Saturday, October 30, 2010

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Siete

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

There was a little turnover in the pool leadership this week. The two seasonal winners of just a few years ago, the Fightin' Beav and Clancey Coronado, are on top of us again. (Insert obvious wink/nudge comment here.)

It's all about the Key picks -- you have to get them. That's why they are called "Key" picks, and not "Just one more thing to do before you click Submit" picks. Of course, TLAM and JRHONEY (or as we call him, "Junior Honey") are the exceptions to this rule. They are banging the Keys like Jerry Lee Lewis, but it's the rest of their picks that are holding them back.

This week goes to another long-suffering veteran player. The fans aren't booing, they are saying "Looouuuu".

Hey, kids, you need to watch "The League" on FX. Set your DVRivo to record it, catch up on episodes online at Hulu or OnDemand, and dig in. It's loosely based around a football fantasy league, semi-scripted and partially improvised, darkly clever, and NOT appropriate for your little rug monkeys to watch all snuggly next to you on the couch. There are lots of warnings before it comes on, and foul language, and there's a character named Taco. That should be enough to get you there.

Incidentally, I want a friend named Taco. If I start calling one of you that, just answer. Also, unrelated, I'm going to start talking like the lead penguin from Madagascar. Gotta keep it fresh.

In other news, apparently some wastes of carbon out in the African desert packed a couple of crates of explosives, threw a mittful of commemorative stamps on them, and put them in the mail to the US. What the hell did we do to piss off Yemen? I mean, if it was up to me, I'd say nuke 'em into shiny lumps of drippy glass Christmas ornaments just for being close to Somalia and having a name that is far too close to baby batter. Instead, they are now all up in the Al Quaida business and hiding some cat named Anwar Al-Awlaki.

What's with all the folks named Al that want to blow us up? I know some guys named Al -- good people. There's my brother-in-law's old man, and Al Roker, and the guy that took over the malt shoppe from Mr. Miyagi. They aren't strapping mother boards to toner cartridges full of Acme TNT. Two things come to mind: make all these foreign guys start punctuating their name with Adolf instead of Al so we aren't tainting the good name of decent heavy set guys everywhere, and send in some 00-prefix SEAL teams on an asshole safari.

Fire at will, boys. Fire at will.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Skynet Football Pool Week Seis

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

I think I can get this in before kickoff of Week 7, which would be the outer limits of acceptability and a new league record for procrastination.

Flounder brought home the Week 6 bacon, and took his place at the top of the seasonal standings. With hopes that THIS is the year he can hold on to first place, he joins Prometheus, who hopes THIS is the morning that fucking eagle leaves his liver alone.

Speaking of ancient history and curious dinner choices, I seem to have found myself on the Paleo Diet. This isn't intended to be a weight loss kind of diet, as the casual observer will note that I possess the lean musculature of Greek statuary. Underneath that chiseled exterior, however, beats an overworked heart struggling to push pure sausage gravy through my veins. Those chest pains are just indigestion and some lingering soreness from bench presses, right? Well, gravy is tasty, but lower cholesterol and a decent blood chemistry improve my chances of living long enough to implement my plan to become a beloved host of reality TV competitions in exotic locations. It also improves the survival probabilities in the coming zombie apocalypse and/or the battle against intelligent machines, but that's just a bonus to the hosting gig.

This Paleo Diet is basically eating like a primitive hunter/gatherer. If you have to grow it, process it, bake it, refrigerate it, or enjoy it, you can't have it. Meat, nuts, berries, fruits and green veggies = good. Grain, beans, pasta, bread, sugar, salt, milk, cheese, and everything in my cabinet = bad. The premise is that our digestive systems evolved when you had to carve off a chunk of wooly mammoth, grab a handful of blueberries, wrap it in a fistful of leaves, and wash it down with creek water while on the run from rival tribes and sabertooth sleestaks. Your pie holes, ironically, are not for pies. We, according to the remarkably convincing lunatics that espouse this kind of rudimentary cuisine, are better off without pepperoni pizza or anything made of corn.

Bourbon, I'll have you know, is made from corn; so, Strike One, lunatics.

And peanut butter is technically a prohibited legume and not George Washington Carver's proven miracle nut? Strike Two.

And you have to eat a lot of steak? Whoa -- checked swing.

No word yet whether I get to bash people with a club or have to push my feet through the floorboard to stop my car, but I can already feel my knuckles dragging.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Cinco

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Nobody at my address won this week. Week Five goes to Multiple Scoregasms, for whom this is either an amuse bouche to supplement his regular gambling winnings or something already promised to a bookie as partial payment for the continued function of his kneecaps. Honestly, I think he's going to blow it all on new visors.

