"Dad, your racquetball partner died."
This is how my nine-year old son greeted me when I picked him up from a neighbor's house Saturday night. And it was true. In the 1990s, I was one of many employees of the George Washington University Athletic Department who spent some time on the racquetball court with Red Auerbach, who died at the age of 89 on Saturday.
Red was a GW alumnus and a resident of Washington, D.C., and he would come to campus several times a week to get a workout. He was in his seventies then, but his physical skills were surprising; his mental and emotional competiveness was not. We played a three-man racquetball variation called cutthroat, and he would growl at you if you missed an easy kill to knock off the opponent, an error he almost never committed. Likewise when he was serving for the win, he bore down and the ball came off his racquet with more velocity and spin than you had seen the whole game.
But his most effective tactic by far was to call timeout to slow his opposition's momentum. He would stand, breathing and sweating heavily, his goggles pushed up on his forehead, resting with one hand against the wall. It was at this point that I always recalled the words of a former GW basketball assistant coach.
"You don't want to be the guy on the racquetball court with Red Auerbach when he dies of a heart attack."
And so, when play resumed, the game would inevitably take a turn back in Red's direction. The highlight of the whole experience was hearing the stories after the game was finished. Red would hold court in the locker room, which could take a while because, as he said, "The hardest thing about exercising when you get old is changing your clothes." You'd hear stories about Russell and Havlicek, but you'd also get his opinion on why Jordan won championships and Barkley didn't, or why Dennis Rodman was worth every penny despite his outrageous off-court behavior.
When I graduated from college and put together that first resume, there was a space at the top where I listed my "Career Objective." I could never have dreamed of writing "Hanging out with the greatest basketball coach of all time," but those times were more memorable than any deal I ever made.
Rest in peace, Red.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Halfcourt Harry
The other night, after I escorted my sons to the swimming pool at a local university, I walked across the hall to the basketball court. The boys enjoyed being on the swim team so much last summer that they asked if they could swim year-round. We signed up for two nights a week, sandwiched around other sports, Scouts, school and, oh yeah, free time. The workouts are tougher than the summer and there is less team camaraderie, but I am hoping they will see some improvement and enjoy the fruits of their hard labor.
Rather than sit in the bleachers and read or chat with other parents, I decided to get a workout of my own while the kids are in the pool for an hour. Like most universities these days, this one has a beautiful, state-of-the-art fitness center with a three-story climbing wall and rows and rows of exercise machines I don't even know the name of, let alone know how to use. Of course, these facilities are for the use of the students, who deserve at least this much when you consider what tuition goes for; people like me, with no real affiliation with the institution, are not welcome. Which is just as well because I'd rather play basketball anyway, and there's no electronic ID reader at the door of that gym.
I've played pickup basketball since I was strong enough to get the ball to the hoop, and even though I have reached an age where my fitness needs would be better served on a treadmill or in a swimming pool, I still choose the court. One of the great benefits of my job at Johns Hopkins University was the noontime hoops game with the other guys who worked in the Athletic Department. We played one game, fullcourt to either 30 or 35 points. Everyone knew each other, nobody got too upset, but nobody wanted to lose either. It was usually Old Guys against Young Guys and every now and then somebody would set a point spread.
There was a similar situation when I was an undergrad at Cornell. Lunch League was full of players who set and called out screens, passed the ball, and played defense more often than not, concepts foreign to the And-One mix tape crowds that often populate the courts now. During my senior year, I made sure my schedule gave me at least three days without classes from 11:00 - 1:00.
The court I grew up playing on was at Lyon Village playground, a mile or two from my house in Arlington, Virginia. We just called it the Park, although I hear the kids now refer to it as the LV. There was nothing special about the Park; it had a playground, a small covered pavilion, and an open field that worked for football, as well as two tennis courts and the community center, but mostly I spent my time there playing basketball.
I remember some great runs at the Park. Maybe it was the lights that stayed on late or the proximity to Lee Highway, a major artery from D.C. to Northern Virginia, but there was almost never a shortage of players. And, like all great courts, the Park had its regulars and characters.
There was a guy named Carl, who played tennis and basketball all day and inspected restaurants at night. He was an excellent shooter and better passer who would find you whenever you cut to the hoop - even if you didn't know you were open. He wore white hightop Chucks and Penn State sweats and t-shirts because his mother worked in the bookstore there. And there was Pierce, the best pure shooter I ever saw there, whose team never seemed to lose. And George and Lou. George didn't looked like much but he scored big with a hanging jumpshot, and Lou pinballed around the court wreaking havoc on defense and usually on his own team's offense as well. Between games, they would scan the daily racing charts.
But of all the regulars, the one that stood out the most was Halfcourt Harry. Halfcourt was probably in his late 40s or early 50s, with Elvis-length sideburns and gray hair always pulled back in a bandanna. He wore sweatpants and kneepads regardless of the temperature and he never played in any games. Instead, he would shoot some layups and jumpers and then go into an angry basketball tai chi routine the like of which I had never seen before or since. Positioning himself in various spots around the court, he would catch the ball as if receiving a pass and execute a complex series of pivots and fakes before shooting. As he whirled and jerked about, he would slam the ball against his palm with a force that made you think the ball might explode. He was also known as Slap-Happy Harry (I'm not even sure Harry was his real name), but the nickname we used more often came from the hookshots he would shoot from halfcourt at the end of his ritual.
Maybe he was a nice guy, maybe he was competely deranged, I don't remember anyone who ever tried to find out. We watched Halfcourt from a safe distance, and when he left, we would crack each other up trying to imitate his manic maneuvers.
I hadn't thought of Halfcourt for a long time, until I returned to the basketball court the other night. I warmed up, stretched a little, watched a game in progress, figured that I could probably play without substantial risk of injury, and got on the team that had next.
I had played several times this summer with a group of guys in my neighborhood, just enough to raise my expectations but not enough to raise the level of my skills. They were hard-fought, competitive games, but the average age on this court was about 25 years younger than the neighborhood game.
As we matched up to start the game, one of my new teammates asked, "Do you want the big guy?"
"I want the slow guy," I replied.
I ended up with the short, quicker-than-he-looks guy who also turned out to have a pretty reliable jumpshot. After he made one, I came out a little further to guard him. He dribbled right and when I moved to cut him off, he crossed over to his left and drove towards the hoop. I recovered just enough to get a fingertip on the ball as he released it. A few years ago, it would have been a solid rejection, but I was happy to get a piece of it.
I was not happy to find that one of my teammates had slid over to help and knocked my left foot out from under me. I had really hoped to land on that foot, but instead, I came crashing down on both knees. It was loud, and moments later, quite painful.
"Are you okay?' he asked, looking at me the way you look at an elderly person who has had a bad fall. Actually, they were all looking at me like that.
I was fine, just some bruises, broken skin and near critically wounded pride. I finished the game, but as I limped off the court, I suddenly remembered Halfcourt Harry, and I thought to myself, "I am going to need some kneepads."
Rather than sit in the bleachers and read or chat with other parents, I decided to get a workout of my own while the kids are in the pool for an hour. Like most universities these days, this one has a beautiful, state-of-the-art fitness center with a three-story climbing wall and rows and rows of exercise machines I don't even know the name of, let alone know how to use. Of course, these facilities are for the use of the students, who deserve at least this much when you consider what tuition goes for; people like me, with no real affiliation with the institution, are not welcome. Which is just as well because I'd rather play basketball anyway, and there's no electronic ID reader at the door of that gym.
I've played pickup basketball since I was strong enough to get the ball to the hoop, and even though I have reached an age where my fitness needs would be better served on a treadmill or in a swimming pool, I still choose the court. One of the great benefits of my job at Johns Hopkins University was the noontime hoops game with the other guys who worked in the Athletic Department. We played one game, fullcourt to either 30 or 35 points. Everyone knew each other, nobody got too upset, but nobody wanted to lose either. It was usually Old Guys against Young Guys and every now and then somebody would set a point spread.
There was a similar situation when I was an undergrad at Cornell. Lunch League was full of players who set and called out screens, passed the ball, and played defense more often than not, concepts foreign to the And-One mix tape crowds that often populate the courts now. During my senior year, I made sure my schedule gave me at least three days without classes from 11:00 - 1:00.
The court I grew up playing on was at Lyon Village playground, a mile or two from my house in Arlington, Virginia. We just called it the Park, although I hear the kids now refer to it as the LV. There was nothing special about the Park; it had a playground, a small covered pavilion, and an open field that worked for football, as well as two tennis courts and the community center, but mostly I spent my time there playing basketball.
I remember some great runs at the Park. Maybe it was the lights that stayed on late or the proximity to Lee Highway, a major artery from D.C. to Northern Virginia, but there was almost never a shortage of players. And, like all great courts, the Park had its regulars and characters.
There was a guy named Carl, who played tennis and basketball all day and inspected restaurants at night. He was an excellent shooter and better passer who would find you whenever you cut to the hoop - even if you didn't know you were open. He wore white hightop Chucks and Penn State sweats and t-shirts because his mother worked in the bookstore there. And there was Pierce, the best pure shooter I ever saw there, whose team never seemed to lose. And George and Lou. George didn't looked like much but he scored big with a hanging jumpshot, and Lou pinballed around the court wreaking havoc on defense and usually on his own team's offense as well. Between games, they would scan the daily racing charts.
But of all the regulars, the one that stood out the most was Halfcourt Harry. Halfcourt was probably in his late 40s or early 50s, with Elvis-length sideburns and gray hair always pulled back in a bandanna. He wore sweatpants and kneepads regardless of the temperature and he never played in any games. Instead, he would shoot some layups and jumpers and then go into an angry basketball tai chi routine the like of which I had never seen before or since. Positioning himself in various spots around the court, he would catch the ball as if receiving a pass and execute a complex series of pivots and fakes before shooting. As he whirled and jerked about, he would slam the ball against his palm with a force that made you think the ball might explode. He was also known as Slap-Happy Harry (I'm not even sure Harry was his real name), but the nickname we used more often came from the hookshots he would shoot from halfcourt at the end of his ritual.
Maybe he was a nice guy, maybe he was competely deranged, I don't remember anyone who ever tried to find out. We watched Halfcourt from a safe distance, and when he left, we would crack each other up trying to imitate his manic maneuvers.
I hadn't thought of Halfcourt for a long time, until I returned to the basketball court the other night. I warmed up, stretched a little, watched a game in progress, figured that I could probably play without substantial risk of injury, and got on the team that had next.
I had played several times this summer with a group of guys in my neighborhood, just enough to raise my expectations but not enough to raise the level of my skills. They were hard-fought, competitive games, but the average age on this court was about 25 years younger than the neighborhood game.
As we matched up to start the game, one of my new teammates asked, "Do you want the big guy?"
"I want the slow guy," I replied.
I ended up with the short, quicker-than-he-looks guy who also turned out to have a pretty reliable jumpshot. After he made one, I came out a little further to guard him. He dribbled right and when I moved to cut him off, he crossed over to his left and drove towards the hoop. I recovered just enough to get a fingertip on the ball as he released it. A few years ago, it would have been a solid rejection, but I was happy to get a piece of it.
I was not happy to find that one of my teammates had slid over to help and knocked my left foot out from under me. I had really hoped to land on that foot, but instead, I came crashing down on both knees. It was loud, and moments later, quite painful.
"Are you okay?' he asked, looking at me the way you look at an elderly person who has had a bad fall. Actually, they were all looking at me like that.
I was fine, just some bruises, broken skin and near critically wounded pride. I finished the game, but as I limped off the court, I suddenly remembered Halfcourt Harry, and I thought to myself, "I am going to need some kneepads."
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Ravens, Redskins, on a Roll
Well, well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a couple football teams here in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area. Or is Washington-Baltimore? Either way, it was pure pigskin pleasure over the weekend.
The Redskins and Mark Brunell legitimized their masterful performance a week earlier against the Houston Texans with an overtime win against Jacksonville. I'm not ready to put the Skins in the playoffs, but when Clinton Portis is healthy, offensive coordinator Al Saunders can absolutely bludgeon opponents with his 700-page playbook. Brunell went from awful to awesome early last season and appears to be on that track again. He still doesn't throw the ball deep with much authority, but most of the plays seem to get the ball into the hands of playmakers like Portis, Santana Moss and Chris Cooley, on the move which is a scary prospect the opposition.
You have to be worried about a defense that gives up 30 to the Jaguars, but the Jags had faced some tough D in their first three games (Dallas, Pittsburgh, and Indianapolis). The Skins go to New York and Indy over the next three weeks; if they can steal a win on one of those trips, they'll have two weeks of huge hype with a bye leading up to Dallas. Then we can talk playoffs.
I got a personal, if not up-close, look at the Ravens last weekend when I took my boys to see the hometown team against the Chargers. Last year, we went to the last home game, a lackluster win over the Texans that was an appropriate end to a disappointing season. We had fun, and I cheered the good plays, but mostly watched politely and kept an eye and ear out for knuckleheaded fans that would cause problems. Mercifully there were very few.
This year, the atmosphere had changed 180 degrees. As I wrote two weeks ago, the arrival of Steve McNair and two wins to open the season has jacked expectations way up. Throw in a visit from undefeated San Diego, with superback LaDanian Tomlinson, and you've got a little excitement in M&T Bank Stadium. The crowd was large and loud as Ray Lewis brought back his dancing entry during pregame introductions, but the Chargers took the opening kickoff and moved their no-huddle offense 70 yards down the field for a touchdown. The Ravens evened the score later in the quarter after a Bart Scott interception gave them the ball at San Diego's 22, but the offense fell silent while the Chargers notched two more field goals before the half to take a 13-7 lead.
The beginning of the third quarter offered no relief as Baltimore went three and out. Fans began to grumble as the announcer continually intoned, "Jamal Lewis carries; gain of two." You know it's bad when the largest ovation of the day is for a hit the punter makes to tackle a return man.
On their next possession, the Ravens seemed to get untracked with a nice play from McNair to tight end and fan favorite Todd Heap on a crossing pattern that brought them into San Diego territory for the first time since early in the second quarter. Unfortunately, head coach Brian Billick decided to get fancy with a shovel pass on second and goal from the two. The pass was complete but fumbled by Daniel Wilcox, and the fans let Billick know that his offensive genius was offensive indeed.
Meanwhile Baltimore's defense continued to hold the Chargers in check. San Diego cooperated by missing a 40-yard field goal and botching the snap on another, but hadn't really threatened the end zone since the opening drive. Tomlinson had one big gain (29 yards) in the third quarter but more often found himself in the arms of Scott (15 tackles) and Ray Lewis (14). Lewis may have lost a step, but he still hits like a Hummer, and you never see a ballcarrier squirm or lean for an extra yard or two after contact. The Ravens had no sacks until the last play of the game but QB Philip Rivers never looked confident either.
Thanks to the defense, the Ravens got the ball back at their own 34 with less than eight minutes to play, still trailing by seven. Three Lewis carries later, the punt team trotted onto the field and the boos descended on Billick. Now I know why the vendors take the caps off the bottled water when you buy them (they are less likely to remain full and become lethal projectiles).
