I figured out the deal with Aaron Sorkin's new HBO Series last night whilst watching it On Demand, it's just liberal porn. That is to say that in each episode there are 2 or 3 minutes of interesting shit (let's call it "the facial" for the sake of the metaphor) surrounded by the worst acting and writing any show has ever mustered, really. In fact, I have seen more compelling love stories play out in actual porn films. Yes, I agree with the views of the show, but the pretense and smuggery of Sorkin's masturbatory politics are too much to tolerate.
The best part of the last episode is when a younger producer punches a monitor on which Rush Limbaugh is seen doing his normal schtick. This might have been the stupidest and least convincing moment of TV in the last 30 years. I remember moments of West Wing that came close to being this idiotic, but not quite. Besides, the shows were fundamentally different. The West Wing was a counter-narrative to the Bush Administration. It followed the events of the day fairly closely and imagined what a reasonable President might do. Newsroom is revisionist history. It takes us back four years and attempts to show what things might have been like if we only had a free and skilled press. Sorkin is right to see the American media for the failed, prostituted servant of the rich it has become, but his inability to be so self-congratulatory gets in the way.
So it's liberal porn. You can watch it for 10 minutes, get your leftie rocks off and move on. Like actual porn though, it gets old. You start to think that maybe if you weren't watching porn all the time, you might get laid. Newsroom won't win over any hearts or minds, and it won't change the media process. In the real TV news world, even Al Gore will fire Keith Olberman. In any case, as cheesy as it is, True Blood is better written and more interesting than Newsroom.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Holden Caufield meets Peter Pan
If you haven't seen Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom yet, and have no plans to do so, you're probably not a very good person. Watching this movie was like looking at an old 110 photograph picture cube. If you remember the acrylic photo cubes containing muted pictures of women with big hair in pastel mini dresses or boys in scouting gear or men with crew cuts and short sleeve dress shirts, then the first five minutes of Anderson's latest, best film will move you to tears.
The film is quirky (not that I would expect less from the thinking man's Tim Burton) but unrelentingly beautiful and perfectly nostalgic. Not nostalgic in a smarmy way that idealizes the past, but nostalgic for the look and feel of a time when we were young, when love was the fiercest and a kiss was everything. The film works as a visual reenactment of e.e. Cummings "Anyone lived in a pretty how town", with Sam and Suzy, the film's love struck pre-teens, as Anyone and No one. And like Cummings poetry and world, Anderson's is one where the magic and the beauty are all too human. There are no aliens here, no ghosts, no chocolate factories, only deeply flawed people in a nearly real world.
It's my 45th birthday as I write this and I can't help feeling a bit old, out of sorts. That I can still go to a movie and leave with tears in my eyes is testament to the power of the medium. That movies like Moonrise are still being made and that people go to see them suggests that we are not as doomed as the local news suggests. There have been people who have criticized the mild sexuality between the two young actors, and others who feel that the affair between Mrs. Bishop and Capt. Sharp should have been resolved. The truth is that kids on the cusp of adulthood do explore sex and people do have affairs and, to the film's credit, it doesn't really matter. The sex wasn't the story; it never really is. I would live, have lived, in Moonrise Kingdom for 45 years and it's nice to see that other people know how to get there. Thanks for making me feel 12 for a night Mr. Anderson.
The film is quirky (not that I would expect less from the thinking man's Tim Burton) but unrelentingly beautiful and perfectly nostalgic. Not nostalgic in a smarmy way that idealizes the past, but nostalgic for the look and feel of a time when we were young, when love was the fiercest and a kiss was everything. The film works as a visual reenactment of e.e. Cummings "Anyone lived in a pretty how town", with Sam and Suzy, the film's love struck pre-teens, as Anyone and No one. And like Cummings poetry and world, Anderson's is one where the magic and the beauty are all too human. There are no aliens here, no ghosts, no chocolate factories, only deeply flawed people in a nearly real world.
It's my 45th birthday as I write this and I can't help feeling a bit old, out of sorts. That I can still go to a movie and leave with tears in my eyes is testament to the power of the medium. That movies like Moonrise are still being made and that people go to see them suggests that we are not as doomed as the local news suggests. There have been people who have criticized the mild sexuality between the two young actors, and others who feel that the affair between Mrs. Bishop and Capt. Sharp should have been resolved. The truth is that kids on the cusp of adulthood do explore sex and people do have affairs and, to the film's credit, it doesn't really matter. The sex wasn't the story; it never really is. I would live, have lived, in Moonrise Kingdom for 45 years and it's nice to see that other people know how to get there. Thanks for making me feel 12 for a night Mr. Anderson.
