So what happens when you combine an “ogre who looks like a librarian” with a scruffy, skater wannabe and a clueless ginger haired part time pseudo manager? The fourth best folk pop duo in New Zealand of course silly! My introduction to Brett McKenzie and Jemaine Clement, also known as Flight of the Conchords, was through a guy at work, who insisted that it was probably the funniest show on TV, and that he had just bought the season one DVD compilation. But alas, since I didn’t have HBO, I wouldn’t to partake… So I filed it away as one of those shows to check out when I’m traveling….

A few weeks later, my PHD (Pretentious Hipster Douchebag) buddy at work had a clip of some song playing on his computer and was almost literally falling out of his chair, so of course I had to check it out. He was playing a clip from Business Time, which I must agree was totally hilarious. Fast forward a week and I’m at PHD guy’s house playing poker. He hands me the DVD and says “If you thought that clip was funny, you’ve got to watch this”. I took it home the next day, cracked it open to see what comedic nuggets it might hold, and found myself four hours later still entranced by the sheer genius of these guys… I actually watched the entire season in just two sittings – the spousal unit spending just enough time in the room to say “Are you STILL watching that stupid show???”. Needles to say, a couple of months later when I found out that the guys had released a CD of the songs from the show, I was determined to get it. And I’ve got three words to describe my response – LUH HUV IT!!!

The only problem is that the whole CD is very contextualized. If you haven’t seen the show, many of the songs don’t make much sense. You have to immerse yourself in the whole experience before the more subtle points of some of the lyrics come together, and often, the visual comedy in the TV episodes provides some necessary sensory input to the interpretive process for most of these tracks. (Isn’t that what videos are supposed to do anyway?) However – this CD isn’t just a soundtrack of some esoteric show with a huge cult following… Ok – maybe it is…

Of course, I’m a sucker for parody – a vice which started in junior high with me tuning my boom box to the faraway FM station on Saturday nights when the Dr. Demento show aired.

But these guys take the parody to a new level – by participating as the object of their own self-parody – the way these guys “deadpan” their whole performance, on screen, and off, leave you wondering whether or not they actually take themselves seriously.

My recommended favorite tracks –
Foux de Fafa
Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous

And… Leggy Blonde brings a tear to my eye every time ;D

Not all of the songs in the series are on this CD, so if you’re a die hard fan, and your favorite isn’t included, you’ll have to stick with the grainy , low-fidelity tracks floating around out there on the internet, as extracted from the DVD… But for the songs that are included, we can enjoy FoC nirvana as we listen to The Most Beautiful Girl(In the Room) to escape the cubical world as we cruise down the two lane towards home – that is, if home is a sonic “Alice in Wonderland”…

I didn’t really have a theme in mind this go-around, though I have a few in mind for future reviews, but then I realized my last three films do in fact have a theme: message movies that have not aged well. Here we go.

Margot at the Wedding (2007) Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Jason Leigh **1/2

Kidman is Margot, a blunt and unkind woman who visits her sister (Leigh) for her wedding. Rather uncomfortable film with unlikeable characters yet sharp dialogue, so you don’t like what they’re saying but appreciate how they are saying it. Jack Black, despite being in way too many movies lately is the highlight as the wimpy husband-to-be (with a must-see HORRIBLE crying performance.) Directed by Noah Baumbach, this pales in comparison to his other two films (Kicking & Screaming, The Squid & the Whale.)

The Darjeeling Limited (2007) Adrien Brody, Owen Wilson **

Three estranged brothers reunite on a trip to India to visit their mother in the latest Wes Anderson film, and the first that I have begun to grow weary of Anderson. Having been a fan of his previous films, this one feels like all quirky one-dimensional characters and no substance. I cared little about any of the three leads, who they were, where they were going. It’s just a series of weird things happening just to be weird (buying poisonous snakes, walking around with unmatched shoes, having sex with a hot stranger because you wrote the script.) Great soundtrack as always, but in the end, I just didn’t care.

Bamboozled (2000) Damon Wayans, Savion Glover **

Wayans plays a TV creative who creates a racially insensitive program after being considered “too white” then is shocked when the offensive show becomes a smash hit. Spike Lee joint filmed on miniDV which takes a little getting used to, though not as much as the racist blackface imagery that surrounds the film. Intriguing premise that takes the easy way out especially with an ending that seems to come out of the very kind of program Lee is blasting. Thought-provoking and challenging, it’s a film that stays with you, but film perhaps pulls its punches and takes the easy shock approach rather than going for the throat. Damon Wayans has quite possibly the most annoyingly fake accent in a major motion picture.

Reality Bites (1994) Winona Ryder, Ethan Hawke **1/2

One of my all-time favorite movies as a teenager has not aged well at all. Ryder is a college graduate-turned-documentarian torn between a MTV-ish hotshot and an unemployed, brilliant-yet- asshole musician in a reminder of days when being a sarcastic pop-culture machine wasn’t being done by EVERYBODY. The attempts to be cool is what keeps the film from seeming fresh, as is the complete lack of chemistry between Hawke and Ryder, (probably due to the fact that they are the most brilliant idiots in a movie.) As a youngster, I thought the film was awesome but dragged at the end. Now in my older days, I see the last half hour is actually the most honest part of the film. Still a decent picture in the nostalgic sense.

