I will not allow myself more than five hours of sleep a night* until I have fulfilled all of my sparkly motherf%&@ing dreams. Jesus, help me (make me) do this.
*(does not apply to Friday nights)
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
The Chris Shelton (Non) Watch
As of last night, the Pittsburgh Pirates have won a mere nine of thirty-three games played.
Sigh.
The impossible dream-- .500-- will not live to see June this year.
Instead, Pirate fans everywhere will have to turn elsewhere for their baseball-related intrigue. In particular, they may find themselves turning to the AL statistical leaders on a regular basis to dream about what might have been.
He's slipped back a bit to the rest of the pack in the past two weeks, but if you'd gone to the AL stat leaders page at espn.com a couple of weeks ago, the batting average, home run and rbi leaders were all denoted with a singular picture of an earnest, eager, smiling young man whose middle name is apparently "Bob."
#26 Chris Shelton
Height: 6-0
Weight: 215 lbs.
Age: 25
2006 Salary: $365,000
AVG .296 HR 10 RBI 21 OBP .364 SLG .661 OPS 1.025 (As of 5/08/06)
The story begins here, with some real and still unsettled confusion over whether the home team understood that it could protect three more players. And I don't even want to consider sifting through the names of some of the stiffs and suckers who were deemed worthy of 40-man roster protection while the assembled executives laughed audibly in the midst of plucking free, raw talent from the Tree of Ignorance.
Being a Pirate fan over the past thirteen years has meant being offered a succession of consolation prizes as incentive to go out to the park. Come and see tomorrow's (potential) stars today! (Several years) Come and see the last season at Three Rivers Stadium! (2000) Come and see the freak show with the $9M payroll that's flirting with .500! (1997) Come and see baseball's greatest new park! (2004, 2005) Come so you can see the All-Star Game! (1994, 2006)
Of course, for at least the next few years, the consolation prize is that you get to see Jason Bay, Jack Wilson and Zach Duke. Some nights that will be enough. On many other nights, fans with even the slightest imagination will look out at the team in the field and imagine a scene where Shelton is playing first base and where Aramis Ramirez wasn't given away to the Cubs to make short-term payroll. That's a scene where signing declining players to stopgap one-year deals doesn't happen.
My hope now is that Shelton regains his early season form and slugs his way onto the AL All-Star squad, where he can get the PNC Park welcome he so richly deserves. And Dave Littlefield and Kevin McClatchy can quietly judge the crowd after the disproportionate applause dies down.
So, yeah. With our shared weekend package, I'll be catching ten to fifteen games. A running diary to follow.
GAME ONE Saturday, April 15, 2006
Pirates 2 Cubs 1.
Nice game. Zach Duke turns in a great performance. The crowd was driven to frenzied ecstasy by the distribution of JASON BAY 2005 ALL-STAR bobblehead idols. The very day it's announced that Sean Casey's out for months with a broken back, Craig Wilson steps in and is the catalyst for the two runs. Of course, the front office tried desperately to trade him before the season started, so only their failure to do so kept him on the team to step in for Casey and produce these runs. YEEHAW.
GAME TWO Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Pirates 12 Cardinals 4
Even better game. Jeff Suppan is tagged for a half-dozen runs in less than three full, but this time he isn't wearing a Pirate uni. The Wilsons tee off, Jeremy Burnitz actually picks up a couple of hits and Oliver Perez pitches well and has a big enough lead that the crowd actually enjoys a mammoth HR off the bat of Albert Pujols. We're sitting in the left field bleachers while on the annual Lutheran Student Fellowship outing rather than our usual right field seats, so the three HRs mentioned above all land in the general area of where we are. Leah and Ruby get some quality Jumbotron tims, and all are sent home happy with an ALL-STAR COLLECTIBLE PIN #2.
GAME THREE Sunday, April 30, 2006
Phillies 5 Pirates 1
Lousy game, gamewise. Beautiful day, daywise. The sunburn I felt on Monday stung nearly as bad as Oliver Perez's lackluster pitching. I'm not even sure the Pirates took bats to the plate. However, having four or five chances to get a thirty-foot view on the scoreboard of
Sal Fasano's 'stache made me glad the Phillies won. Only that facial hair and the fact that this game coincided with KIDS' BASEBALL GLOVE DAY made the day a raging success.
More to come...
Sigh.
The impossible dream-- .500-- will not live to see June this year.
Instead, Pirate fans everywhere will have to turn elsewhere for their baseball-related intrigue. In particular, they may find themselves turning to the AL statistical leaders on a regular basis to dream about what might have been.
He's slipped back a bit to the rest of the pack in the past two weeks, but if you'd gone to the AL stat leaders page at espn.com a couple of weeks ago, the batting average, home run and rbi leaders were all denoted with a singular picture of an earnest, eager, smiling young man whose middle name is apparently "Bob."
#26 Chris Shelton
Height: 6-0
Weight: 215 lbs.
Age: 25
2006 Salary: $365,000
AVG .296 HR 10 RBI 21 OBP .364 SLG .661 OPS 1.025 (As of 5/08/06)
The story begins here, with some real and still unsettled confusion over whether the home team understood that it could protect three more players. And I don't even want to consider sifting through the names of some of the stiffs and suckers who were deemed worthy of 40-man roster protection while the assembled executives laughed audibly in the midst of plucking free, raw talent from the Tree of Ignorance.
Being a Pirate fan over the past thirteen years has meant being offered a succession of consolation prizes as incentive to go out to the park. Come and see tomorrow's (potential) stars today! (Several years) Come and see the last season at Three Rivers Stadium! (2000) Come and see the freak show with the $9M payroll that's flirting with .500! (1997) Come and see baseball's greatest new park! (2004, 2005) Come so you can see the All-Star Game! (1994, 2006)
Of course, for at least the next few years, the consolation prize is that you get to see Jason Bay, Jack Wilson and Zach Duke. Some nights that will be enough. On many other nights, fans with even the slightest imagination will look out at the team in the field and imagine a scene where Shelton is playing first base and where Aramis Ramirez wasn't given away to the Cubs to make short-term payroll. That's a scene where signing declining players to stopgap one-year deals doesn't happen.
My hope now is that Shelton regains his early season form and slugs his way onto the AL All-Star squad, where he can get the PNC Park welcome he so richly deserves. And Dave Littlefield and Kevin McClatchy can quietly judge the crowd after the disproportionate applause dies down.
So, yeah. With our shared weekend package, I'll be catching ten to fifteen games. A running diary to follow.
GAME ONE Saturday, April 15, 2006
Pirates 2 Cubs 1.
Nice game. Zach Duke turns in a great performance. The crowd was driven to frenzied ecstasy by the distribution of JASON BAY 2005 ALL-STAR bobblehead idols. The very day it's announced that Sean Casey's out for months with a broken back, Craig Wilson steps in and is the catalyst for the two runs. Of course, the front office tried desperately to trade him before the season started, so only their failure to do so kept him on the team to step in for Casey and produce these runs. YEEHAW.
GAME TWO Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Pirates 12 Cardinals 4
Even better game. Jeff Suppan is tagged for a half-dozen runs in less than three full, but this time he isn't wearing a Pirate uni. The Wilsons tee off, Jeremy Burnitz actually picks up a couple of hits and Oliver Perez pitches well and has a big enough lead that the crowd actually enjoys a mammoth HR off the bat of Albert Pujols. We're sitting in the left field bleachers while on the annual Lutheran Student Fellowship outing rather than our usual right field seats, so the three HRs mentioned above all land in the general area of where we are. Leah and Ruby get some quality Jumbotron tims, and all are sent home happy with an ALL-STAR COLLECTIBLE PIN #2.
GAME THREE Sunday, April 30, 2006
Phillies 5 Pirates 1
Lousy game, gamewise. Beautiful day, daywise. The sunburn I felt on Monday stung nearly as bad as Oliver Perez's lackluster pitching. I'm not even sure the Pirates took bats to the plate. However, having four or five chances to get a thirty-foot view on the scoreboard of
Sal Fasano's 'stache made me glad the Phillies won. Only that facial hair and the fact that this game coincided with KIDS' BASEBALL GLOVE DAY made the day a raging success.
More to come...
Monday, May 8, 2006
Here Comes the Summer
Last day in May, the afternoon: remember?
Black marks off charcoal from the dune: remember?
I thought it wouldn’t be too soon; we’d wait at least until its June.
The twenty-ninth of March it rained: remember?
You looked so sad that I explained: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
December dark at six o’clock: remember?
The freezing wind gives you a shock: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
October damp on down the street: remember?
The sodden leaves stuck to your feet: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
July the third we stayed up late: remember?
And thought how long we’d have to wait: remember?
It’ll be so long until it’s soon; it’ll be so long until its June
Black marks off charcoal from the dune: remember?
I thought it wouldn’t be too soon; we’d wait at least until its June.
The twenty-ninth of March it rained: remember?
You looked so sad that I explained: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
December dark at six o’clock: remember?
The freezing wind gives you a shock: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
October damp on down the street: remember?
The sodden leaves stuck to your feet: remember?
You knew it wouldn’t be too soon; we’ll have to wait until its June.
I’ve been waiting since I don’t know when and now it finally seems about to start.
