My Life-Long Dream Revised

Ever since I can remember, ever since I saw my first game on a grainy black and white television, all I have ever wanted was to play football for Notre Dame. Play football for Notre Dame and have a threesome, although I think that if I was playing football at Notre Dame having threesomes probably just comes with the territory—not that I’m saying the only reason I want to play football for Notre Dame is to nail some nice FFM action, or perhaps some FNM if one of them happens to be a nun—which is totally believable if I played football at a Catholic university. I don’t know why I never considered throwing a nun into the mix before, and I mean a hot teenage nun (but legal, of course) and not an old hag nun with a hairy wart on her upper lip. Do they have nun cheerleaders? Talk about killing two deep-rooted sexual fantasies with one stone.

Now that I think about it, you can scratch the whole ‘playing football’ shit—just sign me up for the threesomes' part of my dream. Going to practice would definitely screw up my sex life if I was nailing a cheerleader nun and one of her bi-curious teenage (18-19 only please) playmate-worthy friends.

Going to Notre Dame University was only contingent upon my place on the varsity football squad so if I get cut for missing practice I definitely have better things to do than go to class. Things like exploring each and every lurid fantasy of a voluptuous teenager who, although she looks quite young, is nevertheless a consenting adult. And who am I to judge if she and her friends have a rather surprisingly large collection of adult toys that require complicated instructions, not to mention dozens of D cell batteries? Now that I’m off the team I can show what a good sport I am by consenting to make videos with the nun and her friends even though I feel that I’m really not that photogenic.

As a young boy, playing football in the vacant lot with Billy Bob, Jimbo, and Billy Ray I, like all young boys, would inhabit my world of fantasy. I would think to myself, “If I make this touchdown pass it means that I’m destined to go to Notre Dame.” I would take the snap and fall back into the pocket. I could almost hear the crowd cheering wildly as I looked for a receiver downfield. And then I’d picture the teenage nun with oral skills honed in the Catholic school system which actually encourages fellatio, and I would spot the intended receiver. In this case it was a kid we used to call “Stone Hands” McIntyre. It is almost impossible to throw a football while trying to disguise the fact that you have a raging hard-on. Stone Hands would have dropped it anyway. I threw a perfect spiral right through the back window of the auto body shop run by some surly-looking Puerto Ricans which meant that our football days were over until someone got a new ball for their birthday or Christmas.

I think the moral of this story is that you should never give up on your dreams. Unless constantly thinking about your dreams is seriously impeding the blood flow to some of your vital organs not connected with the reproductive system. If this is the case then perhaps you should just go to a costume store and buy a goddamn nun outfit and a cheerleader uniform and try to get these twisted notions out of your head for a few hours a day so you can function like a normal person.

Conspiracy Theory

I am the kind of person that would read that title and immediately move on to read something else, anything else. Maybe ‘conspiracy’ isn’t the right word for the evil machinations that I have uncovered? Maybe I am stating something that is so blatantly obvious that it’s like I’m the last person to understand the forces that make the world go around? Maybe I’m the last person who isn’t getting paid to go along with the program? What I do know is the forces responsible for making shitty movies in America have bought and paid for those responsible for reviewing movies, both shitty and otherwise.

David Denby and Anthony Lane, the twin twats who review movies in The New Yorker magazine, are either the two most tasteless adults to ever have entered a Cineplex 18, or they are being paid by the big studios to favorably review the offal that those studios call movies—although there is nothing preventing both statements from being true. How else can anyone explain how these two film critics at this hallowed magazine find glowing things to say, week after week, about some of the worst efforts ever captured on film? Think of some of the worst movies you can imagine, movies you wouldn’t watch if you were languishing in a South American prison, and I’ll bet these two can find lots of nice things to say about them. Don’t take my word for it, I’ll abandon my usual irresponsible style and provide quotes from the Now Playing section of the magazine that has thumbnail captions from the reviews:

The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo (some fucking thing) The third in a series about sexy boys and their supercharged cars stars Lucas Black as a reckless rebel who. after a drag race gone wrong, flees to Tokyo to live with his father. There he discovers the thrill of drift racing (rocketing a car sideways by gunning the engine and hitting the brakes at the same time) with a group of yakuza wannabes.

