” the following qualifications appear within the space of twelve pages: "perhaps" (7 times), "must have been" (twice), "must have felt," "if" (we have a winner--9 times), "must have hoped," "must have wondered," "would have" (3 times), "would have been," "there can be no doubt that," "probably" (4 times), "would have acquired," "it is inconceivable that," "would not have," "may," "may be" (twice), "may have" (twice), "may not have," "one cannot rule out," "undoubtedly," "we have no way of knowing whether," "it is more likely that," "seems to have been," "it appears," "we can form a fairly accurate idea," "we cannot be sure," "it is not impossible," "we should not rule out" and "just wait till I get to the Sonnets if you want to see Wall Street levels of speculation." (Just kidding about the last one. He never mentions Wall Street.) This is why I can't read most Shakespeare biographies without thinking, "This is a novel, dammit!" And also why, if you removed anything that means “possibly,” “probably,” and “perhaps” from the English language, the average Shakespeare biography would be shorter than this blog entry.

100 Proof: How to get picked up at a bar by an ex-cop

Do NOT take out your notebook and write in it. This proves you are semi-normal, instead of abby-normal, like all writers.

Don’t talk to anyone but the bartender. This makes you look available.

Don’t talk to yourself. This makes you look creepy.

Don’t whistle. Not even once. Seriously. Who fucking whistles any more?

Instead of looking at the ex-cop, stare at the TV screen over her head. Bonus points if the TV is playing a soccer game. Double plus bonus points if one of the teams is Manchester United.

Glance now and then at her and her two companions. While glancing, try to figure out which one is the friend and which one is the mother of the girl who looks like Jennifer Connelly. Remember to look back at the TV once you notice the honking big diamond on the third finger of this girl’s left hand.

Pay no attention to the ex-cop as she gestures your way. Concentrate on the game. This is like wearing a sign that says I AM SUCH A SPORTS-LOVING GUY.

Only look up when the ex-cop asks the bartender to get your attention. This is like wearing a sign that says I AM AN OBLIVIOUS MALE. Which, when translated into Female English, reads OH C'MON--YOU'VE KNOWN HOW TO DEAL WITH GUYS LIKE ME SINCE HIGH SCHOOL.

Stare politely at the ex-cop as she applies a layer of lipstick at you. Whatever you do, do NOT do a double-take at the exaggerated way she’s smacking her lips, and on no account allow your face to reflect the WTF-is-she-doing thought that is now filling your head.

Listen politely to the ex-cop as she calls out: “So what does it take? So what does it take to get your attention?” Repeat above.

Introduce yourself as the ex-cop comes over to sit beside you. Listen attentively as she explains how she and her best friend and her best friend's daughter were wondering why you were looking at the TV instead of them. Do not under any circumstances defend yourself by telling her that the Penile Hive Mind is always more attracted to images of people than it is to real people. Explaining the male fascination with porn is always a turn-off.

Watch the ex-cop return to her original seat. Glance briefly at the game again, but do not linger. Spend more time watching the ex-cop. This is the equivalent of wearing a sign that says I AM A MALE WHO LISTENS.

Make sure there are no other women at the bar. Wearing a sign that says I AM A MAN WHO LISTENS is the dating equivalent of a prospector holding up a gold nugget and yelling “Look what I just found!” and actually expecting not to get trampled in the ensuing stampede.

Wave to the other two women as the ex-cop introduces you across the bar. And stop staring at the Jennifer Connelly lookalike. She's married, asshole.

Shout "Nice to meet you!" across the bar, then say to yourself, “What the hell” and bring your beer over to where they’re sitting. And while you're at it, kiss your ass goodbye.

Ignore the bartender’s evil little grin. Because she knows you, she will be able to predict what is going to happen during the next twenty minutes. Because she knows you well, she knows it is useless to tell you what is going to happen. And because she knows you very well, she is texting a friend to bring a video camera so she can record this for posterity.

Engage in small talk. This includes explaining (1) where you work at your day job (but not mentioning the writing), (2) why you’re at this particular bar (but not how often you come here), and (3) why you are single.