Grand Canyon (1991) Kevin Kline, Danny Glover **1/2

Remember the early ’90’s when the US was a battleground of violence and hatred and it seemed the end was near? Return to the days when Boyz N the Hood was treated as a documentary as six friends’ lives intertwine in LA. Kline is the liberal nice white guy, Glover the hard-working kind hearted black guy, and Steve Martin plays the only semi-three-dimensional character: the rich asshole whose morals come and go depending on his mood. The film has a good message, but has become a very cookie cutter version of the soul-cleansing “we’re all brothers” that Crash would do so much better in 2005.

The Happening
Another M. Night
Movie makes us wonder if
He just stole Sixth Sense

The Incredible Hulk
Fooled once, shame on me
Fooled twice, shame on, uh, fool me
Won’t get fooled again

The Love Guru
Myers talks funny
His character is wacky
Seen it all before

Get Smart
Remaking old shows
Rarely good idea. Bet they
Missed it by that much

Wanted
Lots of bullets fly
Ridiculous action scenes
Hope its dark as comic

Wall-E
Can robot find love
In this great big universe?
Hope he’s got some lube.

Hancock
Will Smith hero flick
Can’t do this all on his own
He’s no Superman

Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Was the first Hellboy
Good enough to warrant a
Second installment?

Journey to the Center of the Earth
3-D makes films fun
Every film should be 3-D
Except Crying Game

Meet Dave
Has it really been
20 years since Eddie made
A funny movie?

The Dark Knight
Return to Gotham
Joker ain’t the only fool
To make this awesome

Mamma Mia!
Girl with slutty mom
Doesn’t know who daddy is
This just in: Who cares?

Step Brothers
Lets hope Ferrell tried
A little harder this time
Than in Semi-Pro

The X-Files: I Want to Believe
Wait just a second
Is there anyone out there
That still cares about this?

American Teen
This looks pretty good
But who wants to relive the
The awkward teen years

The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor
Another mummy?
Rachel Weisz wisely jumped ship
We should do the same

The Rocker
This looks funny but
Can Rainn carry a movie?
My guess is he can.

Swing Vote
Are we to believe
Diebold would let this guy choose
Who gets elected?

The Midnight Meat Train
This wins for the worst
titled film until Bangcock
Dangerous comes out

Pineapple Express
Stoner movies aren’t
Usually good seen straight but
This could be funny

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
There’s no way these girls
Can still fit after gaining
The freshman fifteen

Tropic Thunder
Downey Jr. rules
But can he stay afloat with
Stiller and Jack Black

Star Wars; The Clone Wars
Lucas craps out more
Star Wars and I have no choice
but to go see it

Today, dear readers, I want to discuss with you a most interesting band called The Bad Plus and their recent album called Prog.

First, a word about the band. They are a trio consisting of piano player Ethan Iverson, drummer David King and bassist Reid Anderson. They are young-ish, regular-looking guys. However, the music they make together is far from regular. For, while for some people the word “Prog” brings to mind all manner of goofy imagery like Rick Wakeman in a cape playing a stack of analog synthesizers or Peter Gabriel in a giant bloated Slipperman costume struggling to get his microphone close enough to his mouth to lead Genesis through epic musical statements, there is the fact that in the music world, prog was always short for “progressive”: interested in new ideas, eschewing convention. And in the 70s this curiosity and exploration largely found expression in a preponderance of showy musical technique: odd time signatures, unexpected harmonies, difficult and sometimes extended solo instrumental passages, etc. and this album delivers plenty of that kind of skill.

But the genius of The Bad Plus has always been more complicated and nuanced than just “some guys who play their instruments well.” Nietzsche talked about philosophy being the process of taking a hammer to old statues to see which parts are hollow. The Bad Plus take a similar tack as nothing short of musical deconstructionists, all the while simultaneously rebuilding, (sometimes in the same song.) This is most readily apparent in what these guys do with cover tunes. Take for instance the lead-off track “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” originally performed by Tears for Fears. Is this a cocktail jazz tune? A minimal, quiet pop song? Noisy avant-garde free jazz improvisation? An Erik Satie-esque piano piece? The answer to all of these questions is “Yes.” After the fundamental musical motifs of the original have been stated, the band stretches them out to their most logical and illogical extremes like auditory elastic.

In the hands of The Bad Plus there is no musical territory that is fenced off. They effortlessly glide from one aesthetic into another, but not in broad or ironic genre exercises. This music is deep and dramatic. They choose to not hang their hats on stylistic clichés, (e.g. “This is our reggae song…”) Once you’ve heard the crazy extremes that they are capable of pursuing together, the start of each song brings with it a thrilling sense of expectation of the unknown. For they play so dynamically, what is a hush now is just as likely to remain a hush for a whole tune as it is to erupt into angry cluster chords and wild-man octopus drumming. This makes for interesting, engaging listening.