Nacho Libre This story is just an excuse for Jack Black to jump around. He looks great in thick curly hair and a moustache.

The reviewers have a penchant for treating the big studio turds with kid gloves. They save their ire for the small, independent films. It is the movie critics’ equivalent of beating up the little kid with no big brother to defend him. In the same issue in which Denby praises Nacho Libre he savages the small, low-budget film The Road to Guantanamo. Here is his thumbnail for it:

The Road to Guantanamo Michael Winterbottom and Mat Whitecross’s film about three real-life British nationals mistakenly imprisoned at Gitmo is confusingly told and possibly disingenuous.

Now, I have seen neither Libre or Guantanamo, but as someone who subscribes to the NYer, I could actually imagine myself seeing an independent film like Guantanamo. I can’t imagine that anyone who reads the magazine would bother with films like Libre or Fast and Furious

In the arts sections of the New York Times (14JUL06) there was a fairly favorable review of a new frat-boy comedy You, Me, and Dupree while the serious foreign films were relegated to the back pages of the section. It’s not that I equate foreign with serious, or foreign with good—there are loads of shitty foreign films. What I am saying is that if you are trying to make a serious film that has actual human characters, don’t expect to get any help from the media unless you fucking accidentally, through no fault of theirs, somehow make a bunch of money with your project. At that point the big media conglomerates will be falling over each other to kiss your ass, thus insuring that your next film will be a complete load of crap more worthy of major media praise.

It isn’t difficult to understand why this is the situation in America today. There are three companies that own practically every newspaper, magazine. radio station, television outlet, and movie studio in the entire country, maybe the planet, maybe the entire solar system for all that I know—I’m not invited to the board meetings.

Generally speaking, I hate critics. I love the story about the venerated New Yorker film critic, Pauline Kael, who was invited to Hollywood to give a try at film writing. Here was a woman who obviously knew everything there was to know about movies, after all, she had been eviscerating and praising them for years in the magazine, so who better to write the perfect screenplay. Of course, she failed miserably and went back to New York with her tail, or whatever it is critics have, between her legs. This is why I hate restaurant reviews—especially when they are highly caustic—written by folks who have never worked in a restaurant. I would love to read movie reviews written by people who actually make films.

I find the type of film reviews that are found in major American publications to be almost criminally disingenuous in their façade of objectivity. It is obvious that someone is telling the critics how to steer their reviews, so just say so. Precede the review with a short blurb explaining how The New Yorker is owned by Time-Warner, and they make movies. and their objective is to get you to pay to see them.

Allez, Allez Les Bleus!

Excuse my pride in my French heritage during this incredible month of World Cup excitement. There are eleven players but France is now personified by Zinedine Zidane, perhaps the best midfielder to ever have played the game. I'll leave you with this catchy tune.

La Marseillaise

Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats.
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras.
Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Amour sacré de la Patrie
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs
Liberté, Liberté chérie
Combats avec tes défenseurs!
Sous nos drapeaux, que la victoire
Accoure à tes mâles accents
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

Nous entrerons dans la carrière
Quand nos aînés n'y seront plus
Nous y trouverons leur poussière
Et la trace de leurs vertus
Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre
Que de partager leur cercueil
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil
De les venger ou de les suivre!

Aux armes citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons

World CupFever Briefly Defended

We have cut the field of contenders in half. All of the teams playing in the next round are exceptional, but as we shall see, some more than others. About the only surprise thus far is that the Czech Republic did not advance after trouncing the USA in the first game in group play. The USA was a bitter disappointment although I think that few people thought they would advance from this tough group. It would be difficult to pick a winner among some of the great teams, but I will, just for fun.

I thought that Spain played wonderfully. They won all three games in their group in convincing fashion. In their last match against Saudi Arabia they played a completely new squad and still won 1-0 on an excellent header by Juanito. The current hero of Spanish football, Raul, played a superb second half and scored an equalizer goal against Tunisia. 22 year old Fernando Torres put Spain ahead in that game with one of the best goals that I have seen so far in the tournament.

For what it’s worth, I also like Argentina, Portugal, and, of course, Brazil.