Monday, July 9, 2012
4th of July
I warned my colleagues when, at our end of the year luncheon, they gave me the money that they had kindly collected for me as a thank you for being on the bargaining team and settling a new teacher contract, warned them that I would just blow it on liquor and cigarettes, warned them that I couldn't be trusted with that sort of windfall, but they gave it to me anyway. So I left the school year thinking that it hadn't been as bad as it was, though my back, which seized up sometime in late May and only now feels nearly better, said otherwise. In any case, the year was over and I was on my way to a summer full of short trips and long drinks, which brings me to Walla Walla and the Fourth of July.
Normally, one wouldn't think of going to the ass end of Washington state for fun, a hundred miles from nowhere, in the middle of the Palouse, God's wheat field. But it is my kind of fun, the kind that involves seeing my oldest friend, getting to know his kids who are now old enough to get to know, taking my kids to a place they otherwise would likely never go and settling into some serious visiting, drinking and fireworks. As if to sweeten the pot, Allegiant Airlines (they give low cost, low expectation a new name) now flies directly from LAX to Pasco, WA twice a week for a stupidly cheap price, so we didn't even have to drive for two days to get there, which brought the wife on board.
So I sat last Monday, packing for the trip, thinking about how it would be as I am want to do. As it turns out, I had more time than usual to think about the trip seeing as how our flight was delayed for 3 hours on account of the rubber band breaking in Allegiant's one good plane. I did mention it was cheap. The delay did have a bright side as it gave me a chance to do my second favorite activity in life, get the mail. It was a banner day for mail, too as I got a package from Amazon and I hadn't ordered anything. In the box were two CDs containing the greatest hits and other songs of Tom T. Hall, but no explanation of who sent them. This gave me a mystery to ponder as I waited for our flight, made arrangements to still get my rental car, even though we wouldn't be getting into Pasco before most of Eastern Washington had long gone to bed. In any case, it all worked out. The boys and the wife were patient for the most part, with 12 asking fewer questions than he normally does and 15 laying off the snark for an hour or two. The ex drove us all to the airport and we were on our way to nowhere with smiles on our faces.
True to their word, there was a woman waiting just for me at the National Car Rental counter when we got into Pasco somewhere near midnight. She informed me that my friend had been by earlier in the day to make sure they wouldn't leave, and that he must be a good friend. The gentleman with her said they didn't have that compact car I had ordered and that I'd have to be upgraded to a Dodge Avenger, which he described as a significant step up. I knew they wouldn't have that compact as they never do, but how could I have dreamed that there would be a Dodge Avenger in my future. Those of you who don't know the Avenger (if you don't it's because you don't travel much, don't rent cars as nobody ever bought a Dodge Avenger off a lot) should know that it's singularly the worst designed car in a rich history of poorly designed Chrysler products. It's as if somebody actively thought, "how can we block every single line of sight that a driver might have?" So I drove the 50 miles to Walla Walla in the dark of night, not able to see much of anything anyway and praying we didn't hit a dear.
The next morning, the 3rd, we woke early and went to breakfast at a local, high-end breakfast joint. I had the corned beef hash, and I can't think of a better meal that I have ever had. After breakfast, which I used the first of the faculty gift money to pay for, we were off to buy fireworks. We have fireworks in L.A., but not like these. I didn't really know what the hell I was buying when we got to the stand outside of town. I just pointed and bought things by name. The boys did their share of picking and somewhere around the $200 mark, I figured enough had been done. We went back to my buddy's house and he picked up his kids and we visited for the rest of the long afternoon that a northern town affords. R had to play a softball game that night, so we stayed at home with his girlfriend and his two kids. I insisted on lighting off a few fireworks that night, much to my wife's chagrin, not to mention the visible anger and passive aggressive suggestions from some of R's neighbors that this was the 3rd of July and that people from L.A. shouldn't be up here blowing shit up in God's country, disturbing the peace. One of my favorite things to do is to go to a friend's house, far from home, piss off his neighbors and leave, so I could deal with it, but the wife rightly pointed out that we should save some of the fireworks for the 4th and for a time when R could see them. Besides I was being a bit of a hog with the lighting of said arsenal anyway, so we called it a night.
I got up on the 4th and took a long walk through Walla Walla, which isn't easy to do without seeing the same thing twice. I walked in the early morning, down the tree lined, wide streets of that bucolic burg and I could see why people live there. I commenced to thinking about my childhood and the days when I would walk for miles, by myself through the streets of Santa Barbara or Newbury Park, thinking about what I would be more than what I had been. When I got back to the house, we made a big breakfast of eggs and bacon for the kids and got ready to wait for dark to fall so that we could get down to business. To kill time, we went to the central park in Walla Walla for the 4th of July carnival. We had ourselves a sausage made with Walla Walla sweet onions and listened to the local brass band play Sousa. I bought a new tie die shirt from a local vendor and the kids got souvenirs. We ran into R's ex, which was the singular melancholy moment of the trip, but so it goes. After an hour we had had enough and headed back to the house so R could make his appropriately famous Pork in Verde and we could all have a Whiskey smash or two. Somewhere around 4, I asked R for directions to that fireworks stand as I began to worry that we didn't have enough left for the night.