Do NOT go into details about your past. The more details you supply about an ex-girlfriend, the more you look like someone who is picking at a wound, instead of allowing it to heal. And while there is not a woman in the world who won’t fall like a ton of bricks through greased air for a wounded man, she will only do it if the wound isn’t autographed.

Show an interest. When the ex-cop mentions her son, ask her how old he is. When she tells you, calculate her age and wait for the inevitable next question.

Be charitable. When the ex-cop asks you how old you think she is, subtract five years from your initial calculation. Then sip your beer and subtract three more. Then tell her the final adjusted number.

Express surprise. Fifty-five? Really? Come on--that's a speed limit, not an age.

Lie. When she asks you your age, shave five years off the truth. Do not under any circumstances answer this question by adding, "But I'll always be nineteen inside," or, "But emotionally I'm twelve," no matter how true this is.

Find a common ground. When the Jennifer Connelly clone mentions that she just moved back from London, ask her where she lived in the city. When she mentions that it was right next to a section of the Old Roman Wall, tell her about the day-long walking tour of the Roman Wall you and your ex-girlfriend did that Sunday years ago.

Know the value of the conditional tense. When the ex-cop hears this and says, “See? I could do that with you. We could both do that one day in London,” nod and say, “Yes, we certainly could.”

Know the value of silence. Then say nothing, trusting that after a moment's pause the ex-cop will immediately bring the conversation back to how dumb you were to watch British soccer players instead of three women across the bar.

Ignore the female friend who just sat down at the end of the bar. You can glance at her, but Jennifer Connelly will see it, so do not wave or make your presence known until you walk past her on the way to the men’s room. Then and only then can you give her a quick hug and say hello, knowing that Jennifer Connelly is watching your every move.

Point out the regulars. When you return from the men’s room, make it a point to nod at a couple of regulars at the bar. Then point them out to everyone, making sure to include your female friend and adding as casually as possible, “Huh. Her boyfriend must be working tonight.”

Be upbeat. When Jennifer Connelly’s mother asks whether your girlfriend is working tonight, laugh and say, “I’ll tell you when I’ve met her.” Then reflect on how much of a sucker you are for the clever one with the sharp wit. And the daughter who looks like Jennifer Connelly.

Stand your ground. When Jennifer and her mother go to the Ladies together, and the ex-cop starts leaning against you while she’s talking, do NOT back away. Backing away is rude. And since there is an occupied bar stool behind you, it is also physically impossible. The best you can do is not push back, but let yourself be pushed, as if the two of you are squaring off in a social judo match.

Blame the alcohol. When everyone is ready to leave, and the ex-cop wants to know if you’d like to come with them to the next bar, tell her when you have to be at work the next morning. When she says she gets up thirty minutes earlier than you do, blame the alcohol. When she points out that she’s been drinking vodka and you’ve been drinking beer, explain to her that Guinness is different. And slur your words a little, okay?

Pat yourself on the back. Because at no point in the conversation did you bring up the fact that the ex-cop had food stains all over her blouse.

Take her cell number. You never know, right?

Tell her you’ll call her. Because it’s only polite.

Don’t call her. Don’t even think about it. I mean, what are you, nuts? She has food stains all over her blouse.

After they leave, look at the bartender and say: “What just happened?” Try not to kick her when she says: “And I got it all on video.”

The Gods Must Be Assholes

Typical guy--all he wants from you is head.

There is a wonderful line from Spice World which pretty much sums up all the market-research-driven script-by-committee crap that's been coming out of Hollywood lately:

"That was absolutely perfect without really being any good at all."

This line could serve as a review for any number of recent releases (Alice In Wonderland anybody? Green Zone? Lovely Bones?), but is particularly applicable to the current re-make of Clash Of The Titans because what you see on the screen is so deliberately NOT the original movie (except for the fact that it repeats almost every single monster motif in state-of-the-art CGI instead of stop-motion) that you can only assume that what you are seeing is precisely the movie which the producers and director and screenwriters wanted to create. And you couldn't care less.

