Why Do We Go See Live Music?

There was a great article in the Sunday Washington Post magazine by former Post music writer David Segal -- unfortunately titled "Memoirs of a Music Man" -- in which he talks about his time as a music critic and ruminates on what exactly is it that makes us go see music performed live.

It's a good question, especially as we, ahem, grow older and less inclined to work through hangovers and miles of traffic and teenyboppers and dudes in cut-off jean shorts and mullets. Gwydion touched on this in an earlier post, but I think Segal's story really gets to the heart of why some of us are still willing to deal with all of that, and why we were willing to all along, to see a little of the old "rock and roll magic."

Segal starts off with what's wrong (in my mind, at least), with live music today, and that's the fact that so much of it seems no different at all from what you might see on Broadway. He talks about an Aerosmith concert, in which Steven Tyler wowed the crowed by swinging on a trapeze over the first few rows:

It's fair to assume that Tyler rode the same trapeze in the same spot during the same song at every concert that summer, Nissan included. The whole trapeze thing was almost surely dreamed up before the band strummed the first note on the tour. There was probably a trapeze roadie, with instructions that read "9:15, hand Perry an Aquafina. 9:18, go get the trapeze."

That's the way pop concerts are these days, especially large ones. Everything is choreographed, even the parts that seem unchoreographed, and there is no room for unplanned derring-do.

He goes on to say:

I have nothing against musical theater, but when you're expecting a concert, it seems silly and very much against the impulsive, unruly spirit of the genre. Broadway's "Mamma Mia!" never pretends to be free-forming it every night. U2 does, though a U2 concert is essentially the same thing, night after night, right down to the encore.

This is the thing that's driving me crazy lately. Actually, that was the thing that originally drove me crazy. The thing that's driving me crazy now is that nobody seems to care.

Anyway, Segal goes to talk about one of the reasons we should care, and why it is we're willing to deal with all this: what he calls "The great Live Concert Moment."

What's the great concert moment?

(It is) born of something heartfelt and in some important way spontaneous. Not necessarily made up on the spot -- although that's never a bad idea -- but improvised to some degree. You might catch something similar in Boston next week, but it won't be exactly what happened in D.C. This is what sets a great concert apart from a great album. It's about music, but it's also about an experience that's ephemeral and communal, that you share for a couple hours with a bunch of strangers who, at some level, you feel like you know because they have the same idiotic glint in their eye when the lights come up. It's the sense that this whole evening means as much to the band as it does to you. It's great songs multiplied by killer performance multiplied by giddy fan reaction.

I have to admit I've been going to shows for a long time now and I've had only a few of those Great Concert Moments, and some of them definitely include planned, staged stuff that I saw when I was too young to realize it was not exactly spontaneous (most of those involved the hair metal band Kix, so, you know, what can you do).

A few that come to mind:

• Joe Strummer playing a third encore (Redemption Song) that I'm almost sure wasn't planned, since they had turned off the stage power and there were no lights and it was only him and an acoustic guitar standing at the lip of the 9:30 club stage.
  

• Jerry Garcia playing a Manhattans song in the middle of a typical Dead set (see -- say what you want about the Dead, but at least they could surprise you)
  

• Tribe Called Quest just walloping the RFK crowd after a flaccid REM set at the first Tibetan Freedom Concert; Red Hot Chili Peppers coming on at the very end of that same show (digging into Pearl Jam's set) as a surprise guest
  

• The Replacements in the early 90s, clearly hating each other to the extent that my friend leaned over and said "we're watching the last Replacements show ever." We weren't, but they were arguing onstage, and at one point they all just left Paul Westerberg up there, seemingly in disgust. Westerberg played three or four solo acoustic songs, with the highlight being Skyway, and you could have heard a pin drop. They broke up soon after and Westerberg pursued his solo career and we felt like we saw a little, or maybe a big window into that happening, live, onstage.
  

• The Staples Singers taking the gospel stage at the New Orleans Jazz Festival and all of the sudden feeling like the whole place just got plugged in, like some kind of switch was flipped

That all may sound a little silly and, well, innocent, but I think that's what the Great Rock Moment is all about. What are yours?

Reality x Reality x Dutch Reality

I knew Stacey Richter was brilliant, but it seems that one of the major plot points of her story Reality x Reality (featured in the first issue of Barrelhouse) has actually come true.

It's a great story: funny and creepy and now we can add prescient to that list. Haven't read it? Only one solution for that: buy Barrelhouse.

HBO keeps sucking me in

TMC once told me his theory that none of the HBO shows are any good, that it's just a vast conspiracy to sucker people into subscribing and that, once subscribed, people then feel the need to justify the monthly subscription fee by pretending to be super satisfied by the programming.

How I wish this theory were true. I could think of lots of other things to do with $12 every month -- such as buy twelve $1 cans of PBR at the local watering hole. And yet I've become addicted to HBO's programming. First it was The Sopranos and Six Feet Under that roped me in; then came Curb Your Enthusiasm, and now Entourage.

I said in this space a while back that I was fine with Entourage being an enjoyable buddy comedy of sorts, but maybe I was wrong. Last Sunday's episode, probably the series' best so far, dipped its foot into a bit of the old pathos when uber-agent Ari Gold gets shitcanned by his boss, Mandi Moore kicks Vinny Chase to the curb, and everything in Entourage land seems to be on the verge of falling apart. The trick, though, was that they added emotional weight without stripping away the humor.

So we get to see Turtle trying not to cry during Brian's Song. We find out that Johnny Drama's explosion on the freeway earlier this season (in which he took a golf club to someone's car) made it onto an episode of Celebrity Justice. And even as Ari is in crisis mode, he's still ripping off his trademark zingers to the people who've betrayed him: "Just so you know, your girlfriend? Offered to blow me when she was working in the mail room. True story."

So anyway, there's only one more episode of Entourage, after which I thought I could finally give my HBO obsession a rest. But now comes the announcement that the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm starts at the end of September. Damn those evil geniuses at HBO! As soon as I think I'm free, they suck me back in.

Aristocrappy

I haven't gone to sleep yet, so it's still Monday, so I can write about how much The Aristocrats sucks.

Yes, there are some supremely funny moments. Robin Williams' joke about the rabbi with a frog on his shoulder is a highlight. And watching comedians laugh -- well, that's just contagious. But between the laughs are these yawning chasms of boredom, strewn with comedic dead bodies like Bob Saget talking about fist-fucking a donkey. (No, it is NOT funny.) This is a rental, folks... at best.

The 40 Year Old Virgin (Doesn't Suck)

Since its movie Monday here, and I finally got to the movies yesterday, here's a 3 word review of The 40 Year Old Virgin: it doesn't suck.

It's actually pretty good.

As Andy, the virgin of the title, Steve Carrell gives a nice performance in the kind of role that Jim Carrey or Ben Stiller would have turned into a bad Pee Wee Herman imitation. The supporting cast is great, led by Catherine Keener, playing, well, Catherine Keener as a sexy, fortyish grandma (by the way, she is sexy, and she does look 40, and there's no sign of botox or face-peels or da vinci veneers or whatever the hell else these women are putting into their faces to make them look like ventriloquist's dummies). As the buddies who, of course, set out to get Andy laid, Paul Rudd (who seems to have turned in his pretty-boy card for supporting ensemble roles), Romany Malco, and Seth Rogan (answer to the trivia question: who starred in both Judd Apatow TV shows?) are pretty much everything you expect from the buddy chorus in this kind of movie -- raunchy, stupid, loud, and funny.

That's not to say that this is the second coming of the Godfather or even Sideways, mind you. It's still a pretty raunchy sex comedy, with cheap gags and cheap laughs throughout. If you don't mind that kind of thing, you'll really like this movie. If you do, well, maybe you should go see the March of the Penguins again. I haven't seen that movie, but I'm pretty sure there's much less use of the phrase "putting the pussy on a pedestal."

The best thing about the 40 Year Old Virgin is that, unlike similar movies -- Wedding Crashers comes to mind -- there isn't a slowdown in the third act, otherwise known as "the part where we have to quit making random jokes and resolve the plot." The gags keep coming, the plot moves smoothly, and you pretty much give a shit about what happens to Andy, sexual and otherwise.

In the end, despite the title and the running sex gags, it's a sweet movie. Which reminds me that this movie was written and directed by Judd Apatow, the guy who brought us short lived, much loved TV shows Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared. Like the best of these shows, the 40 Year Old Virgin is sweet and knowing and loopy. Like those shows, it takes the time to make us care about the characters before it starts putting them into the wacky situations we know they'll get out of.

If you haven't yet, by the way, you should really rent the DVDs of Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared. Hmmmm...that's one show set in high school, one in college, and now a post-college, late late adolescence movie. Can the Judd Apatow Parenthood be far behind? If so, there's no doubt that, like the 40 Year Old Virgin, it will, in fact, not suck.

50 Bad Fantasy Football Team Names

Like it or not, its fantasy football time again. As a public service, we provide the following suggestions for bad fantasy football team names:

• Foppish Dandies
• The Kittens
• The Sex Offenders
• Ken Loves Barbie
• The Fragile Ecosystems
• Pubes
• Spirit Fingers
• Jazzhands
• Nipple Clamps
• The Fluffy Bunnies
• Fancypants
• You Got Served
• The Personal Injury Lawyers
• The Lovely Blouses
• The Wedding Planners
• The Very Special Episodes
• Vienna Boys Choir
• The Labradoodle Gang
• Mr. [insert name here]'s Neighborhood
• The Tighty Whiteys
• The Administrative Assistants
• The Slingback Mules
• The Gentle Taxidermists
• Emotional Roller Coaster
• The Nurses (so bad it's almost good: The Nizzurses)
• Man Whores
• Fiona Apple
• The Kinky Temps
• The Panties
• Donna Martin Graduates
• Power Puff Boyz
• Center Stage
• [insert age here] and loving it!
• The Fendi Bags
• The Uppity Sommeliers
• The Banana Slings
• Backstreet Boys
• The Uptight WASPs
• The Flight Attendants
• The Sullen Barristas
• The Flouncey Skirts
• The Dysfunctional Erections
• The Black, Tarry Stools
• Oprah's Army
• Culture Club
• Dr. Tongue
• Public Urination
• The Jolly Good Fellows
• The Sassy Waitresses
• The Old Souls
• Teddy Bears
  
  

Press Release of the Week: special “been gone so long” edition

First of all, apologies that I haven’t written this blog feature for a few weeks, but I’ve been moving and – well, let’s face it, you don’t care about the details. Point is, I’m back, and promise to continue bringing you each week’s most entertaining/bizarre/depressing press releases, as decided on by me, until I no longer feel like doing it anymore. On with the show!