Let me just say that the boobirds were way off on this one. Yes, it's frustrating that your record-setting running back gets stopped on third and one, but do you really want to try it again and risk giving the ball back on your own 40? And considering that McNair had just thrown his second INT of the day, can you really blame Billick for calling running plays, especially when the first down play went for six yards? And finally, the defense is pitching a shutout in the second half, so, yes, you punt the ball in this situation.
Easy to say in hindsight, I guess, because San Diego fell apart with a couple penalties and eventually took a safety. Baltimore took over with three minutes to play, 60 yards from the end zone. At this point, I turned to my sons and said, "Well, this is why you get Steve McNair. He's got the experience in this situation." Next to us, a fan turned to his son and said, "They'll never do it." Negative Ned had also booed Billick's decision to punt and to run Lewis so frequently.
McNair proceeded to orchestrate what you would have to call a textbook two-minute drill. He completed three straight passes, threw in a 12 yard scramble, and, after throwing one away, zipped a bullet to Heap who spun and dove into the end zone with 16 seconds left.
Pandemonium! Jubilation! Ecstasy! Hugs and high fives for everyone around us! Except for Negative Ned, who says, "Now we gotta hold'em." Hold 'em? Really? That's your attitude? The defense has been holding them all day. There are 16 seconds left here. This game is over. Live a little!
The first Ravens' sack of the day closes the game and the high fives go around again. As fans march out of the stadium, cheers of "Four and OH!" and "HEEEAAAAPP!" erupt and echo in call and response.
The rumblings about a "special season" and comparisons to the 2001 Super Bowl team have already begun in the local media. The schedule gets a little tougher for the next few weeks, with a trip to Denver and a home game against Carolina leading in to the bye week. The Ravens defense has intimidated young quarterbacks thus far, and while the two Jakes (Plummer and Delhomme) are a cut above what they have faced, I still think this defense can really shake a team's confidence over the course of a game. McNair should get a little better, and they don't need much more than than that.
The Redskins and Mark Brunell legitimized their masterful performance a week earlier against the Houston Texans with an overtime win against Jacksonville. I'm not ready to put the Skins in the playoffs, but when Clinton Portis is healthy, offensive coordinator Al Saunders can absolutely bludgeon opponents with his 700-page playbook. Brunell went from awful to awesome early last season and appears to be on that track again. He still doesn't throw the ball deep with much authority, but most of the plays seem to get the ball into the hands of playmakers like Portis, Santana Moss and Chris Cooley, on the move which is a scary prospect the opposition.
You have to be worried about a defense that gives up 30 to the Jaguars, but the Jags had faced some tough D in their first three games (Dallas, Pittsburgh, and Indianapolis). The Skins go to New York and Indy over the next three weeks; if they can steal a win on one of those trips, they'll have two weeks of huge hype with a bye leading up to Dallas. Then we can talk playoffs.
I got a personal, if not up-close, look at the Ravens last weekend when I took my boys to see the hometown team against the Chargers. Last year, we went to the last home game, a lackluster win over the Texans that was an appropriate end to a disappointing season. We had fun, and I cheered the good plays, but mostly watched politely and kept an eye and ear out for knuckleheaded fans that would cause problems. Mercifully there were very few.
This year, the atmosphere had changed 180 degrees. As I wrote two weeks ago, the arrival of Steve McNair and two wins to open the season has jacked expectations way up. Throw in a visit from undefeated San Diego, with superback LaDanian Tomlinson, and you've got a little excitement in M&T Bank Stadium. The crowd was large and loud as Ray Lewis brought back his dancing entry during pregame introductions, but the Chargers took the opening kickoff and moved their no-huddle offense 70 yards down the field for a touchdown. The Ravens evened the score later in the quarter after a Bart Scott interception gave them the ball at San Diego's 22, but the offense fell silent while the Chargers notched two more field goals before the half to take a 13-7 lead.
The beginning of the third quarter offered no relief as Baltimore went three and out. Fans began to grumble as the announcer continually intoned, "Jamal Lewis carries; gain of two." You know it's bad when the largest ovation of the day is for a hit the punter makes to tackle a return man.
On their next possession, the Ravens seemed to get untracked with a nice play from McNair to tight end and fan favorite Todd Heap on a crossing pattern that brought them into San Diego territory for the first time since early in the second quarter. Unfortunately, head coach Brian Billick decided to get fancy with a shovel pass on second and goal from the two. The pass was complete but fumbled by Daniel Wilcox, and the fans let Billick know that his offensive genius was offensive indeed.
Meanwhile Baltimore's defense continued to hold the Chargers in check. San Diego cooperated by missing a 40-yard field goal and botching the snap on another, but hadn't really threatened the end zone since the opening drive. Tomlinson had one big gain (29 yards) in the third quarter but more often found himself in the arms of Scott (15 tackles) and Ray Lewis (14). Lewis may have lost a step, but he still hits like a Hummer, and you never see a ballcarrier squirm or lean for an extra yard or two after contact. The Ravens had no sacks until the last play of the game but QB Philip Rivers never looked confident either.
Thanks to the defense, the Ravens got the ball back at their own 34 with less than eight minutes to play, still trailing by seven. Three Lewis carries later, the punt team trotted onto the field and the boos descended on Billick. Now I know why the vendors take the caps off the bottled water when you buy them (they are less likely to remain full and become lethal projectiles).
Let me just say that the boobirds were way off on this one. Yes, it's frustrating that your record-setting running back gets stopped on third and one, but do you really want to try it again and risk giving the ball back on your own 40? And considering that McNair had just thrown his second INT of the day, can you really blame Billick for calling running plays, especially when the first down play went for six yards? And finally, the defense is pitching a shutout in the second half, so, yes, you punt the ball in this situation.
Easy to say in hindsight, I guess, because San Diego fell apart with a couple penalties and eventually took a safety. Baltimore took over with three minutes to play, 60 yards from the end zone. At this point, I turned to my sons and said, "Well, this is why you get Steve McNair. He's got the experience in this situation." Next to us, a fan turned to his son and said, "They'll never do it." Negative Ned had also booed Billick's decision to punt and to run Lewis so frequently.
McNair proceeded to orchestrate what you would have to call a textbook two-minute drill. He completed three straight passes, threw in a 12 yard scramble, and, after throwing one away, zipped a bullet to Heap who spun and dove into the end zone with 16 seconds left.
Pandemonium! Jubilation! Ecstasy! Hugs and high fives for everyone around us! Except for Negative Ned, who says, "Now we gotta hold'em." Hold 'em? Really? That's your attitude? The defense has been holding them all day. There are 16 seconds left here. This game is over. Live a little!
The first Ravens' sack of the day closes the game and the high fives go around again. As fans march out of the stadium, cheers of "Four and OH!" and "HEEEAAAAPP!" erupt and echo in call and response.
The rumblings about a "special season" and comparisons to the 2001 Super Bowl team have already begun in the local media. The schedule gets a little tougher for the next few weeks, with a trip to Denver and a home game against Carolina leading in to the bye week. The Ravens defense has intimidated young quarterbacks thus far, and while the two Jakes (Plummer and Delhomme) are a cut above what they have faced, I still think this defense can really shake a team's confidence over the course of a game. McNair should get a little better, and they don't need much more than than that.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Smart TV - Part Two
I bought the hype, took the bait, and last night at 10:00 E.S.T., tuned in to the new Aaron Sorkin show, "Saturday Night West Wing." I know, I know, it's called "Studio 60 Live on the Sunset Strip," but that title is so cumbersome. For those who haven't been tracking the new fall TV season like the arrival of the Mackinaw peaches, "S60LotSS" (it doesn't even acronym well) is one of two shows on NBC this fall that offer a behind-the-scenes look at a fictional show that bears a strong resemblance to "Saturday Night Live."
I have always liked Sorkin's movies (A Few Good Men, The American President, Malice) and his TV shows (Sports Night, West Wing). If he gets a little preachy, that's okay with me because I often share his political perspective. He's generally willing to take on serious topics with intelligent characters and dialogue, even if he tends to pat himself on the back at times. The West Wing Christmas episode where the homeless veteran is given an honor guard funeral at Arlington Cemetery remains one of my favorite hours of television.
"Studio 60" is replete with familiar Sorkin touches. The credits appear in the same typeface as the West Wing, and we often hear conversation snippets or background noise before the camera lets us in on the visual action. The dialogue is snappy, with actors saying lots of things most of us would only think of hours or days after the initial conversation.
I found a lot to like in the pilot. Sorkin's topic is going to be modern broadcast television and he secured the services of some well-known TV heavyweights to open big. Judd Hirsch is the show's producer, who delivers a Howard Bealesque on-air diatribe that sets the tone and gets him fired. Ed Asner appears briefly as the CEO of the network's corporate parent. And Timothy Busfield plays the control room director who allows Hirsch's tirade to stay on the air for nearly a minute, against the hysterical protestations of the network's "Standards and Protocols" suit. Okay, if you're keeping score, that's representation from "Taxi," "Mary Tyler Moore," and "Thirtysomething" in the first ten minutes of a show about the quality of broadcast television. Well played, Mr. Sorkin, well played.
The bulk of the acting load was carried by Amanda Peet as the new network President, Stephen Weber as her boss, and Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry as the writing and directing duo Peet decides to bring back to the show to replace Hirsch. To my surprise, Perry gave the best performance of these four. He had a few Chandler Bing moments, but not so many to overwhelm his character. Whitford, on the other hand, still seemed to be hitting all his Josh Lyman marks; I half-expected him to scream out, "Donna!" every time he entered a room. (Note to Wardrobe: Try putting Whitford in something other than a dark suit if you want us to forget he played a high-powered Washington political operative just last season). Weber's character was too one-dimensional to offer much, and Peet could be in trouble if she ever has to do any but smile pretty between clever lines.
Except for the Hirsch meltdown, we saw none of the show itself in the pilot. Instead, Sorkin used the hour to introduce the characters and establish some of the history, including a failed relationship between Perry and one of the show's stars, played by Sarah Paulson. The Perry and Whitford friendship came off well, and, not suprisingly, Sorkin's writing for Whitford's character's confession of a cocaine relapse rang quite true.
Lots of nice details fill out the shape of show, including the cloud of marijuana smoke in the Three 6 Mafia dressing room and the caste system of star power within the show's cast. And the deconstruction of the demise of Perry and Paulson's couplehood shows that even in Hollywood, you still have "to be there" for your significant other, even if "there" is a red carpet at a premiere or a CD release publicity junket.
While Paulson does a nice job with her character whether she's putting a minor cast member in his place or immediately reengaging Perry in a bitter rehash of their breakup, I'm not quite sold on her character also being a Christian spiritual music recording artist. Maybe it's not such a big deal but we are made to believe it is important in the plot of the pilot episode. The sordid personality traits of the various characters are plausible, but isn't it ironic that her wholesome side is the hard pill to swallow? Then again, Sorkin put a religious Democrat in the White House and a non-churchgoing Republican presidential candidate on the campaign trail, so I guess anything is possible.
So, while I don't think we'll see Sinead O'Connor tearing up any pictures of the pope or even Father Guido Sarducci promoting "Popes in the Pizza," I do think this one is worth at least a second look.
I have always liked Sorkin's movies (A Few Good Men, The American President, Malice) and his TV shows (Sports Night, West Wing). If he gets a little preachy, that's okay with me because I often share his political perspective. He's generally willing to take on serious topics with intelligent characters and dialogue, even if he tends to pat himself on the back at times. The West Wing Christmas episode where the homeless veteran is given an honor guard funeral at Arlington Cemetery remains one of my favorite hours of television.
"Studio 60" is replete with familiar Sorkin touches. The credits appear in the same typeface as the West Wing, and we often hear conversation snippets or background noise before the camera lets us in on the visual action. The dialogue is snappy, with actors saying lots of things most of us would only think of hours or days after the initial conversation.
I found a lot to like in the pilot. Sorkin's topic is going to be modern broadcast television and he secured the services of some well-known TV heavyweights to open big. Judd Hirsch is the show's producer, who delivers a Howard Bealesque on-air diatribe that sets the tone and gets him fired. Ed Asner appears briefly as the CEO of the network's corporate parent. And Timothy Busfield plays the control room director who allows Hirsch's tirade to stay on the air for nearly a minute, against the hysterical protestations of the network's "Standards and Protocols" suit. Okay, if you're keeping score, that's representation from "Taxi," "Mary Tyler Moore," and "Thirtysomething" in the first ten minutes of a show about the quality of broadcast television. Well played, Mr. Sorkin, well played.
The bulk of the acting load was carried by Amanda Peet as the new network President, Stephen Weber as her boss, and Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry as the writing and directing duo Peet decides to bring back to the show to replace Hirsch. To my surprise, Perry gave the best performance of these four. He had a few Chandler Bing moments, but not so many to overwhelm his character. Whitford, on the other hand, still seemed to be hitting all his Josh Lyman marks; I half-expected him to scream out, "Donna!" every time he entered a room. (Note to Wardrobe: Try putting Whitford in something other than a dark suit if you want us to forget he played a high-powered Washington political operative just last season). Weber's character was too one-dimensional to offer much, and Peet could be in trouble if she ever has to do any but smile pretty between clever lines.
Except for the Hirsch meltdown, we saw none of the show itself in the pilot. Instead, Sorkin used the hour to introduce the characters and establish some of the history, including a failed relationship between Perry and one of the show's stars, played by Sarah Paulson. The Perry and Whitford friendship came off well, and, not suprisingly, Sorkin's writing for Whitford's character's confession of a cocaine relapse rang quite true.
Lots of nice details fill out the shape of show, including the cloud of marijuana smoke in the Three 6 Mafia dressing room and the caste system of star power within the show's cast. And the deconstruction of the demise of Perry and Paulson's couplehood shows that even in Hollywood, you still have "to be there" for your significant other, even if "there" is a red carpet at a premiere or a CD release publicity junket.
While Paulson does a nice job with her character whether she's putting a minor cast member in his place or immediately reengaging Perry in a bitter rehash of their breakup, I'm not quite sold on her character also being a Christian spiritual music recording artist. Maybe it's not such a big deal but we are made to believe it is important in the plot of the pilot episode. The sordid personality traits of the various characters are plausible, but isn't it ironic that her wholesome side is the hard pill to swallow? Then again, Sorkin put a religious Democrat in the White House and a non-churchgoing Republican presidential candidate on the campaign trail, so I guess anything is possible.
So, while I don't think we'll see Sinead O'Connor tearing up any pictures of the pope or even Father Guido Sarducci promoting "Popes in the Pizza," I do think this one is worth at least a second look.
Smart TV - Part One
It sounds to me like Tony Kornheiser is settling into his new role on Monday Night Football. During last night's Steelers-Jaguars game, Jags quarterback Byron Leftwich scrambled for a six-yard gain. After exclaiming that this was a rare event for Leftwich, Kornheiser went on to say that the QB had stated earlier that he might be the slowest black QB in the league, but he was no worse than tenth overall.