So, yeah, that high school reunion thing went fine. That is, it went completely as expected and to a large degree as scripted. The football players talked to the cheerleaders, the Most Likely To's chatted up the Most Populars, and the High School Quiz Bowl Team (state champs 1984 and 1985, thankyouverymuch) talked to anyone who paused long enough to squint at the yearbook photo cut out and pasted on our tiny-fonted name tags. The dinner buffet was three kinds of baked ziti, which as you know pretty much exhausts the Pantheon of ziti recipes. The DJ played the Electric Slide at about 8:30, which I found to be a little premature and bordering on ageism. Among the guests, at least two people were grandparents already, the usual statistical portion had been divorced, three people had changed so little that I suspected cryogenic storage, and there was one creepy guy that I barely remembered but I'm pretty sure was taking pictures so he could create a little murder scene diorama in a shoebox. One girl, whose most distinguishing feature in high school was a forehead big enough for truck stop advertising, looked like she had subsisted for years entirely on potato chips and chocolate bunnies. At least she grew into her forehead. Biggest shock: the surprisingly attractive and yet heavily tattooed women behind the bar were entirely immune to my wit; but in their defense, I may (MAY) be a little less Don Draper and a little more Don Rickles than I think.

At one point, the crowd thinned out and I thought maybe there had been a sudden surge in long-forgotten high school hormonal desires. I feared that a parking lot full of minivans were a'rocking with contorted consummations of ancient lusts and that people would be staggering back with random floorboard detritus in their hair and Cheerios stuck to their kneecaps. Apparently, it was merely a combination of smoke breaks, babysitter check-in calls, and famished quests for something more than ziti.

Generally, however, I found that I enjoyed myself. I had three or four conversations that surprised me with the level of honesty and humor, the blend of wistfulness and hope, and a realization that everyone seemed to have more richness and depth as if we had all aged in our own casks built of personal victories and defeats. (Well, except for that drunk guy that bro-hugged me at the buffet -- that guy had as about as much depth as an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, and half the ability to hold my interest.)

Speaking of interesting, it was nice to see the media covering something positive this week with the extrication of the Chilean miners. It was uplifting, pun intended, to share the excitement of the world watching the rescue; and to know that there are still some smart, brave people that can solve problems without conference calls, committee discussions, and calendar synching. Got men trapped in a cave? "You: get a shovel. You: start building an Escape Pod 3000, t
ry to make it a little smaller than the hole that guy is digging, put some wheels on it, and, uh, spray it with Pam. Go." That's getting the job done.

I applaud them, particularly the miner that came up knowing his wife and his mistress had discovered each other while wailing together for his loss.


"For whom do you weep, my sister in grief?"
"I weep for Juan."
"I also weep for Juan. Probably a different Juan. Common name and so forth. I love my Juan."
"I love my Juan very much too -- he is my husband.
"My Juan is my lover of much passion and many years. Juan Ramírez."
"Come again?"
"Tuco Benedicto Pacífico Juan María Ramírez. My Juan... for whom I weep."
"Ramírez? With a Z?"
"Si, do you know him?
"Bitch, I'mma gonna cut you in the face. "

That dude is muy valiente. If that was my situation, I'd stay in that hole until my eyes turned white and my skin went translucent like a cave creature. I'd eat bugs for the rest of my life, and start calling my still-attached dick "My Precious". Hilarity does NOT ensue when you got two crazy women waiting for you and only one door.

I don't always get trapped in a mineshaft, but when I do, I take Dos Equis and leave only one woman topside.

I'm the most interesting Commissionero in the world.





Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Skynet Football Pool Week Cuatro

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

I am pleased to announce a uniting… a joining… a convergence of two very special things: your money and my pants. It’s been a couple of years since El Commissionero won a week, and oh, I've missed it so. What an illicit gambling pool has joined, let no man put asunder.

Although, admittedly, it wasn't much of a victory. Nine and five on the week will not exactly get you the "1-2-3-Fo', All you 'hos get on da flo" Suite at the Bellagio, and I had to have the Patriots pound the Fins mercilessly just to get the points to hit my tiebreaker. It's not exactly dominance -- more like winning a race by a nose because of one’s Southern European genetics. I will endeavor to fill this hollow feeling with money; which, incidentally, is now available.

The accounting breaks down like this: there are thirty of us clustered around the buffet this year. Each threw in 88 units for 2640 total; so, less 90 units (at 3 each) to the website, there's 2550 big fat yeast rolls for the taking. That slices up to 120 for each weekly victor; and by the time the playoffs start, we'll have 250 left for the overall winner, 175 for the seasonal silver medal, and 85 to go back to the player earning the Oreck/Hilton/Gravity award.


This weekend, I will face a deeper and more fearsome challenge: my 25th High School Reunion. The general consensus is that it's not that big a deal; and that the passage of a quarter-century makes it a relaxed, welcoming, and cordial environment that is the exact opposite of high school. Nonetheless, I have a ponderous sense of dread. Maybe it is that this is a step directly back into the circumstances of my formative years when fear and uncertainty ruled the day. I mean, the last time I saw THAT guy, he was a defensive end making sure everyone went the right damn way on the one-way staircase; and the last time I saw THAT chick, she was a cheerleader looking past/through me to one of the faster, stronger, or more facially-symmetrical males in the tribe.

Despite John Hughes' great efforts to demonstrate that inside every kid is a rebel/warrior/prince/poet, and despite every scar and every score that I earned in the years that followed, it feels like I'm going to be right back in 1985 again. If that guy or that chick tries to talk to me, I bet my first reaction will be to blurt out several five-syllable words and throw up on my shoes.

I'm not much for small talk in large rooms, either; but I have to remember that I've become something that I never expected to be: comfortable.