For all of you who need your Mountain Dew to be just a little more extreme (and disgusting), this week’s announcement should come as good news: Pepsi-Cola North America is launching Mountain Dew Pitch Black II. For anyone who’s forgotten Mountain Dew Pitch Black I, it was a scary black liquid that looked kind of like a cross between motor oil and turd water. I never drank it, so I can’t comment on the taste, but according to Pepsi-Cola North America it’s like regular Mountain Dew, but with “a splash of black grape, a cool metallic label, and a brand name that consumers love.”

Only, hold the phone, because this time they’ve added a little something extra to the mix. As they tell us in the press release: “look out for the sour bite!”

I will look out, kind sirs, but only if you promise to also look out: for when my gag reflex kicks in and I vomit all over your starched white shirts and Perry Ellis Portfolio ties.

I remember several years ago when the “super sour” phenomenon swept the nation. Sour Patch Kids. Super Sour Gobstoppers. Gum that was so sour it made your face look ever so briefly like Hans Moleman. But I thought that was another one of those silly fads – like thick fluorescent shoelaces, or supply side economics – that had thankfully fallen by the wayside. Not so, if Mountain Dew has its way. And, really, when has Mountain Dew not had its way?

"Sour flavors are big right now with teens and young adults, so we added a sour bite to Mountain Dew Pitch Black II." That’s Katie Lacey, VP-marketing, carbonated soft drinks, Pepsi-Cola North America, speaking. I imagine Katie as the girlfriend of one of those obnoxious Mountain Dew Extreme!!!! Guys, waiting patiently at the bottom of the mountain in the Nissan XTerra while Jimbo and Danny and Muttonchop swill urine-colored sodas and go para-bungee-BMXing until their limbs rip right off.

I can’t decide what the funniest thing about this press release is: a) that Mountain Dew thinks there was an audible clattering from the youth of America to bring back Pitch Black, b) that Katie Lacey compares the soda product to a movie sequel, or c) that the company’s promotional website features “a gangly redheaded character named Cliff who shows his devotion to the product by conducting a ‘Pitch Black Experiment’ by living in total darkness for 90 days.”

90 days in the dark? That is, like, so totally fucking extreme! You’re crazy, dude! Crazy!

Because I feel bad for abandoning this feature for the past few weeks, I’m offering you two special bonus press releases, at no extra charge. First up is this doozy, from Chris Simmons, self-proclaimed leading authority on "press release optimization."

A press release for a product that helps you release better press releases! How totally meta! Although it would perhaps be a more convincing campaign if this press release weren't so damn hard to read and so filled with the kinds of words crappy PR people invent rather than opening a dictionary or a thesaurus.

Lastly, there’s this announcement, from Virginia Lieutenant Governor Tim Kaine, who says he’ll sign a resolution this week supporting the Helmets to Hardhats program, which “encourages construction companies to hire former and active members of the military to apply for jobs.”

Am I the only person who hopes this press release contains a crucial typo? Or is Virginia Lt. Gov. Tim Kaine just being the most ironic motherfucker on the planet? Is our country even producing any ex-military people these days? Are there a lot of active duty military men and women standing around, helmets in hand, saying “Gee whiz, I wish I had something to do. Couldn’t we, like, get involved in an interminable occupation or, say, build a shopping mall, so I could see a little action?”

I’m going to assume that what Kaine meant to support was a Hardhats to Helmets campaign. Or perhaps an Any Sort of Hat You Can Put On Your Head Or Even No Hat At All to Helmets campaign. Because that might make more sense.

On the other hand, I suppose America’s numerous Wal Marts of Liberty and McMansions of Freedom aren’t going to construct themselves. And who better to construct them than America’s all-volunteer Army, which Dick Cheney (in another extremely irony-laced statement) recently compared to the ragtag bunch of freedom-loving Americans who staved off the British imperialists in the Revolutionary War?

After these guys get to come home, if they get to come home, shouldn’t they at least get a vacation? Or how about some cushy office job, with a window and one of those hydraulic chairs? Then again, after a long stay in Iraq fighting off bomb-wielding insurgents, I suppose nailing some shingles or cutting a little dry wall may feel like a week at Club Med.

Teaching the kids to write*

As part of my Graduate School Experience, I'm supposed to teach undergrads how to write. I'm not sure I know exactly how to do this, but I'm willing to take a stab at it. Perhaps there will be a few students in the class who have some real talent, and who will decide that writing is something they really want to pursue, beyond this class. But I'm trying to be realistic about it. And the more realistic goal, I think, is to expose these students to writers they probably haven't read before, and, because these students will be trying to do something difficult (write a good story, or poem, or piece of creative nonfiction) perhaps they'll grow a new respect for the people who do that difficult something particularly well. Or, maybe they'll just sneer at me and throw things. Who knows?

On the first day of class, when I asked them to tell me something they'd read recently that they particularly enjoyed, several students mentioned Nicholas Sparks. Enough of them that the finding seems to be statistically significant. I've never read any of Mr. Sparks' work, so I'm not one to judge what this means. Frankly, I'm just glad most of them have taken some enjoyment in reading. College tends to do a good job of stripping the fun out of reading. Partly this is because college English professors have strange ideas about what's worthwhile to read. Partly this is because talking about Theme and Symbolism and Historical Context can turn even the best novel into something more closely resembling a math problem.

When I was an undergraduate and took creative writing classes, I remember that each semester there would be two or three students who proudly declared on the first day of class that they didn't read. Which I always thought was odd. Why would a non-reader want to take a writing class? Then again, I've since had two students who are engineering majors but hate math. So maybe a lot of college students pick majors and classes using some drunken version of pin the tail on the donkey.

At any rate, I'm looking forward to the rest of the semester. My students all seem like really nice people, and eager to learn, which is really all you can ask for.

* According to University rules, I'm not supposed to refer to my students as "kids," as this is apparently offensive. But I figure it's okay on the blog.

The Barrelhouse Invitational: Patrick Swayze Edition

Just a quick reminder here on lit/comics/whatever day that we are currently in the midst of the competition known as the Barrelhouse Invitational, and our topic this time around is none other than Patrick Swayze.

We have a thing for Patrick Swayze. This we freely admit. We prefer the Road House version, or possibly the Point Break or Black Dog or even Red Dawn version, but we understand that there are those who prefer the Dirty Dancing or even the Donnie Darko Patrick.

They are wrong and misguided, but we understand that the Swayze is all things to everyone. And so we invite you to submit your own writing -- poem, story, essay, alternate ending to Point Break, song lyrics, whatever you want -- for the Barrelhouse Invitational: Patrick Swayze edition.

More information is here.

We'll publish the entries we like on the site, and as always the winner will receive the Mr. T in Your Pocket, which is appropriate for all occasions.

Rock Like a Hurricane: How to Succeed in Hair Metal

Fully twenty years too late, here is some sage advice for those of you who are thinking about starting a hair metal band:

• Hair Metal Confidential: Provides a guide to "the secrets and subtleties of hair metal" and includes everything from hair color ("natural is unacceptable") to "the difficult fourth album."
  

• How to Be An 80s Hair Metal Star: Essential information for the potential frontman, including the following: "When preening for the cameras be sure to grab a bottle of Jack Daniel's or cheap Vodka. Make sure at least one photo is of you drinking it straight from the bottle, or better yet, having it poured over your head by another band mate."
  

• Big Hair Rules: An appreciation. "Big hair is pretty. It's even prettier when you have four or five guys with big hair who get together and try and woo the ladies with some flashy rock and roll licks and tease the hell out of their hair to get them. Slap on a little mascara, lip gloss and ta-da! Glam."
  

• A Love Affair with Hair Metal: From PopMatters, a great essay on why none of us should be embarrassed that, even though we know it was all so very, very stupid, we still kind of like hair metal. And not in that kitschy, Black Sabbath t-shirt from Urban Outfitters kind of way, either.
  

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do, or The Tough Task of Ending a Popular TV Show

On the eve of TV Tuesday, I'd like to go on record and say that I enjoyed the final episode of Six Feet Under. I'm sure people will bag on it, because -- well, people like to bag on things, final episodes of popular TV shows especially. And because after an almost universally dark five seasons -- one of my friends stopped watching the show in the middle of Season Three because he said it was getting to be too much like Party of Five, i.e. a show in which nothing good ever happened to anyone -- the final episode offered some rare glimpses of optimism. David and Keith moving into the Fisher house and fixing it up, Ruth cheering up, Brenda coming to terms with her new baby, everyone coming to terms with Nate's death, Claire striking out for New York City.

Maybe people will think the show sold out -- they're not allowed to be happy, goddamnit! Good things don't happen in Six Feet Under Land! We want carnage! But given the task of wrapping up a five-season show that's been almost always good, sometimes spectacular, with lots of characters and lots of plot lines swerving every which way ... well, I think Alan Ball did a damn fine job.

And those last ten minutes or so made me do a Joey Lawrence-style "Whoa!" Although I have to admit that the whole time Claire was on the highway out of town, I sorta expected a heat-seeking missile to suddenly come swerving down the road and into her car.