I got the kids in the car and away we went. The guy at the fireworks stand laughed when he saw us coming and threw in a few freebies on account of the $300 I had now spent. R's girlfriend had asked if I was aware that we were literally blowing up money and I said yes. Truth is, it wasn't my money anyway, which made it easier to do. In any case, I would have done it anyway. We got back, ate more pork than anyone probably should and went for a swim at one of R's neighbors' house. As we swam in the cold pool (I even tried to throw the boys in the water) I got to thinking that I should honor the wife's suggestion and let the boys do more of the fireworks. I am still learning to listen The ox is slow, but the earth is patient. J said he had some friends coming to his house to blow up some ordinance they had procured for a local Indian reservation and I suggested we combine their stuff with ours and have ourselves a proper celebration of our freedom, so we did.
When J's friends showed up with mortars and large rockets, I got to worrying that we were going to get arrested and I felt that we had inferior products. This was before I unwrapped the box labeled "Fear No Evil", which contained 6, five piece mortar shells that put everything else we did to shame. So we blew up $300 worth of the best fireworks I have ever seen. The boys took turn lighting Roman Candles, rockets, mortar shells and fountains. We laughed and applauded and drank and smiled, our own version of the Twilight Zone "kick the can" episode. For one night, I was the same age as my children. We were of like mind, had found something we could all simultaneously agree on--blowing shit up is fun. As each shell went off and I looked at R with his girl and his kids, my wife and my kids and the perfect strangers who we shared our night, our fireworks and our beer with, I became more aware of how lucky I am, how good life can be, how much I am succeeding in making the most of my time.
The next day, we went to the public pool in adjacent Milton Freewater, OR for a day of sun and splash. It was the perfect end to a perfect week. I miss R already, but I am happy that we spent some time in his neck of the woods, got to know his family better and helped them make some memories too. The life of a teacher may not involve as much luxury, or glamour as one might want, but I wouldn't trade these trips I take with my family to see friends in the forgotten corners of the country for anything.
We got home Friday night late and went to sleep for two days. I spoke to my father on the fourth and he asked if I got the CD's he sent, so mystery solved. I put the disks into iTunes and listened to my dad's favorite song, "Old dogs, children and watermelon wine" and it all made sense. My song might be "Fireworks, children and whiskey with friends" but it's the same song. I am my father's son as mine are mine.
Normally, one wouldn't think of going to the ass end of Washington state for fun, a hundred miles from nowhere, in the middle of the Palouse, God's wheat field. But it is my kind of fun, the kind that involves seeing my oldest friend, getting to know his kids who are now old enough to get to know, taking my kids to a place they otherwise would likely never go and settling into some serious visiting, drinking and fireworks. As if to sweeten the pot, Allegiant Airlines (they give low cost, low expectation a new name) now flies directly from LAX to Pasco, WA twice a week for a stupidly cheap price, so we didn't even have to drive for two days to get there, which brought the wife on board.
So I sat last Monday, packing for the trip, thinking about how it would be as I am want to do. As it turns out, I had more time than usual to think about the trip seeing as how our flight was delayed for 3 hours on account of the rubber band breaking in Allegiant's one good plane. I did mention it was cheap. The delay did have a bright side as it gave me a chance to do my second favorite activity in life, get the mail. It was a banner day for mail, too as I got a package from Amazon and I hadn't ordered anything. In the box were two CDs containing the greatest hits and other songs of Tom T. Hall, but no explanation of who sent them. This gave me a mystery to ponder as I waited for our flight, made arrangements to still get my rental car, even though we wouldn't be getting into Pasco before most of Eastern Washington had long gone to bed. In any case, it all worked out. The boys and the wife were patient for the most part, with 12 asking fewer questions than he normally does and 15 laying off the snark for an hour or two. The ex drove us all to the airport and we were on our way to nowhere with smiles on our faces.
True to their word, there was a woman waiting just for me at the National Car Rental counter when we got into Pasco somewhere near midnight. She informed me that my friend had been by earlier in the day to make sure they wouldn't leave, and that he must be a good friend. The gentleman with her said they didn't have that compact car I had ordered and that I'd have to be upgraded to a Dodge Avenger, which he described as a significant step up. I knew they wouldn't have that compact as they never do, but how could I have dreamed that there would be a Dodge Avenger in my future. Those of you who don't know the Avenger (if you don't it's because you don't travel much, don't rent cars as nobody ever bought a Dodge Avenger off a lot) should know that it's singularly the worst designed car in a rich history of poorly designed Chrysler products. It's as if somebody actively thought, "how can we block every single line of sight that a driver might have?" So I drove the 50 miles to Walla Walla in the dark of night, not able to see much of anything anyway and praying we didn't hit a dear.
