Did you watch game 7 of the Boston-Cleveland series? I did. I was rooting for the Cavaliers on account of I am a LeBron James fan. Plus I have hated the Celtics ever since the Bird/McHale/Parrish/Walton/Sichting/Johnson days. Always liked Danny Ainge, though. And Greg Kite. What a stud he was.
Anyway, I think I like LeBron because he has flaws, notwithstanding him being a freak of nature and all: He struggles with the outside shot (I guess you could call him LeBron Ames, 'cause he ain't got no "J."), and is less than stellar at the free throw line. But when a guy scores as much as he does when the other team is paying ALL its attention to him, I find it impressive. Seriously, Cleveland could have been playing with two guys on offense. The other guys sets a screen for James (which the Celtics help on, switch, or quickly recover), and then gets out of the way. My favorite play is when the guy setting the screen is Ben Wallace.
Ben Wallace. Are you familiar with this guy? He developed quite a reputation over the last several years for being a great defender and rebounder. He got huge money when he left the Detroit Pistons (where he made nearly 35 million in six years) to sign with the Chicago Bulls before the 2006-2007 season. He made 16 million in his first season with the Bulls, and 15.5 million his second season, during which he was traded to the Cavaliers to help them compete for a championship--you know, with his great defense and rebounding and whatnot.
So here is why I am sure I will never be qualified to run a professional sports team: you don't pay that kind of money to a guy who "defends and rebounds" when he can't score. And I make a distinction here between can't score and doesn't score. There are teams who have a big guy who plays 'D' and hits the boards and doesn't score a lot--doesn't need to. This is because there are other scorers on his team; no plays are run for him, but he can make a shot if he needs to. But not Ben Wallace. He can't score. Can't. If it isn't a dunk, it is not going in for him. I guarantee that if there was a wall four feet out from the basket that he could not pass in order to attempt a shot, his scoring average would decrease four-fold.
What is Ben Wallace's career scoring average, anyway? Six-point-five points per game! Yes, you can count on Ben for three buckets every night. Except, wait, some of those points come from the free throw line. Some. Because while Big Ben was in Detroit making a name for himself as an important big man in the league, he was becoming popular for something else: he is THE WORST FREE THROW SHOOTER IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME. Career average: less than 42%. Here is another guarantee for you: I could shoot a better percentage at the line than that with my eyes closed. And I am not talking about getting to the line, receiving the ball, dribbling a couple times, eyeing the rim, and closing my eyes to shoot. Put me at the line, give me the ball, and then blindfold me. I will shoot a hundred foul shots that way, and will make 42 at least.
So if I were LeBron James, I would be pissed. I would be in management's office this morning saying, "I want you to keep Delonte West, Daniel Gibson, and Joe Smith. Get rid of everyone else. Even that guy with all the S's, Z's, and C's in his name. I want to play five-on-five next year."
Monday, May 19, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Don't Wanna Know
Chute plopped himself onto the top bunk and tried to relax, drained by another day walking around in 90-90 (ninety degrees, ninety percent humidity). The light went off a few minutes later, and Chute rolled on to his stomach, while letting his left arm hang over the side of the bed. After a few minutes more, as he lay there in that confusing dim grey area between sleep and consciousness, something hit Chute's left hand. He could not immediately tell what it had been, but he knew it was Slave, the occupant of the lower bunk, so he was not alarmed. Chute figured Slave had simply rolled over, sat up, or adjusted his bed sheets.
Soon, however, Chute felt it again. Now, had he been partially asleep before, he was wide awake--and wondering. What was going on down there? Seemingly in answer, Slave started tapping and hitting the hand playfully, and Chute began to be concerned. And he didn't quite know what to do, but decided the best move was to continue to act asleep; surely Slave would notice and would quit what he was doing.
He did not.
After a few minutes during which Slave continued his sporadic gentle amusement with the hand, he stopped. Chute felt he had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Two things remained: he must wait a sufficient amount of time before sleepily rolling over (so as not to give away the idea he had NOT slept through it all); next, he must prepare to act like he didn't know this had happened tomorrow. He wanted to forget it, and he certainly did not want to talk about it.