So, a discussion question: What shows have ended particularly gracefully? Which final episodes do you never care to watch again? I have fond memories of the final Cheers, but mostly because of what happened after the actual episode was over, where the actors and writers and producers (if I'm remembering this correctly) hung out and drank beers and talked shop. I was not such a fan of the final Seinfeld, probably because a) it was basically a clip show, and b) it tried to impose a linear narrative structure on a show that was never structured that way. Whenever that one comes on in reruns, I groan and change the channel.

Fellow Barrelhousers, what say you?

It's Wild!

Okay, so it's movie day here and I'm so lame I haven't been to the movies for weeks, and my pal Netflix keeps delivering the first season of Northern Exposure (which is great, in case you didn't know that already), so let me offer you this online movie, Wild Jack Savage.

Yeah, it's a do-gooder-y viral marketing piece for the International Fund for Animal Welfare, but it's pretty funny. Plus, the cat playing Wild Jack -- to perfection, I might add -- is a friend of mine, and I'd really like it if he couldn't walk down the street without people shouting at him, "It's Wild!"

Words of Wisdom

I have alot of respect for Camille Paglia. I read a good bit of Sexual Personae, an analysis of periods of art and literature up to the present. I mean, where else can you read that De Sade's writings are a cogent critique of Rousseau's philosophical folly, typified by: "Man was born free, but everywhere he is in chains"? Nature is always dangerous, which is why we avoid it so much.

In any case, here's an interesting interview with Camille, conducted by Robert Birnbaum. In it she talks about what's wrong with art in general, the university and its mission, creative writing programs, even what's wrong with today's so-called leftists

Notes from the Road Part Deux: Liveblogging (sort of) the trip to Iowa

Day 2

--The Road Trip Breakfast of Champions: a yellow Gatorade, a sleeve of mini chocolate donuts, a fresh pack of Parliament Lights.

--The Arcade Fire is the perfect soundtrack for driving through the flat, barren parts of Ohio in the early morning hours. It's a little eerie, just like the landscape.

--Flipping the dials on the radio, I come across Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time." Once, a few years back, I attended a Cher concert. In my defense, it was because of a girl. Really that's no excuse, but I was in over my head and at that point I would have done just about anything she asked me to do. Since then, "going to a Cher concert" has become a kind of shorthand for all the stupid and/or embarrasing things I've done for women.

--I absolutely love truck stops. Where else can you get gas, have a pee, play a couple games of Centipede, take a nap, eat a chili dog, get your shoes (or boots) polished, and plunk a quarter in a machine to get sprayed with Drakkar Noir?

--I hardly ever listen to country music, but for some reason every time I take a road trip, there comes a point (usually several hours in) when I have an insatiable urge to hear songs about trains and dogs and unappreciative women. Unfortunately, I discover that I can't listen to country radio anymore, because every fourth song is about remembering the the twin towers or waving American flags or punching Iraqis in the mouth.

--For a city seemingly obsessed with auto racing, the citizens of Indianapolis are pretty lousy (and slow) drivers.

--Why are there little signs at rest stops that say "begin rest area" and "end rest area." Is it that important to publicly mark off the land? Are there different sets of laws inside rest areas? Like if I kill a man just to watch him die on one side of the "end rest area" sign, I'll go to jail, but if I do it on the other side I have some sort of diplomatic immunity?

--I just passed a sign that shows several smiling teenagers and the slogan "Abstain from sex to reach your goals." The problem with this mantra is that when I was a teenager, pretty much my only goal was to have sex.

--Maybe a better abstinence ad campaign would be "Less sex now = More sex later." It could be illustrated with one of those Goofus and Gallant cartoons. Goofus has unprotected sex with his high school girlfriend, knocks her up, has to drop out of school and take a job at a box factory, and his life is basically over. Meanwhile, Gallant abstains from sex, goes to college, becomes an investment banker and, in the final frame, downs a bottle of Cristal and snorts lines of blow off Tara Reid's tits.

--Classic Rock radio stations can be divided into two categories: those that have a "Beatles Break" in the afternoon and those that "Get the Led Out."

--The people of Illinois apparently really like guns. Every few miles on the side of the interstate are pro-gun signs. Most of them carry the traditional arguments: guns protect you from intruders, hunting is fun, guns don't kill people, people kill people. But there's one sign, just outside Ogden, Ill, that really creases me: "Terrorists love gun control. Their dream is an unarmed populace." I feel pretty confident making the following promise: If an al-Qaeda cell ever attacks Ogden, population 750, I will stick a Roman candle up my ass and light it on fire.

--About fifty miles past Ogden, in the middle of nowhere, I stop at a little BP station and find myself in an Aerosmith video. For reasons I can't even begin to guess at, the girl working behind the counter is ridiculously hot, and she's wearing one of those tight baby tees. Also, judging from the one car outside (other than mine) she drives a vintage Mustang. I kind of want to ask her if she owns a gun, but then she'd probably think I was robbing her, and I'd find out the hard way whether she was packing. Instead I ask her what the deal is with all those signs. "There's a lot of nut jobs around here," she says. I think she's stoned. "I mean, my brothers each have like three shotguns. They like to get drunk and shoot at empty cans." In my fantasy version of this story, the girl and I then go back into the break room and smoke a joint while listening to Lynard Skynard.

--At what age will I be able to drive past the sign for Kickapoo, Illinois, without giggling like a twelve year old?

--Illinois seems like it will never end. And it's not even a very wide state. I can't imagine what it's like to drive across Kansas or Colorado.

--Pretty much every county in Ohio, Indiana and Illinois seems to be doing road work. I guess when you live in a place where snow is possible for six or seven months out of the year, you have a limited window of time to fix the roads.

--Is there anything worse than flipping radio stations and hearing the last few seconds of a really good song? This happens twice to me in about fifteen minutes -- first it's the last couple bars of Rod Stewart's "Maggie May," then Journey's "When the Lights Go Down in the City." Dammit.

--Finally, Iowa! If you had told me a couple years ago that I'd be really excited to drive across the border into Iowa, I don't think I would have believed you. And yet, here I am, feeling like I'm home. I really hope my apartment doesn't smell bad.

Random Thoughts From The Road: Liveblogging (sort of) the drive back to Iowa

Day 1

--Driving around the Beltway in D.C., I do an informal headcount of foreign cars. I have a theory that the percentage of foreign automobiles on the road is inversely proportional to your distance from either of the coasts. So, according to this theory, I should see fewer and fewer foreign cars as I push on into the Midwest. And somewhere in the middle of the country -- Nebraska, maybe --there's a town where every single resident drives an American car. If you moved there with, say, a Jaguar, the people in the town would shun you, even though they might not know exactly why. They'd cock their head at you oddly and whisper behind your back -- "Something about that new guy just ain't right" -- until you either assimilated (i.e., bought a Chevy) or moved east or west. My informal headcount of foreign cars in D.C.: there are a fuck ton of foreign cars in D.C.

--When you drive from the D.C. area toward Columbus, Ohio, you pass through Pennsylvania approximately 16 times. This is an exaggeration, of course, but only slightly. You're in Pennsylvania briefly, then Maryland, then Pennsylvania again. Finally you hit West Virginia and assume you're done with PA, but no! There it is again, like an ex-girlfriend who swears she's not stalking you but keeps showing up at your work happy hours and the deli down the steet and at the concert of a band you know she doesn't even like. Hey Pennsylvania, why don't you just move into the apartment down the hall and start fucking my best friend?

--The Roots' "Thoughts at Work" is maybe the greatest hip hop song ever.

--What is it about religious states and strip clubs? When I lived in North Carolina, people liked to tell you that the state had the highest number of churches per capita in the country, and also the highest number of strip clubs. I don't know if that's true -- it sounds kind of like an urban legend -- but I do know that N.C. has a ton of churches and a ton of strip clubs. Judging from its interstate billboards, West Virginia is also a very religious state, and is home to approximately three strip clubs for every five residents. Someone should do a study on this.

--To the asshole in the Dodge minivan (W. Va. -- definitely more American cars than D.C.): You know how you could support our troops? By moving into the right fucking lane and letting the rest of us pass!

--It must freak you out the first time you hear a song that was recorded in your lifetime on an Oldies station. I've come close a few times, although I think Oldies stations playing music from the mid-to-late 70s are pushing the bounds of what can properly be categorized as Oldies.

--80s music, despite its popularity on CD compilations and retro DJ nights, hasn't really found its way into a steady radio format, except for those "flashback lunch" segments on the Top 40 station. The Oldies station usually covers the 50s and the early 60s. The late 60s and early to mid-70s tend to be represented on the Classic Rock station. Will late-70s disco music get lumped together with 80s New Wave in some future format? How do these things work? At what point did Oldies become Oldies? Will Classic Rock always mean Zeppelin and Supertramp and the Stones? Or does newer hard rock music, once appropriately aged, turn into Classic Rock? These are the kinds of things I wonder about while driving through the middle of nowhere.

--The people who write copy for America's interstate billboards sure love exclamation points and air quotes.

--Twice in Ohio I see cars with bumper stickers that say "Road Rage Kills." And both times, the person is driving in such a ridiculously moronic fashion that I want to run them off the road and into the ditch.

--I stop in Columbus, Ohio to have dinner with my dad and stay in the corporate apartment he rents when he's working there. This all kind of feels like cheating. On a real road trip, you're supposed to stay at a shitty Red Roof Inn and have dinner at a greasy diner. Also, it kills me to stop driving while it's still daylight. This seems to be a universal male urge: to make good time, to make as few stops as possible, to drive as far as you can before collapsing from sheer exhaustion. My friend John, when he'd drive from North Carolina to New York, used to just pull off at rest areas and sleep for a few hours in his car, then start driving again. Now John has a wife, and I assume she makes him stop at hotels. Because women are much smarter than men, and realize that sleeping in your car is retarded.