The next morning, the 3rd, we woke early and went to breakfast at a local, high-end breakfast joint. I had the corned beef hash, and I can't think of a better meal that I have ever had. After breakfast, which I used the first of the faculty gift money to pay for, we were off to buy fireworks. We have fireworks in L.A., but not like these. I didn't really know what the hell I was buying when we got to the stand outside of town. I just pointed and bought things by name. The boys did their share of picking and somewhere around the $200 mark, I figured enough had been done. We went back to my buddy's house and he picked up his kids and we visited for the rest of the long afternoon that a northern town affords. R had to play a softball game that night, so we stayed at home with his girlfriend and his two kids. I insisted on lighting off a few fireworks that night, much to my wife's chagrin, not to mention the visible anger and passive aggressive suggestions from some of R's neighbors that this was the 3rd of July and that people from L.A. shouldn't be up here blowing shit up in God's country, disturbing the peace. One of my favorite things to do is to go to a friend's house, far from home, piss off his neighbors and leave, so I could deal with it, but the wife rightly pointed out that we should save some of the fireworks for the 4th and for a time when R could see them. Besides I was being a bit of a hog with the lighting of said arsenal anyway, so we called it a night.
I got up on the 4th and took a long walk through Walla Walla, which isn't easy to do without seeing the same thing twice. I walked in the early morning, down the tree lined, wide streets of that bucolic burg and I could see why people live there. I commenced to thinking about my childhood and the days when I would walk for miles, by myself through the streets of Santa Barbara or Newbury Park, thinking about what I would be more than what I had been. When I got back to the house, we made a big breakfast of eggs and bacon for the kids and got ready to wait for dark to fall so that we could get down to business. To kill time, we went to the central park in Walla Walla for the 4th of July carnival. We had ourselves a sausage made with Walla Walla sweet onions and listened to the local brass band play Sousa. I bought a new tie die shirt from a local vendor and the kids got souvenirs. We ran into R's ex, which was the singular melancholy moment of the trip, but so it goes. After an hour we had had enough and headed back to the house so R could make his appropriately famous Pork in Verde and we could all have a Whiskey smash or two. Somewhere around 4, I asked R for directions to that fireworks stand as I began to worry that we didn't have enough left for the night.
I got the kids in the car and away we went. The guy at the fireworks stand laughed when he saw us coming and threw in a few freebies on account of the $300 I had now spent. R's girlfriend had asked if I was aware that we were literally blowing up money and I said yes. Truth is, it wasn't my money anyway, which made it easier to do. In any case, I would have done it anyway. We got back, ate more pork than anyone probably should and went for a swim at one of R's neighbors' house. As we swam in the cold pool (I even tried to throw the boys in the water) I got to thinking that I should honor the wife's suggestion and let the boys do more of the fireworks. I am still learning to listen The ox is slow, but the earth is patient. J said he had some friends coming to his house to blow up some ordinance they had procured for a local Indian reservation and I suggested we combine their stuff with ours and have ourselves a proper celebration of our freedom, so we did.
When J's friends showed up with mortars and large rockets, I got to worrying that we were going to get arrested and I felt that we had inferior products. This was before I unwrapped the box labeled "Fear No Evil", which contained 6, five piece mortar shells that put everything else we did to shame. So we blew up $300 worth of the best fireworks I have ever seen. The boys took turn lighting Roman Candles, rockets, mortar shells and fountains. We laughed and applauded and drank and smiled, our own version of the Twilight Zone "kick the can" episode. For one night, I was the same age as my children. We were of like mind, had found something we could all simultaneously agree on--blowing shit up is fun. As each shell went off and I looked at R with his girl and his kids, my wife and my kids and the perfect strangers who we shared our night, our fireworks and our beer with, I became more aware of how lucky I am, how good life can be, how much I am succeeding in making the most of my time.
The next day, we went to the public pool in adjacent Milton Freewater, OR for a day of sun and splash. It was the perfect end to a perfect week. I miss R already, but I am happy that we spent some time in his neck of the woods, got to know his family better and helped them make some memories too. The life of a teacher may not involve as much luxury, or glamour as one might want, but I wouldn't trade these trips I take with my family to see friends in the forgotten corners of the country for anything.
We got home Friday night late and went to sleep for two days. I spoke to my father on the fourth and he asked if I got the CD's he sent, so mystery solved. I put the disks into iTunes and listened to my dad's favorite song, "Old dogs, children and watermelon wine" and it all made sense. My song might be "Fireworks, children and whiskey with friends" but it's the same song. I am my father's son as mine are mine.
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