Evidently, Chute waited too long: After pausing a couple minutes, Slave resumed his amusement with renewed courage; the result was that Chute felt something wet on one finger. He became completely frozen with fear. Fear. And there was the wetness again. Chute was screwed. He had gone too far down the faking-asleep-road to acknowledge now that he was awake; to do so now would be to condone, to sanction this...this thing. And for sure, down in his gut, it was there at a full boil, the sum off all the judgments Chute had made, the comments he had heard from others, the teasing he had received because of Slave. If Chute was going to let this happen, he was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims he had misunderstood or misfelt.
So he let Slave go.
The next thing Chute knew, Slave was sucking the middle finger of his left hand. (And in case the pronouns are confusing, Slave was NOT sucking his own finger.) If Chute had felt fear before, he was terrified now. Close-to-crying, I-miss-my-mommy terrified. Why him? What was this happening for? Why had Slave now confirmed every suspicion, every rumor against him? Wasn't it possible Slave was just a small, effeminate boy who excelled at cooking, ironing, singing, and being polite?
As he lay there stock-still, yet flailing in the maelstrom of these awful questions, Chute noticed that Slave stopped sucking. Chute immediately jumped down from the top bunk, and went directly outside to wash his hands. Never had he washed them as diligently and desperately as he did then; he was a doctor preparing for surgery. Three surgeries. Or four. He scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. If he washed his hands enough perhaps he could clean the past few minutes from his memory, from his life.
When Chute returned from washing his hands, Slave was also out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in a chair, visibly upset. Chute did not speak to nor look at him. Instead he sat at his desk, organizing papers and books, looking for a cassette tape. Slave began:
"I have tried so long to overcome this. I can't."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I am talking about!"
Chute did, but he wanted to hear Slave say it. He wanted him to admit it. After a few more seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did: "I'm gay, Boss."
"That's all you need to tell me. I don't need to hear any more," Chute returned. "You're fired."
"I know."
Slave went home the next morning.
Soon, however, Chute felt it again. Now, had he been partially asleep before, he was wide awake--and wondering. What was going on down there? Seemingly in answer, Slave started tapping and hitting the hand playfully, and Chute began to be concerned. And he didn't quite know what to do, but decided the best move was to continue to act asleep; surely Slave would notice and would quit what he was doing.
He did not.
After a few minutes during which Slave continued his sporadic gentle amusement with the hand, he stopped. Chute felt he had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Two things remained: he must wait a sufficient amount of time before sleepily rolling over (so as not to give away the idea he had NOT slept through it all); next, he must prepare to act like he didn't know this had happened tomorrow. He wanted to forget it, and he certainly did not want to talk about it.
Evidently, Chute waited too long: After pausing a couple minutes, Slave resumed his amusement with renewed courage; the result was that Chute felt something wet on one finger. He became completely frozen with fear. Fear. And there was the wetness again. Chute was screwed. He had gone too far down the faking-asleep-road to acknowledge now that he was awake; to do so now would be to condone, to sanction this...this thing. And for sure, down in his gut, it was there at a full boil, the sum off all the judgments Chute had made, the comments he had heard from others, the teasing he had received because of Slave. If Chute was going to let this happen, he was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims he had misunderstood or misfelt.
So he let Slave go.
The next thing Chute knew, Slave was sucking the middle finger of his left hand. (And in case the pronouns are confusing, Slave was NOT sucking his own finger.) If Chute had felt fear before, he was terrified now. Close-to-crying, I-miss-my-mommy terrified. Why him? What was this happening for? Why had Slave now confirmed every suspicion, every rumor against him? Wasn't it possible Slave was just a small, effeminate boy who excelled at cooking, ironing, singing, and being polite?
As he lay there stock-still, yet flailing in the maelstrom of these awful questions, Chute noticed that Slave stopped sucking. Chute immediately jumped down from the top bunk, and went directly outside to wash his hands. Never had he washed them as diligently and desperately as he did then; he was a doctor preparing for surgery. Three surgeries. Or four. He scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. If he washed his hands enough perhaps he could clean the past few minutes from his memory, from his life.