--Last year for Christmas, my dad bought me an Ann Coulter book, and I bought him a book by Paul Krugman. Yesterday, he forwarded me this email entitled "Why I'm a Republican." I expected it to be some serious essay, but instead it was two grids of pictures of women. The point was that they'd picked attractive women Republicans and unattractive Democrats. At dinner, my dad says "Didja see that email? Pretty good, huh? Huh?" To which I reply: "I think when all that's left is the 'we're hotter than you are' argument, you're really scraping the bottom of the argument barrel." My dad chuckles and says "Yeah, you're probably right." The moral of this story: Democrats and Republicans can get along just fine. Especially when the Republican is buying the Democrat dinner and wine.

More later....

We Do the Work So You Don't Have To: Some Email Lists You May Want to Consider

As a bit of a follow-up to our Abe Vigoda and Bea Arthur discussion earlier this week (by the way, Vigoda is still alive, according to my Abe Vigoda Status bar), here are some emails lists you may want to think about signing up for, or signing up your friends (which is, I might add, an underrated practical joke -- trust me, if you want to annoy your friends, the Dom DeLuise e-mail newsletter is a nice way to go).

Carrot-Top: Fan Club Newsletter

Dom DeLuise: Get the latest Dom DeLuise news, recipes, events!

Shatner: Get email from Bill!

Bea Arthur:"the LimeLetter"

Matthew Lesko: Updates from Lesko

Meat Loaf: Order the Meat Loaf newsletter and you will be informed about all important Meat Loaf news such as tour dates, TV entrances, CD releases, raffles and a lot more.

Kajagoogoo: Mailing list.

Richard Simmons: You've just got to sign up for my E-Newsletter! It only takes a minute to join. And, once you do, you'll receive regular updates sent to your personal e-mail address about what's going on with the site. You'll be among the first to know about any new features, special events, and what's new with me. I know you don't wanna miss anything, so you don't want to miss this opportunity to be "in the know." Take a minute and JOIN NOW! And it's FREE, too! Oh, such a deal!

Nelson: News from the (newly renamed) "Nelson Brothers."

Other, kind of scary stuff:

I don’t know what will happen if you fill this out, but apparently "Gallagher" (the watermelon smashing, suspenders wearing not very funny comic) is “interested in you!”

And then there’s the bad news. Unfortunately, the David Hasselhoff email newsletter has reached its limit of subscribers. Check back soon!

The Amazing Adventures of Lethem and Chabon

Courtesy of Backwards City Review, which is reprinting this comic from Patricia Storms in its latest issue:

The Amazing Adventures of Lethem and Chabon, wherein our heroes save literature by introducing "that most important element in contemporary fiction for the modern male intellectual...comics, dude!"

Also, Lethem himself has a pretty interesting (if really annoyingly designed) website that, if you click on enough random stuff, leads you to some great, pop-culture essays that were published in lots of fancy places. It's great to have them all together in one place, and for free, no less, and reminds me that he really is better than you and me. Anyway, check it out: I'll save you the mystery navigation: here's the stuff.

Waiting for Diamond Dave

Lee Roth, that is. Now that I've hipped you to the Abe Vigoda Status Firefox Extension, here's another sparkly virtual goodie that will allow you to keep track of your favorite 70s/80s heavy metal hair gods.

That's right -- finally, you can show your support for David Lee Roth as you patiently wait for Eddie and Alex (and the other cat who is not named Van Halen and who really likes Jack Daniels) to come to their senses and reunite with their oldest, bestest frontman. But how can I, a lowly internet citizen, support the high-flying, leg-kicking, midget-palling-around-with, teacher fantasizing, carnival barking, just a gigalo-ing, hair extending David Lee Roth, you might ask? By flying the David Lee Roth Army torch, pictured at right. When the band has reunited, properly, with our boy Lee Roth at the helm, this baby will proudly roar with virtual digital fire, an inferno of animated gif and rock and roll intensity that only Lee Roth could deliver.

Can the Bea Arthur Army, led by Commander Aaron Pease, be far behind?

Abe Vigoda Must Die!

Along with Ricardo Montalban, Robert Guillaume, Hal Linden, Max Gail, and Jack Soo (wait, Jack Soo actually is dead).

It's rare that I pimp a website, but here's a good one. Everything you always wanted to know about just about everything. Political rants, random media critiquing, and the occasional reference to adult entertainment, just to keep Artie Writewell coming back.

http://thecontrariangenius.blogspot.com/

How Can You Tell if Abe Vigoda is Still Alive?

Just install this Firefox extension: the Abe Vigoda Status Bar.

Another reason to use Firefox. And yes, he appears to still be alive as of this writing.

Family Guy takes on A-ha

It's shit like this that makes Family Guy one of my favorite shows.

C.C. and Gamblor

This weekend, one-fourth of Team Barrelhouse was in Vegas and got to party with legendary Poison guitarist C.C. DeVille. Or, maybe "party" is too strong a word, since C.C. was understandably more interested in the handful of strippers hanging around his cabana at the Hard Rock pool than he was with the dorky guys occupying the cabana next door. Still, it was fun to watch C.C. operate. The guy weighs probably ninety pounds soaking wet, and he's still sporting a shaggy bleached blonde 'fro. C.C. has definitely seen better days: his face looks like beef jerky and either he's still rocking the eyeliner or he really needs a nap. And yet, the ladies still love him.

On Sunday night, this Barrelhouser found himself under the sway of gambling monster Gamblor, though for once Gamblor was pleased, and allowed good fortune to rain down on said Barrelhouser and his friends. Maybe Gamblor likes writers and literary journals. Or maybe he liked the young lady who stumbled up to the craps table and nearly collapsed onto the felt. At any non-Vegas establishment, she would have been ushered into a cab, or at least up to her room. But all the guys at the craps table were entertained by her, and, well, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, she had many of the attributes prized by the Superficial Man. And in Vegas, if the gamblers are happy, anything's fair game. So she was allowed to roam the table blowing on the dice, shouting drunken non-sequiters and ordering more drinks. Good times.

You know, when I started this post, I thought it was going somewhere, but now it looks like it's not. Cut me some slack: I've gone several days with far too little sleep, and took a red-eye flight back to D.C. nestled up against a guy twice my size. And yet it's all worth it for that late-night thrill of a craps run that spans three casinos and feels like it will never end. Any time you get to cash out a couple of those elusive yellow chips, well ... money can't buy happiness, but it can at least rent it for a while.

Going Without

Well, I’ve been in my latest apartment for six months now, and that means I’ve been without cable for equally as long. Upon moving, the finance and I decided to forgo all things good about television, hoping to use any cash saved toward our impending nuptials. I also saw it as a good way to spend significantly less time sitting on my ass watching three episodes of Law and Order a night. I figured the Walden-esque aspects of going without cable would push me toward greater productivity. You know, write more, read more, think more. The usual. And it’s partly true. I do read a lot more. But going without cable also showed me that, due to the miracle of modern technology, the human capacity to waste time borders on limitless.

First of all, we’ve got the Netflix. And we love it. Where else can you rent Gangs of New York in March, still have it sitting, unwatched, on your entertainment center in the middle of August, and not feel guilty about it? Even better, Netflix offers a shitload of TV shows, allowing me to watch TV on DVD during the time I used to watch TV on cable. The problem now is that every night is a marathon and I’m completely powerless to stop them. You’d think it’s only true of series television, where one episode leads right into the next, but no, it’s just as bad with stand-alone, episodic television. In that case, just the right amount of predictability exists to keep me from hitting stop—I have an inkling of what’s coming next, but not an exact idea. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

PlayStation doesn’t help either. I find the most banal excuses for using it. I’m too tired to read or watch an entire movie but not tired enough to go to bed. What to do? The only answer, of course, is to fuck up a bunch of Triads and steal a bunch of cars. Fortunately, I find it rude to use game systems in the presence of others, so this vice only takes root in the dead of night, when the rest of the house is asleep. Still, I generally like being alone to write, so why don’t I do it then? Laziness you ask? Or maybe just the undeniable joy of wreaking death and destruction vicariously?

The Internet. My Ipod. The list goes on and on. Granted, on the nights I keep from popping in a DVD or going online to find out what’s happening with the Peace Mom’s vigil, I do read more. And, thanks to all the substitutions available, I miss cable less than I thought I would. But, in the end, is reading for pleasure any different than watching TV? Is any activity anything more than just a way to pass the time?

The Barrelhouse Standard: What's Your Favorite Patrick Swayze Movie?

In light of our recent survey and the new Barrelhouse Invitational topic, I thought I'd throw out the old Barrelhouse Standard to the public. So, just to get the pimping portion of this post out there early, that's:

• The Barrelhouse Invitational: Patrick Swayze Edition
  
  
• Online survey: still looking for results

So What's Your Favorite Patrick Swayze Movie?

In case you haven't been following along, every Barrelhouse interview ends with the following question: "what is your favorite Patrick Swayze movie?" We ask this question because we love Patrick Swayze in all his cheesy glory. In particular, we love Road House. We also ask because we believe this question -- like "when replying to email, do you reply, or do you reply all?" or "who is your favorite Beatle?" -- is one of those rare questions in which your simple answer will reveal a great deal about your character and personality type. Seriously. We are simple, and we believe that your favorite Patrick Swayze movie is a glimpse into your very soul. What does it tell us? The answers to that question are only revealed after at least six beers.

We've interviewed a handful of people, including none other than Emmylou Harris (seriously, way to go, Aaron -- that took balls), and here are the results we've gotten to date:

Emmylou Harris:

I guess I would have to say Ghost, because I think that’ the only one I’ve seen all the way through. Plus, it’s on TV a lot.