HEY IT’S YOU ... (glancing down at my nametag) ... CHRISTOPHER! HOW YA BEEN, MAN?" (Offers handshake, which awkwardly converts from straight handshake to semi-vertical handclasp to very uncomfortable bro-hug)

Hey ... (glancing down at his nametag... Hello, his name is... what? Is that Jon or Jason? Can’t quite tell, damn the tiny font -- too late, locked into manual greeting ritual and must …get… timing right) ... you! Call me Chris, it's shorter and more accurate.

YEAH, CHRIS. MAN, WHAT YOU BEEN UP TO?

For all 25 years? Well, I wasn’t in prison, so it’s been kind of varied.

HA HA HUH HA. YOU’RE THAT SMART KID, RIGHT? DID YOU BECOME A DOCTOR?

No.

GOT THAT ENGLISH AWARD, DINCHA? YOU, LIKE, A WRITER?

No, although I did once describe a bathroom as being so disgusting that it looked like a blind epileptic tried to ice a chocolate cake in there. That one was well-received.

OH, I BET YOU WAS ALL OVER THAT INTERNETS, YEAH. GOOGLETUBE, WAS THAT YOU? YOU A DOT.COM JILLIONAIRE G6-FLYING MUTHAFUCKA?

No. I was not involved in the Googletube project.

AWW NAW, I BET YOU GOT YOUR OWN COMPANY AND GET TO TRAVEL AROUND AND GET PREMIER PLATINUM MILEAGE UPGRADES AND WHATNOT.

No. Let me skip ahead for you: I steal.

S' COOL. YOU WAS KIND OF A SKINNY KID, USED TOO MANY BIG WORDS. DID YOU EVER GET LAID?

Yeah. Twice on the way over here.

YOU USED TO HAVE BIGGER HAIR. WHAT HAPPENED?

The stores quit selling gel. And mousse. And someone pointed out it looked like a mullet from the back and the front.

SO, WHATCHA BEEN UP TO, ANYTHING?

Well you know ... (glance down to his nametag, still can’t read his penmanship) ... dude, I spent a few years in college and grad school, had jobs I hated and jobs I’ve liked, been with women whose names I never knew and to places I will never forget. I’ve seen the sun rise over a mountain in Wyoming and over the horizon in Nicaragua. I’ve seen the sun set on the lives of too many people that I wish had more time to share with us. I've got a wife so awesome that we ought to fight crime together on Thursday night prime time. I wrecked a couple of cars, saved at least one life, gained muscle mass and alcohol tolerance, and been getting better about asking questions instead of answering all the time. I’ve won several times, lost a few more, and learned something every time.

I guess I’ve been doing pretty well since High School. If nothing else, I’ve learned that testing yourself is good, and a little change is nothing to be feared.

It's great to see you. (execute flawless bro-hug) I see a girl that doesn't remember ever seeing me, and I'm going to go ask her how Jenny Craig is working out for her. Later, champ.


Maybe it won't be so bad as I think.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Tres

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Week Three goes back to Clancey Coronado, who is dominating this pool and making it look easier than playing Rock-Paper-Scissors at a Hitler parade.

While the ducats pile up on her side of the bed, the rest of us move one step closer to poverty, hopelessness, and voting Democrat. Where's mine?!?! I mean ... at the risk of going all Kanye here, "Baby, I'm really happy for you, I'ma let you finish, but my research was some of the best of all time!"

**If you are at all familiar with the Clancey Coronado response levels, you will know that if I were to interrupt the payout process to kick it Kanye-style, then it would not be met with any blinky-eyed Disney character response. We'd move past both Response Level One (disdain and disregard) and Response Level Two (withering verbal disembowelment), and into some form of Response Level Three (Wolverine-clawed rage-fueled frenzy). For future reference, at Response Level Four, somebody is going to end up in a box -- sorry about that, short-lived (literally) girlfriend in grad school :| . Pray you never see Response Level Four, which will have to be described by archeologists that can piece together what happened from the ash layers and pottery shards.

With two hours at the computer, pages of notes surrounding me, I had higher expectations. I had highlighters and whatnot. Did you know (and it must be true because it's on the world wide interwebs) that "DETROIT is 22-2 with revenge vs a division opponent off a fav loss; GREENBAY is 6-72 off a fav loss,"? I've got no idea what that means... but it seems very powerful. It would be nice to spend a little less time in the McDonald Playland Jumpy Ball Pit of Statistics and trust my gut: dogs don't have to win, they just don't have to lose as badly. I just really thought that the favorites would roll this week, like they did in 2009.

But hey, if wishes and hunches were sit-ups and crunches, we'd all be underwear models.


Get back out there.

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Dos

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution

This late note can be blamed entirely on me being busy driving the skiploader full of crap at work. Seriously, does it matter whether the new IMS FAQ includes references to the cert environment settings for tax lot selection? When I was little, I did not dream of a joy like the Monster.com ad this has become.

Plus, today is the Fightin' Beav's birthday, and I had to wait for a full pool shoutout about nice she looks for her age.

This pool thing, I tell you... Another week is in the archives; and that means 8.5% of my (our) opportunities for winning are now swirling seaward down the American Standard.

Two weeks down, fifteen to go -- time to ramp up the research on your favorite handicapper sites, decide which expert from cbssports.com you will copy, consider if the Bill Simmons picks are worth considering, or (and this is where most roads lead) configure your autopick selection to "Random" and recognize that you simply cannot predict if those goatfuckers will ice the kicker with a time-out to force a rekick that flies farther right than Glenn Beck on the starboard yardarm of the USS Missed It By A Mile. Stupid +2.5 line...