The other cool deconstructive element of The Bad Plus is their subversion of expectation. Their instrumentation, the piano trio, is one of the icons of jazz history. Think of Bill Evans’ infusion of a minimal, spare aesthetic into jazz improvisation in the sixties and millions of cocktail jazz trios playing the finer restaurants in the world today. Clearly these guys are at home in the jazz world, but they offer so much more. Book these guys at your local upscale Italian eatery with dimmed lighting and six minutes into their first tune the longing look of seduction on Valentine dates will quickly turn to looks of horrified alarm as Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” comes crashing down around them. In the movie I Am Trying to Break Your Heart Jeff Tweedy and Wilco discuss taking perfectly good songs and de-composing them by adding digital and electrical noise elements to them. This method of “uglying-up” creations is now de rigueur for any indie rock band worth its “artistic” credibility and has been around at least since The Beatles stopped playing live and concentrated on making musical art in the recording studio. (Think: the radio sections at the end of “I Am the Walrus” or “Strawberry Fields Forever” or the white noise which slowly builds up at the end of “I Want You/ She’s So Heavy.”) But what makes The Bad Plus so interesting and unique is that they obviously have a similar compulsion to deconstruct, yet they achieve their ends using the same conventional instruments that have been around for at least a century or so and the same twelve notes of the scale that were used by guys in powdered wigs.

This is the new postmodern amalgamation of angst and art, consonance and dissonance, beauty and ugliness. Welcome, brave travelers!

A downward spiral can be entertaining, unless you are on the receiving end of it. Zachary Blasto, a man consumed by music, alcohol and the visions in his head, is a broken record skipping into oblivion as he tries to come to terms with loss; of love, of family and of his mind.

This is Rainbow Around the Sun, a voyeuristic thrill-ride at once beautiful, intriguing, sad, invigorating, hopeful, remorseful and stunning. The life of the medium alone has experienced a metamorphosis from concept album, staged concert and now, the movie, coming home for the Oklahoma premiere at the Dead Center Film Festival in June.

The love child of local talent Matthew Alvin Brown, Rainbow is a tour de force of the complications a mind can plague the owner with when abused by the creative forces of music, sex, and familial obligation. Blasto himself is somewhat a rainbow of personalities; different hues to different people. An asshole. A loving son. A shitty boyfriend. A mess. A musical prodigy.

Blasto is a musician hiding in his mind to avoid dealing with the problems in his disastrous life. Failing as a lover and grasping to his last moments with his father, he reflects on the stages of his life, all the while tied to his band, the musical umbilical cord sustaining what is left of his shattered heartbeat.

And no, I haven’t seen the movie. I have the album and was lucky enough to see the staged “reading” of the music last weekend on a rare night out.

Directed by Kevin Ely, (local writer and playwright of the fantastic “Feigning Grace”), and Beau Leland, with book by Ely, and all music by Brown and The Fellowship Students, the movie was chosen as an official selection of the South by Southwest Film Festival and the 2008 Florida Film Festival. Dead Center will premiere the movie opening night outdoors at 9:30 p.m. June 11th and again at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art at 5:30 p.m. June 13th.

Supporting local artists, whether in film, music or the visual or theatrical arts, is important to our community. Our state has so many creative individuals waiting to share their crafts with you. Matt Brown is one of those rare performers who truly shares a piece of his soul and inspiration while simultaneously entertaining you. He and Ely are sweet, talented, dandy men and I am thrilled to support their endeavors and call them friends. Bravo, guys.

www.rainbowaroundthesun.com
 

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is William Thomas Fairport III, and I write this letter holding the utmost contempt for a recent review of Douglas Hofstadter’s Godel, Escher, and Bach published within the pages of your modern electro-zine. After the egregious review of this book by the most esteemed M. Vesuvuis, I found myself taking serious umbrage to the most villainous caricature of this classic work by Mr. Hofstadter. How could the journal of our Fair City be so horribly wrong?

As support for my thesis, I present a small excerpt from another expert, the Beligerent A. Toh:

My favorite quote in this book? On page 559 we read ‘We can now construct one of the main theses of this book’… And it took me three months of reading to get that far. And this is my second time through this book!!!

And it really does take a lot of that 559 pages to really get to the point. The reader is led through a fairly interesting discussion of symbolic logic and basic number theory, illustrated not by graphs, charts, and tables, but by an overarching series of narrative vignettes starring the recurring characters of the Turtle, Achilles, and Mr. Crab.

And…

But… This book isn’t for the faint of heart. I wouldn’t recommend it to the uninitiated, unwashed, unenlightened masses of non-geekdom. Even those with a fairly refined love of math, art, or music (or even all three) are sometimes lost in the highly technical descriptions of the MIU and TNT systems, and are totally lost when the discussion of self-referential languages, mathematical systems, and even biology turns to the technical. I’m glad it wasn’t recommended to me until I was well entrenched in grad school, and had a fair grasp of Turing Machines and automata of various stripes.

What’s significant about this book, though, is that for those “in the know” (wink, wink), it is the best work that pulls the esthetic elements of art and music into the world of mathematical theory, artificial intelligence, and graduate level computer science topics. And what’s REALLY surprising is that this book was written over 30 years ago, yet the topics discussed and theses postulated are still being validated and discussed. In a sense, it has become the “classic” work that all computer scientists should read.

And further:

Several epiphanic moments came after reading about crab canons (You’ll have to read the book). While playing the guitar, a certain pattern seemed to arise from the chord progressions and the melodies I was playing. It made some sense to me finally, but not in an aesthetic sense, but in a structured, patterned way. And the chapter I was reading in GEB provided the handles for me to be able to understand why it had “clicked” for me… Math… Patterns of numbers… The music of the spheres!!!