Play-by-play man Mike Tirico confirmed the quote and they went on to share a the humorous story in which Leftwich singled out his former teammate at Marshall University, Chad Pennington, who is white, as being slower than he. Most any other sports broadcaster would not have been able to handle this exchange and probably would have not used it at all for fear of saying something racially impolitic or offensive, but Kornheiser's daily arguments with Michael Wilbon on PTI touch on nearly any topic imaginable, including race.
This was a perfect example to those who questioned what TK would bring to the booth. Not only was he not afraid to bring it up, he was prepared and excited to do so. It's not X-and-O analysis, but it's football-related, it's funny, and it's candid. And in a game featuring two of the top teams in the league scoring zero touchdowns, ESPN should be thrilled to have somebody who can do more than diagram a zone blitz with sound effects.
Play-by-play man Mike Tirico confirmed the quote and they went on to share a the humorous story in which Leftwich singled out his former teammate at Marshall University, Chad Pennington, who is white, as being slower than he. Most any other sports broadcaster would not have been able to handle this exchange and probably would have not used it at all for fear of saying something racially impolitic or offensive, but Kornheiser's daily arguments with Michael Wilbon on PTI touch on nearly any topic imaginable, including race.
This was a perfect example to those who questioned what TK would bring to the booth. Not only was he not afraid to bring it up, he was prepared and excited to do so. It's not X-and-O analysis, but it's football-related, it's funny, and it's candid. And in a game featuring two of the top teams in the league scoring zero touchdowns, ESPN should be thrilled to have somebody who can do more than diagram a zone blitz with sound effects.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Raveskins Report
"No man can serve two masters."
- Matthew 6:24
Before NFL training camps started this summer, ESPN's power ratings ranked the Baltimore Ravens fifth and the Washington Redskins third. Two weeks onto the regular season, I think it's safe to say that the experts at the Worldwide Leader were half right. And while I am happy that the Ravens appear to be blowing up, as the kids like to say, my primary emotion for the Redskins is not anger, but sorrow.
I moved to Baltimore area 11 years ago but have clung to my Northern Virginia sports roots. Growing up outside Washington, D.C., I was a typical fan. I lived and died with the 'Skins, cheered the Bullets to their lone NBA Championship, and pretty much ignored the Capitals. One of my earliest childhood memories is of Mike Bass scoring Washington's only touchdown in Super Bowl VII, an intereception return after Miami placekicker Garo Yepremian tried to throw a pass on a botched field goal attempt; but I came of age in the glorious Joe Gibbs era, watching the Redskins won three Super Bowls. My blood ran burgundy and gold, and I will be a fan for life.
But the regime of Daniel Snyder has left my football faith shaking like old RFK Stadium in an NFC Championship Game. In a tragedy worthy of Sophocles, Snyder is the boy who grew up to realize the dream of owning his favorite sports team only to set it on a course for failure. From dumping Marty Schottenheimer for Steve Spurrier to signing multiple free agents long past their primes, Snyder has mismanaged his franchise like a perennially bottom-dwelling fantasy football owner (ironically, the market value of the franchise has skyrocketed since he took over). Even the moves that looked like they might work out ended up backfiring.
- Matthew 6:24
Before NFL training camps started this summer, ESPN's power ratings ranked the Baltimore Ravens fifth and the Washington Redskins third. Two weeks onto the regular season, I think it's safe to say that the experts at the Worldwide Leader were half right. And while I am happy that the Ravens appear to be blowing up, as the kids like to say, my primary emotion for the Redskins is not anger, but sorrow.
I moved to Baltimore area 11 years ago but have clung to my Northern Virginia sports roots. Growing up outside Washington, D.C., I was a typical fan. I lived and died with the 'Skins, cheered the Bullets to their lone NBA Championship, and pretty much ignored the Capitals. One of my earliest childhood memories is of Mike Bass scoring Washington's only touchdown in Super Bowl VII, an intereception return after Miami placekicker Garo Yepremian tried to throw a pass on a botched field goal attempt; but I came of age in the glorious Joe Gibbs era, watching the Redskins won three Super Bowls. My blood ran burgundy and gold, and I will be a fan for life.
But the regime of Daniel Snyder has left my football faith shaking like old RFK Stadium in an NFC Championship Game. In a tragedy worthy of Sophocles, Snyder is the boy who grew up to realize the dream of owning his favorite sports team only to set it on a course for failure. From dumping Marty Schottenheimer for Steve Spurrier to signing multiple free agents long past their primes, Snyder has mismanaged his franchise like a perennially bottom-dwelling fantasy football owner (ironically, the market value of the franchise has skyrocketed since he took over). Even the moves that looked like they might work out ended up backfiring.
And so, when he brought Joe Gibbs back to town last year, I did not rejoice as so many did. Indeed, my first thought was, "If this doesn't work, he must sell the team and will never be able to watch football again." Because if Gibbs fails, Snyder will have marred the greatest chapter in Washington sports history, and even if he finds success after Gibbs, he will never make up for the damage. This is not like Jerry Jones bouncing Tom Landry to make way for the Jimmy Johnson in Dallas. That was typical of the Darwinian nature of professional sports. This would be like Red Auerbach returning to the Celtics' bench and floundering in the middle of the league. It's unthinkable.
But that appears to be what will happen. When the Redskins visited Texas Stadium last season, Redskins QB Mark Brunell shocked the Cowboys with two astonishing touchdown passes in the final minutes of a Monday night game, setting the tone for a respectable season which carried over to high hopes for this one. And so, as the Redskins again struggled to find any kind of offense at Dallas on Sunday night, I harkened back to that unlikely miracle. But that's the thing about miracles, you're not allowed to expect them, they have to catch you by surprise. With no miracle, the Redskins are now 0-2 in what some think is the league's toughest division. Clinton Portis is hurt, Brunell has no one's confidence, and the defense that kept the Redskins in so many games appears to be vulnerable. I know they rallied to make the playoffs after a slow start last season, but my inner classicist tells me that this tragedy will only end when Daniel Snyder blinds himself with his Redskins belt buckle.
On the other end of the pigskin spectrum, I find the Ravens, and a slowly growing affinity. I was not an instant fan when they came to town in 1996, not like the legions of hungry Colts' fans who had been licking their wounds since Bob Irsay hijacked their treasured franchise to Indianapolis. I had my Redskins and didn't need another team to root for. I cheered for them when they won the Super Bowl, mainly because it came against the hated Giants, but still they were not my team.
But having children changes everything, even your sports allegiances. My sons are surrounded by Ravens fans and Ravens propaganda. We have been to a Ravens training camp and last season we went to a game. So, like my father before me, who left the Knicks for the Bullets, I find myself more and more interested in the prospects of the local team.
And they play a style of defense-first, grind-it-out offense that I like, and while many pillory Brian Billick for the ineptitude of his offensive game plan, I really don't mind it. For all his record-breaking performances, Peyton Manning has yet to get to the Super Bowl (he has, however, run roughshod over the league in commercial endorsements).
This year's Ravens team is intriguing. The defense is still at the heart of its success, even though Marvin Lewis left years ago. And while Ray Lewis is only the third-best linebacker, he remains the public face of the team, the guy the cameras go to even as Ed Reed, Adalius Thomas and Bart Scott make the big plays
(In fairness, Lewis still gets it done sometimes; his fourth quarter sack of Tampa Bay's Chris Simms will stay with the young QB for quite some time. The camera from the backfield captured the play perfectly: one moment Simms was calmly looking at a wall of protection from his offensive linemen, trying to read the defense, and in the next instant, Lewis was roaring up the middle, leaving no time for Simms to do anything but fetalize.)
The signing of Steve McNair this summer energized the hopes of Ravens fans, but the first two games have shown that McNair is not going to change the way this team wins. They shut out Tampa Bay and held Oakland to six points. The offense has been inconsistent in almost every aspect; the line has been just okay, Jamal Lewis still looks tentative at times and McNair's throws are more out-of-sync than I had expected. But the defense has devoured ts opponents. Of course it helps when the other team fumbles two snaps from center in the first quarter, as the Raiders' Aaron Brooks did on Sunday. The Ravens first three possessions began inside the Raiders 40 and they came away with three field goals. At some point, that's more pressure than a defense can handle.
I'll be tracking both teams closely from here on out, the Ravens because I think they might be for real this year, the Redskins because, hey, they are still my team.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Anniversary
This morning began quite normally. The walk with the dog was cut short by rain, but by the time I came home, showered, and dressed, the Doc was out the door and the boys were awake and getting ready for breakfast and school. By 9:00, they were on the bus, and I was back in the house, just like any other Monday during the school year.
And so it was five years ago today. I had dropped the boys at daycare and driven to my office, arriving at about 9:00. I saw a colleague in the parking lot; he was a transplanted New Yorker, and we talked briefly about the news on the radio that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. It took only a few minutes to get from there to my office, but in that time, what first seemed just another odd bit of news on an average day became the first of several cataclysmic events that continue to have an enormous impact on the world.
I knew two people who died that day: Steve Jacoby, who was on the plane that crashed into the Pentagon; and Matt O'Mahony, who worked for Cantor Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center. I knew them peripherally, through professional relationships, but they were close friends of people I consider friends. I had met Matt once, when I was working at Johns Hopkins. He was an alumnus and had played varsity basketball, so I sat with him for a few minutes at his desk, 105 floors above Manhattan. He was just as gregarious as his friends had said he would be, reminiscing about his days at JHU.
Matt's best friend and former basketball teammate, Glen Wall, also died that day. Early in 2002, I helped several of their friends organize a tribute dinner and memorial fund at Hopkins. We had a halftime ceremony at a basketball game, where we presented the families with framed photos, and the crowd rose to their feet for a long standing ovation. That night, friends and family spoke fondly and emotionally of both men at the dinner. The basketball team locker room is named for Matt and Glen, and each year the University awards a scholarship in their name from the memorial fund.
I wasn't sure whether to write about any of this today. For many people, the pain is still difficult and the annual media hype must feel invasive and exploitative. But I also know that I learned a lot about friendship from Matt and Glen's friends, and I know that some of what we did and continue to do in their memory helps to heal the pain. Two years ago, I brought my boys to the annual basketball game and reception.
After the bus took my sons to school this morning, I joined them for an assembly and "Freedom Walk." We gathered in the gym, and one of the teachers introduced her husband, a soldier who had recently returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. The students had sent letters and packages while he was there, and he introduced another member of his team and thanked the students for their support. After his brief remarks, the teacher introduced several members of the local volunteer fire department. Led by the soldiers carrying an American flag, we all then marched in a parade around the school grounds. Most of the children wore red, white and blue, and many waved small flags as they walked.
My boys are too young to really remember 9/11, and we sheltered them from it, just as we protect them from other harsh realities until we think they are ready. The best I can do at this point is try to get them to understand how personal this is, that the people who died had had families and friends just like we do, and so do the people who are trying to protect us. And tomorrow, I will take my sons with me when I go to vote in the primary.
And so it was five years ago today. I had dropped the boys at daycare and driven to my office, arriving at about 9:00. I saw a colleague in the parking lot; he was a transplanted New Yorker, and we talked briefly about the news on the radio that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. It took only a few minutes to get from there to my office, but in that time, what first seemed just another odd bit of news on an average day became the first of several cataclysmic events that continue to have an enormous impact on the world.
I knew two people who died that day: Steve Jacoby, who was on the plane that crashed into the Pentagon; and Matt O'Mahony, who worked for Cantor Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center. I knew them peripherally, through professional relationships, but they were close friends of people I consider friends. I had met Matt once, when I was working at Johns Hopkins. He was an alumnus and had played varsity basketball, so I sat with him for a few minutes at his desk, 105 floors above Manhattan. He was just as gregarious as his friends had said he would be, reminiscing about his days at JHU.
Matt's best friend and former basketball teammate, Glen Wall, also died that day. Early in 2002, I helped several of their friends organize a tribute dinner and memorial fund at Hopkins. We had a halftime ceremony at a basketball game, where we presented the families with framed photos, and the crowd rose to their feet for a long standing ovation. That night, friends and family spoke fondly and emotionally of both men at the dinner. The basketball team locker room is named for Matt and Glen, and each year the University awards a scholarship in their name from the memorial fund.
I wasn't sure whether to write about any of this today. For many people, the pain is still difficult and the annual media hype must feel invasive and exploitative. But I also know that I learned a lot about friendship from Matt and Glen's friends, and I know that some of what we did and continue to do in their memory helps to heal the pain. Two years ago, I brought my boys to the annual basketball game and reception.
After the bus took my sons to school this morning, I joined them for an assembly and "Freedom Walk." We gathered in the gym, and one of the teachers introduced her husband, a soldier who had recently returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. The students had sent letters and packages while he was there, and he introduced another member of his team and thanked the students for their support. After his brief remarks, the teacher introduced several members of the local volunteer fire department. Led by the soldiers carrying an American flag, we all then marched in a parade around the school grounds. Most of the children wore red, white and blue, and many waved small flags as they walked.
My boys are too young to really remember 9/11, and we sheltered them from it, just as we protect them from other harsh realities until we think they are ready. The best I can do at this point is try to get them to understand how personal this is, that the people who died had had families and friends just like we do, and so do the people who are trying to protect us. And tomorrow, I will take my sons with me when I go to vote in the primary.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
FitzFilm Festival
An unplanned FitzFilm Festival over the weekend took an unexpected and ironic thematic turn. We started with "Capote" on Saturday night. This was my choice, and the Doc drifted in and out of sleep as I watched Philip Seymour Hoffman show his Oscar-winning form. Great movie, beautifully filmed, and somewhat troubling to those of us who harbor a writer's aspirations. Brillliant writer publishes an astonishing work in an entirely new genre and achieves fame and celebrity of a level he has always dreamed. Over the next twenty years, he never finishes another book and slowly drinks himself to death. "Isn't there something else you could do?" the Doc asks as we get ready to go to sleep.
The next night, the Doc selects "The Weather Man," starring Nicholas Cage, Hope Davis and Michael Caine. Maybe it's not on your must see list, but I have liked Cage since "Raising Arizona" and the Doc's affection for him goes all the back to "Valley Girl." So, here again we find a protagonist on the cusp of greatness in his field; Cage's character is on the short list for weatherman on a national morning show hosted by Bryant Gumbel, cleverly titled "Hello America." So that's wonderful, except that his marriage is over, his teenage kids are struggling, people keep pelting him with fast food leftovers, and his father (Caine), winner of both a Pulitzer and a National Book Award, is dying.