Plus, can you really outthink Vegas? There's a whole lot of little machines there that go "Boo-DOO-loo-da-loo, Boo-DOO-loo-da-loo... Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink-Tink", and the winners aren't the ones paying the power bill. They know stuff in Vegas, like, how to set the line at +2.5. And how to predict total meltdown by the Pats, and how the Panthers quarterback will totally go shit-in-his-hat stupid before being replaced by some kid that looks like a Himalayan cat.

Seriously -- Clausen and a Himalayan Blue Point? Look it up: smooshy-faced wussies with infuriating looks of indignant disdain. Mark my words: Panthers go 5-11, PSLs come free with any new house purchase in the Metrolina area, and Clausen shatters his feeding dish because he couldn't discern real bits of tuna in it.

This week's ill-gotten stack of Hip-Hop Honey Bait -- a term I prefer to "booty", but still not as much as I like "victory biscuits" -- goes to Mr. Bubbles. I was able to delight him with the news around Wednesday or so, because he cared neither enough to make picks nor to check to see the results. This does not make me feel good about my two hours poring the interwebs for team news, but at least I knew that I had a well-defined reason for being wrong instead of "Ehh, home teams do good."

It wouldn't be a message from El Commissionero without some mention of the sacrifices yet to be laid on SkyNet's altar. I observed earlier this week to a player, however, my sense of urgency at chasing SkyNet participants is slightly below that of my concern about whether Justin Bieber will be a safe driver because of the risk that his hair might fall in his eyes. Breaks down like this: many are the tales of checks wending their way through postal routes, and that's all good in the various 'hoods from whence they were mailed. The officefootballpool site, however, wants their Per Player pound of flesh by the first of October, so if units are not in hand by then, you are killed off. That's the long and Kevorkian short of it.

So, to sum up -- skiploader, clock's ticking, Tink-Tink, good job Autopicks, pay or die, and I got to run.

Your El Commissionero Magnifico

SkyNet Football 2010 Week Uno

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Week Uno is in the books and Clancey Coronado draws first blood. That is both a metaphor representative of the first victory of the season, and the corporeal results of her very insistent demands to be paid. The House of Commissionero rang loudly with shouts of great joy after Monday night's games, followed very closely by a request for a full accounting. It's like being in business with Paulie Cicero.

And on that point, thirty-one souls are sailing with SkyNet this season. Over half have made their respectful donations, and I have no reason to suspect the rest are not rushing forward with fistfuls of crumpled lunch money even as I type. If everyone ponies up as planned, my first draft cipherin' and calculatin' says we're looking at a 120 weekly and 300/200/85 seasonal unit redistribution.

The first standing rule of SkyNet still applies, however: No one gets paid out until everyone pays in. Winners make great enforcers. So ... pay. There are some things you don't want in your face, like Dee Snutz and Multiple Scoregasms. You could lose an eye, most of your dignity, and the ability to distinguish yourself from a Kardashian.

Good luck,
El Commissionero

SkyNet Football 2010 Kickoff

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

The opening kickoff of Football Season is about eight days away, and the Envelope of Financial Loyalty has about four donations in it. None of them is mine, so once again I wave gleefully from my glass house at all the black kettles out there. Being responsible for the payouts more so than soundbite commentary, however, my money is already in the bank.

SkyNet may be weakened with the age and the economy, but it's not dead. A couple dozen (ok, 22) of the faithful have already committed their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor to the prospect of having El Commissionero Magnifico memorialize their victory with a customized logo on the website.

And the money.

It's not all about the money, but a 2x3 picture lampooning your team name is not a straight up exchange for sacred honor, am I right?

(Incidentally, I have contacted the Half-brothers, Stepsisters, and Acquaintances of the Revolution that perch precariously on the fence, and have questioned both their heritage and physical prowess in respectful but stern tones. Feel free to prod them.)

But, the way I see it, usually through the bottom of a Double Old Fashioned tumbler of sturdy weight, it's time to revisit the awesome power of a SkyNet Football Season. You've competed in the past -- heIIfire, some of you have taken home some victory biscuits from this thing! You know what's it's like to commit to the study, the research, the stringent training; to have the wind at your back, whipping through your kilt and blowing your hair about as you raise your sword aloft and yell, "UNLEASH THE UNDERDOGS OF WAR! ... um, except for the Colts, they'll cover."

If you are going to be in this thing, then pony up the 88 units because you crave the fight, you know the teams, you know the games, and you know that this is your year.

And, deep down, because you want the kilt and the sword.

88 cash, at your earliest convenience,
El Commissionero Magnifico

PS. I'm out next week. Indulgences will be granted.

PPS. I changed the tiebreaker rules. Total game wins now trumps key picks. It's the Montione-Morris Resolution.

SkyNet Football 2009 Kickoff

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,

Did you SEE the number of misspellings and missed words in my last email? Sweet Soloman on a Skateboard, if the only WiFi available is at a bar, it's probably wise to hold off on serious communiques until one is back to the mainland before typing.