Heather Havrilesky, Salon TV Critic:

Without question Dirty Dancing. That movie was soft porn for awkward teenage girls lacking adorable little noses, and Swayze was the hunky man-meat at the center of the story, hung there for us to drool over. Meaty but non-threatening, charming but dumb, plus cool, loyal, and extremely coordinated, Swayze was the ultimate no-strings Summer fling, the ideal way to lose your virginity without either getting married or becoming a filthy slut. I mean, they were dancing together to help that poor working-class girl get a bad abortion, remember? It was a socially conscious sort of a film. Plus, they got caught in the rain, and Swayze had killer abs. We awkward teen girls understood that Jennifer Gray really had no choice: she had to do him. And, charmingly enough, Swayze was the shy one! He was the one who wanted to stay together in the end! But alas, she's like the wind through his tree!

Sadly, now Jennifer Gray has a surgically-altered adorable little nose, Patrick Swayze has since starred in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, and most of us have been the wind through countless trees. Ah, but times do change.

John Richards, KEXP DJ:

Red Dawn. Why the Russians AND Cubans were attacking Kansas is beyond me.

John Davis of Q and Not U:

Roadhouse, natch. Though I enjoyed Red Dawn, Point Break and Next of Kin.

Travis Morrison, formerly of Dismemberment Plan:

Big Trouble in Little China

Editor's Note: We at Barrelhouse are aware that Patrick Swayze did not appear in the 1986 film Big Trouble in Little China. However, the mistake is understandable. Big Trouble's star, Kurt Russell, was sporting a very Swayze-esque mullet throughout the mid-80's, causing all kinds of comparisons between the two stars, some warranted, others not. Hair of this kind could have crossed anyone's wires. In fact, in discussion of this topic, the Barrelhouse staff often referred to Big Trouble and Escape from New York, Mr. Russell's 1981 vehicle, interchangeably. Fear the mullet, indeed.

So...what's YOUR favorite Patrick Swayze movie?

A Quick Post That’s All About Pimp’in

Hey y'all

As most of you know, in addition to the blog, Barrelhouse has a slightly more respectable section where we occasionally publish shortish, fiction-type things. We just posted a new piece called Made. It's by Don Ball and it's really, really funny. You can check it out here. Also, in the tradition of our successful spam poetry contest, we've got a new invitational dedicated to our one true love: The Swayze.

Enjoy.

A Note on Christianity

While we here at Barrelhouse are busy starting our new, dare I say, "religion"
(I prefer belief system), I just want to note that we mock things about Christianity because we love. I personally think Christianity would be better off without Dr. James Dobson quoting approvingly from a soon to be published book about how a father can ensure that his son does not go gay: (thanks to Tapped, among others):

He can help his son learn to throw and catch a ball. He can teach him to pound a square wooden peg into a square hole in a pegboard. He can even take his son with him into the shower, where the boy cannot help but notice that Dad has a penis, just like his, only bigger.

And we might be better off if uber-Catholic Senator Rick Santorum was not musing on NPR that(thanks to Buzzmachine, among others):

"This whole idea of personal autonomy — I don’t think that most conservatives hold that point of view. Some do. And they have this idea that people should be left alone to do what they want to do, that government should keep taxes down, keep regulation down, that we shouldn’t get involved in the bedroom, that we shouldn’t be involved in cultural issues, people should do whatever they want. Well, that is not how traditional conservatives view the world. And I think that most conservatives understand that we can’t go it alone, that there is no such society that I’m aware of where we’ve had radical individualism and it has succeeded as a culture."

Has it ever been tried, Senator? Meanwhile, virtually every failed regime over the past 100 years explicitly REJECTED individualism. And they took alot of innocents down with them.

The U.S. is a secular state for a reason. Because Europe was ravaged by wars started for every conceivable reason, and for a good chunk of the 17th Century, because of religion. Gee, that was the same Century that the first Europeans came to America. Coincidence, Senator Santorum?

The explicit goal of the United States, as codified in the Constitution, is not to ensure that everyone goes to heaven, but rather to ensure that every citizen's life is as long and peaceful as possible. Obstacles to this include not only outside forces like terrorism, but also an overbearing government that does not trust its citizens to make the right decisions.

Right now, many, many ridiculous things are being said in the name of Christianity. I cannot help but think that these so-called Christians need to take a deep breath, open up their Bible--past all the parts with the smiting--and reflect on what it means to have love and forgiveness for all. Save souls on your own time and you can bring about true conversions; forcefeed through law and dictate and you will be constructing a whitened sepulchre for yourself while not doing anybody else any good.

Stacey Richter, Thetans and Tom Cruise

Because we love our contributors like our very own (imaginary) children, we'd like to take a moment to tell you that Stacey Richter, whose story "Reality x Reality" graced the pages of Barrelhouse #1, has a story that will appear in the fall issue of Willow Springs, a journal that operates out of Eastern Washington University. The story is called "The Land of Pain," and Stacey says it's science fiction. Stacey also co-wrote a really wonderful story with Dan Chaon that is in Issue #2 of Swink. That one came out earlier this year, but should still be available at book outlets nationwide.

Stacey requested that we write more about Scientology on the blog, because Scientology freaks her out. Specifically, Stacey wants to know if Scientologists actually believe in thetans — the little aliens living inside our bodies — or if these are simply a metaphor for something else: psychic pain, perhaps, or indigestion.

Well, Stacey, I'm no Scientology expert, but from what I can tell, they really do believe in the thetans. Hard to comprehend, yes, but remember: there are people who think Jonah literally lived in the belly of a whale, that the earth is only 2,000 years old, and that Elvis is alive and well and shopping at their local 7-11. People, on the whole, are not very smart.

Here's a link to a very thorough web site about Scientology called Operation Clambake. Might I recommend the "Scientology Illustrated" feature for a brief, and funny, tutorial on L. Ron's vision (the pic above is the site's illustration of Xenu, who apparently came to earth years ago and enslaved humans with his psychic powers).

Also, on a somewhat related note, you can check out this site, Tom Cruise is Nuts , which includes a number of Tom's quips about his favorite religion, his favorite girl, and his least favorite pill-prescribing profession. Such as this little beaut:

"Some people, well, if they don't like Scientology, well, then, fuck you. Really. Fuck you. Period."

The Contrarian Roams From Blog To Blog

I'd originally put a version of this over on Ropes of Sand, which purportedly is the blog of the Iowa Writers' Workshop class of 2005, but in reality is a moribund, navel-gazing and strangely silent bunch (oh wait, that's us, not the blog itself). But anyway, there were few folks there with the balls to jump in. And I'm certain that Barrelhousing includes the ability to look beyond the conventional wisdom (I mean, Barrelhousers have admitted to liking REM and Coldplay--where's the hip quotient in that) and of course there is my own public paean to Magnum PI.

But it's Thursday and therefore it must be literature. Which means that I am done with my two classes of summer school, which were remarkably difficult considering the change from Iowa (as in, I had to show up and I had to read books, etc). But the all-white, all-male syllabus of one of these classes got me to thinking about the following: we're force-fed a handful of books again and again, the canonical offenders yes, but also the hip lit of the moment etc. I feel like throwing a bomb or two.

Therefore I posit this question: what is the most overrated book you've ever encountered? Or maybe a book that was handed to you by someone whose taste was usually infallible, yet turned out to be awful. I'm thinking here specifically about Doctor Copernicus, recommended whole-heartedly by an otherwise very fine visiting writer last year. I read that book and became convinced that John Banville's notion of authorial choice was not to make any authorial choices.

Nominees for most overrated? Everything is Illuminated? Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius? Anything written by a Brooklyn hipster doofus who has yet to publish a second book yet somehow has a tenured teaching job?

In the spirit of generousity, I'll accept votes for the all-time underrated team. The literary All-Maddens. The men and women who do the dirty work, crank out solid work and ought to be well-read, but aren't. I'll give you a short list to start. Andre Dubus. Bausch. Frederick Barthelme. Mary Robison. George Garrett.

The book you've been asked to read the most? (Mine, far and away is Gatsby--not overrated, and I still find something new each time).

Let the flinging begin.

Bookish ramblings for a hot August morning

In which your humble blogger discusses Vegas, his earning potential, and his newfound crush on Sarah Vowell.

Tomorrow morning I'm getting on a plane to Las Vegas for a bachelor party. So for the past few weeks I've found myself having the usual run-up-to-Vegas talk with my friends. If you've ever been to Vegas, you're familiar with this talk: contemplating the number of "free" drinks you'll be consuming, all the money you're sure to win, whether there's a chance for permanent injury when a pair of silicone-enhanced double-Ds come raining down on your forehead from out of the sky. While these conversations are fun and all, what they've mostly highlighted for me is the growing gap between my future earning potential and that of my friends — all of whom, post-college, screwed around for a few years and then eventually embarked upon more or less respectable careers. Whereas I screwed around for a few years, then tried on a respectable career for size, then fled said career as if it were a scabies-infested suit for grad school and abject poverty.

I suppose it's time to face facts: I will probably always be poor. Or, maybe not poor exactly, because I realize there are lots of people who live in real poverty while working menial, no-future jobs and sleeping in squalor and entertaining themselves with only basic cable and dial-up internet service. But I doubt I will ever be rich. Or even upper middle class. Or comfortable. Unless, of course, I decide to give up on the things that I love and re-sell my soul to Corporate America.

Apparently, when my mother was a youngish girl, my grandmother used to tell her that it was just as easy to love a rich man as to love a poor one. Sometimes, at night, I lie in bed and wonder if I could make myself love something different: investment banking, or real estate law, or orthodontia. Because unfortunately, what I really love is fiction writing. And also writing about my unhealthy obsession with pop culture. And, oh yes, editing a literary journal.

Until someone comes along with a new set of mathematical theorems, zero plus zero plus zero will continue to equal zero.