(Let me just stray here a moment to say that it would be nice to see Hope Davis in a happy marriage just once. "The Secret Lives of Dentists" - husband thinks she's cheating on him. "The Matador" - child dies and a tree crashes though her house. "About Schmidt" - marries a big loser. Okay, she's happy with Harvey Pekar in "American Splendor," but in almost all her other movies, she embodies angst or agony. Very odd for a woman named Hope)
So back to "The Weather Man." Is splitting the title into three words supposed to make us think he's some sort of superhero? Cage has tried to follow his father's path to success, but the one novel he labored to finish is terrible, even his wife hated it, and every step he tries to take forward becomes a stumble in the wrong direction. He finally ponders homicide as a solution, but the film's lighter moments don't let us take this seriously. In the end he trashes the novel, takes the national job, lets his marriage go, buries his father and reconnects with his kids. Oh, and carries a bow and arrow around New York City, which seems to ward off the food throwers.
So the inspiring message to writers is what? Don't try to be a writer? It will destroy your family and make you feel worthless? Caine dismisses writing as "Just something I'm good at because I've had a lot of practice." So Cage embraces his role as a grossly overcompensated TV clown who brings pleasure to millions. Maybe it's because I don't watch morning news shows, but I found the plot resolution pretty annoying.
Moving from Oscar nominated fare to forgettable to largely unknown, the Doc picked out "Winter Passing," with Zooey Deschanel as a young stage actress in New York City who is estranged from her father, a former National Book Award winner who hasn't published anything for seven years. Hmm. Note for the future: movies advertised as quirky and offbeat are usually not sidesplitters. So poor Zooey's doing okay as an actress, but she's got some real problems with men and cocaine, and when she goes home to Michigan to try to find some of her parents' love letters to sell to a publishing house, she finds that her dad (Ed Miller), who's an old school academic radical, has gone loopy. How loopy? He has moved into the garage, although sometimes he sleeps in the backyard, where all his bedroom furniture is, because the bedroom is where he plays golf. Will Ferrell plays his live-in caddie, handyman, and bodyguard (asking Zooey for some ID before he will let her into the house), and Amelia Warner handles the cooking, cleaning and grocery shopping, including a steady supply of bourbon for Miller. The acting is fine, except for Ferrell, whose celebrity prevents him from contributing quietly. But the story ends wrapped in a tidy bow as Zooey easily kicks the coke, starts jogging and makes friends with her dad's pals. She also comes to terms with her mother's suicide, saves her father from the same fate, and decides not to publish the letters. And when she returns to New York, she gets the role she auditioned for, and the nice boy brings her flowers on opening night.
Now, this final installment of the festival worked out better for the writer character (first of all, he lives, and, it appears, happily), but, the fantasy ending reminds me of the John Grisham novels where the protagonists live out their days on a sunny tropical beach without a care. It turns out "Winter Passing" is writer and director Adam Rapp's first effort as a filmmaker. His film credits heretofor are as a "Creative Consultant" on "The L Word," but he has published numerous plays and novels for young adults. So, he writes novels for kids, TV dramas about lesbians, and this movie appeals to which of those audiences? It's actually a nicely filmed movie, but even before I checked Rapp's resume, I thought he needed to grow up. I just pity the poor kid who's read this guy's books, sees Deschanel and Ferrell on the cover and grabs what he thinks will a be a hip reteaming of the successful duo from "Elf."
So, I think we'll take a little break from the movie rentals, at least until I find out if there are any writers in "King Kong."
The next night, the Doc selects "The Weather Man," starring Nicholas Cage, Hope Davis and Michael Caine. Maybe it's not on your must see list, but I have liked Cage since "Raising Arizona" and the Doc's affection for him goes all the back to "Valley Girl." So, here again we find a protagonist on the cusp of greatness in his field; Cage's character is on the short list for weatherman on a national morning show hosted by Bryant Gumbel, cleverly titled "Hello America." So that's wonderful, except that his marriage is over, his teenage kids are struggling, people keep pelting him with fast food leftovers, and his father (Caine), winner of both a Pulitzer and a National Book Award, is dying.
(Let me just stray here a moment to say that it would be nice to see Hope Davis in a happy marriage just once. "The Secret Lives of Dentists" - husband thinks she's cheating on him. "The Matador" - child dies and a tree crashes though her house. "About Schmidt" - marries a big loser. Okay, she's happy with Harvey Pekar in "American Splendor," but in almost all her other movies, she embodies angst or agony. Very odd for a woman named Hope)
So back to "The Weather Man." Is splitting the title into three words supposed to make us think he's some sort of superhero? Cage has tried to follow his father's path to success, but the one novel he labored to finish is terrible, even his wife hated it, and every step he tries to take forward becomes a stumble in the wrong direction. He finally ponders homicide as a solution, but the film's lighter moments don't let us take this seriously. In the end he trashes the novel, takes the national job, lets his marriage go, buries his father and reconnects with his kids. Oh, and carries a bow and arrow around New York City, which seems to ward off the food throwers.
So the inspiring message to writers is what? Don't try to be a writer? It will destroy your family and make you feel worthless? Caine dismisses writing as "Just something I'm good at because I've had a lot of practice." So Cage embraces his role as a grossly overcompensated TV clown who brings pleasure to millions. Maybe it's because I don't watch morning news shows, but I found the plot resolution pretty annoying.
Moving from Oscar nominated fare to forgettable to largely unknown, the Doc picked out "Winter Passing," with Zooey Deschanel as a young stage actress in New York City who is estranged from her father, a former National Book Award winner who hasn't published anything for seven years. Hmm. Note for the future: movies advertised as quirky and offbeat are usually not sidesplitters. So poor Zooey's doing okay as an actress, but she's got some real problems with men and cocaine, and when she goes home to Michigan to try to find some of her parents' love letters to sell to a publishing house, she finds that her dad (Ed Miller), who's an old school academic radical, has gone loopy. How loopy? He has moved into the garage, although sometimes he sleeps in the backyard, where all his bedroom furniture is, because the bedroom is where he plays golf. Will Ferrell plays his live-in caddie, handyman, and bodyguard (asking Zooey for some ID before he will let her into the house), and Amelia Warner handles the cooking, cleaning and grocery shopping, including a steady supply of bourbon for Miller. The acting is fine, except for Ferrell, whose celebrity prevents him from contributing quietly. But the story ends wrapped in a tidy bow as Zooey easily kicks the coke, starts jogging and makes friends with her dad's pals. She also comes to terms with her mother's suicide, saves her father from the same fate, and decides not to publish the letters. And when she returns to New York, she gets the role she auditioned for, and the nice boy brings her flowers on opening night.
Now, this final installment of the festival worked out better for the writer character (first of all, he lives, and, it appears, happily), but, the fantasy ending reminds me of the John Grisham novels where the protagonists live out their days on a sunny tropical beach without a care. It turns out "Winter Passing" is writer and director Adam Rapp's first effort as a filmmaker. His film credits heretofor are as a "Creative Consultant" on "The L Word," but he has published numerous plays and novels for young adults. So, he writes novels for kids, TV dramas about lesbians, and this movie appeals to which of those audiences? It's actually a nicely filmed movie, but even before I checked Rapp's resume, I thought he needed to grow up. I just pity the poor kid who's read this guy's books, sees Deschanel and Ferrell on the cover and grabs what he thinks will a be a hip reteaming of the successful duo from "Elf."
So, I think we'll take a little break from the movie rentals, at least until I find out if there are any writers in "King Kong."
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
September Morn
Just a couple quick notes for this morning before I tackle a larger topic.
Jonesing
The writer Edward P. Jones has a new collection of short stories out, titled All Aunt Hagar's Children. I've seen and heard some of what serves as the publicity blitz for this lesser known fiction writer, including a review in the Baltimore Sun by a Chicago Tribune writer and a long interview on NPR. Jones won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, The Known World, but I have always enjoyed his stories, which are almost always about the everyday life of African-American residents of Washington, D.C. Anyone who has lived in Washington long enough to appreciate that the city is made up of much more than a power struggle for the federal government will enjoy reading Jones' work.
Rodin, Renoir, Rocky?
Philadelphia has a lively debate going about the appropriate location for a statue of Rocky Balboa. Now, I, too, have run up the steps of the museum and done the shadowboxing Rocky dance at the top, but I tend to agree that this statue doesn't really deserve the company of great works of art. However, I would be interested to learn more about the cultural significance of the statues of Prometheus, John Paul Jones, and Lafayette that are displayed outside the musem. If none of those rise to the level of the works by Rodin and Renoir that are inside the museum, then I think there is room for Rocky.
Tiger wins again (yawn)
The somewhat blase reaction to Tiger Woods' fifth straight PGA Tour victory only puts into perspective how much his greatness no longer surprises us. He's not even halfway to Byron Nelson's record of 11 straight, a record that has DiMaggio hit-streak status in the golf world, but one more win would tie him for the second longest streak. Woods' own reaction? "It's nice when you get on a roll like this where things are just happening." You know, Tiger, for most of us, a nice roll is par-birdie-par, not five weeks of playing better than anyone on the planet.
Farewell to Andre
Jonesing
The writer Edward P. Jones has a new collection of short stories out, titled All Aunt Hagar's Children. I've seen and heard some of what serves as the publicity blitz for this lesser known fiction writer, including a review in the Baltimore Sun by a Chicago Tribune writer and a long interview on NPR. Jones won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, The Known World, but I have always enjoyed his stories, which are almost always about the everyday life of African-American residents of Washington, D.C. Anyone who has lived in Washington long enough to appreciate that the city is made up of much more than a power struggle for the federal government will enjoy reading Jones' work.
Rodin, Renoir, Rocky?
Philadelphia has a lively debate going about the appropriate location for a statue of Rocky Balboa. Now, I, too, have run up the steps of the museum and done the shadowboxing Rocky dance at the top, but I tend to agree that this statue doesn't really deserve the company of great works of art. However, I would be interested to learn more about the cultural significance of the statues of Prometheus, John Paul Jones, and Lafayette that are displayed outside the musem. If none of those rise to the level of the works by Rodin and Renoir that are inside the museum, then I think there is room for Rocky.
Tiger wins again (yawn)
The somewhat blase reaction to Tiger Woods' fifth straight PGA Tour victory only puts into perspective how much his greatness no longer surprises us. He's not even halfway to Byron Nelson's record of 11 straight, a record that has DiMaggio hit-streak status in the golf world, but one more win would tie him for the second longest streak. Woods' own reaction? "It's nice when you get on a roll like this where things are just happening." You know, Tiger, for most of us, a nice roll is par-birdie-par, not five weeks of playing better than anyone on the planet.
Farewell to Andre
Andre Agassi lost in the third round of the U.S Open. I doubt I'll watch another match in the tournament. When I was a kid, Grand Slam events were appointment television, but unless there is a dramatic storyline, it's hard for me to muster any interest.
Must Not See TV
Must Not See TV
Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin's death was apparently videotaped. I hope I never see this tape.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Tony too tentative
I have had some inquiries as to my impressions of Tony Kornheiser's performance in his role as the new third man in the booth on Monday Night Football. The short answer is that I really haven't seen enough to judge. Although I was an obsessed devotee of the TK Radio Show, I am not nearly as compulsive with regard to his writing in the Washington Post or his TV work on ESPN's PTI, and besides, it's preseason.
When Mr. Tony made his MNF debut, I was vacationing in a house with no cable TV access. During the second game, I joined my sons watching "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban." I finally tuned in last week to watch the Bengals make Brett Favre regret his decision to put off retirement one more year.
ESPN has apparently decided to include an email segment called, "Tony, Tony, Tony." While I was a frequently-read emailer of the radio show, I am afraid I don't like your chances of hearing from "Bill in Phoenix, MD" on MNF. I did send in a lame attempt at humor before the game, something about who would last longer, Favre, Carson Palmer or TK, but I honestly couldn't sit through the game long enough to see the email segment. Furthermore, the tone of Mr. Tony's Mailbag was irreverent, subversive and either extremely intelligent or extremely stupid, and I just don't associate those qualities with an NFL telecast.
Based on what I saw, this announcing team has a chance to work, but it depends more on Joe Theismann than Mr. Tony, and I am not sure Theismann is up to the task. Mike Trico is fine as a play-by-play man; he talks too much, but in the preseason there are a lot of unfamiliar players and he has tons of biographical info to dish out. Once we get into the regular season, there will be less of a need to hear about players struggling to make the squad, etc. There also seems to be a lot of sideline reporting, not a good thing as far as I am concerned. I also expect less of that once the season starts, as players and coaches will be less available during the games.
Now, Kornheiser is best when he is arguing a point, either making a case or pointing out the fallacies in someone else's. The hallmark of his radio show was the well-informed guest with whom he would banter, but not always argue. On MNF, Theismann and he will have to do this every week. He can't really argue with Tirico because Tirico usually just gives you names and numbers. So, Theismann's the guy.
During the Bengals game, Theismann kept saying how Carson Palmer would be more comfortable once he got some contact and really tested his surgically repaired knee, to which TK replied that actually, contact might make Palmer a little bit uncomfortable. Theismann wasn't really able to explain exactly what he meant ( and I think he had a valid point), he just repeated the same thing later. He also stated repeatedly that Favre knew this was going to be a difficult season but he knew things were going to get better. Mr. Tony responded, "Well, how does he know that?" If these kinds of exchanges can go one level further, if Theismann can be more eloquent and persuasive, then we might have something here. If not, then this is a one-season gig, just as Mr. Tony predicted when he signed on.
Now, again, I'd like to remind everyone that it is still the preseason. I mean, last night, my beloved Redskins played my adopted stepteam, the Ravens. I watched a few minutes. But just one channel up,Temple was playing Buffalo (coached by former Nebraska great Turner Gill) to a scoreless game deep into the fourth quarter. And the next channel up had Andre Agassi in a fabulous U.S. Open match on USA Network. And the next channel had "Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights" with Sela Ward and Diego Luna of "Y Tu Mama Tambien." So, as you can see, quality programming all the way up the dial.
I guess I'm not as football-crazy as some. This was actually the second time the Ravens played the Redskins this fall. The first game wasa scrimmage that drew 50,000 people. A scrimmage!
Now, about Andre Agassi. I am very surprised and disappointed in the New York Post today. Last night, Agassi defeated the much younger Marcos Baghdatis in a five set match that took nearly four hours to play. Like all aging champions, Agassi was a heavy crowd favorite, especially after he took the first two sets. Baghdatis rallied to make the match a classic, but I was counting on the Post to come up with one of its bombastic, tasteless headlines for the back page, punning on Baghdatis ("Agassi bombs Baghdatis," something along those lines). Of course, the match ended after midnight, so the out-of-town edition showed only a smiling Alex Rodriguez, who broke out of his slump to lead the Yankees over the Tigers. Checking the online version of the Post, they have updated the cover to feature Agassi, but just a boring, positive, uplifting headline. This is the rag that once featured the headline, " Headless body found in topless bar?"
When Mr. Tony made his MNF debut, I was vacationing in a house with no cable TV access. During the second game, I joined my sons watching "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban." I finally tuned in last week to watch the Bengals make Brett Favre regret his decision to put off retirement one more year.