I swear, I swear, that I will do my part.
July the third we stayed up late: remember?
And thought how long we’d have to wait: remember?
It’ll be so long until it’s soon; it’ll be so long until its June
Friday, April 14, 2006
Three things on my iPod: 4.14.06
I remarked three posts ago that post-iPod I've come to resemble a really happening guy from the year 2004. That's true in multiple ways. If you were privy to my internal thoughts in recent weeks, you'd hear things like "Say, Arcade Fire is a great band" or "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot: fantastic album." I'll be minimizing the number of statements such as those which highlight my out-of-touchitude, but I do want to mention a couple of things which I'm currently listening to.
1. In the golden age of synthesizer movie scores ('78-'85), there are only three that I care deeply about: Goblin's work in DAWN OF THE DEAD, Vangelis's score for BLADE RUNNER and John Carpenter's theme song for ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13. $.99 at the iTunes store brought me Carpenter's song, and it's rapidly climbing the 25 Most Played chart. I know that it cannot be defended from a qualitative musical point of view. It's far too repetitive, and not terribly complex. I suppose it's partly a nostalgia choice, but not entirely because, unlike other things of my adolescence, this song really hasn't gotten worse when seen through an adult's eyes. I first saw AoP13 when I was maybe eleven years old and it was playing as the four o'clock movie on the NBC affiliate out of Johnstown, and then I didn't see it again until twenty-two years later. During that entire interval, Carpenter's theme song stuck right on the edge of my conscious recall, always immediately there if I cared to revisit it. I suppose the bombastic, triumphant soundtracks to STAR WARS and STAR TREK were the first bits of movie music I latched on to, but Carpenter's simple theme song was the first to have the ability to evoke a visceral dread and fear.
2. Season One of The Ricky Gervais Show is also downloadable now in full. I've had it now for over a month and I'm shocked to say that I am not in any hurry to get through it. A couple of years after the BBC THE OFFICE phenomenon, I'm still of the mind that Gervais's David Brent is one of the most fascinating characters of recent years. His glaring self-possession and insatiable hunger for approval are common enough, but Gervais manages to infuse the character with the ability to generate earnest pathos because we can see, on occasion, that Brent is himself aware that the tired jokes and servile "friend to his subordinates" schtick is just the thick skin of a lonely man. We understand why Brent is who he is, but we also are shown the effects of his habits and delusions. His tragicomic flaws are played out to their logical and necessary ends in a manner that bucks the eternal stasis inherent in much of the disposable sitcoms. It's comedy with consequences.
How many artists have been able to couple unbound hilarity with real and resonant insights into human behavior? Not enough. Not many. So, with all that being said, am I being unfair in saying that Gervais's podcast show is really disappointing because it doesn't appear to be much more than he and Merchant piling on their dim producer?
3. The local library had a set of read-aloud short stories of John Cheever. Cheever himself reads "The Swimmer," while a couple of actors read other stories. If, like me, you're a fan of GILMORE GIRLS, then you've come to appreciate at length the talents of Edward Herrmann. His WASPy, northeastern dignity is, predictably, a great match.
Six years ago I smashed up my ankle on Memorial Day, which put a Death's Head on the doorway to a summer Ali and I were looking forward to even more than other summers. We were set to leave for the beach, where she'd have to keep a seven month-old from eating too much sand, keep a three year-old from being swept away by the undertoad and where she wouldn't get much help from a husband on crutches. She had mentioned an interest in reading Cheever's stories, so I ordered the complete short stories and a copy of Falconer for her to read on the beach. In the ensuing years we both read Falconer and had mixed reactions to it, and we both dipped only slightly into the short stories. I'm glad we didn't. I wouldn't have responded to Cheever's stories the same way six years ago, and maybe things will be different yet in five more years. For now, today, there's something about them that seems vital, even if I wouldn't really describe the stories as familiar. Obviously, I need to think and write more about this, but it seems to me very important to pay attention to the possibilities of sudden and inexplicable threats to domesticity. I can't explain it.
1. In the golden age of synthesizer movie scores ('78-'85), there are only three that I care deeply about: Goblin's work in DAWN OF THE DEAD, Vangelis's score for BLADE RUNNER and John Carpenter's theme song for ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13. $.99 at the iTunes store brought me Carpenter's song, and it's rapidly climbing the 25 Most Played chart. I know that it cannot be defended from a qualitative musical point of view. It's far too repetitive, and not terribly complex. I suppose it's partly a nostalgia choice, but not entirely because, unlike other things of my adolescence, this song really hasn't gotten worse when seen through an adult's eyes. I first saw AoP13 when I was maybe eleven years old and it was playing as the four o'clock movie on the NBC affiliate out of Johnstown, and then I didn't see it again until twenty-two years later. During that entire interval, Carpenter's theme song stuck right on the edge of my conscious recall, always immediately there if I cared to revisit it. I suppose the bombastic, triumphant soundtracks to STAR WARS and STAR TREK were the first bits of movie music I latched on to, but Carpenter's simple theme song was the first to have the ability to evoke a visceral dread and fear.
2. Season One of The Ricky Gervais Show is also downloadable now in full. I've had it now for over a month and I'm shocked to say that I am not in any hurry to get through it. A couple of years after the BBC THE OFFICE phenomenon, I'm still of the mind that Gervais's David Brent is one of the most fascinating characters of recent years. His glaring self-possession and insatiable hunger for approval are common enough, but Gervais manages to infuse the character with the ability to generate earnest pathos because we can see, on occasion, that Brent is himself aware that the tired jokes and servile "friend to his subordinates" schtick is just the thick skin of a lonely man. We understand why Brent is who he is, but we also are shown the effects of his habits and delusions. His tragicomic flaws are played out to their logical and necessary ends in a manner that bucks the eternal stasis inherent in much of the disposable sitcoms. It's comedy with consequences.
How many artists have been able to couple unbound hilarity with real and resonant insights into human behavior? Not enough. Not many. So, with all that being said, am I being unfair in saying that Gervais's podcast show is really disappointing because it doesn't appear to be much more than he and Merchant piling on their dim producer?
3. The local library had a set of read-aloud short stories of John Cheever. Cheever himself reads "The Swimmer," while a couple of actors read other stories. If, like me, you're a fan of GILMORE GIRLS, then you've come to appreciate at length the talents of Edward Herrmann. His WASPy, northeastern dignity is, predictably, a great match.
Six years ago I smashed up my ankle on Memorial Day, which put a Death's Head on the doorway to a summer Ali and I were looking forward to even more than other summers. We were set to leave for the beach, where she'd have to keep a seven month-old from eating too much sand, keep a three year-old from being swept away by the undertoad and where she wouldn't get much help from a husband on crutches. She had mentioned an interest in reading Cheever's stories, so I ordered the complete short stories and a copy of Falconer for her to read on the beach. In the ensuing years we both read Falconer and had mixed reactions to it, and we both dipped only slightly into the short stories. I'm glad we didn't. I wouldn't have responded to Cheever's stories the same way six years ago, and maybe things will be different yet in five more years. For now, today, there's something about them that seems vital, even if I wouldn't really describe the stories as familiar. Obviously, I need to think and write more about this, but it seems to me very important to pay attention to the possibilities of sudden and inexplicable threats to domesticity. I can't explain it.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Hello! says the Voicebox of Nature
On Monday I was walking into a meeting and I heard a dog say my name. I suppose that because my name is Russ this is the sort of thing that should have happened to me previously, but I can say with certainty that I have never, until this time, cognitively believed that I was being addressed directly by a dog. There was a looseness in the dog's bark that came out at the end and made me think I was hearing the S sound. How convinced was I (really) that the dog meant to call me? Well, convinced enough that I turned my head in the expectant way I do when a human calls my name, and not merely the sort of nonspecific looking-about that I typically do when I hear a dog barking and care to discover where the barking originates.
After the dog said "Russ!" it went back to ordinary dogspeak. It was locked in a pickup truck cap, and I couldn't get a good look at it without going right up to the rear window. I was late and I went inside the building.
I tried to brush it off as mishearing or an active imagination, but even after a few moments the strangeness didn't subside, so I became open to the idea that I didn't mishear or imagine it. Indeed, after giving it a moment's thought, I revised my response entirely, and now I believe that man's best friend was delivering to me a message from the bough of the natural world. It got my attention and gave me a message on behalf of the remainder of the Great Chain of Being. "Keep your chin up, Russ," the assembled creation says. "Don't let the frauds get you down or make a dent in you. We know the score."
I only wish I had known the dog's name so I could have thanked it in kind.
After the dog said "Russ!" it went back to ordinary dogspeak. It was locked in a pickup truck cap, and I couldn't get a good look at it without going right up to the rear window. I was late and I went inside the building.
I tried to brush it off as mishearing or an active imagination, but even after a few moments the strangeness didn't subside, so I became open to the idea that I didn't mishear or imagine it. Indeed, after giving it a moment's thought, I revised my response entirely, and now I believe that man's best friend was delivering to me a message from the bough of the natural world. It got my attention and gave me a message on behalf of the remainder of the Great Chain of Being. "Keep your chin up, Russ," the assembled creation says. "Don't let the frauds get you down or make a dent in you. We know the score."