So… I suggest you find some REAL book reviewers, and leave the serious books to the less namby-pamby staffers out there – or I shall have to contact my close compatriot Herman T. Zweibel, whom I believe is still editor-at-large for that most heavenly paper The Onion, and have him give you a thorough tongue-lashing.

Signed,

WTF

Shredder towered over his kneeling students as he paced before them. His master class had progressed quite well and these, his brightest students, were ready for their final exam. The commuter traffic in the city square was sparse for a Monday morning but Shredder was confident a suitable challenge would present itself.

He thought he had an ideal target when an armored car pulled up to the bank two blocks down. However, just as he was about to send his students out something much better caught his eye and he stayed his hand. He couldn’t believe his luck when a real Cyberdyne Systems T-800 passed by across the street.

After a command from Shredder, the five students destined to be the future of the Foot Clan charged towards the Terminator. They were stealthy enough to avoid early detection and the Terminator failed to observe them until they were ten meters away. Fortunately, there was still plenty of time for him to turn and grab the first two that approached. Their necks snapped before they even realized they were in his grasp.

The remaining three students stabbed him with their steely knives but their blades had little effect on the Terminator’s metallic chassis. They darted about quickly but one got too close and found his head in the grasp of the T-800. The Terminator used this ninja as a weapon and swung his body violently into the others. The trauma separated the ninja’s head from his body but not before knocking the other two down. Momentarily stunned, they were still lying down as the Terminator’s foot stomped through their chests, crushing several organs they were counting on for continued life.

This threat neutralized, the Terminator assessed the origin of his assailants and steadily approached the ninja master. The Shedder was a bit nervous but he relished the opportunity to test himself against such a formidable adversary. Besides, it was going to be a real pain in the ass to train new students and the Terminator might as well pay for this inconvenience.

Analyzing his approach, the Shredder formulated his attack plan, thinking several moves ahead. He was really going to enjoy this. With the Terminator bearing down, he pulled his sword from its sheath and cracked his neck.

The Terminator analyzed his opponent and easily determined the most efficient method of dispatching him. He pulled the M1014 Benelli shotgun from the strap on his back and as the Shredder drew back to swing his sword he unloaded a series of twelve-gauge shells into the ninjutsu master.

At this range, the Shredder’s armor was far from adequate and his torso was soon riddled with holes. He lay dead on the ground and the Terminator turned to leave, now free to resume his business.

Back to tournament bracket

Seven years ago, a man named Richard Kelly wrote and directed a film called Donnie Darko, which was released in theaters and seen by practically nobody. Six months later, the film was released to DVD and became the ultimate cult film: a film that grossed $700,000 yet has been seen by practically everybody.

With that power Kelly was given the funds to make his second film, the film that this column is about: Southland Tales. Before we get into the review, a brief history:

Also seven years ago, David Lynch released what was widely considered one of the more confusing epics of this decade: Mulholland Dr. This was a brilliant film that required multiple viewings to understand just what the hell was going on. Kelly was clearly taking notes.

In 2006, Kelly opened Southland Tales to the Cannes Film Festival. The film was universally panned and called the worst film to ever be released at Cannes, receiving the lowest possible scores. Twenty minutes of the film were cut and, like Donnie Darko, was released in theaters and seen by practically nobody. Now the film has been released to DVD.

This is a movie unlike any I have ever seen before. It’s one I cannot possibly give a glowing review, nor can I flat-out trash it. Southland Tales is a fantastic mess.

In the year 2005, two major Texas towns were wiped off the face of the Earth by nukes. The US is under total government control, and in the year 2008, the world ends. The film covers the last three days in what is basically an interpretation of Revelations.

The first major problem is the plot which is impossible to follow, because all the information you need is basically muttered to you in the first ten minutes, and if you don’t flat-out memorize it, you’re screwed. Major plot points flash up on the screen in FOX News-like graphics which, much like in real life, tend to be ignored.

Then there’s the wacko cast, with The Rock playing a Schwarzenegger-like, action star-politician who also happens to have amnesia which causes him to turn into a scared ten year-old every five minutes. Then you have Stifler from American Pie who for all intents and purposes plays the Messiah, no less than FOUR cast members of Saturday Night Live, (highlighted by Jon Lovitz as a macho badass), the long absent John Laroquette, the freakin’ original Highlander, Justin Timberlake, (in maybe the best acting he’s ever done), and the anti-Christ, played by the always evil Wallace Shawn…….

Yes, the anti-Christ is played by the short bald guy from The Princess Bride. You see, when he was evil in Bride, it was funny: how can you take him seriously? Somehow we are asked to do so here.

And the other major problem is the absolutely insane dialogue that the cast is asked to spew out, especially The Rock, who utters some of the most laugh-out loud stuff you’ll hear in a major motion picture.

So why bother, you may ask? For all that is wrong with Southland Tales, there is a lot working for it: an amazing soundtrack for one, as well as a great set design and mood, the movie does FEEL like the end times. Couple that with some extremely interesting ideas and scenes, (the mirror that’s on a time delay, the actress drinking a can of herself, the balls to stop a film dead in its tracks for a musical number which ends up being the most memorable part of the film….)