A few days ago, I picked up a copy of The Partly Cloudy Patriot, a collection of essays by Sarah Vowell. Everyone, except me, has apparently known about Sarah Vowell for years. What can I say? I don't listen to enough public radio. I saw her first in a documentary about They Might Be Giants, and then on The Daily Show. And then I was browsing the bookstore one day and saw this collection of essays and thought: why the hell not?

Which leads me to the part of this post where I confess to being in love, just a little bit, with Sarah Vowell, or at least the version of Sarah Vowell that comes across in these essays, the self-proclaimed nerd who loves American history and can write about it in ways that completely charm my pants off. And I am not a history person. I used to fall asleep in high school history, until my teacher, a large Greek woman, would smack me on the back of the head and I would wake up in a puddle of my own drool. In college, I only took one history class, a boring survey course that tried to cover all of Western Civilization in one semester, and I would have slept through that, too, if not for the Sam Kinison-like instructor scaring the shit out of us from the front of the room. Instead my friend Tad and I snuck in travel mugs that concealed a mixture of spiced rum and Coca-Cola and tried our best to feign interest from the back row.

So yes, I am one of those people who is doomed to repeat history because I don't understand it. But then again, I'm not the President of the United States of America or the CEO of some huge multinational corporation. My repeating history tends to involve dating the same types of problematic women over and over again, which, while annoying, isn't exactly going to usher in Armageddon. So perhaps my lack of historical knowledge isn't such a big deal, all things considered.

But how can you not love history when it's recounted like this:

"My whole life, no matter how happy I am, I've always had this nagging feeling that Teddy Roosevelt is looking over my shoulder whispering, 'Is this all you are?' As is my policy toward all well-rounded people, I sort of hate him a little. Roosevelt was a well-read he-man, a bookworm and an athlete, a robust outdoorsman who loved to come home from the hunt and crack open a volume of Hawthorne. He was a jock and a nerd at the same time. As Elting Morrison puts it in his introduction to Roosevelt's autobiography, 'He is certainly the only President who ever read Anna Karenina while on a three-day search for cattle thieves.'"

Or this, after visiting Gettysburg on the anniversary of Lincoln's most famous speech:

"I pay my respects to the bodies, but I'll admit that I am more concerned with the 272 words President Lincoln said about them. The best the slaughtered can usually hope for is a cameo in some kind of art. Mostly, we need a Guernica to remind us of Guernica. In the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln said of the men who shed their blood, 'the world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.' Who did he think he was kidding? We only think of them because we think of him. Robert E. Lee hightailed it out of Gettysburg on the Fourth of July, the same day the Confederates surrendered Vicksburg to U.S. Grant — a big deal at the time because it gave the Feds control of the Mississippi. And yet who these days dwells on Vicksburg, except for the park rangers who work there and a handful of sore losers who whine when they're asked to take the stars and bars off their godforsaken state flags?"

Point is, in reading this book, I've found myself wishing someone like Sarah Vowell could have written my high school American history textbook. Or taught that college World Civ. class in place of the ponytailed screamer who seemed more interested in scaring us into submission than inspiring us to learn.

And the other point is this: here is someone else who loves something not all that many people love, and who has stuck with it and made a nice little life for herself in the process. So maybe there is a bit of hope, after all, for the rest of us. I certainly hope so, because if I have to give up HBO, or my subscription to Entertainment Weekly, I will not be a happy camper.

Three Cheers for Blind Date!!!

Deluged as we are now with Reality TV, I'd like to give a shout-out to one of the most consistently funny and entertaining reality shows out there: Blind Date. Blind Date has soldiered on TV's periphery for six years. You don't need cable to tune in; just be willing to stay up late and have the auto function memory to click on the WB or UPN....networks that lose all their viewers by 10 pm at the latest. Plus, the show has to compete with Letterman, Leno, and the other late night talk shows.

Perhaps Blind Date doesn't get the credit it is due because the show adds its own layer of creative and well-placed snark in the form of running graphic commentary on each date. Reality show buffs and other dedicated TV watchers may find themselves gainsaid too often to devote a TWOP column or a "Best Week Ever" clip to the show.

Last night's epsiode, almost assuredly a repeat, featured a date between a 27 year old virgin and a 28 year old porn star. They hit it off quite well, with the porn star conceding that her emotional needs might be better met in a relationship with the virgin fellow; who needs the sex at home when you get banged all day at work? On the other side, Mr. Virgin claimed that he would have no qualms taking his show pony home to meet his parents. I imagine he thought to himself that waiting for a porn star would offer the most lasting reward for his chastity. In fact, the only thing more rewarding would be to not wait at all.

The second date did not have such a fairy tale ending. The dude had written Blind Date a letter stating that he wanted to go on a date with a specific woman that he saw on the show previously. Blind Date could not guarantee this, and they set him up with Jacqueline, an attractive woman who is a fitness instructor/makeup artist/clothes designer. Apparently she has been too busy to date, because somehow she found this plain-looking doofus to be irresistible. After working out, in which Jackie carried this guy around on her back, they sat down for drinks. Doofus not only tells Jackie about the other woman, he also pulls out the letter and reads it to her. His action leads to the following events:

Jackie: If I were to ask you to come home with me, would you?
Doofus: Are you?
Jackie: No, as a hypothetical
Doofus: I don't like hypotheticals
(back and forth)
Doofus: I need to go get the shots at the bar.

The show tells us 10 minutes pass. Jackie goes to the bar to investigate. Doofus is on the phone

Jackie: What are you doing?
Doofus: Getting the shots.
Jackie: So now you're on the phone?
Doofus: I'm out of here.

And he's gone.

Damn, that's cold. And she was into him! That is even more mysterious than his sudden departure.

So tune into the WB at 1130pm and a few half-hour time slots later for an enjoyable reality show that just doesn't get enough credit. You won't regret it.

New slang

So I'm listening to the radio in my car when Tom Petty's "You Don't Know How It Feels" comes on. But they've replaced "let's roll another joint" with "let's hit another joint." My first thought is: on what planet does "let's hit another joint" mean anything other than what the greaser guy in Dazed and Confused called "smokin' some reefer"?

Then, of course, it dawned on me that "hit another joint" could ostensibly mean "visit another local establishment." But who talks like that? Is some impressionable teen going to hear the edited version of "You Don't Know How It Feels" and, instead of rolling himself a doobie, extol his friends to join him on a local bar crawl?

I like it better when the censors don't understand the kids' slang, so that, for instance, that rap song with the line "skeet, skeet, skeet" can be played unedited on Top 40 radio.

So maybe that's the issue. Instead of bemoaning censored art, we just need to come up with new, more confusing terms that only a select few of us will understand. That way, when someone sings about "bobbing for apples" or "taking the elephant to the dog park," we'll knowingly snicker while everyone else just looks confused.

Rock and Roll all Nite...With Your Officially Licensed Merchandise

For no real reason, other than possibly to prove that truth is stranger and more entertaining than fiction, following is a random assortment of items currently available on the official KISS online store :

• KISS bowling ball
• KISS Strikes bowling shirt
• Love Guns blanket
• Destroyer single lightswitch cover
• KISS Lick it Up thong panties
• I Love KISS panties
• Lick It Up camisole and underwear set
• KISS World Domination keychain
• KISSmas t-shirt
• KISS Army leather vest
• Denim Farewell shirt
• Alive II decorative ceramic tile
• Pscycho Circus set of 4 gold coins
• 10-inch autographed figurine
• KISS symbols and shield logo doormat
• Psycho Circus glass KISSmas ornament
• Flames photo wall clock
• KISS personal checks
  

And my own personal favorites:

KISS Farewell lunchbox
Add another one to your collection. You can't pass on this embossed Farewell Lunchbox...and don't forget a collector's set of thermoses.

A collector's set of thermoses? Rock and roll!!!

KISS-opoloy
Rock and Roll All Nite with KISS-opoly. What an amazing board game. This game allows players to own many of their greatest hits, their merchandise, and their albums while trading their Gold Records for Platinum Records! Players roll the black dice and advance to ROCK & ROLL ALL NITE, wondering if they’ll be “Hired as a roadie to set up the Catman’s drums” or if they will “win 2nd Place in the Girls of KISS Beauty Contest!” All the while, players must try not to get stuck in SOLD OUT SHOW, Lose Their Ticket, or Get in Trouble for Disturbing the Peace!

Nothing says rock and roll all nite like board games.

Gene bust:
This incredible bust authentically details the Gene of the Destroyer era. The awe-inspiring 20" sculpture is a wonder to behold, so magnificent it’s almost as good as the real thing. Certificate of Authenticity included with each bust. Keep it on your piano or better yet your amp for daily inspiration!

You kind of have to see this to believe it. Picture a cartoon gargoyle with Gene Simmons' face. Full color. Okay, now picture that on your piano.

Tongue Lubricated KISS Kondoms:
Introducing Tongue Lubricated KISS Kondoms, featuring a wicked red latex coated with a special tongue lubrication. 3 condoms/pk. Please note that this item is not returnable.

Tongue lubricated? Am I to understand that Gene Simmons has personally licked all of these condoms, thereby transferring any disease that he may have picked up from the three billion teenage whores he's screwed? Rock on!

One state, two teams, two radically different approaches

I am glad to hear that Barrelhouse blog contributor TMC is a www.profootballcentral.com columnist for his beloved Eagles. I have been a fan of the cross-state Steelers since my family moved to Steubenville, Ohio—a steel town on the Ohio River 40 miles due west of Pittsburgh—way back in 1979 when I was five.

Both the Steelers and the Eagles have experienced success over the past decade and in particular the last five years, yet each team has very different ways of running their franchise. Philly is the epitome of front office savvy and adaptability; Andy Reid and Tom Modrak (a former Steeler personnel man) work their magic so that each year the Eagles seem to have more than $10 million free under the cap. They consistently draft fine young players whom they are not afraid to play right away, and seem to have a preternatural sense of when to let key veterans go, right at the moment their output on the field is displaced by their salary cap space.