I only wish I had known the dog's name so I could have thanked it in kind.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Checking in with my 2006 To-Do List...
Two and a half months in, it's time to check on my progress.
1. Watch the Pittsburgh Steelers win Super Bowl XL. Whether the broadcast takes place on network television or on my own private in-head network TBA.
Yeah, this happened. And I wish I had put some money behind the expressed homer sentiment; at the time I said the above, they had just barely squeaked into the playoffs and looked like candidates for an early exit. Of course, the pleasure in these things is more in the anticipating and the improbability than in the actual achieving, or so I've found. There's a strangely blunt letdown after these kinds of things, in my experience. Still, the sublime camraderie of sharing the four playoff games with my daughters and their hand-lettered cheer cards is worth treasuring. Growing up in western Pennsylvania in the 1970s meant, for many boys, some degree of identification or parallelism with the near-invincibility of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Hell, I wasn't all that good at sports and don't remember watching a game before Super Bowl XIV (the fourth win, in 1980) and still some of the pictures of me as a kid that make me smile the most are the ones where I'm proudly sporting a Steeler jacket I got for Christmas or holding up a jar of Terry Bradshaw peanut butter. They're instantly contextualized and not terribly different, in that regard, from the one where I'm holding Star Wars toys.
2. Mount a campaign via the internet and U.S. mail to browbeat the Mattel Corporation into creating a Kryzstzof Kieslowski version of their popular Scene It DVD board game. Imagine the possibilities: the group of players selects a film clip question. The DVD displays a washed-out shot of Warsaw, then follows up with, "Which Kieslowski film is this clip from?" Cut to the assembled faces of the confused.
I posted a comment substantially the same as the following one on the website of the makers of the SceneIt? line of games last week, and I've just posted the following message verbatim on the site:
I wanted to drop you a line to let you know how much my family has enjoyed playing the HARRY POTTER SCENEIT? game we received for Christmas. My oldest daughter is a Harry Potter fanatic, and she has enjoyed having a game that is smart enough to let her show off all the arcane details she has committed to memory. ;) It's been a good time for all of us.
I see that you've started selling base models of the game with different booster packs for particular characters or film franchises. I'd like to recommend that you develop and market a KRYZSTZOF KIESLOWSKI version of the game. I realize that it would be a niche product-- I can't deny that-- but in my experience cinephiles often get together at parties and gatherings and lack a challenging film-related game to play. I think that a game devoted to the filmography of the late Polish master at portraying the spiritual and moral complexities of human volition would be really great.
Sincerely,
Russell Lucas
I intend to post similar messages once per week. Anyone wishing to do the same can follow the link below. (I expect this will work out as well as my Sufjan Stevens thing.)
http://www.screenlifegames.com/about/contact.aspx
3. See/identify 125 different birds.
To realize fully the howling absurdity of this goal as stated, one first needs to know that my birding guide, Birds of Pennsylvania, contains only 117 species. Huh. Should have checked that. Sure, we've got some hikes and camping trips planned, but there's no way I'm going to get anywhere close to that number unless I allow myself to count males and females of a species as two birds. By that fuzzy math, put me at 3: Robin M, Robin F, Cardinal M. In this instance, lameing out is the only alternative.
4. Sit through three theatrical showings of Malick's The New World, preferably on three consecutive nights.
I did make it out to a 9:45 show the night it opened locally. And I really cottoned to it. I didn't make those other two viewings, though, and they'll have to wait until I own a DVD copy.
5. Organize a party or event commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the forging of my car and have the Town of McCandless recognize this party or event as an Official Town Party or Event. Dan Laugharn will be contacted about design of a logo.
Dear reader(s), you have no idea how close we came to this objective being rendered impossible. In mid-January, I was pulling out of a parking lot while taking a break in the middle of a deposition and found that the car had been rendered unstoppable. I arrived at my lunch destination, mashed the brakes a few times and stepped out in time to see the viscous halting fluid flowing onto the asphalt. You can imagine my despair at the thought of a repair bill which would, in all likelihood, exceed the fair market value of my car. Plus, I prefer not to be on the hook for two car payments simultaneously. I was also thinking that my long-term goal-- the goal of keeping that car operational until the day when Xzibit would arrive, fairy godmother-like, and deliver my Pure Stock Vehicle into a state of heightened awesomeness-- would now never happen. Don't fret: the dream lives. Instead of needing a new master cylinder, some sort of tape or plug or tapeplug was applied by the garage, and I have braking power again. So there will still be a celebration (to which all are invited), and there will still be a logo, and perhaps it will be affixed to a T-shirt. I could care less about the Town event part, though.
6. Spend a week in Carolina in June or August.
We're in the book for June. I have even paid the deposit (& everything). I have shared with M/M Otterman my goals for the 2006 iteration: (a) more beer consumed, and (b) more seafood consumed. All else should go just like last year.
7. Spend a week in Toronto in September.
I believe this is still a realistic possibility.
8. Spend more than a week in California at some point in the year.
I believe this is still a realistic possibility.
9. Reawaken my Spanish proficiency and transmit that to my daughters.
This hasn't happened yet. I've probably got to wait until summertime before I can command too much of Leah's and Ruby's intellectual horsepower. To that end, I should start self-refreshing on vocabulary and basic grammar in about a month. My conversational aural skills were always the weak link; to that end, any suggestions on Spanish-language podcasts would be warmly appreciated.
10. Acquire a record player.
I haven't bought one yet, but I still think it will happen at some point before year's end. I've been the custodian of my mom's record collection for over half a year now, and am really interested in playing them and the ones I've kept from my youth. I've actually recently gone the other direction on the music technospectrum. Ali had some family members chip in to buy me an iPod for my birthday, and I've spent the last month having a great time with it and pretending I am a really cutting-edge guy living in 2003.
1. Watch the Pittsburgh Steelers win Super Bowl XL. Whether the broadcast takes place on network television or on my own private in-head network TBA.
Yeah, this happened. And I wish I had put some money behind the expressed homer sentiment; at the time I said the above, they had just barely squeaked into the playoffs and looked like candidates for an early exit. Of course, the pleasure in these things is more in the anticipating and the improbability than in the actual achieving, or so I've found. There's a strangely blunt letdown after these kinds of things, in my experience. Still, the sublime camraderie of sharing the four playoff games with my daughters and their hand-lettered cheer cards is worth treasuring. Growing up in western Pennsylvania in the 1970s meant, for many boys, some degree of identification or parallelism with the near-invincibility of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Hell, I wasn't all that good at sports and don't remember watching a game before Super Bowl XIV (the fourth win, in 1980) and still some of the pictures of me as a kid that make me smile the most are the ones where I'm proudly sporting a Steeler jacket I got for Christmas or holding up a jar of Terry Bradshaw peanut butter. They're instantly contextualized and not terribly different, in that regard, from the one where I'm holding Star Wars toys.
2. Mount a campaign via the internet and U.S. mail to browbeat the Mattel Corporation into creating a Kryzstzof Kieslowski version of their popular Scene It DVD board game. Imagine the possibilities: the group of players selects a film clip question. The DVD displays a washed-out shot of Warsaw, then follows up with, "Which Kieslowski film is this clip from?" Cut to the assembled faces of the confused.
I posted a comment substantially the same as the following one on the website of the makers of the SceneIt? line of games last week, and I've just posted the following message verbatim on the site:
I wanted to drop you a line to let you know how much my family has enjoyed playing the HARRY POTTER SCENEIT? game we received for Christmas. My oldest daughter is a Harry Potter fanatic, and she has enjoyed having a game that is smart enough to let her show off all the arcane details she has committed to memory. ;) It's been a good time for all of us.
I see that you've started selling base models of the game with different booster packs for particular characters or film franchises. I'd like to recommend that you develop and market a KRYZSTZOF KIESLOWSKI version of the game. I realize that it would be a niche product-- I can't deny that-- but in my experience cinephiles often get together at parties and gatherings and lack a challenging film-related game to play. I think that a game devoted to the filmography of the late Polish master at portraying the spiritual and moral complexities of human volition would be really great.
Sincerely,
Russell Lucas
I intend to post similar messages once per week. Anyone wishing to do the same can follow the link below. (I expect this will work out as well as my Sufjan Stevens thing.)
http://www.screenlifegames.com/about/contact.aspx
3. See/identify 125 different birds.
To realize fully the howling absurdity of this goal as stated, one first needs to know that my birding guide, Birds of Pennsylvania, contains only 117 species. Huh. Should have checked that. Sure, we've got some hikes and camping trips planned, but there's no way I'm going to get anywhere close to that number unless I allow myself to count males and females of a species as two birds. By that fuzzy math, put me at 3: Robin M, Robin F, Cardinal M. In this instance, lameing out is the only alternative.
4. Sit through three theatrical showings of Malick's The New World, preferably on three consecutive nights.
I did make it out to a 9:45 show the night it opened locally. And I really cottoned to it. I didn't make those other two viewings, though, and they'll have to wait until I own a DVD copy.
5. Organize a party or event commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the forging of my car and have the Town of McCandless recognize this party or event as an Official Town Party or Event. Dan Laugharn will be contacted about design of a logo.