When Chute returned from washing his hands, Slave was also out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in a chair, visibly upset. Chute did not speak to nor look at him. Instead he sat at his desk, organizing papers and books, looking for a cassette tape. Slave began:
"I have tried so long to overcome this. I can't."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I am talking about!"
Chute did, but he wanted to hear Slave say it. He wanted him to admit it. After a few more seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did: "I'm gay, Boss."
"That's all you need to tell me. I don't need to hear any more," Chute returned. "You're fired."
"I know."
Slave went home the next morning.
Friday, May 2, 2008
European Swallow
I was not late for my 3pm appointment. Still, it was 3:37 before I was summoned from the waiting room, where I had been alternately reading Adam Bede and a several-months-old Sports Illustrated. I was shown to a room to wait for the doctor, my second appointment with Dr. Blach (with the 'a' pronounced like "ah" and the 'ch' all German-like, you know, the sound like you're hawking up a loogie).
I went to see Dr. Blach after I started having trouble swallowing. "Food?" he had asked. No, just in general. On Super Bowl Sunday after I had enjoyed a couple of creme sodas I was sitting on the couch hoping the Giants would win. (Really I just wanted the Patriots to lose.) And just sitting there on the couch not eating or drinking or anything, I couldn't do it. I couldn't make it turn the corner going down. Like it was stuck.
The first few days this happened I was quite stressed out. When something you have done for your whole life without thinking suddenly requires focus and concentration, you will stress out, too. I am somewhat used to it now. I relax, try to salivate a little, and try again. Most of the time it works. But I chose to go see a doctor to figure out why this was happening.
Okay, the second appointment. It was not 3:38 yet when I sat down in the examination room, and this time I just read Adam Bede. At 3:59, Dr. Blach rolled in to tell me the results of the esophagram: not a lot really remarkable, no lesions, no tumors, no stricture. (Nice to know all of this, of course, but a little depressing not to find some explanation of my problem, or why I have always "choked" on food my whole life.) Then he stared at me blankly for a second. I guessed it was my turn to speak.
"You know how you asked me during my first appointment if I had acid reflux or heartburn? Well, like I said then, to my knowledge I have never had them in my life, so I don't know how I could tell you if I did [on account of I don't know what it feels like], but I have been paying attention lately to what I feel in my throat. I do think it's food. It doesn't burn or anything, but I feel it there."
"Yes, yes!" he said back. "It could be that. I will give you a prescription for Prilosec. And come and see me in two months."
I took advantage of his (apparently) precious time and asked him about my "fixed" deviated septum, and why I still couldn't comfortably breathe out of my nose. He briefly peered in both nostrils and said, "Well, next time you are here, I will numb you up and look a little further down to see if there is any obstruction."
His nurse handed me a piece of paper and sent me off to check out (really, pay). As I walked toward the counter to cough up my $40 copay (my insurance will pay the other $70), I glanced at my phone: 4:04pm.
I went to see Dr. Blach after I started having trouble swallowing. "Food?" he had asked. No, just in general. On Super Bowl Sunday after I had enjoyed a couple of creme sodas I was sitting on the couch hoping the Giants would win. (Really I just wanted the Patriots to lose.) And just sitting there on the couch not eating or drinking or anything, I couldn't do it. I couldn't make it turn the corner going down. Like it was stuck.
The first few days this happened I was quite stressed out. When something you have done for your whole life without thinking suddenly requires focus and concentration, you will stress out, too. I am somewhat used to it now. I relax, try to salivate a little, and try again. Most of the time it works. But I chose to go see a doctor to figure out why this was happening.
Okay, the second appointment. It was not 3:38 yet when I sat down in the examination room, and this time I just read Adam Bede. At 3:59, Dr. Blach rolled in to tell me the results of the esophagram: not a lot really remarkable, no lesions, no tumors, no stricture. (Nice to know all of this, of course, but a little depressing not to find some explanation of my problem, or why I have always "choked" on food my whole life.) Then he stared at me blankly for a second. I guessed it was my turn to speak.