The inherent problem with the movie is that it is nearly impossible to understand the film the first time, and because it is such a confusing mess, there is little reason for most of the viewing public to watch it a second time. But yet, certain scenes stayed with me. Certain ideas, certain characters.

I’ll take a terrific failure over a boring movie anytime. Southland Tales is confusing, laughable, weird, stupid, pretentious, yet sometimes brilliant.

But if you never figured out Mulholland Dr. don’t bother.

The movie High Fidelity starring John Cusack and Jack Black has been frequently playing on daytime television in the recent past. I have caught it a few times, jarring how much I love that movie back into my brain, the Top Five lists especially. Since the movie debuted, I often send out five questions to my friends on Fridays, asking various things, but I realized today I had not sent the query in a while asking their all-time Top Five: your list of celebrities. In reviewing my own choices, I realized just how incredibly nerdy my preferences are, and wondered why I can’t have the normal Matthew McConaughey-hay-hay and Brad Pitt on mine. It would be so much easier than having to answer the automatic response of “Who?” for almost all of them. Both Billy Crystal and Philip Seymour Hoffman have recently been removed from the list for “out of sight, out of mind reasons,” Billy especially. I will still have mad love for them, along with Kevin Spacey, who dwelled in the Number One spot for probably close to ten years. My current list is as follows…

NUMBER FIVE – RICHARD Blaise
He’s one of those people flamboyant enough to be called just by their last name. He sports a faux-hawk and pink Crocs, rocks the Molecular Gastronomy style of cooking, and knows what to do with a blow torch. And yeah, he’s straight. Owner and designer of Trail-Blaise restaurant in Atlanta, GA, Top Chef Season 4 contestant Blaise is a welcome, tunky-nerd addition to my Top Five. He is hilarious, competitive, extremely interesting and let’s face it…a man who cooks is always a plus. I think you can win this bitch. Rock out a few more wins!

NUMBER FOUR – JEMAINE Clement
He describes his look as an “Ogre who works in a library.” I don’t have a problem with that. He is hilarious, a fantastic writer, (both screen and song), can sing and is just really strangely enticing to look at. Plus, funny will always trump sexy. It just will. I don’t care who you are. It just will.

NUMBER THREE – JOHN Linnell
The soulful eyes, inventive lyrics and penetrating voice make him an irresistible nerd welcomed to my list about three years ago. There is something to be said if you are in a room full of people watching him sing, and you feel like you are the only person there, nearly in tears because his songs are so personal. So adorably nerd-sexy.

NUMBER TWO – DAVID Wain
For several reasons, I love him. First, he is one-third of Stella. Second, he directed Wet Hot American Summer. Third, he is hot. Fourth, he recently wrote and starred in his own YouTube series called Wainy Days, which is hilarious. Fifth, one of the funniest segments of Best Week Ever was his feature on how annoying David Blain the magician was when he did his stint in the bubble thing, and started a protest outside of it saying “Quit trying to out-Blain David Wain!” Sixth, when I get my email notices on Stella, WHAS and The State, it’s often him who writes them, and he’ll write you back. Seventh, his web site is hilarious. And he’s just hot.

NUMBER ONE – MICHAEL Emerson
It was a gestational crush. I’d been a fan of his for a while because of Lost and had even seen him on Broadway in The Iceman Cometh during the Kevin Spacey days, but never had a crush on him. Then I got pregnant. And I had those hormone-induced pregnancy dreams of jungle love on Lost’s freaky-deaky island with him, and afterward he would sit on a fallen tree and tell me what was missing from the book I have been trying to write for the past year. Then I had to find everything he was in and watch it. And I had more dreams where he would be my muse, guiding my writing. He usually plays a murderer. Very well. Even Entertainment Weekly had him do his own list of top five horror movies he loves and what scary is to him because he’s creepy. And I love him. I got all the way to Waikiki this past January, where he lives during filming, but due to the Q-bert signs Writer’s Strike, he was back in New York and I was unable to stare at him. So he’s going on 55, his hair is getting sparse and he’s married. Does it really matter? He has a liquid voice, an exceptional vocabulary, is into Shakespeare and the Greeks, and taught for years. I love him.

There are cities that seem like they come right out of a noir film, with guys in them who seem perfectly-suited to be the schmuck detective to receive the unusual call from the damsels in distress that turn out to be a big tease into a case that could cost the poor guy his life. You know the cities, with the steam that rises out of every possible crack and crevice, the shadows that mask all of the dark goings-on. They’re the ones that are serenaded by cat screeches and saxophone songs from smoky, crowded jazz halls. The drunks stumble through the lonely streets, tripping on their own feet and falling against the door of an old Cadillac. Sure, there are streetwalkers, but most are classy, if you can say that about those that people call whores. This is my city, that place of the lonely dog barking and the back door to a restaurant slamming after the trash has been tossed in the alley. Sadly, I’m that schmuck who gets tangled in it all. I’m not waiting for the dame, I’m not waiting for the check. The money is regular in my profession, and dependable, for the most part, but hardly rewarding. I’m the schmuck who believes in something a little different than the way the world works, and that way collars me in white under black.

You guessed it; I’m a minister.