Dear reader(s), you have no idea how close we came to this objective being rendered impossible. In mid-January, I was pulling out of a parking lot while taking a break in the middle of a deposition and found that the car had been rendered unstoppable. I arrived at my lunch destination, mashed the brakes a few times and stepped out in time to see the viscous halting fluid flowing onto the asphalt. You can imagine my despair at the thought of a repair bill which would, in all likelihood, exceed the fair market value of my car. Plus, I prefer not to be on the hook for two car payments simultaneously. I was also thinking that my long-term goal-- the goal of keeping that car operational until the day when Xzibit would arrive, fairy godmother-like, and deliver my Pure Stock Vehicle into a state of heightened awesomeness-- would now never happen. Don't fret: the dream lives. Instead of needing a new master cylinder, some sort of tape or plug or tapeplug was applied by the garage, and I have braking power again. So there will still be a celebration (to which all are invited), and there will still be a logo, and perhaps it will be affixed to a T-shirt. I could care less about the Town event part, though.
6. Spend a week in Carolina in June or August.
We're in the book for June. I have even paid the deposit (& everything). I have shared with M/M Otterman my goals for the 2006 iteration: (a) more beer consumed, and (b) more seafood consumed. All else should go just like last year.
7. Spend a week in Toronto in September.
I believe this is still a realistic possibility.
8. Spend more than a week in California at some point in the year.
I believe this is still a realistic possibility.
9. Reawaken my Spanish proficiency and transmit that to my daughters.
This hasn't happened yet. I've probably got to wait until summertime before I can command too much of Leah's and Ruby's intellectual horsepower. To that end, I should start self-refreshing on vocabulary and basic grammar in about a month. My conversational aural skills were always the weak link; to that end, any suggestions on Spanish-language podcasts would be warmly appreciated.
10. Acquire a record player.
I haven't bought one yet, but I still think it will happen at some point before year's end. I've been the custodian of my mom's record collection for over half a year now, and am really interested in playing them and the ones I've kept from my youth. I've actually recently gone the other direction on the music technospectrum. Ali had some family members chip in to buy me an iPod for my birthday, and I've spent the last month having a great time with it and pretending I am a really cutting-edge guy living in 2003.
Monday, March 13, 2006
(not my fault)
I spent an hour on a post tonight in an effort to resume some posting regularity, but found when I tried to post it that three-fourths of it were somehow deleted. It was pretty dispiriting. I suppose the fault lies with me for not saving regularly, but the blogger save feature doesn't strike me as terribly user-friendly.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
That new title quote...
comes from the 2005 Most Awesome and Best Picture. If you watched the telecast (Aside: and I did. After three or four years of deliberately scheduling something else during the ceremony, I did not resist this year. Ali suggested, rightly, that this reversal of habit was the clearest indication of how much I didn't want to get myself into the bagful of work I'd brought home.), then you saw a clip containing the above-referenced line proffered as some whiff of the film's genius. Like me, you may have laughed in response to hearing it. Regardless, if you aspire to write for the picture shows and you need to quiet those nagging doubts about whether you lack the necessary creative gifts or appreciation for the vagaries and rhythms of human conversation, then I think we can all readily agree that contemplating this quote is balm for one's soul.
Not-titled
That pit in the stomach says that despite everything, I still respond to the voice that says that I'm nothing but the sum of my accomplishments. Value to be determined on every hour of every day by reference to the direction of my possession arrow. That cross-hung God is a consolation prize and nothing more. He's just a contingency plan when the unthinkable has happened, and an afterthought or (worse) a charm bracelet when favor smiles.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
*shrug* (weary)
I had intended to address the matter of my blog-neglect with some bit of unfunniness. Perhaps a Top Ten List of Things Even More Neglected Than This Blog. I could say "O.J.'s search for the real killer" and "the Vice President's hunter safety certification," and it would be cute and mock-serious. Then it occurred to me that I could also say, more earnestly, "my writing life" and "my reading life" and "my movie-watching life." Then the joke isn't even unfunny any more.
Just too busy, or too scattered, or too whatever. I do take it, though, as a real sign of wellness when I'm making time for these things that are good for me-- like deliberate expression-- and a sign of the lack thereof when my habits slacken. This is all just to say that if you still point your browser in this direction and have not yet unbookmarked this, I'm appreciative and intend to restart better habits in updating.
In other news, I'm advanced of age. Thirty-five as of Monday. I celebrated by attending a meeting until ten-thirty. I figure that this birthday, all things considered, still beat the year I turned fourteen and stepped on a sewing needle in my bare feet while getting ready for school. There wasn't even any pleasure in missing school when the time was spent in the ER having them dig the half that was lodged in my foot out.
Of course this birthday was better; Ali threw me a great party on the 19th and I enjoyed the company of family and friends.
Just too busy, or too scattered, or too whatever. I do take it, though, as a real sign of wellness when I'm making time for these things that are good for me-- like deliberate expression-- and a sign of the lack thereof when my habits slacken. This is all just to say that if you still point your browser in this direction and have not yet unbookmarked this, I'm appreciative and intend to restart better habits in updating.
In other news, I'm advanced of age. Thirty-five as of Monday. I celebrated by attending a meeting until ten-thirty. I figure that this birthday, all things considered, still beat the year I turned fourteen and stepped on a sewing needle in my bare feet while getting ready for school. There wasn't even any pleasure in missing school when the time was spent in the ER having them dig the half that was lodged in my foot out.
Of course this birthday was better; Ali threw me a great party on the 19th and I enjoyed the company of family and friends.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
Two Rhetorical Questions
First, who are all these people out there who are attempting to take things away from athletes? Is there some sort of concerted theft of identity or accomplishment that we can stop? They seem so concerned with achieving things that no one can take away from them. I would like them to not be worried about this.
Second, I remember the moment when I heard about the story that forms the narrative action of When a Stranger Calls. I was standing in the front yard of the house of a neighbor, right in front of their wood-slat fence, and my younger sister's classmate laid it all out to me with a flair for the dramatic that was precocious for someone who was no more than eleven. I was probably twelve, and I still remember how effective the punchline comes across. It was represented to me to be a movie, but with the addendum that it had really happened somewhere, so the story came to occupy that hazy place in childhood nightmares where even the most outlandish fiction is just standing in for the things that have actually happened in some vague place one county over.
Maybe it wouldn't be possible to recreate that sort of experiential terror on today's twelve year-olds. It's too easy to snopes something and obtain one of many other unreliable sources of authority which can confirm or deny the actual occurrence of something that could have inspired something. Nevertheless, I had no idea they were remaking the film, and while I reflexively think little of these kinds of projects, it seemed to me that for a new generation of teens who aren't familiar with the older film, a well-done, non-gory remake might be a film experience worth having. You can remake a film like this because you can have some confidence that for many of the members of the new audience, the ending will be unknown to them. And because they don't care to read reviews of the films they see before they see them, it can remain unknown for a sizable number of kids.
Of course, it never occurred to me that they might give away the ending, perhaps the best urban legendary twist ending in post-70s American B-moviedom, in a TV teaser. That did not occur to me. And the fact that it didn't strike any of the film's marketing people as something that might want to be kept out of the advertising, what does that say about them? And about us?
Second, I remember the moment when I heard about the story that forms the narrative action of When a Stranger Calls. I was standing in the front yard of the house of a neighbor, right in front of their wood-slat fence, and my younger sister's classmate laid it all out to me with a flair for the dramatic that was precocious for someone who was no more than eleven. I was probably twelve, and I still remember how effective the punchline comes across. It was represented to me to be a movie, but with the addendum that it had really happened somewhere, so the story came to occupy that hazy place in childhood nightmares where even the most outlandish fiction is just standing in for the things that have actually happened in some vague place one county over.
Maybe it wouldn't be possible to recreate that sort of experiential terror on today's twelve year-olds. It's too easy to snopes something and obtain one of many other unreliable sources of authority which can confirm or deny the actual occurrence of something that could have inspired something. Nevertheless, I had no idea they were remaking the film, and while I reflexively think little of these kinds of projects, it seemed to me that for a new generation of teens who aren't familiar with the older film, a well-done, non-gory remake might be a film experience worth having. You can remake a film like this because you can have some confidence that for many of the members of the new audience, the ending will be unknown to them. And because they don't care to read reviews of the films they see before they see them, it can remain unknown for a sizable number of kids.
Of course, it never occurred to me that they might give away the ending, perhaps the best urban legendary twist ending in post-70s American B-moviedom, in a TV teaser. That did not occur to me. And the fact that it didn't strike any of the film's marketing people as something that might want to be kept out of the advertising, what does that say about them? And about us?
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
SYRIANA
There's this scene in SYRIANA around the two-thirds mark. Matt Damon's character, a wunderkind energy firm analyst, is riding an elevator with a prince who is heir to an unnamed Arab oil emirate. Damon's character has achieved this unfettered access to the king-to-be through both his plucky resolve and his son's timely electrocution in the prince's pool. I can't remember whether the elevator was going up or down, but the hotel rooms cost $20,000 per night, so wherever they were going was an important place. Suddenly the elevator stops and George Clooney's character gets on. He's a little rumpled and heavily bearded in his CIA operative disguise, but he's still plainly the most charismatic man making movies in Hollywood. Clooney's guy says nothing to Damon's guy, but exchanges a few nondescript phrases with the prince. At that moment, I know. I know exactly what's going to happen next. After another moment or two of the elevator descending or ascending the fifty-story hotel, it will stop again. Then Don Cheadle will get on. He will be wearing an emerald green sequined shirt and will be speaking Mandarin. More seemingly insignificant banter will be exchanged, and by the time the elevator reaches the top or bottom, the prince will have been talked into signing over his oil holdings in exchange for nonexistent soybean fields in Illinois and the heroes will be on their way to a helipad. The CON will be ON.