"You know how you asked me during my first appointment if I had acid reflux or heartburn? Well, like I said then, to my knowledge I have never had them in my life, so I don't know how I could tell you if I did [on account of I don't know what it feels like], but I have been paying attention lately to what I feel in my throat. I do think it's food. It doesn't burn or anything, but I feel it there."
"Yes, yes!" he said back. "It could be that. I will give you a prescription for Prilosec. And come and see me in two months."
I took advantage of his (apparently) precious time and asked him about my "fixed" deviated septum, and why I still couldn't comfortably breathe out of my nose. He briefly peered in both nostrils and said, "Well, next time you are here, I will numb you up and look a little further down to see if there is any obstruction."
His nurse handed me a piece of paper and sent me off to check out (really, pay). As I walked toward the counter to cough up my $40 copay (my insurance will pay the other $70), I glanced at my phone: 4:04pm.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Roger Clemens: My Hero
Ten things I believe about Roger Clemens:
1. He has never used performance-enhancing drugs of any kind.
2. The fact that his wife has admitted using HGH doesn't hurt his argument that he never used performance-enhancing drugs.
3. Andy Pettitte (who admits using PEDs) did in fact "misremember" a PED-related conversation with Roger Clemens.
4. He gave his boys really cool names (Koby, Kory, Kacy, Kody) that don't reflect any self-importance.
5. He thought Mike Piazza's broken bat was a ball when it came flying toward him in the 2000 World Series.
6. He thought he was playing wiffle in the back yard of my childhood home when Mike Piazza's bat--I mean ball--came toward him. (See, when I played with my brothers as a child, you could pick up a batted ball and throw it at a baserunner. If you hit him between bases, he was out.)
7. He did NOT have an inappropriate relationship with that woman, Miss McCready, even if she says he did.
8. The success, adoration by millions of fans, and nearly incalculable riches have NOT gone to his head and skewed his view of his fellow man; we will believe what he says because he said it was the truth. Why wouldn't we believe him?
9. He has a cool haircut and is a smart dresser.
10. He earned his salary in 2007 for the Yankees. For the record, his salary was $28,000,022 (and how clever it is to negotiate your jersey number as the last two digits of your salary!) for the year, prorated to $18.5 million for the part of the season he did not play. He made 17 starts, went 6-6, and pitched almost 100 innings, with a 4.18 ERA. Who wouldn't pay $18.5 million for that?
1. He has never used performance-enhancing drugs of any kind.
2. The fact that his wife has admitted using HGH doesn't hurt his argument that he never used performance-enhancing drugs.
3. Andy Pettitte (who admits using PEDs) did in fact "misremember" a PED-related conversation with Roger Clemens.
4. He gave his boys really cool names (Koby, Kory, Kacy, Kody) that don't reflect any self-importance.
5. He thought Mike Piazza's broken bat was a ball when it came flying toward him in the 2000 World Series.
6. He thought he was playing wiffle in the back yard of my childhood home when Mike Piazza's bat--I mean ball--came toward him. (See, when I played with my brothers as a child, you could pick up a batted ball and throw it at a baserunner. If you hit him between bases, he was out.)
7. He did NOT have an inappropriate relationship with that woman, Miss McCready, even if she says he did.
8. The success, adoration by millions of fans, and nearly incalculable riches have NOT gone to his head and skewed his view of his fellow man; we will believe what he says because he said it was the truth. Why wouldn't we believe him?
9. He has a cool haircut and is a smart dresser.
10. He earned his salary in 2007 for the Yankees. For the record, his salary was $28,000,022 (and how clever it is to negotiate your jersey number as the last two digits of your salary!) for the year, prorated to $18.5 million for the part of the season he did not play. He made 17 starts, went 6-6, and pitched almost 100 innings, with a 4.18 ERA. Who wouldn't pay $18.5 million for that?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
No Offense, but Cowboy Up!
"No offense, but..."