Message: I care.

I say this as someone who recognizes that the original COTG was cheesy enough to pour over macaroni. Alas, there is barely a flake of parmigiana in this version. (Sorry; not quite true--there is a moment when the cheesiest part of the original makes a cameo appearance, only to be tossed aside with the words "Not needed. Leave it.")

Hint, hint.

Other things not needed in this version, apparently: romance, characters, and logic. The original was about Perseus trying to save Andromeda because he's in love with her; this version is about Perseus doing the whole I-Refuse-To-Accept-My-Destiny thing that Hollywood thinks of as The Supreme Character Beat these days, and saving Andromeda because she's just another battle to win in his war against the gods. This means Andromeda is a potential victim, pure and simple; and as if to make amends for this blatant echo of the original myth (in which Andromeda is a potential victim pure and simple) Perseus is given a female sidekick called Io--who, in a typical example of Hollywood screenwriter logic, explains that she is ageless because she once refused the carnal advances of a god.

GREEK GOD: How dare you not want to screw me! As punishment, you will remain young and beautiful and never die!
IO: Oh no! Youth and immortality! A fate worse than death!
GREEK GOD: [an evil cackle] Mm-hm-hm-hm-hm-mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
IO: Damn! I should have asked for money too!
GREEK GOD: Hah! And endless wealth! Take that!

Sam Worthington takes a meeting with the credited screenwriters.

Also defying logic: the plot. Instead of being a personal quest, it's a war movie--it's like the mythological version of Spartacus, with the Gods standing in for Rome and the mortals playing the slaves. Because really, if there were actual Gods and humanity was rebelling against them or even ignoring them? The one thing the Gods would not do is say: "I'm going to destroy your city in ten days, which gives you pathetic mortals more than enough time to find a way to stop me." This is the mythological equivalent of a Batman villain trapping our hero in an inescapable Rube Goldberg death trap and then leaving the room so he can escape. Instead of just, y'know, popping him twice in the chest and once in the head. Or instead of, in Greek God terms, saying: "You wanna rebel? Really? Fine. I just killed your king, destroyed your city, plowed the earth it used to lie on, and planted salt in the furrows. Tell me again how you don't like me and I'll really get angry." At least in the original there were gods with actual lines. In this one, they dress Danny Huston up as Poseidon, give him exactly one sentence to speak, and ignore everybody else except Zeus and Hades, who come off like a low-rent version of Yahweh and Satan.

"Hast thou considered my servant Job--wait--no--I mean Perseus."

Bottom line: Don't bother. And if you are going to bother, then don't do the 3-D version. And I say that as a man who would happily pay twenty bucks to watch Gemma Arterton model beer barrels for two hours.

An animated gif of this picture would be ten times more animated than all the acting combined.

Rain Rain Go Away

Tuesday's weather-related thought for the day:

I almost always get profane
When I walk to work in sideways rain.

Wednesday's weather-related thought for the morning:

I love getting spit on.
It's like I'm a six-year-old girl trying to play with the boys.

Wednesday's weather-related thought for the afternoon:

Oh, now you're just teasing me.

Today's weather-related thought for the weekend:

Hello Sunshine - Barlowgirl

Ride Boldly Ride

After sending out Monday's post, I had the following e-conversation with my friend Bill:

BILL: What? Me on crutches and you in a sling? I can't stand it any more!!!!
MATTHEW: Yeah; it's like the end of El Dorado.

Then I sent him this picture:


To which Bill responded:

BILL: That is the funniest thing I've seen in a long time!!!!!! Oh God, how do you do it?

What can I say? I have a magpie mind, and a database of jpegs to match. And a pile of DVD's too. I spent the rest of the day thinking, "Y'know, it's been a few months since I saw El Dorado; maybe I'll pull it out and watch it again tonight." And I did. Instead of writing, of course; because (just as there must always be a novel, and it must always be a Russian novel) there must always be a movie, and it must always be a Western movie, when Matthew is procrastinating about writing.