The Steelers are the definition of Old School, stubbornly adhering to a book of tradition they have largely written themselves—no overpaying for free agents (even their own—and even despite this they always seem to have cap problems), no negotiating during the season, relying on the draft to replace personnel losses, keeping young players on the bench to “learn the system,” and running the ball down the other team’s throat whenever possible.

This formula has led to success, just as the Eagles’ system has worked. Yet neither team has won the Super Bowl. The Steelers lost a very winnable Super Bowl game in 1995 to a complacent but still dominant Dallas team (coached by Barry Switzer...ugh! The only Coach with a lower IQ than Cowher), and over Coach Bill Cowher’s 12 year tenure they are 1-4 in AFC Championship games, all 4 losses at home. The Eagles lost 3 NFC Championships in a row before getting to the Super Bowl last year. They lost to the dynastic Patriots in a close game, and Donovan McNabb, deservedly or not, was blamed for the loss.

The success both teams experienced last year can be attributed to out-of-character decisions made by each team’s braintrust in 2004. The Eagles engineered a controversial trade for the controversial Terrell Owens, arguably one of the best wide receivers in the game, yet a prima donna of exponential magnitude. They then gave him megabucks to stay. The Steelers drafted a QB in the first round for the first time since the early 80s, and then (only by necessity, when the starting QB got hurt) rode the rookie’s back to a 15-1 season and a loss in the AFC Championship game.

This year, each team is also experiencing great controversy at the wide receiver position. The well-compensated Owens wants his contract renegotiated upwards and has publicly dissed Donovan McNabb. Despite public shows of support, Owens has clearly alienated himself from his teammates. Meanwhile, Steelers WR Hines Ward, a blue-collar wide receiver with impressive stats and a boundless enthusiasm for blocking, is holding out. The Steelers’ front office has refused to renegotiate his contract—even though Ward is the heart and soul of the team; even though, unlike Owens, he has been relatively undercompensated given his performance over that past four years; and even though the Steelers let talented but mecurial Plaxico Burress go in free agency over the offseason, leaving Ward as the only proven commodity at the wide receiver position. Throw in a young QB who could have a sophomore slump without a talented receiver corps and the consensus in Steelerland is to give Ward what he wants. But Dan Rooney, an icon in Pittsburgh and highly respected around the league (mainly because he is old, just like his father used to be) answers to no man.

The Eagles are a team any intelligent person can love; Andy Reid and defensive coordinator Jim Johnson seem to be able to make something out of nothing almost at will. Before Owens, I was mystified at the Eagles' success. They had McNabb, a decent offensive line, and quite literally no on else. On defense, they had talent and quickness but not size. It seemed like you could run on them all day. But Jim Johnson is one of the best blitz schemers there is, and his defenses are always disruptive and uncannily effective at causing turnovers.

Meanwhile, the Steelers are the epitome of brawn over brain. The Steelers run game is plodding and effective, while the passing game is unimaginative. The Steelers virtually never throw to their running backs or tight ends, and they are at their best when they can physically dominate you. Run Bettis right, run Bettis left, the defense knows what is coming but can’t stop it, especially in the 4th quarter. Their defense relies on the 3-4 defense and the zone blitz. They get a few sacks and tackles for loss under their belts, and rely on intimidation and fear the rest of the way. But pick up the blitz, and odds are there’ll be a soft zone behind it that can be picked apart.

Steelers fans have a special burden. The Steelers are owned by an Irish family. Which means that their business model closely resembles that of a union. It's not the job you do, it's the time you put in. Seniority matters, never question the boss, and if the boss likes you, you can drive three trucks over a cliff and still keep your job, plus he'll give you medical leave for 2 years. Oh yeah, and always pay your dues. Right now Bill Cowher is top foreman, and while he once may have been good at his job, now he is just going through the motions. What may have worked before just doesn't seem to cut it now, and the Peter Principle may be at work.

Sound outrageous? How come Rooney has been quoted as saying that winning the Super Bowl is not all that good for business? And why did Rooney give Cowher contract extensions after losing seasons (twice!)? This coach has demonstrated an unwillingness to adapt and a timidity in pressure situations, traits he learned from his mentor, Marty Schottenheimer.

His much-discussed cowardice in the 2004 AFC Championship game is a case in point. Trailing by 14 in the fourth quarter, the Steelers faced 4th and goal from the 2. Cowher elected to kick a field goal instead of going for it. To some, that is sound football, get the points on the board now to close the gap and then hang tight and hope for a break. Except for one thing. By kicking the field goal, the deficit is 11. The Steelers are still down by 2 scores. When you are down by 14, it is clear that two touchdowns and two PATs are necessary to tie the score. When you are down by 11, it is clear that you need a field goal, a touchdown, and a 2 point conversion. A two point conversion, with the ball on the 2 yard line and one play to get the ball in the end zone, is the same exact situation in terms of “down and distance” (and pressure) as a 4th down and goal from the 2 yard line. If Cowher goes for it on 4th down now, all he needs is a touchdown. By kicking the field goal, not only does he have to get a field goal AND a touchdown, but if he does, to tie it he is forced—by necessity—to try to get the ball into the end zone from 2 yards out. The football gods must have been laughing (and wincing) that day.

The Steelers have also been playing with fire in ways that seem out of character. Despite leading the league in both rushing and rushing attempts last year, they let the right side of the offensive line go, practically kicking right guard Keydrick Vincent and right tackle Oliver Ross out the door. Both players are pluggers with limited talent, but at least one of them should have been retained. Vincent was an undrafted free agent rookie who mightily impressed line coach (and Hall of Famer and former Hog) Russ Grimm and earned a starting spot when 1st round pick Kendall Simmons busted his knee. Vincent could play tackle in a pinch and he signed with the Ravens for only $1.25 million, so keeping him wouldn’t have broken the bank. Right now the Steelers are hoping that Simmons is fully recovered (oh, by the way, he also has diabetes) and have handed the starting right tackle job to 2nd year man Max Starks, who played sparingly last year. Behind them are a motley collection of rookies and less talented journeymen who couldn’t beat Vincent or Ross out of their starting jobs when they had the chance.

Well, if you’re still reading this, I have insomnia and can’t sleep. I have to move the day after I go to a wedding in Annapolis, so I am kind of stressed. Plus, I have sciatic pain. So I have nothing better to do right now. In any case, it will be interesting to see if the Steelers and the Eagles can repeat and improve upon their successes last year. On the one hand, the Eagles may have made a deal with the devil to obtain Owens, and it could be that the Devil is coming to collect in 2005. However, the Steelers seem to be tempting fate by being so cavalier with a very crucial player and half their offensive line. Unfortunately, if the Steelers take a dive you can be sure Ben Roethlisberger and his sophomore slump will take the blame, not Cowher and Rooney for their piss-poor personnel decisions and stubborn adherence to rules that seem old-fashioned and quaint but are actually counterproductive to winning championships. But like Rooney has allegedly said, a Super Bowl can cut into your profit margins. Plus, Cowher has 8 years yet before he is eligible to collect on his pension.

(P.S. TMC, please correct any misperceptions or misstatements I made about the Eagles.)

For a Thousand Reasons: In Memory of Peter Jennings

It's going to be a rare moment of seriousness here on the blog, folks. Those wishing to return to the usual hilarity should skip the following in its entirety.

I have just a few words here in memory of the late Peter Jennings. It's difficult to add much to the requiems, odes and tributes that have been written and broadcast in the last two days; it is especially challenging to improve upon the essay by CNN's Aaron Brown. Say what you will about Brown, but he was, like his mentor Jennings, a voice of reason on September 11, and he is certainly the best writer among the major network correspondents. He said:

"For a thousand reasons, his death came too soon.

He should have been given the victory lap, the dinners, the articles, the awards, the accolades that mark a job well-done, a life well-lived. He deserved that. And though he would have said otherwise, I think he would have liked it. And we should have had more time to watch him work, to tell the stories that have yet to unfold.

But he would also say that he lived a charmed life. That he'd been to places, and told the stories, and had the experiences that a young boy imagined and dreamed about, and he did. And we should be grateful, all of us who watched him and those of us who were privileged to work with him, that we were part of the ride."

And it was too short a ride. If you want to know why network news is now terrible, consider this question: in the last four years, how many pieces of video have you seen of say, famine in Darfur, protests in the West Bank, Tony Blair in Parliament, or any story from southeast Asia? Only on World News Tonight. It took a tsunami and hundreds of thousands of deaths to get the other networks to send correspondents to Phuket, yet they all managed to send someone to Aruba to cover the apparently drug-related disappearance of one spoiled, white girl.

If you want to know why broadcast news is terrible, ask yourself if it's really important to have three weather forecasts during a half-hour news cast, or if you really give a good god damn whether the sports guy and the anchor go out for a beer between the 6 and the 11. Ask yourself why CBS spends hundreds of thousands of dollars on consultants, then tells their female correspondents to grow out their hair and wear smaller earrings. Ask yourself why Ashleigh Banfield can't get a job, but any number of interchangeable blondes can go from traffic chopper to news desk on WTTG (that's channel 5 in DC to you out-of-town folks, and shockingly, a Fox News outlet).

Buy a shortwave and listen to the BBC world service. Read the Financial Times. Use the world news function on Google. Go find out for yourself the names of the opposition leaders in Israel and Canada. Peter Jennings could. He used to remind his colleagues daily that the title of the program that he anchored was WORLD News Tonight.

As Dan Rather would have said, that is a part of our world this evening. We are better for having watched Peter, and worse off now that his chair stands empty.