I know I am not the first to make this observation--I have heard others before me. But this whole 'no offense' thing really kills me. Apparently, as long as you preface what you say with those words, you are free to offend. You can say anything. Well, there do appear to be limits. I've never heard, "No offense, but you're a completely worthless waste of human flesh. Go away. No one likes you." Not yet, anyway.
But I did hear this: Guy runs into my wife--his high school classmate--while she was visiting some friends in Texas a couple of years ago. They had not seen each other for years, and I don't doubt it was good for him to see her (and vice versa). I am sure the butterflies started flitting in his stomach as he began to long for the good old days. And then he stammers, "No offense to your husband, but you are looking hot!"
When I heard this I was not offended. Should I have been? Who was he offending? Me? Come on, I share his opinion. What I think he should have said is, "No offense to you, but..." She should have taken offense, if anyone. I mean, what's she supposed to say in return? "Thanks! You, too! Want to go to the prom?"
But that's not really what I am getting at. Because as much as I think the use of 'no offense' is lame, I am taking advantage of it now: No offense to anyone who may possibly be offended by what I write next--misusers of the verb 'to lie', hacks, cowboys, the Boston Red Sox--but this is how I feel.
I saw a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pickup truck recently that read as follows:
"Are you going to COWBOY UP, or just lay there and BLEED?"
First things first: While I understand that the whole lay/lie thing is difficult to grasp (apparently), could someone, somewhere, at some point going forward, please get it right? Is it too much to ask? Sure, 'lay' is now "acceptable" due to its overwhelming use, but it is non-standard, nonetheless. I never hear someone say 'lie' when they should. Never. I know I am a pain about this (I understand from the look my wife gave me the last time I corrected her that the "acceptable" form is just fine. But she won't be mad if she reads this--I said "no offense" already!) but I would appreciate someone on my side. Put in the time, figure it out, and use it properly. And don't correct me when I use the verb correctly. (I can't tell you how many of my English major peers at BSU would correct my "as I lay in bed last night" to "laid" when commenting on my papers. Also, use 'have lain' sometime and watch what your listener does.)
Next, it's a rip-off! I don't know if the writers of Tombstone coined "You gonna do somethin', or just stand there and bleed?" or not, but it highlights one of the best scenes in the movie (the one that starts "Is that 'Old Dog Tray'? That sounds like 'Old Dog Tray' to me" is right up there). In copying this phrase, the creators of this bumper sticker have shown lack of originality and also lack of cleverness in their bastardization of such a fine question. Come up with something else, fellas.
And does "cowboy up" mean something, really? Be tough? Um, no. I mean, be a cowboy if you want. That's your choice. But I don't want to be a cowboy, I don't want to be associated with cowboys, and I don't look to cowboys as a model of toughness and grit. When I think of cowboys, I think of those scumbags from high school who discretely chewed tobacco in class (I know I never could tell what that lump was and why they always pursed their lips) and who stopped mouthing off at someone any time they were outnumbered. And riding a bull and roping a goat don't make you tough; it takes grit to get up off the football field when you get your clock cleaned just like it does when a bull eats your lunch. "Oh yeah? A bull might stomp on you and break your bones." Well, bones get broken in other sports, too. And in both cases, you are done for the night (or longer).
Finally, the fact that the Boston Red Sox used "Cowboy up!" as a rallying cry in 2003 is utterly stupid. Yes, Red Sox players, shake off the adversity you are going through! It must be really hard to be paid obscene amounts of money to play baseball every day in beautiful weather. Baseball! Those guaranteed contracts must be a real pain. Elaborate post-game meals and personal trainers and massage therapists are annoying, too. You have it rough, and it must really hurt. I know you want to give up (and still collect your salary). But hang in there. Cowboy up!
Or you can just lay there.
I know I am not the first to make this observation--I have heard others before me. But this whole 'no offense' thing really kills me. Apparently, as long as you preface what you say with those words, you are free to offend. You can say anything. Well, there do appear to be limits. I've never heard, "No offense, but you're a completely worthless waste of human flesh. Go away. No one likes you." Not yet, anyway.