Or one might proofread, but El C does not have the time or inclination for that. When you're living a Buffett song, up to and including white liquors AND a vicious Krugeresque cut on the heel, there's just no room in the day. Take the pearls I cast, and fill in the blanks.

So, um, make some picks this week. Before you do, don't forget to make a little drop by the Styx Marina to pay the boatman for this season's journey. I suppose I might rage and rant against the kind of sub-lamprey sludge that defers payment until after the first couple of weeks just, you know, to see if a win will make it unnecessary -- but you are my people, and I know that is not the kind of ilk that would include any of you. You know good and well that no one gets paid out until everyone pays in, and you're all well above lampreys on the evolutionary scale. I've seen you use tools to open beers.

So far, 24 people are in the game. I'd like to crest thirty so that payouts are more attractive; so put the appropriate pressure on people like Sheets and MonTony, Matchete and Coach CT, and other legacy players that have yet to respond to the siren call. Put the appropriate pressure on each other to pay in a timely and accurate manner.

But enough about the icky financial aspect of the business. Football, tailgating, chicken wings, jeans, firepits, and frolicking in an unmade bed full of gambling winnings -- these are the things that the season has brought us, and let us be joyful in them.

El Commissionero Magnifico

SkyNet Football 2009 Invite

Brothers, Sisters, and Friends of the Revolution,


You know the drill: pay money, make picks, watch season fritter away without a win, promise to do better next year.


Well, it's "next year" already. So raid your couch cushions, your car ashtrays, the need-a-penny-take-a-penny cups at Kwik-ee-Mart, and the nearby tables of inattentive waitresses.


Despite the breadlines, battered fedoras, and getting some of that free guv'ment gravy, the recent economic downturn has had no effect on SkyNet's demand for your tribute.

Got to be in it to win it. Got to pay $88 to be in it. You can make the algebraic link.

As duly self-appointed representative, you can pay me. Soon, por favor. The opening kickoff date is barreling down on us like Kate Gosselin on a chance to give a quote to Entertainment Tonight.


El Commissionero

Monday, February 2, 2009

25 Random Things

There's a Facebook chain posting where you write 25 random things about yourself, thereby allowing all your friends to peer through a little window into your world. Here's mine.

25 random things

1. The revelation of Things to others, however random, is a TOTAL violation of my Show No Weakness policy. What if you people spot some kind of Balkan soft underbelly and attack?!?! I guess you can decode this one as an admission that I am aggressively defensive, not comfortable with criticism (however constructive) and can't have honesty without a punchline to defuse it.

2. I love movies. I have been to Sundance twice, have Netflix and two movie channels, will watch anything anytime, am a standard go-to for the answer to entertainment questions, and have a standing self-bet that I can name any movie that shows on TV between the time it starts and the time the title rolls.

3. Sadly, I don't really understand "sports". Thingy in the goal. Thingy over the line. Go for two. Don't block in the back? Whatever.

4. Ironically, I am El Commissionero Magnifico of illegal gambling pools on football, basketball, and even baseball. Turns out, you don't have to appreciate sports to appreciate the rewards of gambling thereupon.

5. I use a lot of words. It's what I do.

6. My first car was a Honda Prelude. Wrecked it. My second car was a Datsun 280Z. Wrecked it. My third car was a Jeep Cherokee. Drove it until it smelled funny. Thus begat the Bronco era, as fondly and incorrectly remembered as the Antebellum South.

7. My dog is my boy. He was a handful of heartbeat and fur about 12 years ago; and now, much older, he still limps to meet me at the door every day. He's sullen, bitter, distrusting, gregarious, loving, carnivorous, agedly unathletic, selectively friendly, occasionally enthusiastic, perpetually hopeful, and always thrilled to see his friends. I don't know where he gets it.

8. Underneath the house freaks me out more than any other thing. My greatest fear is knee-walking under there on some critical home maintenance mission, rising up between two floor joists, and come down wearing a spiders' nest like an Afro.

9. I lettered in High School. In Quiz Bowl. Two years. Captain of the team. My letter has no football, no winged track foot -- it's a lamp of knowledge. Try using that to meet chicks. For best results, try using more words. You may need to supplement this with financial success or frequent gymnasium visits.

10. My grandmother owned a business, survived a mass murder, cared for my grandfather through MS and cancer, became a sad alcoholic, and died with Alzheimer's in a nursing home with no memory or property. She taught me two things on purpose: (1) you're going to meet a lot of people you don't like and you better get used to it, and (2) wear a towel when you walk from the bathroom to the bedroom; it's just basic courtesy. She taught me another thing by observation: Life sure is complicated... full of love and hurt and loss and forgiveness, but mostly complicated.

11. I wish I were a fireman. I have the helmet, and you know I can get the mustache.

12. I wish I could drive my car like a stuntman. Actually, I already do; I just wish I had formal training and a certificate to give the authorities.

13. I wish I did something that was worthwhile. I admire people that put it all out there, and I guarandamntee you they aren't in Global Financial Investment Marketing Service Management.

14. There's nothing I admire more than Cleverness, nothing I detest more than Lack of Consideration. I'm looking at you, person having loud conversation on cell phone.

15. While not strictly "scared" of children, since they don't build nests in the crawl space, I am not entirely comfortable around them. Their noises are not pleasing to the ear, their hands are often smeared with jelly and snot, and I was once bitten by a toddler. If you know how tall a toddler is, and what sensitive area is about teeth-tall on a man, you can calculate exactly how wary I am now.