It's strange. I went to see SYRIANA in the middle of making my way a couple of times through the television version of Bergman's SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE. There's no real reason to discuss the two in the same paragraph, but one contrast that occurred to me is too stark not to mention. Bergman's film is a five-hour measurement of the distance between two people and an exercise in creating a complex portrait of two characters and the relationship they couldn't sustain or abandon. In SYRIANA, the only sliver that could pass for character development or detail is the part in which the ambitious lawyer is openly disdainful of his sloppy drunk father in a couple of scenes in the middle of the film, but by the end of the film he has scaled it back to mild resentment.
Perhaps SYRIANA collapses under the weight of its own heft when it decides to separate the various players and assign them various gradations of moral culpability. I suppose that's an arguably necessary device from a conventional storytelling perspective to allow the audience one or two points of entry, but it sets in motion a fairly rote resolution of all those sprawling, interconnected storylines.
For one particular character example, take George Clooney's CIA operative. At the film's beginning, he's a morally ambiguous operator selling missiles to uncertain end-users to further national interests, broadly speaking. I believe, if I understood the labrythine plot correctly, that he was set to assassinate the aforementioned prince. However, he is then provided with a moment of moral clarity which steers him away from the anti-hero path and back onto the straight and narrow role of our moral voice and conscience. His fate is sealed when he meets Christopher Plummer's oil baron character at a diner to confront him. If anything constitutes a beatification in American cinema, it is any moment in which any male lead sticks his finger in any Christopher Plummer character's face and delivers the "Don't fuck with my family" speech. From that instant, he's resolutely the hero, all the more because we're there to watch him fail.
Note, though, that two of the plot points that illustrate Clooney's character's alienation and the ideological inferiority of his opponents are rehashes. Specifically, he discovers that he's being frozen out of the Agency when we see, in real-time, his computer deny him access to information he had just been able to see. Later, while Clooney is on the ground attempting to rescue the prince, we see the high-tech assassination played out from one satellite remove away, in a control room where bureaucrats order missile strikes which show up on computer monitors. I saw two scenes nearly identical to those in a Harrison Ford Jack Ryan movie some years ago. I think it's a safe bet that Tom Clancy and Stephen Gaghan wouldn't write the same position paper on fossil fuels and our national dependence on oil from the Gulf region, but they're using the same narrative language about their character and their government, and that's telling in a way that's hardly flattering to Gaghan's film.
Sure, SYRIANA has the same narrative hallmarks that may have become mainstreamed after Gaghan's own script for TRAFFIC, and the film tries hard to ape the unabashed circa-Watergate political paranoia of films like THE CONVERSATION, THE PARALLAX VIEW and DAY OF THE CONDOR. The problem, though, is that those elements, at least insofar as they are elements of plot and style, have been themselves neutered and mainstreamed into irrelevance. As a result, any outrage or even thoughtful reflection brought about by the film lasts, whether by design or not, only as long as it takes the viewer to get up and walk from the theater out into the parking lot, unlock the car and put the key into the ignition. The film's forgotten by the time the engine is started, because you've got to get home somehow.
It's strange. I went to see SYRIANA in the middle of making my way a couple of times through the television version of Bergman's SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE. There's no real reason to discuss the two in the same paragraph, but one contrast that occurred to me is too stark not to mention. Bergman's film is a five-hour measurement of the distance between two people and an exercise in creating a complex portrait of two characters and the relationship they couldn't sustain or abandon. In SYRIANA, the only sliver that could pass for character development or detail is the part in which the ambitious lawyer is openly disdainful of his sloppy drunk father in a couple of scenes in the middle of the film, but by the end of the film he has scaled it back to mild resentment.
Perhaps SYRIANA collapses under the weight of its own heft when it decides to separate the various players and assign them various gradations of moral culpability. I suppose that's an arguably necessary device from a conventional storytelling perspective to allow the audience one or two points of entry, but it sets in motion a fairly rote resolution of all those sprawling, interconnected storylines.
For one particular character example, take George Clooney's CIA operative. At the film's beginning, he's a morally ambiguous operator selling missiles to uncertain end-users to further national interests, broadly speaking. I believe, if I understood the labrythine plot correctly, that he was set to assassinate the aforementioned prince. However, he is then provided with a moment of moral clarity which steers him away from the anti-hero path and back onto the straight and narrow role of our moral voice and conscience. His fate is sealed when he meets Christopher Plummer's oil baron character at a diner to confront him. If anything constitutes a beatification in American cinema, it is any moment in which any male lead sticks his finger in any Christopher Plummer character's face and delivers the "Don't fuck with my family" speech. From that instant, he's resolutely the hero, all the more because we're there to watch him fail.
Note, though, that two of the plot points that illustrate Clooney's character's alienation and the ideological inferiority of his opponents are rehashes. Specifically, he discovers that he's being frozen out of the Agency when we see, in real-time, his computer deny him access to information he had just been able to see. Later, while Clooney is on the ground attempting to rescue the prince, we see the high-tech assassination played out from one satellite remove away, in a control room where bureaucrats order missile strikes which show up on computer monitors. I saw two scenes nearly identical to those in a Harrison Ford Jack Ryan movie some years ago. I think it's a safe bet that Tom Clancy and Stephen Gaghan wouldn't write the same position paper on fossil fuels and our national dependence on oil from the Gulf region, but they're using the same narrative language about their character and their government, and that's telling in a way that's hardly flattering to Gaghan's film.
Sure, SYRIANA has the same narrative hallmarks that may have become mainstreamed after Gaghan's own script for TRAFFIC, and the film tries hard to ape the unabashed circa-Watergate political paranoia of films like THE CONVERSATION, THE PARALLAX VIEW and DAY OF THE CONDOR. The problem, though, is that those elements, at least insofar as they are elements of plot and style, have been themselves neutered and mainstreamed into irrelevance. As a result, any outrage or even thoughtful reflection brought about by the film lasts, whether by design or not, only as long as it takes the viewer to get up and walk from the theater out into the parking lot, unlock the car and put the key into the ignition. The film's forgotten by the time the engine is started, because you've got to get home somehow.
If you need CLE credits in March and happpen...
...to be in Pittsburgh on the 23rd, I can vouch for the high-end content of this seminar.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
STEELERS: PLEASE WEAR WHITE JERSEYS IN SUPER BOWL
This humble plea (part aesthetic, part irrational, part trite-sports-poetic) is all that I want to say at the present concerning the Steelers' rampaging through the #1, #2 and #3 seeds in the AFC.
Just wear the whites.
Just wear the whites.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
THE NEW WORLD
I'm probably going to wait until I've seen THE NEW WORLD a few more times before saying much about it. For now, though, I'm floored by it and can't wait to see it later, someday, in all its various iterations.
Friday, January 20, 2006
FUNNY HA HA
Did FUNNY HA HA play on more than three or four screens, ever? I don't know. 95% or more of the people who will see it over the course of its life as a work of art will do so on a television with a DVD player. After they get past the Wellspring logo and the title screen with the aggressive piano music (a strange choice for a film with no music except for bits of nondescript diegetic music in restaurants and at parties), there's no studio logo or intro. No production company calling card. The movie just starts, after announcing the title, and then later just ends, followed by handwritten credits. Putting aside the fact that the same digital home video technology employed by films with actual budgets is responsible for delivering the film to me, there's something very different happening here. It's as if the film went directly from Andrew Bujalski to my DVD player, with no in-between stops to be vetted or imprimatured or test-audienced.
Yeah, I know. That's willfully naive. Plus, it ignores the couple-years-ago copyright and Wellspring's involvement (aside: finally a transfer even they couldn't mangle). There were stops and starts through the process. People had to be talked into this; it had to be invested in. Sure. But that bit-- the part where you hit play and his movie just comes on, unannounced and unclaimed-- divides the sheep from the goats. The goats will see that transition and think, "What is this? Some low budget thing a guy made in his garage?" The sheep will say, "This is fantastic." And they'll say that even if the movie doesn't strike them as great right away. The confluence of digital distribution, internet niche-creating and digital filmmaking (even if Bujalski's not working with it now) holds the promise of finding new channels of creativity. Bujalski's second feature is available for direct online purchase, and includes a handwritten note of thanks. He's gathered two mentions at slate.com in the past month, though, so he's likely to not stay anonymous much longer among the film-savvy set.