Not the usual ones who get a little congregation in a white steepled church in a farm town. Not the ones in suits and ties on television flinging spit and dripping spirit-filled sweat onto the next person needing healed. I’m not even the metropolitan pastor trying to keep up with the sweep of the trends from suburban sprawl to recentering in downtown, otherwise known as regentrification. And yes, I’m a fan of big words for fun. No, the reason the checks are dependable is because they are sent from the central office of my employing denomination, which is unimportant. The reason it’s hardly rewarding is because being the pastor of a ‘mission’ as they call it, isn’t a prized profession. Sure, some launch from this area, but I haven’t had the opportunity, nor do I really want it. The night life is what I see on the way home, as I go to my wife, in our little two bedroom apartment. And the nightlife is what keeps me up with phone-calls of the drugged out, drunk, abused, and abandoned. I get to sleep-in most mornings, because my congregation depends on nightlife and on the morning cup of coffee around noon.

I guess I started rambling without actually introducing myself. I’m Michael. Michael Logan O’Shanisey. Yes, I’m Irish. Catholic or protestant, take your pick, I like them both. I’ve been called Mick, Michael, Mikey, Mike, Logan, Shawn, O’Shan, Shawney, Father, and the rest go downhill, so take your pick, I’m not too concerned. Most of the parishioners either know me as Father, Pops, Pastor, again, take your pick. I’ll go ahead and introduce the Misses: She’s a pretty little girl, with ashy blonde hair, and a pretty medium build. She smiles like the best, and her honesty cuts like a knife. Genevieve Marie, but most call her Gene. Her brown eyes cut like diamond. That’s the gist of my place here.

But why did I even start like this? Well, I’ll tell ya. It’s to get you acquainted with the scenery before you get involved in the story. As I keep talking, you’ll get to know more characters, trust me.

Now, guess I should tell you the way the world works. You see, there’s times I get caught in my office twirling and weaving thoughts about the way the world should work. Yeah, it’s what people in my profession do, getting caught in ideas like peace, love, justice, and righteousness – you know, the way the world should be. Key word there is should. But there is something different about the way the world is. In my thought, the world works out of a kind of wisdom. That’ll be a recurring theme, get used to it.

Definition of wisdom: the way in which the structures of nature, science, and all of life are put together in order for the world to work a certain way. For every way that the world works, there is a different kind of wisdom behind it. The drug addicts, drunks, and nightwalkers all have a wisdom behind construing the world in their addiction. The pushers and peddlers may be close, but trust me, their wisdom is different. Your grandfather or grandmother show you their wisdom in the good old days, and your kids show it in their talk of fairness. Everything has a wisdom. That’s the way the world works. The question is, which is best? Ponder that as I keep going.

So I’m caught in my office, weaving my thoughts and studies when the old speaker on my desk crackles with the voice of Loraine, the receptionist calls me. Yes, we have the cool old speakers seen in the vintage movies with the security door buzz as the call sound. This call was about some stranger coming to see me. His name was Peter. That’s all I knew at the beginning, and all you’ll know about his name for now.

“Father, There’s a man out here to meet with you,” came her coffee-enthused voice through the intercom crackle.

“Not on the schedule. Did you tell him I was in study?”

“He says it’s urgent. Life or death. Should I send him in?”

“Yes,” I heave. “Send him in.”

My door squeaked on the old hinges, painted enough to have a nice, rubber looking coat. The glass on my door leaves the outline and colors of the man fuzzy. Everything is a bit nineteen-forty about my building. So the old hinges squeak, followed by the heavy footsteps of this Peter guy. He steps in, heaving a sigh and dabbing sweat from his brow. His head is bald, his eyes blue and beady, and his face round. He’s the teddy bear guy with the bat in his left hand, hugging and loving the family, but smashing the jaw of the guy who owes the boss some money. That guy. His shirt is wet around the collar and pits, and unbuttoned once to let his neck have some room. This guy comes from a world structured by a wisdom. I’ve got to figure that out. It’s my job.

Green Goblin was driving down the street when he spotted Loki enjoying a chicken salad sandwich and some ice tea at a trendy outdoor café. His heart leapt with joy as this was just the opportunity for revenge he’d been looking for since the fiasco at the after-party at last year’s Nickelodeon’s Kid’s Choice Awards.

Goblin felt like he had really been getting somewhere with Hayden Panettiere when Loki totally cock blocked him. The Norse god of mischief got him with the old “how’s your Chlamydia” trick and by the time he recovered Hayden was gone. Loki slipped away and Goblin vowed that day that if he ever saw him again he would make him pay.

The Green Goblin snuck into the kitchen and prepared a tasty hot fudge and anthrax sundae. Then he found the waiter and paid him $100 to deliver it under the guise of being a special treat for such a prestigious patron of the restaurant. Goblin hid behind some other diners and excitedly waited for Loki to become infected. Soon his revenge would be complete.

Unfortunately, that revenge would have to wait. Loki ate half the sundae and then looked Goblin right in the eye. “Don’t you know I’m immune to infection, you pitiful mortal?” He picked up the remainder of the sundae and lobbed it across the patio at him. Goblin dodged the ice-cream but that put him right in the path of the lightning bolt that followed.

The electricity stunned the Goblin and caused a short in his suit. He regained his composure just in time to dodge the second barrage of bolts that followed. Goblin turned and fled, darting this way and that to evade the series of attacks Loki was sending his way.