16. I married my high school sweetheart. She is my most trusted partner in crime and confidence, my best audience, my favorite performer, my keeper and my responsibility, my challenge, my support, and the one I love most clumsily but purely. She does not High Five.

17. I own a reasonable number of firearms, and can use them. I count among my proudest moments the time I took Dad shooting, and he turned to say, "You're really good."

18. I can make linguine alla puttanesca really, really well.

19. Skynet rules.

20. "Good things happen to net givers."

21. I like to watch people smile, when their eyes crinkle at the corners. People with experience laughing are good people.

22. "I was gonna" is no longer part of my Library of Excuses. Either make the mix tape, or don't.

23. Every voicemail message my mother leaves is always to the maximum of three minutes, and devotes at least one minute to the weather conditions of the recent week. I cannot find the "skip ahead" command. One day, this statement will make me sad.

24. I don't want to be excluded, yet I do not like to be discussed.

25. I will help you move, for beer. I will help you move the body, for whatever reason that's important to you. Friendship is more than Christmas cards, bub.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Sundance, the last, a week late

Having been out of Utah for a week, I feel the wave of enthusiasm for anything I may have to say about Sundance may have crashed and receded.

Being habitually disinterested in whether others have an interest in what I'm saying, however, I press on (as is my way).

When last we spoke, I had soothed my aching knees with some freely-applied general anaesthetic at a random sponsor party on the way home from snowboarding. It was held a ski shop just across the lot from our accomodations. The couch made of solid ice and covered by a fur throw caught my eye, as did the buckboard full of rye whisky, campfire, and martinis filled via ice luge. Inside, they had beer, models in ski togs, stacks of food -- and not crappy Costco heat-em-ups either -- and an acoustic band. There was a raffle with a bajillion prizes, but sadly, the gods of good fortune smiled only enough to grant me the cocktails and sammiches. I really wanted those Skullcandy headphones, you know, for my DJ'in' and such. The band, incidentally, did a version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane" that was somewhere between smoky and folksy; and while my appreciation may have been fueled by free Steinlager, handfuls of gratis canapes, and the fact the two lead singers were hot girls, it really did stop me in my tracks. We'll file that event under S for Serendipity.

Friday morning required more coffee, so we hit Starbucks because we (a) embrace their version of accessible consumerism and (b) still have some gift cards to use. This gave us the last celebrity sighting of the week: Paul Mitchell, the hirsute hair styling guy. I gave his wife some Splenda, so I'm pretty sure he owes me a wash-n-cut.

We saw "Big Fan" at 8:30 am. If you are a Giants fan, it's a must-see. If you are a football fan, it's a must-see. If you have ever called into a sports radio station at midnight to bust balls, you might be a Yankee, and it's a must see. I liked it, but I was conflicted by the representation of the protagonist as a loser because he watched the home games on TV in the tailgate parking lot instead of going to the game. One member of the audience commented to the director how shockingly unbelievably funny this was, and we slunk a little further down in our seats. We smirked, but we slunk.

After that, we saw "The Yes Men Fix The World". Merry pranksters with deep pockets, they mock the raging injustices and stupidity of the Powerful. I can't believe they aren't in jail. They create opportunities for themselves to be invited to speak to conferences or on TV as representatives of corporations or government, then perpetrate hoaxes that are as shocking as they are poignant. They were live on the BBC pretending to represent Dow Chemical, promising to pay off all the victims of the Bhopal disaster of 1984 -- something Dow has conspicuously ignored. They made a presentation in New Orleans, purporting to be from HUD, rolling out a new program to reopen existing housing developments for immediate occupancy -- something that is necessary, but not done because there's more money in tearing them down and building new ones. It's eye-opening and invigorating to watch, but... Well, I didn't ask, but had the question, "Does this ever result in change?"

We waitlisted for "Peter & Vandy", which is a perfect combination of "About Last Night" and "Go". That is to say, it's a basic boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl-because-of-tirade-about-sandwich-making-protocol, boy-gets-another-chance-with-girl kind of story; but it's told out of order. You get to see them live together before you see their first date, which is kind of cool because you already know how they interact when you see them first tentatively begin to bond. Also, I learned if your Pad Thai smells funny, you should call it Poon Thai.

Afterwards, actor Jason Ritter was on stage with the writer/director and other cast members doing Q&A. One member of the audience asked, "What's your background?" He stepped up to the podium and said, "What's my background? Well, bricks, wood, a really huge screen..." Everybody looked at him like he'd just quoted a Pakistani poet in the original language. He paused and gestured behind him -- brick wall, wood trim, and the huge movie screen we'd just watched. His timing was impeccable, and totally juxtaposed the pretensiousness of the moment with pure corn. I thought that was perfect, and an indication of really good sense of humor.

We considered trying to waitlist into "Dead Snow", a midnight showing of a movie about Nazi zombies in the Alps. I was willing to risk the nightmares, but the decision was made for us by the guy handing out the waitlist numbers. "No way." he said. "I've already given out all 150 waitlist numbers. That, and you'd look like the babysitters in that crowd." Ouch.