None of the above would matter if the film weren't itself quite effective. It fails conventional QC tests which ask whether a sufficient amount of something happens and whether the central character grows or changes as a result of that something. But who cares about that stuff anyway? I've heard the film referred to once or twice as SLACKER from a young woman's point-of-view, but that just suggest to me that the scarcity of films like this leaves them without convenient points of reference. FUNNY HA HA depicts a few weeks or months in the life of a young woman named Marnie who can't seem to chart a straight course in her love life or her work life. She goes through a couple of jobs which may or may not match her skills and spends time talking to friends (all of whom want to see her fixed up) and going to parties. The actress who plays Marnie was unknown to me, but I think she's one of the most recognizable people I've ever seen in a film. I could try to describe her, but it's really beside the point to do so. Describing her limits her in a way that the film doesn't. She is someone you know.
There are at least two ways in which Marnie's story is like that of the typical lead in a romantic comedy or drama. First, she resolves to improve herself in the unstated hope that different habits and qualities will make her happier. Second, she's in love with someone who wants only to be her friend and friendly with someone who is in love with her. In other words, the most commonplace story elements imaginable.
Monday, January 16, 2006
So I found myself in Hot Topic...
Last weekend we were eating at this hot dog place my dad suggests every time he's in town, and I spotted a college-aged young woman wearing an olive green DAWN OF THE DEAD t-shirt. I'm rendered immobile by booth positioning, so I suggest to Ali that she could make me very happy by finding out where the woman obtained the shirt.
And that's how I found myself pulling into the mall after covering a night meeting last week. I walk into Hot Topic for the first time in my life. I'm still wearing a suit, and if there's an equivalent in this suburban chain ripoff shop to Jack Black's character in HIGH FIDELITY, then he's sure to be making fun of me.
Oh, yeah. There they are. Stacked below the RE-ANIMATOR shirts. They've got the great zombie top-of-skull logo. I've probably wanted a DAWN OF THE DEAD t-shirt for at least twenty years, and these ones are comparatively not bad. I'm not sure exactly why I've retained this infantile desire to make myself identifiable by clothing to things I like, but there you go. Yeah, they've got the right size. I guess I'm ready to go.
For some reason I just keep standing there. Maybe I'd rather not have to pay for it. No, there's something else. Suddenly, I'm just hyperventilating with irony. I'm going to buy a DAWN OF THE DEAD t-shirt at a mall. A shopping mall. What's worse, I'm going to buy it at a store selling fake nonconformity, or at least doing so the best you can while nestled between Victoria's Secret and Mrs. Field's Cookies.
I put the shirt back and walk out of the store.
And that's how I found myself pulling into the mall after covering a night meeting last week. I walk into Hot Topic for the first time in my life. I'm still wearing a suit, and if there's an equivalent in this suburban chain ripoff shop to Jack Black's character in HIGH FIDELITY, then he's sure to be making fun of me.
Oh, yeah. There they are. Stacked below the RE-ANIMATOR shirts. They've got the great zombie top-of-skull logo. I've probably wanted a DAWN OF THE DEAD t-shirt for at least twenty years, and these ones are comparatively not bad. I'm not sure exactly why I've retained this infantile desire to make myself identifiable by clothing to things I like, but there you go. Yeah, they've got the right size. I guess I'm ready to go.
For some reason I just keep standing there. Maybe I'd rather not have to pay for it. No, there's something else. Suddenly, I'm just hyperventilating with irony. I'm going to buy a DAWN OF THE DEAD t-shirt at a mall. A shopping mall. What's worse, I'm going to buy it at a store selling fake nonconformity, or at least doing so the best you can while nestled between Victoria's Secret and Mrs. Field's Cookies.
I put the shirt back and walk out of the store.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
Hidden Talents
I know nothing about college basketball and find the whole thing too sprawling to follow, and thus I dutifully avoided the annual March Madness pool at my old firm. My new firm, however, runs a NFL picks pool and I just couldn't help myself. And now I have two hundred and fifty reasons to be glad I joined in the fun.
I'm aware it's not nearly as hard as working with point spreads, but I managed to guess 180 out of 256 games right, for a clip of 70.3%, on my way to the title. That's a couple of percentage points better than Gerry Dulac of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, who gets paid to pick the games. Oh, wait. So do I.
In my experience, found money lives on the longest when it's put to something specific and singular. Early in my legal career I worked on a particularly contentious estate dispute. When the matter was concluded, the grateful client wanted to give me a gratuity. After the supervisory lawyers concluded it would be ethically permissible for me to accept the gift, I tried to find something that we would otherwise not have bought then. We had moved into our first house about eighteen months prior, and it made perfect sense to spend the money on a new comforter, sheets and matching curtains. I'd often look at those curtains or that comforter and think of that case and that kindness.
And so now I will contemplate my NFL prognostication prowess each time I gaze upon this, this, this, this and this.
I'm aware it's not nearly as hard as working with point spreads, but I managed to guess 180 out of 256 games right, for a clip of 70.3%, on my way to the title. That's a couple of percentage points better than Gerry Dulac of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, who gets paid to pick the games. Oh, wait. So do I.
In my experience, found money lives on the longest when it's put to something specific and singular. Early in my legal career I worked on a particularly contentious estate dispute. When the matter was concluded, the grateful client wanted to give me a gratuity. After the supervisory lawyers concluded it would be ethically permissible for me to accept the gift, I tried to find something that we would otherwise not have bought then. We had moved into our first house about eighteen months prior, and it made perfect sense to spend the money on a new comforter, sheets and matching curtains. I'd often look at those curtains or that comforter and think of that case and that kindness.
And so now I will contemplate my NFL prognostication prowess each time I gaze upon this, this, this, this and this.
Monday, January 2, 2006
Professor Welsh White
I've known for a little while that Professor Welsh White was fighting cancer--my friend George, the law librarian, mentioned it to me a couple of months ago--and so yesterday's news was saddening but not surprising. George's description of Professor White's demeanor during last semester was exactly as his obit writer put it: he was busy making plans for the future and speaking confidently about what things would be like once cancer was behind him.
Professor White taught me three times during law school. The first two times were Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure, a couple of first-year staples that were foisted on me, course and instructor, by sectional scheduling. (He has the distinction, I think, of giving me my only non-A first year grades.) More importantly, when given the ability later on to decide where to spend my electives, I signed on to his Evidence class without hesitation. I wanted to spend more time being taught by him.
As an educational experience, the first year of law school by and large lives up to the hype that surrounds it. Or at least it did for me. Then and now, I loved it all. The standardized curriculum--the same everywhere since time immemorial (or at least the last 125 years), those bold red casebooks filled with odd and off-putting monoliths which would only "yield their kernel up slowly and painfully," the suffocating insularity of spending an academic year with the same eighty-five people and the vacillations between thrill and terror, often within the same fifty minutes: all of it. I wouldn't change much, if anything, of it.
Nearly all of my professors that first year were fantastic, but two went out of their way to make us feel unusually human. One opened her house to us on a Friday night, and Professor White encouraged us all to sign up in groups of three for lunch with him at Hemingway's Cafe, across the street from the law school. I think he picked up the check.
I had liked his class quite a bit, but he was even better in a small group. He had started out as an Assistant D.A. when Arlen Specter was Philly's D.A., but he dropped it after a few years to go into teaching. It was clearly a good move for him, as he had a personality that was better suited to academia than to private practice. Among lawyers, that sort of statement might be read reflexively as a criticism, but I couldn't mean it more complimentarily. The most intellectually circumspect and thoughtful lawyers often aren't well-suited to the sort of advocacy that characterizes modern law. Sometimes they have difficulty faking the aggression and certitude that are so essential to projecting confidence, and so at odds with the sort of detached but introspective appreciation for competing viewpoints. Professor White was a first-rate scholar, and I'll never forget how he set me at ease during that lunch. It was comforting to know that he cared enough about how we were doing to give up his lunch hour.
Professor White's Evidence class was an advanced elective, and by that point in law school part-time employment or full-time worrying about employment had turned most of us indifferent or hostile to preparing for class. Rather than making us all dread being caught in our unpreparedness, Professor White resorted to going straight down the rows to get answers to questions, which allowed the unhappy few advance notice to read the cases. On one afternoon early in the semester his queries fell on a particularly loathsome student who responded, too happily, "Pass." Professor White, politely enough, said that he'd give him a pass for that day, but he would be back to him again. The bastard replied, "Well, then I pass for that time, too." We were aghast. Professor White was on the short list of least confrontational law professors on the faculty. He never used his position or his knowledge to intimidate or for self-aggrandizement. Sure, few of us were enthusiastic about keeping up with the reading, but a certain standard of conduct had been breached under any circumstances, and all the worse because it was Professor White.
Needless to say, I was curious to see how the next class would unfold. Would the guy show up? Would Professor White go back to him? The bell rang. Class began. Professor White went right to him and the guy had blinked and read. He answered the questions. Order was restored. Nice guys finish first.
God bless you, Professor.
Professor White taught me three times during law school. The first two times were Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure, a couple of first-year staples that were foisted on me, course and instructor, by sectional scheduling. (He has the distinction, I think, of giving me my only non-A first year grades.) More importantly, when given the ability later on to decide where to spend my electives, I signed on to his Evidence class without hesitation. I wanted to spend more time being taught by him.