Goblin darted into the adjacent alley with Loki a few steps behind him in hot pursuit. Loki turned the corner, prepared to launch another series of attacks when he saw something that stopped him cold: The Destroyer Armor. This armor was an enchanted suit forged by Odin himself and possessed near limitless power. There was no question that Loki feared this armor and his nemesis the Green Goblin had just finished donning it.

Empowered by the armor, the tide of the battle turned sharply. Loki realized it was the Goblin’s plan all along to lure him into this alley and he, the trickster, had himself been tricked. Green Goblin began sending blast after blast of heat and electromagnetism at Loki as he retreated. Loki was mostly successful in his evasions but a few shots eventually found their target and he was sent sprawling into the street.

In the moments it took Loki to regain his composure the Green Goblin zeroed in on him and unleashed a disintegration beam from the visor of the armor. The beam struck Loki and squarely accomplished just what its name implies. Loki was immediately turned to a fine dust that was quickly scattered by the gentle breeze of the afternoon.

Back to tournament bracket

I recently read The Great Gatsby for a book discussion group. I happened to have a paperback copy of the book that my dad used when he was in college. The $1.50 printed price was only one of many visual cues that this was a relic from a bygone era. In my head the Mondrian-esue, sea-foam green minimalist cover, now very faded with sans serif font, belied an attempt by the publisher to market this particular tome to the bohemian hipster set. The fruitlessness of that particular project seemed slightly wrongheaded, as any fan of the stream of consciousness of the beat writers would have felt swindled by Fitzgerald’s elegant, sometimes dense prose. He used words like an artist would work with solid steal beams in a gloriously complex abstract sculpture, not a single element wasted or out of place.

I am a fan of reading used books. There is a particular kind of nerd that gets excited to see someone else’s handwriting in a book. I would be that particular kind of nerd. To see someone else’s notes in the margins or a well-placed “Hmmm” next to a sentence that wouldn’t have elicited the same thought for me adds another layer of appreciation to the reading act. I’ll never forget the mysterious, sprawling mathematical equations in pencil that accompanied several pages of the local library’s copy of Zen and the Motorcycle Maintenance, looking something like very orderly, concise hieroglyphics to me.

For when someone else’s response to a book is so handily documented for you, the two-way conversation between reader and author quickly becomes a three-person party. Not to mention the reminder that you are merely one in a chain of people throughout time to face the same ideas. Sometimes you need to be reassured of your role in a larger story, convinced of the idea that maybe the world isn’t created anew by your gaze, no?

Imagine my excitement at not only reading this well-revered American classic, but reading the exact same copy my old man did when he was in college. What a rare opportunity! To get inside dad’s head when he was twenty-something! Maybe I would find out that my dad had a clandestine artistic impulse that he learned to suppress long before I ever came along. Or perhaps it would become apparent that the college version of dear old dad’s soul would have resonated with Gatsby’s isolated, individual longing for the past and his idealized love for Daisy. A hand-written notation could make that apparent in ways he never showed by going to work at the office every day. To say the least, holding this particular copy of this book held promise for finally getting a look inside the head of my progenitor.

Indeed, my dad had made some notes, but unfortunately they were simultaneously unexpected and exactly what I would have expected. Next to the following evocative passage in the book, displaying Fitzgerald’s full descriptive powers:

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

Dad had written: “Indent and single space. No quote marks except single quotes.” Mere lecture notes on how to properly format a paper!

I should have known. Dad was a procedural guy just like me.

Looking back on the book and my frustrated expectations, I find that Dad and I may have re-lived one of the more pathetic elements of the book, only in reverse. Gatsby’s dad travels half-way across the country to attend his son’s funeral. Impressed by the signs of the young man’s wealth, it quickly becomes apparent that Father didn’t really know the real son, but rather an idealized image of honesty and success, neither of which corresponded to the reality of a man dying alone with only a handful of strangers who could be bothered to show up for his last rites. I wondered if this would be our fate-dad and I, to be largely unknown to each other.

What an awful, morose culmination for Fitzgerald’s tale and mine!

Happily, it’s not the end of mine.

For just yesterday I was discussing the book with pops over a light lunch and he was going on and on about Fitzgerald’s style, breathlessly telling me how “perfect” every word seemed, how artful and intentional the sentence constructions, the importance of symbols like God’s eyeglasses and color, the beautiful descriptions of The Valley of Ashes and his favorite Fitzgerald short story…

All of which he remembered from when he read it back in college.

I have come to love grocery store Saturdays. In the morning I’ll roll out of bed at whatever time I feel like it, go to the store with list in hand and make my rounds through the aisles at a leisurely pace. I do my best to not get run over by the people in their motorized carts who have ostensibly given up on upright life and go to the check-out counter, smile at the middle-aged cashier as a couple weeks’ worth of food goes parading between us, each item making that beep sound. Sometimes I’ll ask a particularly unenthusiastic cashier if they ever get tired of hearing the beeping. It comes from all of the registers in the store during an eight hour shift. Ceaseless-the actual sound of sustenance and commerce.

(I keep to myself the idea that I wish the cash register manufacturers would design their systems with adjustable pitches for the beeps. Imagine how much more interesting the check-out process would be if each register was tuned to a different scale degree. Every day would present the opportunity for employees to participate in a brand new aleatoric piece of music.)