ESPN has apparently decided to include an email segment called, "Tony, Tony, Tony." While I was a frequently-read emailer of the radio show, I am afraid I don't like your chances of hearing from "Bill in Phoenix, MD" on MNF. I did send in a lame attempt at humor before the game, something about who would last longer, Favre, Carson Palmer or TK, but I honestly couldn't sit through the game long enough to see the email segment. Furthermore, the tone of Mr. Tony's Mailbag was irreverent, subversive and either extremely intelligent or extremely stupid, and I just don't associate those qualities with an NFL telecast.
Based on what I saw, this announcing team has a chance to work, but it depends more on Joe Theismann than Mr. Tony, and I am not sure Theismann is up to the task. Mike Trico is fine as a play-by-play man; he talks too much, but in the preseason there are a lot of unfamiliar players and he has tons of biographical info to dish out. Once we get into the regular season, there will be less of a need to hear about players struggling to make the squad, etc. There also seems to be a lot of sideline reporting, not a good thing as far as I am concerned. I also expect less of that once the season starts, as players and coaches will be less available during the games.
Now, Kornheiser is best when he is arguing a point, either making a case or pointing out the fallacies in someone else's. The hallmark of his radio show was the well-informed guest with whom he would banter, but not always argue. On MNF, Theismann and he will have to do this every week. He can't really argue with Tirico because Tirico usually just gives you names and numbers. So, Theismann's the guy.
During the Bengals game, Theismann kept saying how Carson Palmer would be more comfortable once he got some contact and really tested his surgically repaired knee, to which TK replied that actually, contact might make Palmer a little bit uncomfortable. Theismann wasn't really able to explain exactly what he meant ( and I think he had a valid point), he just repeated the same thing later. He also stated repeatedly that Favre knew this was going to be a difficult season but he knew things were going to get better. Mr. Tony responded, "Well, how does he know that?" If these kinds of exchanges can go one level further, if Theismann can be more eloquent and persuasive, then we might have something here. If not, then this is a one-season gig, just as Mr. Tony predicted when he signed on.
Now, again, I'd like to remind everyone that it is still the preseason. I mean, last night, my beloved Redskins played my adopted stepteam, the Ravens. I watched a few minutes. But just one channel up,Temple was playing Buffalo (coached by former Nebraska great Turner Gill) to a scoreless game deep into the fourth quarter. And the next channel up had Andre Agassi in a fabulous U.S. Open match on USA Network. And the next channel had "Dirty Dancing, Havana Nights" with Sela Ward and Diego Luna of "Y Tu Mama Tambien." So, as you can see, quality programming all the way up the dial.
I guess I'm not as football-crazy as some. This was actually the second time the Ravens played the Redskins this fall. The first game wasa scrimmage that drew 50,000 people. A scrimmage!
Now, about Andre Agassi. I am very surprised and disappointed in the New York Post today. Last night, Agassi defeated the much younger Marcos Baghdatis in a five set match that took nearly four hours to play. Like all aging champions, Agassi was a heavy crowd favorite, especially after he took the first two sets. Baghdatis rallied to make the match a classic, but I was counting on the Post to come up with one of its bombastic, tasteless headlines for the back page, punning on Baghdatis ("Agassi bombs Baghdatis," something along those lines). Of course, the match ended after midnight, so the out-of-town edition showed only a smiling Alex Rodriguez, who broke out of his slump to lead the Yankees over the Tigers. Checking the online version of the Post, they have updated the cover to feature Agassi, but just a boring, positive, uplifting headline. This is the rag that once featured the headline, " Headless body found in topless bar?"
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Emmy Ante
I know the Emmy Awards are old news and probably have been for at least ten years now, but I noted a few items of of interest as I paused my channel surfing several times on Sunday night. Since it was the lowest rated Emmy show in years, you may not have been watching, so here's what you missed.
First, the presentation for Best Reality Show by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert was hilarious, lampooning reality shows, Hollywood and the huge, thin-skinned egos that lurk behind talk show desks. I stopped when I heard their names as the next presenters, and was rewarded by this clip. I laughed the first time and again the next night when I found it on Bravo, and every time I watch it on youtube, I laugh again. The bit at the end about Barry Manilow and Hugh Jackman had to have been added at the last minute because it reflected an award that had been presented earlier, but it's the funniest two minutes I've seen on television in a while.
The other segments that caught my attention were the tributes to Dick Clark and Aaron Spelling. Yes, Dick Clark looks terrible, but, hey, the guy had a stroke, give him a break. And somebody tell Simon Cowell to either wear a tie or one of those tight little T-shirts he dons for American Idol because the Austin Powers chest hair look is really not working (and I would know). Aside from that, I thought the whole thing came off as very sweet; the American Bandstand production number led by Barry Manilow fit right in and capped off a salute to an indisputably impressive body of work.
The Spelling tribute did not work nearly as well. Maybe it's because I find his work contemptible. No, I'm not going to pull a Jerry Seinfeld and deny ever watching Melrose Place, but I hate myself for doing it and I don't think a single person's life was enriched by any of his shows. Plenty of bank accounts, but that's about it. And the reunion of the original Charlie's Angels looked more awkward than David Lee Roth rejoining Van Halen on MTV a few years back. For supposedly professional actresses, Farrah Fawcett, Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson were awfully fidgety waiting for their turn to read from the teleprompter. Is it so hard to stand still and smile while the audience might for one moment be focusing on someone else? How 'bout a little Ritalin for the Angels next time, huh?
Speaking of short attention spans, that's all for now.
First, the presentation for Best Reality Show by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert was hilarious, lampooning reality shows, Hollywood and the huge, thin-skinned egos that lurk behind talk show desks. I stopped when I heard their names as the next presenters, and was rewarded by this clip. I laughed the first time and again the next night when I found it on Bravo, and every time I watch it on youtube, I laugh again. The bit at the end about Barry Manilow and Hugh Jackman had to have been added at the last minute because it reflected an award that had been presented earlier, but it's the funniest two minutes I've seen on television in a while.
The other segments that caught my attention were the tributes to Dick Clark and Aaron Spelling. Yes, Dick Clark looks terrible, but, hey, the guy had a stroke, give him a break. And somebody tell Simon Cowell to either wear a tie or one of those tight little T-shirts he dons for American Idol because the Austin Powers chest hair look is really not working (and I would know). Aside from that, I thought the whole thing came off as very sweet; the American Bandstand production number led by Barry Manilow fit right in and capped off a salute to an indisputably impressive body of work.
The Spelling tribute did not work nearly as well. Maybe it's because I find his work contemptible. No, I'm not going to pull a Jerry Seinfeld and deny ever watching Melrose Place, but I hate myself for doing it and I don't think a single person's life was enriched by any of his shows. Plenty of bank accounts, but that's about it. And the reunion of the original Charlie's Angels looked more awkward than David Lee Roth rejoining Van Halen on MTV a few years back. For supposedly professional actresses, Farrah Fawcett, Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson were awfully fidgety waiting for their turn to read from the teleprompter. Is it so hard to stand still and smile while the audience might for one moment be focusing on someone else? How 'bout a little Ritalin for the Angels next time, huh?
Speaking of short attention spans, that's all for now.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Aaand .... we're back!
That's your summer, folks! Once again, some of you may look at your calendar and say otherwise, but the boys went back to school Monday, and, for me, that means summer ... is ... over.
It was a busy one, as evidenced by the fresh coat of paint on their bedroom walls and the four (count 'em, four) blog posts since school ended. Looking back briefly at the projected activities for the season, I can happily declare that this summer was a success. And I'm not just standing in front of a banner on an aircraft carrier making this proclamation; I've got plenty of proof and wide consensus on the issue. In brief, here are the highlights:
Swim Team
The Summer Hill Stingrays had a smashing good season, and, in their debut, the Fitz boys made strides that I would not have dreamt possible at the first practice. From not being able to complete a 25-yard lap in any recognizable stroke to competing in all four strokes just a few weeks later, from wanting no part of the team to finishing second overall in the division in the 25-meter backstroke, this endeavor was a complete and total victory. There is no greater joy for a parent than watching your children learn and progress, and more than once, I caught my breath in my throat as I watched them glide through the water.
Basketball Camp
I should have learned by now not to underestimate Juan Dixon. The kid from Baltimore defied the detractors who said he was to small and slow to play in the ACC and went on to lead Maryland to the NCAA Championship and will begin his fourth season in the NBA in a few weeks. So I should have known better than to cynically suggest that his role as co-director of the Champions Basketball Camp at Loyola College would be limited to an hour lecture, a few jumpshots and photo ops. No, unlike many stars who attach themselves to camps in name only, Juan Dixon showed up every day and worked with the campers from start to finish. And on Friday, he sat at a table and signed every autograph and posed for every picture as requested. Kudos to Dixon and to his co-director, Loyola Head Coach Jimmy Patsos. We'll be going back for at least one session next summer.
Beach
Both the immediate and extended family versions of these trips were entertaining and enjoyable, if not exactly restful. For the 300+ mile trip to the Outer Banks, the Doc and I finally broke down and bought the portable DVD player for the boys to watch while we drove. The silence that greeted us as they donned their headsets and settled in was unfamiliar and eerie, almost exhilarating. It would appear that the days of counting out-of-state license plates, playing the "Alphabet Game" and searching for the magic pen for the "Yes and No" books are over.
Other
We found no time for zoos, monuments or amusement parks, and the only museum we took in was the Maryland Sports Legends Museum at Camden Yards (two thumbs up, hon'), but some part of summer has to be set aside just for hanging out. Now that it's over, I am left in silence every morning as what a friend once described as "that golden chariot" whisks the boys away to school. It's an invigorating quiet, sort of like the atmosphere in the car heading to the beach, except that I'm not going anywhere, there's nowhere I have to be (most days). So I guess I'll be here.
Tomorrow: The Emmys, Mr. Tony and Monday Night Football, "Rescue Me," and whatever else pops into my feeble brain.
It was a busy one, as evidenced by the fresh coat of paint on their bedroom walls and the four (count 'em, four) blog posts since school ended. Looking back briefly at the projected activities for the season, I can happily declare that this summer was a success. And I'm not just standing in front of a banner on an aircraft carrier making this proclamation; I've got plenty of proof and wide consensus on the issue. In brief, here are the highlights:
Swim Team
The Summer Hill Stingrays had a smashing good season, and, in their debut, the Fitz boys made strides that I would not have dreamt possible at the first practice. From not being able to complete a 25-yard lap in any recognizable stroke to competing in all four strokes just a few weeks later, from wanting no part of the team to finishing second overall in the division in the 25-meter backstroke, this endeavor was a complete and total victory. There is no greater joy for a parent than watching your children learn and progress, and more than once, I caught my breath in my throat as I watched them glide through the water.
Basketball Camp
I should have learned by now not to underestimate Juan Dixon. The kid from Baltimore defied the detractors who said he was to small and slow to play in the ACC and went on to lead Maryland to the NCAA Championship and will begin his fourth season in the NBA in a few weeks. So I should have known better than to cynically suggest that his role as co-director of the Champions Basketball Camp at Loyola College would be limited to an hour lecture, a few jumpshots and photo ops. No, unlike many stars who attach themselves to camps in name only, Juan Dixon showed up every day and worked with the campers from start to finish. And on Friday, he sat at a table and signed every autograph and posed for every picture as requested. Kudos to Dixon and to his co-director, Loyola Head Coach Jimmy Patsos. We'll be going back for at least one session next summer.
Beach
Both the immediate and extended family versions of these trips were entertaining and enjoyable, if not exactly restful. For the 300+ mile trip to the Outer Banks, the Doc and I finally broke down and bought the portable DVD player for the boys to watch while we drove. The silence that greeted us as they donned their headsets and settled in was unfamiliar and eerie, almost exhilarating. It would appear that the days of counting out-of-state license plates, playing the "Alphabet Game" and searching for the magic pen for the "Yes and No" books are over.
Other
We found no time for zoos, monuments or amusement parks, and the only museum we took in was the Maryland Sports Legends Museum at Camden Yards (two thumbs up, hon'), but some part of summer has to be set aside just for hanging out. Now that it's over, I am left in silence every morning as what a friend once described as "that golden chariot" whisks the boys away to school. It's an invigorating quiet, sort of like the atmosphere in the car heading to the beach, except that I'm not going anywhere, there's nowhere I have to be (most days). So I guess I'll be here.
Tomorrow: The Emmys, Mr. Tony and Monday Night Football, "Rescue Me," and whatever else pops into my feeble brain.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Realkritik
I received a slightly spammish email a few weeks ago from a fellow named Brandon with a marketing outfit called M80. Brandon noted my interest in the F/X network series "Rescue Me" in an earlier post and thought that I might be interested in a show his company was promoting, the new Showtime drama "Brotherhood." He also thought that my status as a "reputable influencer" would be a "big help" to M80. And if by big help, he means that I could make maybe two dozen people (on a good day) more aware of his show, then I salute his acumen. After a chuckle, I sent him my standard response that I didn't subscribe to Showtime or any other premium channel because if I did, I would never leave the house (of course the Internet has long since filled that void). Much to my surprise, Brandon offered to send me a DVD of the pilot episode, and, after I acquiesced, a package arrived a few days later with said DVD and a glossy press kit.
Contrary to my neighbor's suggestion that I write my review after seeing only part of the show, as I did with the Grammys and the Oscars, I sat down and watched from start to finish, with no distractions except when the dog alerted me to fellow canines that she heard in the show or neighbors walking by. The following is my first, and probably last, review for M80.
According to the press kit, "Brotherhood" is a modern take on Cain and Abel, set in a fictitious Irish neighborhood of Providence, Rhode Island, known as "The Hill." Tommy Caffee (Jason Clark) is a bright, young, successful State Representative and father of three who is not afraid to play political hardball to advance the prospects of himself and his district. Shortly after the opening credits, Tommy's older brother Michael (Jason Isaacs) returns to the Hill from a self-imposed, seven-year absence to escape the heat from an organized crime soldier and the FBI. Shortly after his return, Michael begins to reestablish himself as a man of the underworld with whom to be reckoned. Naturally, complications ensue.
If you find this plotline to be unreasonably cynical or farfetched, let me direct your attention to Wikipedia entries for former Providence mayor Buddy Cianci and Massachusetts' notorious brothers Bulger.
Okay, now that we have established some factual bases for the plot, what did I think of the show? Well, it's very ambitious, well acted, powerfully filmed and well-detailed, but overall, it lacks the balance of the shows I like, the light touches and the dark humor that allow me to laugh or catch a break from all the violence and melodrama. The show is not shy about using inflammatory language and evocative visuals, but I was not satisfied with the end result.
Take the opening scene. The camera fades in on an American flag waving in the foreground of a construction site cloaked in dust and exhaust. As the opening theme music lowers, we hear a profanity-laden argument between a local Irish mobster and an African-American construction worker that ends with one of them being bludgeoned to death with a shovel in view of the entire construction crew. This event plays a major role in getting the story going, but having it immediately follow the 9/11 imagery at the outset seems gratuitous.