So why this Western movie? Here’s the plot in a nutshell. Hired gun Cole Thornton (John Wayne) rides into El Dorado to take a job from Bart Jason (Ed Asner), but when his old friend JP Harrah (Robert Mitchum), the town sheriff, tells him that the job entails helping Jason get the deed to the water-rich McDonald Ranch, Wayne literally backs out of the job. On his way back to town, he mistakenly shoots one of the McDonald boys, and when the kid finishes the job by putting a gun to his head, Thornton delivers the body to the boy’s family, and then rides away from that as well, only to be ambushed and shot in the back by Joey, the dead boy’s sister. The bullet turns out to be too close to Thornton’s spine to operate, and a few days later he rides out of town to take a job in a mining town.

Six months later, Thornton rides into a different town, and watches Mississippi (James Caan) kill the last of four men who murdered his friend Johnny Diamond. The dead man works for Nelse McLeod (Christopher George), a gunslinger who is just as fast as Wayne, and who has just been hired for the job that Thornton gave up six months ago. McLeod figures it’s easy pickin’s because Sheriff Harrah is now a drunk, thanks to being jilted by a girl. This is the one piece of news that finally sends Thornton back to El Dorado to (a) reprise the drunken sidekick plot of Rio Bravo with Mitchum in the Dean Martin role and (b) help his friend and side with the McDonalds against Bart Jason. Y’know, like he should have done in the first place. Like John Wayne (being John Wayne) would have done in the first place, right?

Sorry. Not this movie. This is a movie about a man who rides away from everything, as evidenced by the clip below. Since most of my friends know how devoted I am to making over-the-top generalizations, it should come as no surprise when I say that there is no other scene in a John Wayne movie, let alone an American Western, where you will see the following action take place:



It's almost shocking, isn't it? A Western hero retreating. Hell--John Wayne retreating. Literally backing away from a fight. (And check out the Nelson Riddle horns at the end. That same refrain shows up at least once in every episode of Batman.) But this one sequence is what the whole movie is about. People backing away from or not owning up to their responsibilities, to what they owe other people because of their actions.


Take Cole Thornton. He's been paid in advance to work for the bad guy, but he chooses not to. It's never stated outright that he doesn't want to get involved on either side of this battle, but the way he backs out of that scene says it a lot stronger than any words could. Here's a man who knows that if he accepts this job, he'll be doing evil. So he doesn't. But is not doing evil enough? Not the way this movie works. 90 seconds after renouncing evil, one of the McDonald boys takes a wild shot at Thornton and Thornton plugs him in the stomach. The gut-shot kid knows this is a certain death sentence, and finishes himself off. What does Thornton do? He does the decent thing and returns the boy's body to his family; and then rides off again. He doesn't say, as you would expect the Good Guy to say--as you would expect John Wayne to say--"I owe you for the death of your son, so I'm taking his place until this war with Bart Jason is over." Instead, he tries to put some of the blame on the boy's father, for telling the kid what happens to a man who gets gut-shot, and rides off again.


This is not a nice human being, okay? He's not even the nicest guy in the movie. Most people would probably give that title to James Caan's ingenue sidekick, but for my money, it's bad guy Nelse McLeod by a mile. Thanks to a career-best performance by Christopher George, McLeod is just so damn pleasant and cheerful you don't care that he kills people for a living and has no scruples. He's a total professional, and he's relaxed with it. He even dies with a sense of humor. Cole Thornton, on the other hand? About as cuddly as a cactus. Thornton is somebody who doesn't give a shit about anybody, good or bad, except himself. Somebody who is, in essence, a coward, which the movie spells out pretty clearly when Joey McDonald ambushes Thornton and shoots him off his horse. Where does she shoot him? In the back. Which is physically impossible, given the angle of fire as we're watching the movie. But we accept it, because it makes thematic sense. In its own way, it's flawlessly logical: (1) Only cowards who run away from a fight get shot in the back. (2) Cole Thornton has a bullet lodged in his back. Therefore (3) Cole Thornton is a coward. And to make it even more obvious, what happens to Thornton every time that bullet rubs up against his spine? His gun hand goes numb. Because he refused to recognize a debt he owed the McDonalds, his gun hand is useless.