But I did hear this: Guy runs into my wife--his high school classmate--while she was visiting some friends in Texas a couple of years ago. They had not seen each other for years, and I don't doubt it was good for him to see her (and vice versa). I am sure the butterflies started flitting in his stomach as he began to long for the good old days. And then he stammers, "No offense to your husband, but you are looking hot!"
When I heard this I was not offended. Should I have been? Who was he offending? Me? Come on, I share his opinion. What I think he should have said is, "No offense to you, but..." She should have taken offense, if anyone. I mean, what's she supposed to say in return? "Thanks! You, too! Want to go to the prom?"
But that's not really what I am getting at. Because as much as I think the use of 'no offense' is lame, I am taking advantage of it now: No offense to anyone who may possibly be offended by what I write next--misusers of the verb 'to lie', hacks, cowboys, the Boston Red Sox--but this is how I feel.
I saw a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pickup truck recently that read as follows:
"Are you going to COWBOY UP, or just lay there and BLEED?"
First things first: While I understand that the whole lay/lie thing is difficult to grasp (apparently), could someone, somewhere, at some point going forward, please get it right? Is it too much to ask? Sure, 'lay' is now "acceptable" due to its overwhelming use, but it is non-standard, nonetheless. I never hear someone say 'lie' when they should. Never. I know I am a pain about this (I understand from the look my wife gave me the last time I corrected her that the "acceptable" form is just fine. But she won't be mad if she reads this--I said "no offense" already!) but I would appreciate someone on my side. Put in the time, figure it out, and use it properly. And don't correct me when I use the verb correctly. (I can't tell you how many of my English major peers at BSU would correct my "as I lay in bed last night" to "laid" when commenting on my papers. Also, use 'have lain' sometime and watch what your listener does.)
Next, it's a rip-off! I don't know if the writers of Tombstone coined "You gonna do somethin', or just stand there and bleed?" or not, but it highlights one of the best scenes in the movie (the one that starts "Is that 'Old Dog Tray'? That sounds like 'Old Dog Tray' to me" is right up there). In copying this phrase, the creators of this bumper sticker have shown lack of originality and also lack of cleverness in their bastardization of such a fine question. Come up with something else, fellas.
And does "cowboy up" mean something, really? Be tough? Um, no. I mean, be a cowboy if you want. That's your choice. But I don't want to be a cowboy, I don't want to be associated with cowboys, and I don't look to cowboys as a model of toughness and grit. When I think of cowboys, I think of those scumbags from high school who discretely chewed tobacco in class (I know I never could tell what that lump was and why they always pursed their lips) and who stopped mouthing off at someone any time they were outnumbered. And riding a bull and roping a goat don't make you tough; it takes grit to get up off the football field when you get your clock cleaned just like it does when a bull eats your lunch. "Oh yeah? A bull might stomp on you and break your bones." Well, bones get broken in other sports, too. And in both cases, you are done for the night (or longer).
Finally, the fact that the Boston Red Sox used "Cowboy up!" as a rallying cry in 2003 is utterly stupid. Yes, Red Sox players, shake off the adversity you are going through! It must be really hard to be paid obscene amounts of money to play baseball every day in beautiful weather. Baseball! Those guaranteed contracts must be a real pain. Elaborate post-game meals and personal trainers and massage therapists are annoying, too. You have it rough, and it must really hurt. I know you want to give up (and still collect your salary). But hang in there. Cowboy up!
Or you can just lay there.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Mexico and Movie Reviews
Yes, I am spending a few days by my lonesome in Mexico. I left for Mexico on Friday the 11th and, whereas on April 9th it snowed in Boise, it is plenty warm here, in the 80s on Monday the 14th. I have gone to the beach for several hours every day, so as to get my sunburn on. So far it is working. I have made three promises to myself since I got here, and I intend to keep two of them. They are: go to the beach every day, not stop to rest when walking up the hill back to Casa Miramar (and mirar the mar it does), and start a workout regimen when I get back home in order to develop my arms and upper body. Now if I can only decide which two to do.