As does the continual use of racial epithets. I'm not asking for politically correct gangsters, but did the writers really need to show us how many derogatory words people use to describe African-Americans? Yes, the characters are racists, I get it. But isn't it more likely that they would just spew forth their favorite slur rather than choose yet another variation? But I guess I shouldn't expect subtlety from a show that favors blunt objects as weapons of choice; in addition to the shovel, blows issue forth from a baseball bat and characters' faces are bashed against a bar and a car (but not with a mouse or in a house). In the future, look to see weaponized golf clubs, kayak paddles, or the old standby, tire irons.
The show has some nice subtleties, but more often I felt like the guy on the wrong end of the baseball bat. We know Rep. Caffee is a good family man because we see him walking his progeny home from Sunday dinner at his mother's, fixing the gate on his front walk, taking the training wheels off his daughter's bike, and reading to his girls at bedtime from "The Lives of the Saints." Come on, would it have killed them to let him read Strawberry Shortcake?
And then there are the accents. One of the things I loved about the show "Homicide" was that the characters never even attempted to imitate the rather distinct Baltimore accent. In "Brotherhood," an Irish-inflected New England accent seems to come and go and varies from character to character, but it really serves only to distract and detract. When Michael said that his brother must be "wicked pissed," I missed the next line because I was too busy looking for Adam Sandler or Jimmy Fallon to pop up onscreen.
So what did I like about the show? As I said above, the acting is very good, both the brothers and the supporting cast, even when they are hampered by ham-handed dialogue. Isaacs may be familiar to many as Lucius Malfoy from the Harry Potter series and Annabeth Gish as Tommy's wife Rose was a regular on the West Wing. Isaacs ably plays the charmer capable of extreme violence, as in the scene where he cuts off a rival's ear and later presents it, along with a pair of diamond studs, to a woman whose ear the man had injured. Sort of a Quentin Tarantino meets Vincent Van Gogh moment for the director.
According to the production notes, creator and executive producer Blake Masters (great porn name, by the way) began his film career working for Sam Raimi and Roger Corman, both of whom share a background of achievement in B-movies. Masters has put together a pretty good product, but, unlike his mentors, he doesn't seem to have had a lot of fun doing it.
Certain details were quite good, like the way Tommy's wife frowns when he fiddles with his tie after she has fixed it for him and pronounced it perfect. And at the wake for the slain gangster, mob boss Freddy Cork's car is parked right at the front door, just as it should be. And the small, matching triangle tattoos that the two brothers and Freddy have, although the latter's is missing a dot in the middle that the Caffees' have.
If you are wondering how all this will turn out, I think it helps to take note of cinematic underworld history. We have Michael, Tommy, and Freddy. No Sonny has emerged as of yet, but I have only seen the pilot episode. Anybody else think we might see Freddy saying some Hail Marys on an ill-fated fishing trip in the future?
"Brotherhood" neither sleeps with the fishes nor is it an offer I can't refuse. Look, if Pam Grier starring in "The L Word" couldn't get me to subscribe to Showtime, I really don't see how this show has a shot either, but if somebody sends me more episodes on DVD, sure, I'll take a look, and who knows, I might even pick up a copy when it shows up at Blockbuster just to find out what the deal is with those tattoos.
One death by shovel, two faces bashed into large stationary objects, one assault with baseball bat, one earring ripped from an ear, one severed ear, one simulated sexual act, one nekkid lady shown in silhouette, possible brief male frontal nudity (forgive me if I didn't rewind to check closely). Joe Bob says, "Check it out."
Contrary to my neighbor's suggestion that I write my review after seeing only part of the show, as I did with the Grammys and the Oscars, I sat down and watched from start to finish, with no distractions except when the dog alerted me to fellow canines that she heard in the show or neighbors walking by. The following is my first, and probably last, review for M80.
According to the press kit, "Brotherhood" is a modern take on Cain and Abel, set in a fictitious Irish neighborhood of Providence, Rhode Island, known as "The Hill." Tommy Caffee (Jason Clark) is a bright, young, successful State Representative and father of three who is not afraid to play political hardball to advance the prospects of himself and his district. Shortly after the opening credits, Tommy's older brother Michael (Jason Isaacs) returns to the Hill from a self-imposed, seven-year absence to escape the heat from an organized crime soldier and the FBI. Shortly after his return, Michael begins to reestablish himself as a man of the underworld with whom to be reckoned. Naturally, complications ensue.
If you find this plotline to be unreasonably cynical or farfetched, let me direct your attention to Wikipedia entries for former Providence mayor Buddy Cianci and Massachusetts' notorious brothers Bulger.
Okay, now that we have established some factual bases for the plot, what did I think of the show? Well, it's very ambitious, well acted, powerfully filmed and well-detailed, but overall, it lacks the balance of the shows I like, the light touches and the dark humor that allow me to laugh or catch a break from all the violence and melodrama. The show is not shy about using inflammatory language and evocative visuals, but I was not satisfied with the end result.
Take the opening scene. The camera fades in on an American flag waving in the foreground of a construction site cloaked in dust and exhaust. As the opening theme music lowers, we hear a profanity-laden argument between a local Irish mobster and an African-American construction worker that ends with one of them being bludgeoned to death with a shovel in view of the entire construction crew. This event plays a major role in getting the story going, but having it immediately follow the 9/11 imagery at the outset seems gratuitous.
As does the continual use of racial epithets. I'm not asking for politically correct gangsters, but did the writers really need to show us how many derogatory words people use to describe African-Americans? Yes, the characters are racists, I get it. But isn't it more likely that they would just spew forth their favorite slur rather than choose yet another variation? But I guess I shouldn't expect subtlety from a show that favors blunt objects as weapons of choice; in addition to the shovel, blows issue forth from a baseball bat and characters' faces are bashed against a bar and a car (but not with a mouse or in a house). In the future, look to see weaponized golf clubs, kayak paddles, or the old standby, tire irons.
The show has some nice subtleties, but more often I felt like the guy on the wrong end of the baseball bat. We know Rep. Caffee is a good family man because we see him walking his progeny home from Sunday dinner at his mother's, fixing the gate on his front walk, taking the training wheels off his daughter's bike, and reading to his girls at bedtime from "The Lives of the Saints." Come on, would it have killed them to let him read Strawberry Shortcake?
And then there are the accents. One of the things I loved about the show "Homicide" was that the characters never even attempted to imitate the rather distinct Baltimore accent. In "Brotherhood," an Irish-inflected New England accent seems to come and go and varies from character to character, but it really serves only to distract and detract. When Michael said that his brother must be "wicked pissed," I missed the next line because I was too busy looking for Adam Sandler or Jimmy Fallon to pop up onscreen.
So what did I like about the show? As I said above, the acting is very good, both the brothers and the supporting cast, even when they are hampered by ham-handed dialogue. Isaacs may be familiar to many as Lucius Malfoy from the Harry Potter series and Annabeth Gish as Tommy's wife Rose was a regular on the West Wing. Isaacs ably plays the charmer capable of extreme violence, as in the scene where he cuts off a rival's ear and later presents it, along with a pair of diamond studs, to a woman whose ear the man had injured. Sort of a Quentin Tarantino meets Vincent Van Gogh moment for the director.
According to the production notes, creator and executive producer Blake Masters (great porn name, by the way) began his film career working for Sam Raimi and Roger Corman, both of whom share a background of achievement in B-movies. Masters has put together a pretty good product, but, unlike his mentors, he doesn't seem to have had a lot of fun doing it.
Certain details were quite good, like the way Tommy's wife frowns when he fiddles with his tie after she has fixed it for him and pronounced it perfect. And at the wake for the slain gangster, mob boss Freddy Cork's car is parked right at the front door, just as it should be. And the small, matching triangle tattoos that the two brothers and Freddy have, although the latter's is missing a dot in the middle that the Caffees' have.
If you are wondering how all this will turn out, I think it helps to take note of cinematic underworld history. We have Michael, Tommy, and Freddy. No Sonny has emerged as of yet, but I have only seen the pilot episode. Anybody else think we might see Freddy saying some Hail Marys on an ill-fated fishing trip in the future?
"Brotherhood" neither sleeps with the fishes nor is it an offer I can't refuse. Look, if Pam Grier starring in "The L Word" couldn't get me to subscribe to Showtime, I really don't see how this show has a shot either, but if somebody sends me more episodes on DVD, sure, I'll take a look, and who knows, I might even pick up a copy when it shows up at Blockbuster just to find out what the deal is with those tattoos.
One death by shovel, two faces bashed into large stationary objects, one assault with baseball bat, one earring ripped from an ear, one severed ear, one simulated sexual act, one nekkid lady shown in silhouette, possible brief male frontal nudity (forgive me if I didn't rewind to check closely). Joe Bob says, "Check it out."
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Vacation Games
Have I mentioned before that my six-year old son is hypercompetitive? That no activity exists for which he cannot devise a way to keep score and declare a winner (usually himself)? If you ever saw his Putting Away the Clean Laundry Victory Dance, you would instantly understand. And so, as I dipped a tentative toe into the not quite temperate Atlantic Ocean on our recent vacation, I was not surprised to hear the following:
"Dad, let's play Jump the Waves! You have to jump over the waves with both feet. You have three lives. If you don't jump a wave, you die. If you die three times, you lose the game. Ready, Go!" It's a rare sentence of his that doesn't contain at least one word in italics.
In this spirit, I offer a recap of our vacation.
Miniature Golf
The old man successfully defended his number one ranking, winning both the Jungle Jim Invitational and the Aussie Down Under Open, although my older son made a charge at Jungle Jim's, winning the back nine. My Tigeresque domininance of this event could be on the wane.
Wiffle Ball Home Run Derby
This ended in a dead heat, with each boy crushing numerous homers, including one each onto the second-story decks of nearby beach houses. Fortunately the houses were occupied by Cubs fans, so they threw the balls back. As permanent pitcher, I picked up the bat only to take some exhibition swings.
Beach Paddle Ball
After losing a few games early in the week, Son #2 rallied to pass both his mother and his father to take the overall title. He may have had a slight advantage, since only he knew the exact rules and he was also keeping score. Frankly, I am shocked he lost any games at all.
Dog Walking
Big win for me here as Sweet Pea and I watched five sunrises over the Atlantic Ocean. My mother made a brief run with her dog Spice, but I took a decisive lead when I walked both dogs one morning. In many events, it comes down to who wants it more, and for some reason, I didn't get the feeling that the Doc and the boys had the desire it took to win this one.
Beach Reading
Normally a very strong event for me, but the older boy boldly staked his claim, finishing the last 150 pages of the fourth Harry Potter on the ride down and demanding that we buy the fifth when we got there. I did my best, plowing through "Ultramarathon Man" and going cover-to-cover in the latest "New Yorker," but it was never close.
Outlet Shopping
Like Lance Armstrong at the Tour de France, the Doc takes this one every year. My mom went along for the ride, but the yellow jersey always goes to my beautiful bride. She'll take another shot later this summer at the Outer Banks, but should be able to stay sharp with a strict online training regimen.
Board Games
Lots of competition in this event. No final results were available for "Racko," "Snapshots," or "Solitaire Frenzy," but there was a noticeable downward trend in tears and tantrums (not one board overturned). I took the traditional route to victory in the one game of "Risk" that we played, first securing Australia and South America, and steadily amassing enough troop strength to hold Africa and North America before sweeping through a weakly defended Asia and Europe. "Can't you play easy on me, Dad?" asked my younger boy. "I'm sorry, son," I replied, "But it says right there on the box,'The Game of Global Domination.'"
Jigsaw Puzzle
Another impressive win for the Doc here. Despite some pressure from Son #2 on his 100-piece Fantastic Four puzzle, the Doc displayed the focus and tenacity required to win with her completion of a 1,000-piece puzzle that had something to do with oversized objects in an old-fashioned general store (it didn't make any sense to me either). My mom and I stayed in the game long enough to finish the border, but we fell by the wayside shortly after the Doc moved a tall floor lamp to provide better lighting. It's very rare for a dog walker to win in this event, which held true to form.
Funland
Funland is, of course, the arcade at the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk. Many, many events took place here, too many to tally, so I'll just hit the high points. The Doc showed some fancy footwork in the "Dance Dance Revolution Game," I took home a tiny stuffed snake in Skeeball, and the boys redeemed enough tickets to get some baseball cards, plastic spiders, and candy. Not sure how you keep score in Bumper Cars, but a spinal injury count of zero certainly sounds nice.
Ice Cream
Competition was fierce and almost daily at a multitude of venues: Dairy Queen, TCBY, Royal Treat and Dumser's Dairy Land (since 1939). The Doc took top honors in the sprinkles (also known as jimmies) category, while the boys duked it out in Blizzards/Shivers all week long.
Human Carry
Another win for me here, as I lugged our slumbering baby boy up the stairs from the car on four different nights. This may be the last year of this event, as he just broke the 60-pound barrier.
So what was the final score for the week? Who went home with gold and whose dreams were shattered? Well, much as my younger son might protest, I think I would have to say we were all winners.
"Dad, let's play Jump the Waves! You have to jump over the waves with both feet. You have three lives. If you don't jump a wave, you die. If you die three times, you lose the game. Ready, Go!" It's a rare sentence of his that doesn't contain at least one word in italics.
In this spirit, I offer a recap of our vacation.
Miniature Golf
The old man successfully defended his number one ranking, winning both the Jungle Jim Invitational and the Aussie Down Under Open, although my older son made a charge at Jungle Jim's, winning the back nine. My Tigeresque domininance of this event could be on the wane.
Wiffle Ball Home Run Derby
This ended in a dead heat, with each boy crushing numerous homers, including one each onto the second-story decks of nearby beach houses. Fortunately the houses were occupied by Cubs fans, so they threw the balls back. As permanent pitcher, I picked up the bat only to take some exhibition swings.
Beach Paddle Ball
After losing a few games early in the week, Son #2 rallied to pass both his mother and his father to take the overall title. He may have had a slight advantage, since only he knew the exact rules and he was also keeping score. Frankly, I am shocked he lost any games at all.
Dog Walking
Big win for me here as Sweet Pea and I watched five sunrises over the Atlantic Ocean. My mother made a brief run with her dog Spice, but I took a decisive lead when I walked both dogs one morning. In many events, it comes down to who wants it more, and for some reason, I didn't get the feeling that the Doc and the boys had the desire it took to win this one.
Beach Reading
Normally a very strong event for me, but the older boy boldly staked his claim, finishing the last 150 pages of the fourth Harry Potter on the ride down and demanding that we buy the fifth when we got there. I did my best, plowing through "Ultramarathon Man" and going cover-to-cover in the latest "New Yorker," but it was never close.
Outlet Shopping
Like Lance Armstrong at the Tour de France, the Doc takes this one every year. My mom went along for the ride, but the yellow jersey always goes to my beautiful bride. She'll take another shot later this summer at the Outer Banks, but should be able to stay sharp with a strict online training regimen.