For dinner, we went to Pizza Beer Taco. That's not the name of the place, but it is the three neon signs in the windows. I had all three. We sat next to a guy from San Francisco in town to represent his company, Scenechronize. I checked it out online later -- pretty cool.

Why can't every day be filled with pizza beer taco conversations with people doing cool movie things?

Friday, January 23, 2009

Sundance recs

After some great discussion with Lynn, I think we can add "Arlen Faber" and "World's Greatest Dad" to the list of you-need-to-see's. You need to be a grown-up, and open-minded; but after hearing her analysis, I'm convinced.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Catchup

"Adventureland" is "Superbad" without the fat curly-haired kid (the sample-sized Seth Rogan). It's not profane, it's kind of cool to watch -- particularly if you are a fan of the Replacements, Lou Reed, or 1987. Ryan Reynolds plays against type, Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig stay thankfully in the background, and Kristen Stewart is now on my List. It'll make $33MM at the box office, but wait for the DVD.

"Cold Souls" is "Being John Malkevich", but creates some really good questions about the nature of the human soul. Lynn liked it; I think, "Eh."

Okay -- today is Thursday, and while I beat my knees into gravy while snowboarding, Lynn went to THREE movies without me. She got to watch Bobcat Goldthwait do Q&A after watching his new movie, "World's Greatest Dad", which is a pitch black comedy and apparently pretty good. She got to sit next to the director of a documentary about Up With People, and got a Chapstick with a fuzzy head on it. She also saw "Arlen Faber" and something about tween girls ("Don't Ever Change"?), but liked WGD the best -- ask her for details. Three movies in eight hours -- she's a pro.

But on my walk home, I passed a ski shop that was hosting a party with free food and free booze.

I win.

Sundance --recommendation

There was one movie that I specifically wanted to see, and it remains the best one I've seen so far. "Taking Chance" is the story of a Marine escorting the remains of a young man killed in action in Iraq. Based on a terse journal of the events written in 2004, it is singularly saddening and uplifting in the way that only stories about fellowship can be.

Your homework: find the original story online -- Google "taking chance phelps strobl wyoming" and you'll get hits for the movie and the original narrative. Read the story. I first read it in '04 or '05, and I've read it every Memorial Day since then. When I read the synopsis of the movies at Sundance and realized that this story was now a film, I made damn sure I was literally front row center for this one.

You can watch the trailer for the film as well. While the story can prepare you for the movie, and the trailer can prepare you for the movie, it still is a humbling, enriching, soulful presentation that is done with care, respect, objectivity about the war, and sensitivity of the impact of sacrifice. It's about the fellowship of warriors, the rituals they observe to mark the passing of their own; and the way that one soldier's death can allow us to share that loss.

It's beautifully done, too. There's a sense of reverence in every shot that is not merely slow pacing. It's respect in mourning for a brother lost. There is a montage in the Dover AFB mortuary of the preparation of the bodies prior to their final trip home, and it's so clear that the people there are washing away the war and pain, readying the fallen for rest.

It got a standing ovation, well-deserved. The director spoke after the film, with Kevin Bacon and the original author, Lt. Col. Strobl. I wanted to ask a question or make an observation, but didn't have the nerve -- or a good question.

I did take the opportunity to linger after the Q&A to speak to Lt. Col. Strobl, and it was difficult to talk. I thanked him, as I try to do for anyone in the armed forces; but still felt very useless, as I usually do around anyone in the armed forces. I hope he understood that he brought home more than Chance Phelps, he brought home to me the meaning of losing just one boy in battle.

Put this one at the top of the list.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Shorts for you

Several of this year's shorts are on iTunes for free -- go check them out.

Sundance Shorts

Short films offer artists a way around limited budgets, limited casts, limited equipment, and limited access. It's one of my favorite genres, and we always schedule a couple of blocks of shorts to see what's germinating in the fertile ground of future great filmmakers.

To be honest, it really comes down to my attention span -- visible only through an electron microscope, and comparable to the lifespan of the male of the mite Acarophenax tribolii. This thing "develops inside the body of its mother, fertilises its female siblings, and then dies before it is even born, all within the space of a couple of hours." Actually, that's too long in real time; but I'm pretty sure my focus on anything is generally over before it begins. Short films appeal to me in particular because I'm never more than 14 minutes away from seeing something else.

Where was I?

Shorts. Shorts can be comedic, tragic, evocative, shocking, endearing, way cool, way off base, intensely personal, or an effort to lobby for more funding for expansion into a feature.

They are like those beer samplers stacked in the aisles at your local grocer and gift shoppes around the holidays. You get an ale, a lager, a port, a double-bock, a stout, an IPA, and another three kinds of brew whose recipe was scribbled on the back of a TGIFriday receipt when the brewmaster wondered if jalapeno poppers and pizza bites could be brewed into bottle form. Some are good, others are merely noble efforts. Over 5600 short films were submitted for competition -- less than 50 made the cut for inclusion, so they all have something worth noting.

I walked out of first block of shorts firm in my belief that it was biggest pile of steaming crap left behind since the circus left town.

Dude, when I think about one of the shorts, from Iceland, even now my hands are shaking a little -- I have never been so enraged by something so raw and painful and wrong. When the directors go down front for Q&A afterwards, many of the questions are about budgets, lens choice, shooting schedule and production development. I wanted to ask, "Yeah, WHAT IN THE FUGGING HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!?" I still want to punch him in the face.