My daily schedule is quite simple: I roll upstairs around 8:30 every morning, and have breakfast. After loafing around, reading, or checking e-mail for a few minutes, I pack up my things and head to the beach. The first few minutes I am there are spent digging the hole directly in front of where I place my mat. You see, I dig a large hole, about two feet deep, so I can put my feet in. This makes it like a little chair for me as I read (right now Tess of the d'Urbervilles), watch in a detached manner my fellow man, and eat fish on a stick with little tortillas. I intersperse a few trips in to the ocean to catch a wave or just cool off. I never go to the bathroom in there. I am sure no one else does, either.
After a little while I pack up my gear and begin the grueling seven minute trek back to Casa Miramar. By the time I get there I am ready for a dip in the water again. Fortunately there is a pool right outside my door. Dinner is et at around 6 or 7, and then I read and chit chat with the folks here for a bit. Then it is back down to my lodgings. I read some but have watched one movie every night I have been here.
The first night it was 'La Otra Mujer Boleyn' or 'Las Hermanas Boleyn' or whatever it is in English. (Funny how this is already on DVD in Mexico, when I believe it is still in theaters in the states. And they don't bother cluttering up the disk with any artwork; all it says on it is 'DVD-R' and '8x' and I don't think that has anything to do with the movie.) Anyway, here is a newsflash to anyone who didn't know this: Natalie Portman is not British. Neither is Scarlett Johansson, but she is a tad better at the accent than Padme. And they cast a nice looking, trim fellow to play Henry VIII. Funny. I always heard he was fat. My review of the movie? Four street dogs (out of ten possible).
Next night was The Lost City. Seen it? Andy Garcia directs and stars in this film about the revolution in Cuba that put Castro in power. Okay, so it appears this was a very personal thing as he was in fact born in Cuba and left for the US as a child, but stick to acting, buddy. Take out some of the 'fluffy' scenes and stick to the story. And quit making it seem like it is over, only to continue on and on. And on. Also, a lot of the characters were Hispanic, which is nice, but some of them weren't, and they had to fake Spanish language accents, which was lame. I mean, the entire movie is in English, and they all talk with accents. What is the point of this? Either make the movie in Spanish and provide subtitles or have the thing be in English with no accents. For me, a little of the reality was lost when Batista and others, including Castro, were speaking English. My rating: six roosters crowing in the afternoon (again out of ten).
Last night: Persuasion. I missed this a couple of times when it was on the local public TV channel, you know, 'Masterpiece' or something like that. Actually, I saw it was on, tuned in, lost interest, and tuned out. Now I don't know why. I really liked it, which is not hard to believe. Only a couple of strange things about it: whoever directed it kept having Anne look cleverly into the camera at different times. Not sure what he was going for. Also, when she finally tells Captain Wentworth she will marry him, the scene shows her leaning and stretching and reaching up to kiss him for about twenty seconds. And it looks like she is going to eat him. Really. Watch it and see what I mean. But really this one had no chance of me not liking it. England. Estates. Snobs. Silly people. Decent people and creeps alike getting what they deserve. Gotta love Austen. Rating: nine cinder blocks.
By the way, the O's are still in first place. It won't last long so I am relishing every second.
My daily schedule is quite simple: I roll upstairs around 8:30 every morning, and have breakfast. After loafing around, reading, or checking e-mail for a few minutes, I pack up my things and head to the beach. The first few minutes I am there are spent digging the hole directly in front of where I place my mat. You see, I dig a large hole, about two feet deep, so I can put my feet in. This makes it like a little chair for me as I read (right now Tess of the d'Urbervilles), watch in a detached manner my fellow man, and eat fish on a stick with little tortillas. I intersperse a few trips in to the ocean to catch a wave or just cool off. I never go to the bathroom in there. I am sure no one else does, either.
After a little while I pack up my gear and begin the grueling seven minute trek back to Casa Miramar. By the time I get there I am ready for a dip in the water again. Fortunately there is a pool right outside my door. Dinner is et at around 6 or 7, and then I read and chit chat with the folks here for a bit. Then it is back down to my lodgings. I read some but have watched one movie every night I have been here.