You probably think I'm reading too much into what is essentially a sauntering entertainment, but believe me, it all fits. The first time we see Thornton's gun hand go numb? Right after he finds out from McLeod that JP Harrah is the town drunk. It's like the bullet is an expression of inner guilt; he's subconsciously punishing himself for not taking a side when he had the chance, and now look--his best friend is drinking bottle after bottle of Old Clothesline, the whiskey that hangs you out to dry, and Thornton can't even get on his horse without help. And who's that helping him? Why if it isn't Mississippi, the kid who uses a knife because he can't shoot straight, the kid who just spent two years paying back a debt by killing the men who killed his friend, and is now going to follow Thornton to El Dorado to pay him back for saving his life. He's like one of those innocent idiot knights in King Arthur who run around acting out of honor because it's as natural to them as quibbling about honor is natural to us. Or actually, since he's the only one in the movie to recite poetry, he's like the troubadour, like Alan A Dale with a sawed-off and a funny hat. Or, when you really come down to it, --

(See? Don't get me started on this movie. And I haven't even said anything about the women yet.)


So the movie sets up this wonderful web of debt and responsibility; and then, when Thornton returns to El Dorado, it's like that point in Measure for Measure where the disguised Duke walks into a potential tragedy and twists the plot into a Rube Goldberg machine that is designed to do one thing and one thing only: maneuver Isabella into a position where she gets the chance to either condemn or forgive Angelo. The break is just as sharp in El Dorado, and because the movie is so easy-going it doesn't actually hit you, but it's there, all right. Suddenly we're in a different movie; different but familiar, because the town of El Dorado has suddenly become Hawks Country, where the men are constantly wondering if they're good enough, a youngster gets to prove his stuff, an old codger gets to provide comic relief, and somebody who used to be one of the fastest guns around has become the town drunk because of a girl. (Fun movie fact: when Hawks asked Wayne to do Rio Lobo, Wayne replied by saying: "Do I get to play the drunk this time?") What this means for the set-up is that the closely-worked-out pattern of obligation and uninvolvement that informs the first half of the film gets lost in the second half, and your response to what's on screen depends pretty much on whether you like Rio Bravo enough to see it done through a fun-house mirror. (That's me over there holding up my hand and saying "Count me in." Truth to tell, I'm with Robin Wood on this one, rest his soul.)


If I'm totally honest with myself (and the older I get, the more I better be, right?), I have to admit that the Rio Bravo Redux second half doesn't live up to the promise of the first half, in much the same way that the where-the-fuck-did-THAT-come-from second half of Measure for Measure seems like All's Well Redux, complete with the same unbelievable bed trick. (If I ever become a writing teacher, my class will have only one assignment: take the first half of Measure for Measure, before the Duke intervenes, as a given; now throw out the rest of it and finish the play yourselves.) In both cases, I think the same thing happened. Just like Shakespeare creates an engine that can only create a tragedy, and then re-wires it in full view of the audience to produce a comedy, Hawks sends a gunfighter on a path from indifference to involvement and potentially death, and then delivers him into the forgiving arms of the Rio Bravo situation, which is his own version of the bed trick. Did this happen because neither man was essentially tragic by nature? Did it happen because both works are late career and concerned with redemption more than confrontation?

THE WORLD: Beats me. And really, dude. Comparing a John Wayne movie to Measure for Measure?
MATTHEW: You know Shakespeare played the Duke, right?
THE WORLD: We're leaving.
MATTHEW: No, really. He also played Iago.
THE WORLD: Leaving now.
MATTHEW: And originally, El Dorado was going to be a western version of The Iliad*.
THE WORLD: Will the last person to leave the website please close the tab?

*True story. Leigh Brackett based the original script on a novel called The Stars In Their Courses. I told you not to get me started.