Board Games
Lots of competition in this event. No final results were available for "Racko," "Snapshots," or "Solitaire Frenzy," but there was a noticeable downward trend in tears and tantrums (not one board overturned). I took the traditional route to victory in the one game of "Risk" that we played, first securing Australia and South America, and steadily amassing enough troop strength to hold Africa and North America before sweeping through a weakly defended Asia and Europe. "Can't you play easy on me, Dad?" asked my younger boy. "I'm sorry, son," I replied, "But it says right there on the box,'The Game of Global Domination.'"
Jigsaw Puzzle
Another impressive win for the Doc here. Despite some pressure from Son #2 on his 100-piece Fantastic Four puzzle, the Doc displayed the focus and tenacity required to win with her completion of a 1,000-piece puzzle that had something to do with oversized objects in an old-fashioned general store (it didn't make any sense to me either). My mom and I stayed in the game long enough to finish the border, but we fell by the wayside shortly after the Doc moved a tall floor lamp to provide better lighting. It's very rare for a dog walker to win in this event, which held true to form.
Funland
Funland is, of course, the arcade at the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk. Many, many events took place here, too many to tally, so I'll just hit the high points. The Doc showed some fancy footwork in the "Dance Dance Revolution Game," I took home a tiny stuffed snake in Skeeball, and the boys redeemed enough tickets to get some baseball cards, plastic spiders, and candy. Not sure how you keep score in Bumper Cars, but a spinal injury count of zero certainly sounds nice.
Ice Cream
Competition was fierce and almost daily at a multitude of venues: Dairy Queen, TCBY, Royal Treat and Dumser's Dairy Land (since 1939). The Doc took top honors in the sprinkles (also known as jimmies) category, while the boys duked it out in Blizzards/Shivers all week long.
Human Carry
Another win for me here, as I lugged our slumbering baby boy up the stairs from the car on four different nights. This may be the last year of this event, as he just broke the 60-pound barrier.
So what was the final score for the week? Who went home with gold and whose dreams were shattered? Well, much as my younger son might protest, I think I would have to say we were all winners.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Fathers and sports
When a Hollywood studio makes the movie "based on the true story" of the life of Tiger Woods, the achingly sweet ending will have Tiger Woods winning the U.S. Open on Father's Day, less than one month after his father, Earl Woods, passes away. But as all golfers know, the golf gods would just as soon crush you as lift you up, so Tiger went home early this weekend, missing the cut in a major for the first time in his professional career. And as if that weren't enough for the mischievous spirits of the game, they reminded Phil Mickelson that just because you've won a few majors doesn't mean you can win when you play like an idiot, to use Mickelson's own word. (Anybody else hear a little Chris Farley in that quote? Throw in a smirking David Spade and you've got yourself a modestly successful straight-to-DVD release produced by Lorne Michaels). Of course, the actual winner of the tournament, Australian Geoff Ogilvy, found himself overshadowed by the collapses of Mickelson and Colin Montgomerie.
But the big sports story in Maryland today was not the U.S. Open, the World Cup, the NBA Finals, not the Orioles or the Ravens and certainly not the Stanley Cup. No, the big story, the one that made me feel old again, was the 20th anniversary of the death of Maryland basketball star Len Bias. Five years ago, my brother sent me this piece by Bill Simmons reflecting on Bias' death, and I have been a Simmons fan ever since. I read it again today, and it's still the best article I have ever read about Len Bias. The part that still resonates is where he compares it to the Kennedy assassination, that people remember where they were when they heard the news. For someone over the age of 50, I am sure that the comparison sounds absurd; how could you compare a basketball player to the leader of the free world? But I was born in 1967, and I remember exactly where I was when I heard.
I was working as a bicycle courier in Washington, DC, the summer after nearly flunking out of engineering school at Cornell University. I was sitting in Farragut Square, one of the small downtown parks where the bike guys hung out, waiting for a call from my dispatcher with my next delivery. When he did call, he asked me if I had heard about Bias. Being a bit older, wiser and perhaps more well-versed in these matters, he immediately speculated that it was cocaine. A little while later I saw a friend of mine who had just finished his freshman year at Maryland; he lived and breathed Terps, and he was crushed. I asked him if he thought it was cocaine.
"But Lenny didn't do drugs," he said.
I didn't even like Maryland. I was a Georgetown fan; I cheered for Sleepy Floyd, Patrick Ewing and Reggie Williams. My brother went to Carolina, but he had seen Bias play in the Capital Classic at the end of his senior year of high school. It was one of the few years where the local team actually beat the national all-star team. Mackin point guard Johnny Dawkins, who would go on to star at Duke, led the local team, but my brother kept talking about this guy Bias, who was going to Maryland. And even though I didn't like his team, you had to notice Len Bias; he always stood out, always did something that you talked to your friends about the next day.
Twenty years later, I still grunt in appreciation when I see the clips of him playing, although running them in black-and-white is a bit maudlin for my tastes. More than once, I've tried to explain to my sons how good he was. They are at the age now where they get the drug awareness education at school (Caffeine is Mean, but Cocaine is Insane!), so I throw some moralizing into the conversation as well. What strikes me right now as I write this is that I don't remember my own father's thoughts about Bias. He was certainly a basketball fan; it seems to be hard-wired into the male DNA of our family (and some of the female as well). And I saw him many days that summer, stopping by his office when we both had time to eat lunch together. Actually, I don't remember much of what we talked about at all, but I enjoy the memory of that time together. Eighteen months later, he was dead.
So, like I said, in Hollywood, you get the happy ending. Here in the real world, I just hope to live and learn. We had a great Father's Day yesterday. Church and brunch at the diner we go to most Sundays followed by a long afternoon at the pool, just hanging out. I got a card naming me the best dad of all the dads in the world and another that listed 10 reasons why I am a great dad. And some new exercise gear and the DVD "Glory Road." If you're not familiar with the movie, it's based on the true story of the Texas-Western college basketball team that became the first national champion to have five black players in the starting lineup. Should be fun to watch with the boys.
But the big sports story in Maryland today was not the U.S. Open, the World Cup, the NBA Finals, not the Orioles or the Ravens and certainly not the Stanley Cup. No, the big story, the one that made me feel old again, was the 20th anniversary of the death of Maryland basketball star Len Bias. Five years ago, my brother sent me this piece by Bill Simmons reflecting on Bias' death, and I have been a Simmons fan ever since. I read it again today, and it's still the best article I have ever read about Len Bias. The part that still resonates is where he compares it to the Kennedy assassination, that people remember where they were when they heard the news. For someone over the age of 50, I am sure that the comparison sounds absurd; how could you compare a basketball player to the leader of the free world? But I was born in 1967, and I remember exactly where I was when I heard.
I was working as a bicycle courier in Washington, DC, the summer after nearly flunking out of engineering school at Cornell University. I was sitting in Farragut Square, one of the small downtown parks where the bike guys hung out, waiting for a call from my dispatcher with my next delivery. When he did call, he asked me if I had heard about Bias. Being a bit older, wiser and perhaps more well-versed in these matters, he immediately speculated that it was cocaine. A little while later I saw a friend of mine who had just finished his freshman year at Maryland; he lived and breathed Terps, and he was crushed. I asked him if he thought it was cocaine.
"But Lenny didn't do drugs," he said.
I didn't even like Maryland. I was a Georgetown fan; I cheered for Sleepy Floyd, Patrick Ewing and Reggie Williams. My brother went to Carolina, but he had seen Bias play in the Capital Classic at the end of his senior year of high school. It was one of the few years where the local team actually beat the national all-star team. Mackin point guard Johnny Dawkins, who would go on to star at Duke, led the local team, but my brother kept talking about this guy Bias, who was going to Maryland. And even though I didn't like his team, you had to notice Len Bias; he always stood out, always did something that you talked to your friends about the next day.
Twenty years later, I still grunt in appreciation when I see the clips of him playing, although running them in black-and-white is a bit maudlin for my tastes. More than once, I've tried to explain to my sons how good he was. They are at the age now where they get the drug awareness education at school (Caffeine is Mean, but Cocaine is Insane!), so I throw some moralizing into the conversation as well. What strikes me right now as I write this is that I don't remember my own father's thoughts about Bias. He was certainly a basketball fan; it seems to be hard-wired into the male DNA of our family (and some of the female as well). And I saw him many days that summer, stopping by his office when we both had time to eat lunch together. Actually, I don't remember much of what we talked about at all, but I enjoy the memory of that time together. Eighteen months later, he was dead.
So, like I said, in Hollywood, you get the happy ending. Here in the real world, I just hope to live and learn. We had a great Father's Day yesterday. Church and brunch at the diner we go to most Sundays followed by a long afternoon at the pool, just hanging out. I got a card naming me the best dad of all the dads in the world and another that listed 10 reasons why I am a great dad. And some new exercise gear and the DVD "Glory Road." If you're not familiar with the movie, it's based on the true story of the Texas-Western college basketball team that became the first national champion to have five black players in the starting lineup. Should be fun to watch with the boys.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Sports Shorts
Hoops
So the Heat came back last night to even the NBA Championship Finals after falling behind 2-0. Who woulda thunk it? Actually my nine-year old woulda and didda. Before the series began he predicted that the Mavericks would win the first two, lose the next two and win the whole thing in six. My own emotional investment in the Wizards first round loss to the Cavaliers drained my level of interest in the remainder of the playoffs, but I think he has a good case. Miami's aging frontcourt combination of Shaq and Alonzo Mourning might be an accurate reflection of South Florida's retiree demographic, but I don't see them as built for the seven-game series. Much like Morty Seinfeld in a late afternoon meeting at the J. Peterman Company, the Heat will tire and fade in cranky resignation, giving us the first NBA Champion to be led by a European-born All-Star (but not the first born outside the continental United States; I'll give that answer at the end of this post).
Soccer
With tomorrow's match against Italy a virtual must-win situation, Team USA's World Cup run could be over before most Americans realize it began. The United States plays a third match against Ghana next week, but I don't there will be much interest in that contest unless the Americans win tomorrow. There has been plenty of coverage, but the team has yet to capture the public attention this time around. Wednesday morning, my son and I watched an inspiring ESPN feature about Landon Donovan's fiance's brother, who lost both legs in a horrible train accident. Seeing a man with no legs swim laps with a butterfly stroke was awesome to behold, but isn't it a bit of a reach to feature the brother of the star player's fiance? Wasn't his third cousin in a movie with Kevin Bacon? And while Gatorade's "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" commercial is a clever twist and has some great visuals, the central idea that soccer could replace baseball in the American sports conscience is still laughable. For at least two decades, we have heard about how the explosion in youth soccer will ultimately elevate soccer to elite status in the U.S., but instead we have seen the rise of NASCAR and golf and the decline of tennis, hockey, horse racing and boxing. The soccer apologists are correct that tons of kids play soccer; in our area, the fields are packed with kids from age five up to teenagers. However, the number of registered players begins to decrease at about age 10, and the teenage ranks are so depleted that teams are co-ed and have to go outside our district to find enough teams to play. Yes, there are travel teams, elite teams, and club teams that play year-round, but the broad base just is not there as the kids get older, and not coincidentally, start making their own decisions about how and where to spend their time and money (Fitzonomics! Who knew?). Before you put too much stock in that last statement, please know that Economics 101 nearly ended my stay in college.
Baseball
The cloud of chemically-enhanced performance continues to hang over America's pasttime. Jason Grimsley's admitted use of human growth hormone and naming of additional players suggests that we should not be surprised if every player in the majors has used some illegal substance at some time or another. Whatever happened to the good old days, when all an aging lefthanded pticher needed to extend his career was a pulse? And Barry Bonds' joyless pursuit of Hank Aaron's record continues. Oy. I think he will break the record, but I can only hope that a more likeable slugger will overtake him in my lifetime (A-Rod? Pujols? Ken Griffey III?)
Golf
If professional golfers are complaining about course conditions, then it must be time for the U. S. Open. After Tiger Woods shot 76 yesterday, he complained that the greens were too bumpy. Too bumpy! This is a clear indication that he has fallen from immortal to human on the golf course. Who among us has not complained about an unrepaired ball or spike mark or a microscopic dust mote impeding our ball's otherwise perfect roll to the hole. Two predictions: The longer Colin Montgomerie stays in or around the lead, the louder the murmuring and heckling will get, and going out on a limb, Phil Mickelson will win another major this weekend.
Football
Ben Roethlisberger seems to have come away from his motorcycle accident about as well as can be expected, but we won't know if he is back as an NFL quarterback until he shakes off a hard hit and completes a difficult pass on the next play. This will be the number one hyped, overdone, on the field story in the NFL this season. I expect every Steelers game to include at least one interview with a neurologist and/or maxillofacial surgeon (had to reach past my Webster's Collegiate for the Doc's Medical Desk Dictionary for that one). In local football news, the Ravens acquired quarterback Steve McNair. I guess this is a good move; he was the NFL MVP two years ago and should be a major upgrade from Kyle Boller. But can he survive behind the Raven's porous offensive line, can he make Baltimore's receivers catch all those balls they dropped last season, can he force Jamal Lewis to revert to from stumbler to record-setter?
Swimming
Swimming? Swimming? Aren't the next Summer Olympics two years away? Yes, they are, but the Summer Hill Sting Rays, after two weeks of practice, have their first time trials tomorrow, which will mark the debut of my offspring in the heavily chlorinated competitive arena. They are already working on butterfly and flip-turns, two aquatic achievements that eluded their old man. I can still take them in the cannonball, though. Also, the answer to the NBA trivia question above is Tim Duncan, who led the Spurs to their first title. Duncan was born in the U. S. Virgin Islands, and was a competitive swimmer until Hurricane Hugo destroyed his municipal pool, sending him to the basketball courts.
So the Heat came back last night to even the NBA Championship Finals after falling behind 2-0. Who woulda thunk it? Actually my nine-year old woulda and didda. Before the series began he predicted that the Mavericks would win the first two, lose the next two and win the whole thing in six. My own emotional investment in the Wizards first round loss to the Cavaliers drained my level of interest in the remainder of the playoffs, but I think he has a good case. Miami's aging frontcourt combination of Shaq and Alonzo Mourning might be an accurate reflection of South Florida's retiree demographic, but I don't see them as built for the seven-game series. Much like Morty Seinfeld in a late afternoon meeting at the J. Peterman Company, the Heat will tire and fade in cranky resignation, giving us the first NBA Champion to be led by a European-born All-Star (but not the first born outside the continental United States; I'll give that answer at the end of this post).