As an educational experience, the first year of law school by and large lives up to the hype that surrounds it. Or at least it did for me. Then and now, I loved it all. The standardized curriculum--the same everywhere since time immemorial (or at least the last 125 years), those bold red casebooks filled with odd and off-putting monoliths which would only "yield their kernel up slowly and painfully," the suffocating insularity of spending an academic year with the same eighty-five people and the vacillations between thrill and terror, often within the same fifty minutes: all of it. I wouldn't change much, if anything, of it.
Nearly all of my professors that first year were fantastic, but two went out of their way to make us feel unusually human. One opened her house to us on a Friday night, and Professor White encouraged us all to sign up in groups of three for lunch with him at Hemingway's Cafe, across the street from the law school. I think he picked up the check.
I had liked his class quite a bit, but he was even better in a small group. He had started out as an Assistant D.A. when Arlen Specter was Philly's D.A., but he dropped it after a few years to go into teaching. It was clearly a good move for him, as he had a personality that was better suited to academia than to private practice. Among lawyers, that sort of statement might be read reflexively as a criticism, but I couldn't mean it more complimentarily. The most intellectually circumspect and thoughtful lawyers often aren't well-suited to the sort of advocacy that characterizes modern law. Sometimes they have difficulty faking the aggression and certitude that are so essential to projecting confidence, and so at odds with the sort of detached but introspective appreciation for competing viewpoints. Professor White was a first-rate scholar, and I'll never forget how he set me at ease during that lunch. It was comforting to know that he cared enough about how we were doing to give up his lunch hour.
Professor White's Evidence class was an advanced elective, and by that point in law school part-time employment or full-time worrying about employment had turned most of us indifferent or hostile to preparing for class. Rather than making us all dread being caught in our unpreparedness, Professor White resorted to going straight down the rows to get answers to questions, which allowed the unhappy few advance notice to read the cases. On one afternoon early in the semester his queries fell on a particularly loathsome student who responded, too happily, "Pass." Professor White, politely enough, said that he'd give him a pass for that day, but he would be back to him again. The bastard replied, "Well, then I pass for that time, too." We were aghast. Professor White was on the short list of least confrontational law professors on the faculty. He never used his position or his knowledge to intimidate or for self-aggrandizement. Sure, few of us were enthusiastic about keeping up with the reading, but a certain standard of conduct had been breached under any circumstances, and all the worse because it was Professor White.
Needless to say, I was curious to see how the next class would unfold. Would the guy show up? Would Professor White go back to him? The bell rang. Class began. Professor White went right to him and the guy had blinked and read. He answered the questions. Order was restored. Nice guys finish first.
God bless you, Professor.
Sunday, January 1, 2006
2006 To-Do List
1. Watch the Pittsburgh Steelers win Super Bowl XL. Whether the broadcast takes place on network television or on my own private in-head network TBA.
2. Mount a campaign via the internet and U.S. mail to browbeat the Mattel Corporation into creating a Kryzstzof Kieslowski version of their popular Scene It DVD board game. Imagine the possibilities: the group of players selects a film clip question. The DVD displays a washed-out shot of Warsaw, then follows up with, "Which Kieslowski film is this clip from?" Cut to the assembled faces of the confused.
3. See/identify 125 different birds.
4. Sit through three theatrical showings of Malick's The New World, preferably on three consecutive nights.
5. Organize a party or event commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the forging of my car and have the Town of McCandless recognize this party or event as an Official Town Party or Event. Dan Laugharn will be contacted about design of a logo.
6. Spend a week in Carolina in June or August.
7. Spend a week in Toronto in September.
8. Spend more than a week in California at some point in the year.
9. Reawaken my Spanish proficiency and transmit that to my daughters.
10. Acquire a record player.
2. Mount a campaign via the internet and U.S. mail to browbeat the Mattel Corporation into creating a Kryzstzof Kieslowski version of their popular Scene It DVD board game. Imagine the possibilities: the group of players selects a film clip question. The DVD displays a washed-out shot of Warsaw, then follows up with, "Which Kieslowski film is this clip from?" Cut to the assembled faces of the confused.
3. See/identify 125 different birds.
4. Sit through three theatrical showings of Malick's The New World, preferably on three consecutive nights.
5. Organize a party or event commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the forging of my car and have the Town of McCandless recognize this party or event as an Official Town Party or Event. Dan Laugharn will be contacted about design of a logo.
6. Spend a week in Carolina in June or August.
7. Spend a week in Toronto in September.
8. Spend more than a week in California at some point in the year.
9. Reawaken my Spanish proficiency and transmit that to my daughters.
10. Acquire a record player.
Monday, December 26, 2005
(Pretend this is being read by a ten year-old)
So what'd you get for Christmas? Uh huh. That's great. I got the Up movies from Ali. So cool. And the Alfred Hitchcock Presents box from my mom. And a black Sidney Crosby jersey from my dad. It's awesome! And some clothes. Oh, and a CD and some shoes. And an Atari game from my mother-in-law. And Star Wars 3. Oh, yeah, and a tie and some socks.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
temp template
I don't really like this harbor-themed template, but I really don't like the amount of wasted space on the other one. I'm playing around with that other template in an effort to customize it and expand the text surface, but until I figure it out, I'll use this one.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
I just read this over and over.
I'm not kidding. This is the nicest thing I've read in who knows how long. I read it over and over again and enjoy it more each time. I'll forego the standard sentimental and retrospective platitudes and simply say that reading this makes me lightly euphoric.
Courtesy of the online Pittsburgh Post-Gazette:
Courtesy of the online Pittsburgh Post-Gazette:
State's oldest resident dies at 113
Friday, December 16, 2005
AP
COUDERSPORT, Pa. -- M. Gladys Swetland, believed to be the oldest resident of Pennsylvania, died Wednesday at Charles Cole Memorial Hospital. She was 113.
Miss Swetland was born in Mills, Potter County, on April 18, 1892, when Benjamin Harrison was president and Ellis Island began accepting immigrants, according to Caywood's Funeral Home in Elmira, N.Y., which is handling the funeral arrangements.
She started teaching at the Harrison Valley School in 1910. She saved money to attend Eastern Michigan Teachers College, where she earned a teaching degree, and later taught fifth and sixth grades in Detroit for 16 years.
Returning to Potter County to care for her mother, Miss Swetland taught third grade at the Harrison Valley School for 40 years. She retired at 70 but continued to substitute for almost 10 more years.
She never married but was engaged to a soldier who died in World War I.
She drove her automobile until well past her 100th birthday and lived in the Mills home where she was born until she was 110. During the last years of her life, she lived in the long-term care unit of Charles Cole Memorial Hospital in Coudersport.
It was there, on her 112th birthday, that she played piano for Gov. Ed Rendell.
She again played for relatives and other visitors, including state Sen. Joe Scarnati, R-Jefferson County, on her 113th birthday. Miss Swetland appeared on the "Today" show three days later.
In addition to the piano, she used to play the organ at Mills Union Church, where funeral services are slated to be held tomorrow.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Not Overhyped
A few minutes ago I walked in the door from the Penguins v. Avalanche game, and I'm overjoyed to be able to report firsthand that Sidney Crosby is every bit as good as I hoped he'd be. It won't show up on the scoresheet necessarily, where he got only a single assist in the 4-3 win, but he's as impressive as an eighteen year-old could be.
While he didn't get the points tonight, Crosby's got the same unmistakable points potential that only the great ones have. Even when it doesn't end up in the net from his stick or someone else's, you can just see how his mind is working out ways to create scoring chances. Blind passes and abrupt shots that are always on-target. The refusal to give up on a play. Like Mario, his linemates know they've always got to keep their sticks on the ice. I can't imagine there are five better passers in the league than him right now, and he's only going to get better. He doesn't have Lemieux's size or wingspan, though, or the accompanying ability to conserve movement. Crosby's more of a whirling dervish, though constantly under control, and he puts that high energy to good use-- he made a couple of nice defensive plays tonight, including one great puck-stripping while short-handed. With Mario out of the lineup (and Palffy, and LeClair), Crosby seemed to take ownership for the team's effort tonight, and the team got solid play from all four lines tonight.
Fittingly, Wayne Gretzky was in the building tonight to scout for Team Canada. I can't imagine he'd leave 87 off the Olympic squad.
While he didn't get the points tonight, Crosby's got the same unmistakable points potential that only the great ones have. Even when it doesn't end up in the net from his stick or someone else's, you can just see how his mind is working out ways to create scoring chances. Blind passes and abrupt shots that are always on-target. The refusal to give up on a play. Like Mario, his linemates know they've always got to keep their sticks on the ice. I can't imagine there are five better passers in the league than him right now, and he's only going to get better. He doesn't have Lemieux's size or wingspan, though, or the accompanying ability to conserve movement. Crosby's more of a whirling dervish, though constantly under control, and he puts that high energy to good use-- he made a couple of nice defensive plays tonight, including one great puck-stripping while short-handed. With Mario out of the lineup (and Palffy, and LeClair), Crosby seemed to take ownership for the team's effort tonight, and the team got solid play from all four lines tonight.
Fittingly, Wayne Gretzky was in the building tonight to scout for Team Canada. I can't imagine he'd leave 87 off the Olympic squad.
Thursday, December 8, 2005
She turned two three months ago.
My telephone rings. Ali is on the other end, and she greets me by beginning to talk.