What I really like about this World Cup is that it is finally getting a lot of attention in the USA. I’ve watched a few games at a Seattle pub. The place is standing room only. Most people in Seattle are at least aware that the World Cup is going on and many of us have become rabid fans. Over the course of my entire adult life there has been talk that this will be the year that football catches fire in America, and every year it has been just that—talk.

This year is different. You can almost feel the tectonic shift in interest in the sport. It’s as if we have all done our homework and now players like Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Roberto Carlos, Beckham, Henry, Zidane, Ballack, Figo, and Raul (among many others) have all become household names in front of televisions all across the country. We know what constitutes an off-sides. We know what should be a foul and what kind of infraction deserves a yellow card. We have come a long way.

I read an account of a group of American fans behaving rather badly before one of the games in Germany. A fan from another country said that was the way football fans are supposed to act and he had an increased respect for the Americans. Maybe we do finally have a passion for the game. I know that I do, but that is another story for another day .

I won’t get into the childish argument about whether or not football is boring, or why Americans don’t like it. It looks fairly obvious to me that we do like it and it is here to stay. I could kick myself for not being in Germany, if not to actually go to a game then at least to watch them on TV along with all the other fans drunk on German beer and a love for the game. The next World Cup will be in South Africa in 2010. Anyone interested in going?

Genesis: The Version According to Science

4 billion years of history. 

My objection to supernatural beliefs is precisely that they miserably fail to do justice to the sublime grandeur of the real world.

The Ancestor’s Tale: A Pilgrimage to the Dawn of Evolution, Richard Dawkins

Of course I’ve read the Bible’s account of the beginning of the world. I grew up in a religious household—if you can call Catholics religious. As a child I was never able to accept the concept of heaven and hell, the eternal destination of our souls depending on our conduct during our brief stay on this planet. This tainted all of the other messages that my religion offered. My apostasy was complete sometime before I reached the second grade. Everything that I was forced to read in the Bible seemed pretty far-fetched to my skeptical grade school sensibilities, especially the weak explanation for the earth’s creation. At that time no one offered me any other account of the beginning of life on this planet, so I set aside my questions on the subject and went on to learn other things.

If taken literally, the Bible’s account of creation is ridiculous, and even if you take Genesis metaphorically it cannot even begin to compare to the wonder involved in the scientific explanation of the evolution of the lowly eubacteria—our oldest ancestor. As Dawkins asks, isn’t the true story of how the earth came to be more worthy of the imagination of thinking adults than the fairy tales offered by religion? Even taken to its metaphorical limits, the Bible denies mankind the faintest glimpse of how we came to be. The Ancestor’s Tale gives those who choose to read it a fairly commanding and satisfying view all the way back to the very beginning of life on earth.

I would say that I am about as far from religious as a person can possibly be. I read the Bible strictly for the purposes of attaining a degree of cultural literacy, certainly not for spiritual enlightenment. I’ve never found comfort in the book; I never found answers. It is ironic to think that, because I am a compulsive reader, I’m probably one of the few people to have ever read a passage or two in those Bibles left in hotel rooms. If only someone would leave copies of The Ancestor’s Tale for me to read during all of the down time I spend while traveling. As Dawkins explains, “It is not pride in my book but reverence for life that encourages me to say, if you want a justification for the latter, open the former anywhere, at random.” Open the Bible at random and, more often than not, you'll find gibberish. I have always felt that the only religion that man requires is the search for knowledge, this may be why Dawkins calls it a pilgrimage to the dawn of evolution—a truly spiritual quest.

The fact that we have such a remarkably clear picture of the last 4 billion years of life on our planet, and the fact that it has all been developed in the century and a half since Charles Darwin, is a testament to the boundless limits of the human brain when it is freed from the constraints of religious dogma. Of course, our current understanding of life on earth will undergo constant and possibly even radical change, but most of what we think we know today will hold up to further scientific scrutiny. Contrary to arguments put forth by adherents to a creationism, there are no “gaps” in the fossil record, and even without any fossils the evidence in favor of evolution is overwhelming. For your view of our past you can choose to stand on the sturdy foundation built by science or the rickety parables of religion.