Sometimes a particularly talkative cashier will observe my inclusion of some out-of-the-ordinary produce. A pack of shallots here or a colorful squash there will start a conversation like: “Wow! What’s that for?” And then I’ll tell them about a new recipe I’m trying that week.

Or sometimes I’ll want to splurge for company and pay a visit to Rhett’s Meat Market and he’ll show me the book he published about the history of early rock n’ roll records by Oklahoma musicians in between dispensing tips on the best way to cook up some lamb and how truly good, right, and salutary a stew is in the middle of winter.

All of these seemingly innocuous, insignificant human interactions combine to make life more enjoyable and interesting. Trading perspectives with fellow humans reminds me of my own humanity.

That is why last week’s Time magazine feature about “10 Ideas That Are Changing the World” sent me into a tailspin of despair. As part of the special coverage Barbara Kiviat, in “The End of Customer Service” paints a picture of a world where the cashier is no longer necessary, replaced by do-it-yourself kiosks. Here is the most troubling sentence: “Companies love self-service for the money it saves, and with consumers finally playing along, the need to interact with human beings is quickly disappearing.” Did you catch that last little bit? The need to interact is becoming a thing of the past!

This is a truly dystopian vision of the future: wandering around the store in silence with your cart, avoiding the other consumer-entities, staring fully in front of you, the only emanating sound being the ever-present beeps of computerized efficiency. Or consider doing all of your purchasing with only the company of the warm glow of your home computer’s monitor. It’s a page right out of Orwell or Huxley, the mass of humanity reduced to unrelated, lonely machines, made distinct only by their purchasing power.

Let us pray we never reach that state of total self-sufficient mechanization. For it is the collection of the inefficient elements of life, our reacting to and interacting with the wondrously unpredictable “other” that keeps us fully human, regardless of corporations and their collective bottom line.

“I’m better”

“Nuh uh, I’m better.”

Ivan Drago and Magneto glared at one another with jaws clenched and eyes full of hatred. The two men were firmly entrenched in a verbal battle of which one of them was superior to the other and neither was ready to yield. Eventually, as these things usually do, the verbal battle escalated into one of physical proportions.

“I am in top physical condition,” yelled Drago. He gave Magneto a shove to emphasize his point.

“Your species’ top physical potential is still beneath me, you swine,” retorted Magneto before giving a shove of his own.

“I have been given every physical advantage science and technology have to offer! Whatever I hit, I destroy!” This statement was accompanied by a very forceful shove that sent Magneto sprawling.

Magneto picked himself up with as much grace as he could muster and replied “And that is what makes you humans so pathetic. Even at your very best you still pale in comparison to those of us who have taken the next step in evolution. It’s a lesson I’m afraid you’re going to find most painful.” Magneto raised himself up in the air until he floated several feet above the Russian.

Drago opened his mouth to speak but was cut short by the mutant. Magneto used his power to pull the fillings free from Drago’s teeth and brought them hurtling through his lips into the adjacent wall.

Drago howled in pain and spat out the blood that was gushing from his mouth. He fought through the pain and unleashed a barbaric left-right combo that started at Magneto’s groin and finished at his knee. Magneto’s plummeting confidence coincided directly with his ruptured testicle and shattered femur.

Magneto struggled to concentrate through the excruciating pain but managed to fend off the Russian’s next attack with a magnetic burst that sent him sprawling. Despite wave after wave of force keeping him at bay, Drago’s attack was unrelenting. The ensuing time gave Magneto the moments he needed to unleash his next attack.

With a horrible rumbling, the walls began to shake until the air conditioning vent vomited forth a gnarled mass of metal that had formerly been the air duct. In mid-flight the metal re-shaped itself into a long blade that found its way cleanly through Drago’s thighs.

Ivan dropped to the ground and slipped around in the pool of blood that was quickly forming about him. Fear shown in his eyes, but not for long because moments later the air duct blade severed through the thick muscles of his neck and neatly severed his head.

The Russian was dead but Magneto would carry the wounds of this battle around with him for a very long time.

Back to tournament bracket

Hello Apollo, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Through the ship they’re slowly creeping,
They plan to kill us while we’re sleeping,
Alarm bells that pierce my waking brain
Still remain
It was the sounds of Cylons.

In restless dreams we walked alone
In this huge ship that we call home
In the glow of an emergency lamp,
We aim our blasters at the lifeless camp

Then our eyes were stabbed by the flash of a laser light
That split the night
And broke the sound of silence.

“Fools” we said, “you do not know
Their numbers like a cancer grows.
We’ve really got to take the fight to where
They make these metal men of war I swear”
So they asked us to destroy the factory
This they plea
It’s the war with the Cylons

And in the factory light we saw
Ten thousand robots without flaw.
Cyborgs talking without speaking,
Machines hearing without listening.
We plant the bomb and leave like we were never there
And we swear
We left the sound of silence.

And the bulkheads bowed and swayed
As lasers ‘cross the ship were splayed.
And the klaxon flashed its warning,
The alarm that it was forming.
And the sign said, “The Galactica is under attack”
and then the lights went black
And all we heard
Were the sounds of Cylons.