The Wire: Much Needed Relief for the Summer of TV Suckage

The Wire is the best drama on TV, and certainly the best show of the past five years that nobody is watching. Nobody I know, at least. Up to about three weeks ago, that included me. I had heard all about how good it was, watched a few episodes, and, being the standard bearer of an American male short attention span, lost interest quickly when I discovered that there were no hot chicks, car chases, things blowing up, wisecracking hot chicks, amiable and quirky Italian gangsters, wisecracking aliens, or wisecracking aliens occupying the bodies of hot chicks.

And then, in the middle of summer and the complete, total lack of anything on television, and motivated by the instinct to avoid writing, I actually sat through a few reruns of some episodes from the most recent season (season three, for those of you keeping track), and it started to grow on me. I watched a few more episodes, then ordered the first disc of season one from my bestest friend, Netflix. And then I was hooked.

I know the Wire isn’t even really on right now. But neither is anything else, and today is TV day, so here are the reasons you should be watching, or should have been, or should talk to your friend Netflix or Tivo or On-demand about The Wire:

Reality:

You won’t find Trishelle or Flavor Flav or Bobby and Whitney on The Wire, but you will find a world that looks and feels remarkably real. That’s because The Wire was created by David Simon, a former Baltimore Sun reporter who made his mark with the nonfiction book Homicide, in which he spent a year shadowing real Baltimore homicide detectives. Homicide the book became, of course, Homicide the TV show. Simon followed that book by partnering with Ed Burns, a former Baltimore homicide detective, to write The Corner, in which they shadowed the real life of a Baltimore street corner for a year. That critically acclaimed book was, of course, made into the acclaimed HBO miniseries. Are you seeing a pattern here? Following the Corner, Simon and Burns collaborated on The Wire, which brings together expertly the world of the cops and the street.

Simon has repeatedly said that The Wire isn’t so much about the drug war as it is about the life of the city. The world of The Wire is not my world, thank god, comfy suburban softie that I am, but it looks and acts like the world that exists in any modern American city.

Really, Really Great Writing:

Not only do Simon and Burns have the credentials mentioned above, but they’ve enlisted a shortlist of American literary crime authors that includes George Pelecanos, Dennis Lehane, and Richard Price. As a result, The Wire plays out like a novel. It moves slowly, things happen one episode that may not be fully explained until two episodes later. Characters are dark and complex -- the drug guys are not all bad, the cops are not all good, and everybody is conflicted.

Dialogue is realistic, with occasional lapses into oratory that don’t so much slow down the action or detract from the realism, but put a point on it. For instance, D’Angelo Barksdale is a truly tortured soul in what can only be called a Shakesperian dilemma -- yearning to break free from “the game” and go to “a place where I can breathe free,” imprisoned for his role in his druglord uncle’s crew, forced to stay in the game, or as his mother implores, “stay close to the family,” eventually...well, you’ll have to watch and see. As part of a prison study group (led by Richard Price), D’Angelo talks about the Great Gatsby: “The past is always with us. Where we come from, what we go through, how we go through it, all of this shit matters ... you can say you somebody new, you can give yourself a whole new story, but what came first is who you really are. It don't matter that some fool say he different 'cause the only thing that make you different is what you really do.”

Characters:

The Wire has to have the largest cast on TV. There are maybe thirty regular characters. Thirty. At least. While this can make getting acquainted with The Wire a rather daunting experience, it also rewards dedicated viewing. Characters change, grow, screw each other, get screwed (by each other and the department), screw up, keep on screwing up, and keep on keeping on.

But nobody is "redeemed." There are no jive-ass revelations, no kiss and make up, no tidy endings where the good guys get the promotion and the girl/boy by thwarting the bad guys and everybody lives happily ever after.

The Wire’s characters are as likely to be motivated by personal or perceived slights -- the police major who is shown up by the local dockworkers union, the junkie whose friend is beaten over a fake ten dollar bill, the cop who is driven by boredom to track down the real name of a girl found dead and floating in the bay, the bureaucrat looking to jump a rung on the company ladder -- as those old stalwarts "good and evil." Good and evil are out there, but these aren't superheroes, they're real people, and that's not what is driving them.

Relationships are intricate and complex. Some of the best relationships on the show are between cops and what on any other show would be called “bad guys.” When cop Kima Greggs is shot, the scene in which her street informant Bubbles, a streetwise junkie, is told about Kima’s condition (critical) is much more moving than the scene in which her partner (that’s partner as in life-parter, rather than police partner) is told. We like Bubbles more. We like Bubbles and Kima and their hard-boiled, street-tested, symbiotic relationship. As played by Andre Royo, Bubbles is a classic Wire character -- tragically, monumentally flawed, self-interested, streetwise, realistic, funny, sad, smart, dumb, and completely compelling. We root for him, even though we recognize him as all too real to break out of his situation for good.

Detective McNultey seems both surprised and disturbed to find that he may be more comfortable bullshitting with Omar, the openly gay stone cold killer and 'hood Robin Hood (he robs drug dealers, keeps the money and hands out the drugs to local junkies) than the soccer moms who populate the suburban world occupied by his wife and children. When Omar is asked to become a police informant, he sums up the realism and complexity of the Wire and its characters: “I'll do what I can to help y'all. But the game's out there, and it's play or get played. That simple.”

High school, in perpetuity

Any guesses as to what school year we're on these days in The OC universe? I only ask because Soap Net has been replaying old 90210 episodes, and it reminded me of the ridiculous 90210 premise we were asked to buy into retroactively: that in Season One, all the kids (except David Silver and his annoying cowboy hat friend who eventually shoots himself) are sophomores in high school. Which, if you ever go back and rewatch the first few episodes of the show, is patently ridiculous.

I'm guessing our friend Josh Schwartz is gonna try and pull this same crap with The OC, since we're about to start the pivotal Season 3 and nobody's graduated yet.

State of the Union: Cold as Ice!

Well, ladies and gents, it is movie monday, and I'm not all that proud to say that I spent this weekend's precious hours watching Triple X, State of the Union. Now, let me preface this by saying that I saw the first Triple X, at the movie theater, 3 years ago, when I was on vacation camping at Assateague Island. I got bored of the sand and the wind and the pretty ponies, so I ventured inland and caught the movie. And yes, there was a moment when I was silently applauding the movie for making sense, but that was before Vin Diesel, AKA Xander Cage, outsnowboarded the avalanche and then attached a wire from his car to a boat for about two miles on a road that has never seen telephone poles or any other sorts of obstructions.

WARNING: key facts about the movie are revealed below. not that you should care.

Triple X, State of the Union, makes much of the fact that Xander Cage is gone. They mention it like 5 times. A new Triple X is needed, and since the "Extreme" demographic is passe, the new Triple X must come from the gangsta demographic, and thus Ice Cube. Because their soldiers are eternal.

Samuel L. Jackson's secret agency is attacked and only he and the annoying white guy (much funnier in the first one) and an outrageous car get away. They spring Ice Cube from prison and trade in the outlandish car for an outlandish pickup. No, this is not Fast and the Furious, it just seems like it (The first Triple X was directed by the same dude who directed the first Fast and the Furious, Rob Cohen, who also directed hopefully the first and last Stealth, playing in theatres near you.)

Triple X 1 kind of winked at the audience and played knowingly off the Bond tropes. Triple X 2 seems to play it straight, even though this means that the ridiculousness factor is through the roof. For example, their first mission is to return to the scene of the crime to grab some computer data. So they drive out into the middle of rural nowhere in a tricked out, huge tired, semi-irridescent pickup truck. Nothing to see here, folks. No, of course they won't get pulled after driving right by a bunch of NSA agents checking out a horse farm. Of course not! These guys are sneaky!

The plot revolves around the Secretary of Defense's plan to stage a coup d'etat with Army units that have tanks with like three main guns and an extra turret so the tank is like 20 feet tall. Just pile 'em on folks, maybe put a helicopter pad and a hot dog stand on top. I mean, why not?

And does anyone in Washington DC refer to Baltimore Maryland as upstate? I didn't either. the only upstate I know of is in New York. and since DC is no state, there's no upstate or downstate, now is there?

Other key plot twists include veteran agent Samuel L. Jackson, aka Liza Gibbons, returning to his home, by himself, even though 5 minutes before he said that he was next on the "getting killed" list. So I imagine the bad guys would maybe, I don't know, stake out his house, or wait in ambush inside, something like that. Clearly he suspects so, but he manages to sneak in without being detected and grabs the vital information it was his mission to retrieve...mission accomplished, right? Wrong. Gibbons then hears a noise upstairs and decides to investigate. De dee de de deee This Just In...It's the freakin' people who want to kill you!! Go out the way you came!

The SecDef's plan, by the way, is to fake the deaths of Gibbons and his team, then really kill them as part of a frame up for killing the president. Simple kidnapping I guess wouldn't work, because no one would believe the cover story that these highly trained superagents were in far flung places across the globe on super secret missions for months at a time...no way, too implausible.

And don't get me started on the Presidential bullet train. Because when the President's life is in danger, and he needs to get away, the bullet train is the best thing! because there's no way anyone can tell where the bullet train will go: north? south? West? on the same tracks as all the Amtrak trains? maybe. just maybe. Those bullet trains whoosh! they're gone! and they leave no trace.

Other highlights of the movie include incredibly bulky space-age uniforms that appear to be body armor but can't stop a bullet to save their wearer's lives. In a unique twist, except it straight copies Eraser, gangstas and thugs band together to thwart the government's dastardly plans. And the film's one genuinely funny moment treads the fine line between racism and experiential truth (I'm sure I can say it better, but it depends on the dual nature of proper attire for a black man at a gala party) until 2 minutes later when the joke is complicated and ultimately ruined by the white person who set up the joke in the first place and then the joke becomes really racist when the movie basically makes the same joke, but this time much cruder.

To top it off, at the end of the movie, they talk about recruiting the next Triple X. Who's it going to be? All I'm saying is the nebbish Jew demographic has not yet been exploited. Let's see to it. Hebrew Hammer, where are you?