"Did Virginia watch King Kong with you and Ruby last weekend?
I involuntarily freeze. What I am imagining is that Ginger has subjected one of her sisters or a family pet to the Tyranosaur treatment (i.e., ripping its jaws apart) or the giant snake treatment (i.e., whipping it violently onto the floor).
After a moment: "Uh, why?"
Ali proceeds to tell me that she was reading the morning paper and Virginia came up to her and saw a print ad for Peter Jackson's remake on the page. She pointed and said, "That's King Kong. He's mean. He gets that lady. He turns nice at the end. He dies." ***
*** translated from kidtalk. Actual phonetic: "Dat's Ding Dong. Ee's mean. Ee dets dat wady. Ee tuns night a'de en. Ee die." Yes, I cringed while typing it.
"Did Virginia watch King Kong with you and Ruby last weekend?
I involuntarily freeze. What I am imagining is that Ginger has subjected one of her sisters or a family pet to the Tyranosaur treatment (i.e., ripping its jaws apart) or the giant snake treatment (i.e., whipping it violently onto the floor).
After a moment: "Uh, why?"
Ali proceeds to tell me that she was reading the morning paper and Virginia came up to her and saw a print ad for Peter Jackson's remake on the page. She pointed and said, "That's King Kong. He's mean. He gets that lady. He turns nice at the end. He dies." ***
*** translated from kidtalk. Actual phonetic: "Dat's Ding Dong. Ee's mean. Ee dets dat wady. Ee tuns night a'de en. Ee die." Yes, I cringed while typing it.
Saturday, December 3, 2005
Gervais Podcasts
Clicking on this link beginning Monday the 5th will lead to the first of a series of podcasts from Ricky Gervais, co-creator of The Office, BBC version. If that show wasn't impressive enough-- and I'm still convinced of its greatness, having revisited large portions of it recently-- I admire the approach Gervais has taken since he became an overnight success. Smallish, personal projects. No obvious paychecks for paychecks' sake (the American version of the show really is pretty good, even if constrained by limits that the BBC original didn't have).
This should be good.
This should be good.
Thursday, December 1, 2005
documents
I post the following not just because it's cute, but because this is one way I can be sure it won't be lost, as google takes steps daily to become the Collective Permanent Intelligence of the Future. Just a few weeks ago, right after Halloween, I came across a fantastic piece of paper in which Ruby had dictated to Leah her plans for Halloween costumes covering next year, when she's seven, up through until she turns eighteen. I meant to keep the paper somewhere safe, but it promptly got lost and now I can remember only that she planned to be a witch in 2006 and that I'll need to remind her that she's going as the Creature from the Black Lagoon in 2017.
To avoid a repeat, I preserve the following here. A school paper on which Leah wrote what she wished for when the Thanksgiving wishbone was figuratively snapped:
"I thought about all the pets that were in Katrena. I wished that they all could find homes. Maybe I could even take care of some of them. I would wish that vets would come find them. They would have to stay at the hospital pretty long but maybe they would survive. Leah"
To avoid a repeat, I preserve the following here. A school paper on which Leah wrote what she wished for when the Thanksgiving wishbone was figuratively snapped:
"I thought about all the pets that were in Katrena. I wished that they all could find homes. Maybe I could even take care of some of them. I would wish that vets would come find them. They would have to stay at the hospital pretty long but maybe they would survive. Leah"
Favorites of 2005 with one month to go
Updated to today.
1. SARABAND (A)
2. THE WORLD (A)
3. L'ENFANT (A)
4. ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW (A)
5. HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE (A-)
6. A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE (A-)
7. GEORGE A. ROMERO'S LAND OF THE DEAD (A-)
8. THE SQUID AND THE WHALE (B+)
9. WAR OF THE WORLDS (B+)
10. THE RISING: THE BALLAD OF MANGEL PANDEY (B+)
1. SARABAND (A)
2. THE WORLD (A)
3. L'ENFANT (A)
4. ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW (A)
5. HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE (A-)
6. A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE (A-)
7. GEORGE A. ROMERO'S LAND OF THE DEAD (A-)
8. THE SQUID AND THE WHALE (B+)
9. WAR OF THE WORLDS (B+)
10. THE RISING: THE BALLAD OF MANGEL PANDEY (B+)
Friday, November 18, 2005
Drinking the MONEYBALL Kool-Aid
[Writer's Note: I'm posting the following as a sort of public shaming. blogger tells me I started this post on August 27. I never finished it. I suppose it's better that I didn't. Think of everything that's happened to the MONEYBALL crowd since 8/27. The A's collapsed and didn't make the playoffs. Kenny Williams, the GM derided in the book as Oakland's biggest fan for the lopsided trades Beane wrung from the Chisox, now has one more World Series ring than Beane. Paul DePodesta, his once and maybe future right-hand man, was canned by the Dodgers for being unable to win despite bucketloads of cash. Anyway, on to the obsolete.]
Did you check the baseball standings this morning? The relevant stats read like this:
WINS LOSSES % GB PAYROLL COST PER WIN
OAKLAND A'S 75 56 .573 -- $55,425,762 $739,010
CLEVELAND INDIANS 74 58 .561 1.5 $41,502,500 $560,844
PITTSBURGH PIRATES 55 78 .414 20.5 $38,133,000 $693,327
The cost per win isn't right, I know, because that needs to be done with a full year's record, and as far as I know, that's opening-day roster. Throwing the Indians into the mix was a last-minute decision prompted by my incredulity with how well they're doing in comparison to what they're paying out. As for the A's and the Pirates, it's merely the comparison between the baseball team I follow (informally) and the one I wish I was following.
In May of 2003 I finished a week-long trial in federal court that concluded a thirty-year piece of litigation, seven of which had happened on my watch. Winding down from that, we were set to take a five-day trip to Washington D.C. to visit my aunt and see some of the sights. I went to Barnes & Noble to pick out a vacation book, and I narrowed it down to two choices: Eric Schlosser's book about black markets in America and Michael Lewis's Moneyball. I chose Schlosser's book and might have made it to page seventy-five. I didn't catch up to Moneyball until our trip to the beach this year, and it made me all the more disappointed that I went the other way two years ago.
At one level, this is the book that Kevin McClatchy doesn't want me to read, as it shows that an unconventional and whip-smart approach to managing baseball resources can beat pure wealth. The book dissects Billy Beane's success in producing regular-season wins, and consequently destroys every argument the Pirates routinely make about why they are mired in their thirteenth consecutive losing season. It's funny that I read it when I did, as the A's didn't make the postseason last year and nosedived in May to a sub-.500 level. All of the hype and the offseason trades of Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder had caught up to the front-office savant, or so went the conventional wisdom. Now, of course, they're headed for the postseason again after a torrid summer. They'll have an asterisk affixed to their success until they win in the playoffs, but maybe this will be the year. Last year Theo Epstein got to show that sabermetrics plus $125 million could overcome the postseason crap shoot. Why not the A's?
At another level, the book is so satisfying because the Oakland approach can be applied to any number of areas/markets that are mired in stagnating groupthink...
Did you check the baseball standings this morning? The relevant stats read like this:
WINS LOSSES % GB PAYROLL COST PER WIN
OAKLAND A'S 75 56 .573 -- $55,425,762 $739,010
CLEVELAND INDIANS 74 58 .561 1.5 $41,502,500 $560,844
PITTSBURGH PIRATES 55 78 .414 20.5 $38,133,000 $693,327
The cost per win isn't right, I know, because that needs to be done with a full year's record, and as far as I know, that's opening-day roster. Throwing the Indians into the mix was a last-minute decision prompted by my incredulity with how well they're doing in comparison to what they're paying out. As for the A's and the Pirates, it's merely the comparison between the baseball team I follow (informally) and the one I wish I was following.
In May of 2003 I finished a week-long trial in federal court that concluded a thirty-year piece of litigation, seven of which had happened on my watch. Winding down from that, we were set to take a five-day trip to Washington D.C. to visit my aunt and see some of the sights. I went to Barnes & Noble to pick out a vacation book, and I narrowed it down to two choices: Eric Schlosser's book about black markets in America and Michael Lewis's Moneyball. I chose Schlosser's book and might have made it to page seventy-five. I didn't catch up to Moneyball until our trip to the beach this year, and it made me all the more disappointed that I went the other way two years ago.
At one level, this is the book that Kevin McClatchy doesn't want me to read, as it shows that an unconventional and whip-smart approach to managing baseball resources can beat pure wealth. The book dissects Billy Beane's success in producing regular-season wins, and consequently destroys every argument the Pirates routinely make about why they are mired in their thirteenth consecutive losing season. It's funny that I read it when I did, as the A's didn't make the postseason last year and nosedived in May to a sub-.500 level. All of the hype and the offseason trades of Tim Hudson and Mark Mulder had caught up to the front-office savant, or so went the conventional wisdom. Now, of course, they're headed for the postseason again after a torrid summer. They'll have an asterisk affixed to their success until they win in the playoffs, but maybe this will be the year. Last year Theo Epstein got to show that sabermetrics plus $125 million could overcome the postseason crap shoot. Why not the A's?
At another level, the book is so satisfying because the Oakland approach can be applied to any number of areas/markets that are mired in stagnating groupthink...
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