The first night it was 'La Otra Mujer Boleyn' or 'Las Hermanas Boleyn' or whatever it is in English. (Funny how this is already on DVD in Mexico, when I believe it is still in theaters in the states. And they don't bother cluttering up the disk with any artwork; all it says on it is 'DVD-R' and '8x' and I don't think that has anything to do with the movie.) Anyway, here is a newsflash to anyone who didn't know this: Natalie Portman is not British. Neither is Scarlett Johansson, but she is a tad better at the accent than Padme. And they cast a nice looking, trim fellow to play Henry VIII. Funny. I always heard he was fat. My review of the movie? Four street dogs (out of ten possible).
Next night was The Lost City. Seen it? Andy Garcia directs and stars in this film about the revolution in Cuba that put Castro in power. Okay, so it appears this was a very personal thing as he was in fact born in Cuba and left for the US as a child, but stick to acting, buddy. Take out some of the 'fluffy' scenes and stick to the story. And quit making it seem like it is over, only to continue on and on. And on. Also, a lot of the characters were Hispanic, which is nice, but some of them weren't, and they had to fake Spanish language accents, which was lame. I mean, the entire movie is in English, and they all talk with accents. What is the point of this? Either make the movie in Spanish and provide subtitles or have the thing be in English with no accents. For me, a little of the reality was lost when Batista and others, including Castro, were speaking English. My rating: six roosters crowing in the afternoon (again out of ten).
Last night: Persuasion. I missed this a couple of times when it was on the local public TV channel, you know, 'Masterpiece' or something like that. Actually, I saw it was on, tuned in, lost interest, and tuned out. Now I don't know why. I really liked it, which is not hard to believe. Only a couple of strange things about it: whoever directed it kept having Anne look cleverly into the camera at different times. Not sure what he was going for. Also, when she finally tells Captain Wentworth she will marry him, the scene shows her leaning and stretching and reaching up to kiss him for about twenty seconds. And it looks like she is going to eat him. Really. Watch it and see what I mean. But really this one had no chance of me not liking it. England. Estates. Snobs. Silly people. Decent people and creeps alike getting what they deserve. Gotta love Austen. Rating: nine cinder blocks.
By the way, the O's are still in first place. It won't last long so I am relishing every second.
Monday, April 7, 2008
NCAA Championship
I wrote the following about the NCAA tournament in a previous post:
One more [prediction]. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.
Apparently no one marked it down, 'cause it just happened. And I found myself, simply because I had predicted they would not win, rooting against Kansas when I don't like Memphis, either. I probably would have rooted for either UCLA or UNC, but KU and Memphis bug me. Oh, well...the first few rounds were exciting enough. I don't care who you are, watching Davidson storm through three rounds and then give Kansas all it wanted was pretty awesome.
On an unrelated note, I think they should end the Major League Baseball regular season right now and send whoever is ahead in each division to the playoffs. I don't even know who that would be. Like, in the American League East, who is in first place right now, anyway? Don't click here. Whoever it is should be crowned division champs right now. I don't have the patience to wait through 156 more games.
I know you are all chomping at the bit for more, so stay tuned: I will have another post up here within a couple days. Peace.
One more [prediction]. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.
Apparently no one marked it down, 'cause it just happened. And I found myself, simply because I had predicted they would not win, rooting against Kansas when I don't like Memphis, either. I probably would have rooted for either UCLA or UNC, but KU and Memphis bug me. Oh, well...the first few rounds were exciting enough. I don't care who you are, watching Davidson storm through three rounds and then give Kansas all it wanted was pretty awesome.
On an unrelated note, I think they should end the Major League Baseball regular season right now and send whoever is ahead in each division to the playoffs. I don't even know who that would be. Like, in the American League East, who is in first place right now, anyway? Don't click here. Whoever it is should be crowned division champs right now. I don't have the patience to wait through 156 more games.
I know you are all chomping at the bit for more, so stay tuned: I will have another post up here within a couple days. Peace.
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