Soccer
With tomorrow's match against Italy a virtual must-win situation, Team USA's World Cup run could be over before most Americans realize it began. The United States plays a third match against Ghana next week, but I don't there will be much interest in that contest unless the Americans win tomorrow. There has been plenty of coverage, but the team has yet to capture the public attention this time around. Wednesday morning, my son and I watched an inspiring ESPN feature about Landon Donovan's fiance's brother, who lost both legs in a horrible train accident. Seeing a man with no legs swim laps with a butterfly stroke was awesome to behold, but isn't it a bit of a reach to feature the brother of the star player's fiance? Wasn't his third cousin in a movie with Kevin Bacon? And while Gatorade's "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" commercial is a clever twist and has some great visuals, the central idea that soccer could replace baseball in the American sports conscience is still laughable. For at least two decades, we have heard about how the explosion in youth soccer will ultimately elevate soccer to elite status in the U.S., but instead we have seen the rise of NASCAR and golf and the decline of tennis, hockey, horse racing and boxing. The soccer apologists are correct that tons of kids play soccer; in our area, the fields are packed with kids from age five up to teenagers. However, the number of registered players begins to decrease at about age 10, and the teenage ranks are so depleted that teams are co-ed and have to go outside our district to find enough teams to play. Yes, there are travel teams, elite teams, and club teams that play year-round, but the broad base just is not there as the kids get older, and not coincidentally, start making their own decisions about how and where to spend their time and money (Fitzonomics! Who knew?). Before you put too much stock in that last statement, please know that Economics 101 nearly ended my stay in college.
Baseball
The cloud of chemically-enhanced performance continues to hang over America's pasttime. Jason Grimsley's admitted use of human growth hormone and naming of additional players suggests that we should not be surprised if every player in the majors has used some illegal substance at some time or another. Whatever happened to the good old days, when all an aging lefthanded pticher needed to extend his career was a pulse? And Barry Bonds' joyless pursuit of Hank Aaron's record continues. Oy. I think he will break the record, but I can only hope that a more likeable slugger will overtake him in my lifetime (A-Rod? Pujols? Ken Griffey III?)
Golf
If professional golfers are complaining about course conditions, then it must be time for the U. S. Open. After Tiger Woods shot 76 yesterday, he complained that the greens were too bumpy. Too bumpy! This is a clear indication that he has fallen from immortal to human on the golf course. Who among us has not complained about an unrepaired ball or spike mark or a microscopic dust mote impeding our ball's otherwise perfect roll to the hole. Two predictions: The longer Colin Montgomerie stays in or around the lead, the louder the murmuring and heckling will get, and going out on a limb, Phil Mickelson will win another major this weekend.
Football
Ben Roethlisberger seems to have come away from his motorcycle accident about as well as can be expected, but we won't know if he is back as an NFL quarterback until he shakes off a hard hit and completes a difficult pass on the next play. This will be the number one hyped, overdone, on the field story in the NFL this season. I expect every Steelers game to include at least one interview with a neurologist and/or maxillofacial surgeon (had to reach past my Webster's Collegiate for the Doc's Medical Desk Dictionary for that one). In local football news, the Ravens acquired quarterback Steve McNair. I guess this is a good move; he was the NFL MVP two years ago and should be a major upgrade from Kyle Boller. But can he survive behind the Raven's porous offensive line, can he make Baltimore's receivers catch all those balls they dropped last season, can he force Jamal Lewis to revert to from stumbler to record-setter?
Swimming
Swimming? Swimming? Aren't the next Summer Olympics two years away? Yes, they are, but the Summer Hill Sting Rays, after two weeks of practice, have their first time trials tomorrow, which will mark the debut of my offspring in the heavily chlorinated competitive arena. They are already working on butterfly and flip-turns, two aquatic achievements that eluded their old man. I can still take them in the cannonball, though. Also, the answer to the NBA trivia question above is Tim Duncan, who led the Spurs to their first title. Duncan was born in the U. S. Virgin Islands, and was a competitive swimmer until Hurricane Hugo destroyed his municipal pool, sending him to the basketball courts.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Summertime, and the Bloggin' is Easy
Some mark the beginning of summer on Memorial Day Weekend. Strict followers of the calendar claim that summer is still eight days off. But yesterday was the last day of school, so today is the first day of the FitzFacts summer.
The last few weeks of school were an anxious countdown of special events, field days, and field trips, and more projects than seemed possible to complete in so short a time span. I swear I spent more time at my kids' school last month than my parents spent in my entire family's tenure of Catholic grammar school, and there were eight of us. Okay, maybe that's a stretch, but now that the neverending festival of picnics, plays, concerts, and parties is past, we have arrived at childhood nirvana.
So what's on tap for the next 11 glorious weeks, which will fly past and find us standing at the schoolbus stop with kids in fresh haircuts and new clothes before we know it? Well, so far, it's looking like a lot of cartoons and swim team. A family week at the beach lurks in the near future, and a few weeks at day camp, with the rope swing, the mud slide, the archery, the arts and crafts and the daily Bible reading (more on that later, perhaps). Then there is basketball camp, highlighted by the chance to meet local basketball hero Juan Dixon.
Finally there is the annual Fitzgerald family pilgrimage to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, an august August tradition of 35 years that brings more than 20 adults, children and dogs together for five wonderful days of nostalgic reminisce. Unfortunately, we stay for seven days. When friends of ours hear about this trip, they always ask, "Do the children get along?" The kids get along fine, it's the adults that are at war by the end of the week. Okay, not war, but there's nothing like the potent combination of sunburn and close quarters to fray the nerves and eventually summon forth the entombed demons of every family's cultural history. I wouldn't miss this trip for anything.
In addition to the scheduled activities, there are museums, monuments, zoos and amusement parks to be visited. This will be the summer of the first family bike outing and there is a rumor of piano lessons. And every day, the dog must be walked early, the vegetable garden tended, and then there is blogging.
The last few weeks of school were an anxious countdown of special events, field days, and field trips, and more projects than seemed possible to complete in so short a time span. I swear I spent more time at my kids' school last month than my parents spent in my entire family's tenure of Catholic grammar school, and there were eight of us. Okay, maybe that's a stretch, but now that the neverending festival of picnics, plays, concerts, and parties is past, we have arrived at childhood nirvana.
So what's on tap for the next 11 glorious weeks, which will fly past and find us standing at the schoolbus stop with kids in fresh haircuts and new clothes before we know it? Well, so far, it's looking like a lot of cartoons and swim team. A family week at the beach lurks in the near future, and a few weeks at day camp, with the rope swing, the mud slide, the archery, the arts and crafts and the daily Bible reading (more on that later, perhaps). Then there is basketball camp, highlighted by the chance to meet local basketball hero Juan Dixon.
Finally there is the annual Fitzgerald family pilgrimage to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, an august August tradition of 35 years that brings more than 20 adults, children and dogs together for five wonderful days of nostalgic reminisce. Unfortunately, we stay for seven days. When friends of ours hear about this trip, they always ask, "Do the children get along?" The kids get along fine, it's the adults that are at war by the end of the week. Okay, not war, but there's nothing like the potent combination of sunburn and close quarters to fray the nerves and eventually summon forth the entombed demons of every family's cultural history. I wouldn't miss this trip for anything.
In addition to the scheduled activities, there are museums, monuments, zoos and amusement parks to be visited. This will be the summer of the first family bike outing and there is a rumor of piano lessons. And every day, the dog must be walked early, the vegetable garden tended, and then there is blogging.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Down goes Daughtry!
So, America doesn't want to rock, and I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. These are the only conclusions I can draw from the baffling American Idol result on Wednesday. How else to explain the elimination of Chris, who had been roundly praised for weeks by the judges and was the most consistent and confident performer? I am clearly out of touch with the AI voting demographic, but I think I can live with that, just like I can live without fantasy leagues, TiVo and a MySpace profile.
My prediction was about as accurate as my first round NBA playoff picks, but I should have respected history a bit more and my own preferences a bit less. Taylor has yet to sit in the hot seat of the bottom two or three, whereas the other remaining contestants had taken turns recently. Elliott had a very strong night on Tuesday, and Katharine must get some credit for being the only one of the four who would draw a second look if you saw them on the street - assuming Taylor was just walking like a normal human being, not thrashing about like he does on stage.
I've been a Taylor fan since he ambled into the room playing a harmonica in one of the early shows, and I think he should win running away, but I would rather have watched him duke it out with Chris for the next two weeks. Last month, the Washington Post's Lisa de Moraes wrote an interesting item about measuring Taylor's popularity based on eBay sales. It's old news now and maybe the sales figures are skewed because of his kitschy appeal, but it's still worth considering.
With Elliott and Katharine - along with Paris, the top three tear shedders - still in the competition, the only certainty is that there will be a lot of weeping when the final winner is announced.
My prediction was about as accurate as my first round NBA playoff picks, but I should have respected history a bit more and my own preferences a bit less. Taylor has yet to sit in the hot seat of the bottom two or three, whereas the other remaining contestants had taken turns recently. Elliott had a very strong night on Tuesday, and Katharine must get some credit for being the only one of the four who would draw a second look if you saw them on the street - assuming Taylor was just walking like a normal human being, not thrashing about like he does on stage.
I've been a Taylor fan since he ambled into the room playing a harmonica in one of the early shows, and I think he should win running away, but I would rather have watched him duke it out with Chris for the next two weeks. Last month, the Washington Post's Lisa de Moraes wrote an interesting item about measuring Taylor's popularity based on eBay sales. It's old news now and maybe the sales figures are skewed because of his kitschy appeal, but it's still worth considering.
With Elliott and Katharine - along with Paris, the top three tear shedders - still in the competition, the only certainty is that there will be a lot of weeping when the final winner is announced.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Everybody Loves Chris
Daughtry, Daughtry, Daughtry. As the pressure mounted on "American Idol" last night, it was all Chris. Over and over, the AI judges tell us it's about song choice and performance, and Chris took two great Elvis songs and showed the other contestants how you win this thing. There's a reason why "Suspicious Minds" has been covered by everyone from Dwight Yoakam to the Fine Young Cannibals, and "A Little Less Conversation," one of the King's most underrated hits, has also aged well. By contrast, Katharine botched a "Hound Dog/All Shook Up" medley and seemed to be in the wrong key for "Can't Help Falling in Love." The low notes were too low and the high notes sounded flat. And her second outfit revealed her belly, at least I think it was her belly, I mean I was hoping it wasn't her belly, but, yep, that's her belly. Not a good look for her, but a good metaphor as her AI run goes belly up tonight (or maybe she exposed her soft underbelly).
Either way, it looks like it's going to be a stag affair for the final two weeks, but my surprising choice for second place right now would be Elliott. Taylor should have done much better on Elvis night. "Jailhouse Rock" was fine, but "In the Ghetto?" Come on, Taylor, that's not the song that's going to bring it home. I mean, good idea to choose a ballad as your second song for contrast, but again, with all the possible choices, I had higher expectations. "Heartbreak Hotel" or "Viva Las Vegas" for your opener and "Love Me Tender" or "It's Now or Never" second would have done it for me. Elliott took a chance and went away from Elvis songs everybody knows with "If I Can Dream" and "Trouble," which Taylor had already performed this season, and I think that risk will pay off. His talent has ever been an issue and, if his confidence carries over for another week, he could be onstage next to Chris in the finals.
Either way, it looks like it's going to be a stag affair for the final two weeks, but my surprising choice for second place right now would be Elliott. Taylor should have done much better on Elvis night. "Jailhouse Rock" was fine, but "In the Ghetto?" Come on, Taylor, that's not the song that's going to bring it home. I mean, good idea to choose a ballad as your second song for contrast, but again, with all the possible choices, I had higher expectations. "Heartbreak Hotel" or "Viva Las Vegas" for your opener and "Love Me Tender" or "It's Now or Never" second would have done it for me. Elliott took a chance and went away from Elvis songs everybody knows with "If I Can Dream" and "Trouble," which Taylor had already performed this season, and I think that risk will pay off. His talent has ever been an issue and, if his confidence carries over for another week, he could be onstage next to Chris in the finals.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Cereal Numbers
Eight boxes of cereal sit atop my dining room table. Every weekday morning and most weekends, they are pulled from the cabinet by my two children and poured in a ritual of precision and order, each portion carefully measured in a blending process that would impress vintners and distillers of the finest wines and spirits. Neither of my sons will go for all eight in one sitting, although occasionally, in a fit of characteristic whimsy, my younger son will have a whole bowl of just one variety. Generally, but not always, this rare occurence transpires when the box is nearly finished, and he knows that he can enrage his older brother if he leaves the box empty.
How did it come to this? Even in America, the land of the free and the home of overindulgence, eight options of whole-grain goodness for morning nourishment seems excessive to me. But as parents, we fight the war of nutrition with our children, a neverending campaign where we endure challenges inspired by television commercials, peers with mythically permissive parents, and that nefarious, longlived nemesis, the mail-in or "free inside" giveaway. In order to survive this near-constant onslaught, we make small concessions and live to eat another day.
Like most parenting scenarios, the roots of this daily idiosyncratic exercise lie in my childhood. For reasons economical and nutritional, my seven brothers and sisters and I were raised in a sugar cereal free environment. In our household, the flakes were not frosted, the Cap'n was not crunched. My mother recognized that my brother and I would eat huge quantities of cereal as teenagers, and she bought us large plastic Snoopy dog bowls well suited to the occasion, but nothing that changed the color of the milk was allowed in them. Save for a brief period of parental deception known as the Golden Grahams Era, ours was a breakfast menu of Cheerios, Corn Flakes and Wheaties. And I can barely force myself to type the words Puffed Wheat and Puffed Rice without gagging.
The only exception to this rule came on your birthday, when you could pick out a box of whatever cereal you wanted. And so you paced the length of the cereal aisle, weighing the merits of peanut butter versus Crunchberries, as leprechauns, rabbits, vampires and frogs beckoned from every shelf. Once you finished breakfast on your birthday, you could either put the box away, resigning yourself to the knowledge that it could not possibly withstand the assaults of your siblings to last until the next morning, or, you could hide it in your room well enough that it would only be found by ants sometime in the next six weeks.
For a time as a young adult, I would occasionally indulge in an act of rebellion against this childhood privation and buy a box of something akin to the Calvin and Hobbes favorite, Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs, only to find that one bowl was enough to keep me off sugar for the rest of the week. So, of course, it turns out that our parents were right, again.
Naturally, none of this matters to my own offspring. There has been much debate on the topic with a variety of proposed legislation and numerous calls for a floor vote (which the Doc and I rejected). After months of experimentation and test marketing, the standard upon which we finally settled is no more than six grams of sugar per serving and no high fructose corn syrup or artificial sweeteners like aspartame. The result has been a flurry of label reading and comparison on every trip to the grocery store. Forget about "Hooked on Phonics," this dietary policy has forced my boys to boost their math and reading skills well beyond grade level. I'm still not sure what riboflavin is, but I think I am going to find out.
There are some exceptions to the rule. Any cereal with fruit, such as Raisin Bran, gets an automatic exemption to the six gram ceiling, although we try to limit bran and dried fruit consumption, for obvious reasons. Meals taken outside the home, either at friends' homes or in restaurant, are also exempt. And, on your birthday, pick a box of whatever you want. Just don't be surprised if your dad polishes off a bowl after he puts you on the school bus.
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