Huh... Two days later... I still want to punch him. He created a story that was so brutal and painful, that I feel rage days later. I may have to concede that kind of impact is a form of artistic success.

And then, there was the one about the giant pencil with the creepy face. And the one they made for just the $50 in digital tapes they used. And the one by a famous music video director that bounced around time and viewpoint to let you come to an conclusion about what happened in a drug shootout. And the one that was technically porn, but in a good way, with a Buzzcocks soundtrack. The variety is wonderful, the results vary, and the passion for film is inherent in each.

As with the beer sampler, I generally discover a couple that I wish there were more of, a few worth recommending, and at least one that is like that beer with the upside-down chicken on the label that tastes like Pine Sol, coffee grounds, and the floor of my fraternity house basement.

(Try the Almost-Porn Ale.)

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Live from Sundance, Day 3a

Geez, it's late on Day 4 and I'm still talking Day 3?

Monday's movie-watching began with a 9am showing at the Park City Library. The feature was preceded by a short from Ireland, introduced by the fine Irish lad that produced, created, and directed "A Film from My Parish - 6 Farms". It was a composition of digital stills, which is to say, he took pictures and linked them together to create his imagery. It wasn't a still picture with a voice over -- it was an animated sequence of images. A walk down a lane was created by taking a picture, stepping two inches forward, taking another picture, and so on. Ostensibly about old Irish handmade furniture in the farmhouses around County Tipperary, it became a visit with the farmers, the history, and the rich palette of the land. The director, Tony Donoghue, showed us the camera hanging around his neck like a tourist and said, "This is all you need." He wore out two such cameras taking 50,000 images, and built an absolutely captivating seven minutes in an Irish heaven.

And then, the feature: a documentary about an old Korean farmer and his faithful 40-year old ox called "Old Partner". This farmer and his wife raised nine children, season after season in the rice paddies and chili fields, always accompanied by this ox. It hauled their carts, ploughs, and harvests -- every day, in a season-driven pattern of service. The difficult rural life showed on their bent limbs, the tired eyes, the difficult steps, the exhaustion of their daily routine -- the farmer, his wife, and the ox too. So many years together created a bond, a partnership, and a mutual reliance that transcended the role of mere livestock. The farmer rises every morning to cook his ox a special cattle gruel, and you can see his eyes cut to alert status when hearing his lowing. Not to ruin it for you, but the ox dies -- and the taciturn farmer, his lined face a legacy of his labors, barely acknowledges it. In his gnarled hands, however, is the bell that the ox wore for all those years. Perfect.

Anatole France wrote, "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." That's tagged with the movie, and may or may not be true. All I can say is that I have an old dog that has hauled his aching legs up to walk and meet me at the door every time I walk through it, and when the day comes that he is no longer there, a piece of me will be pass with him.

Live from Sundance, Day 3

I have not discovered the Undisclosed Location Cheney Bunker that contains all the A-list celebrities, so my brushes with greatness are not exactly People magazine cover material. You know who topped the celebrity sighting list on Monday? No, you know who was my celebrity sighting for Monday? Edward freakin' Hermann. That's the voice of Dodge automobiles and dozens of books-on-tape, veteran of numerous "Oh, it's that guy" character roles, and Goldie Hawn's husband in "Overboard". Somewhere around town there was a charity hockey game with all the cool people, and I get to spot the Senior Vampire from the "Lost Boys". I want shiny celebrity! I'm an American!

All interesting things I may have overheard were ploughed over, scorched, and salted by the incredibly vapid conversation held next to me by cell phone girl ("Do you want to see, like, a cool sweater?") and her fabulous ("You know I love a cool sweater.") boy friend. Apparently, like her friend Erica is, like, totally on probation, like as her friend, but she doesn't know yet. In the short version, Erica tries to date cell phone girl's friends. In the longer version, there are about 459 "likes" and three text messages. There is a total ignorance of the speaker to the fact that her only chance with any male is the confluence of heavy drinking and a shot at the "Pig of the Week" trophy. Worse, drama club boy friend ran into Kristen Wiig in town. Unbelievable.

Monday, January 19, 2009

The Sundance Stare

I think I've perfected The Sundance Stare. It's the slightly overly long eye contact you make as you walk by somebody that allows you to confirm that the other person is not, in fact, anybody famous.

It's only natural to glance around as you walk around a neighborhood, the mall, the prison yard, what have you. You catch the eye of the person coming towards you, access threat or familiarity, and move on. At Sundance, however, everybody is wearing a hat, a parka, a scarf, sunglasses if you're a chick, three days of beard if you're a guy. There's about twelve square inches of face space on which to base your decision to keep scanning or go, "Oooo, that's that guy from that thing, or possibly Mira Sorvino!"

It's interesting to get scanned like that. People look at me, 1 ("Is that Noah Wyle, Josh Charles, or one of the skinny Baldwins in a Mad Bomber fur cap?") ... 2, 3, 4 ("Nope."); and move to the next face. It's nice just to be nominated.

The chance of seeing celebrities is kind of fun, despite the challenge.

But it's even easier to spot celebrity by watching for the paparazzi. They swarm with their massive cameras; you glance, identify, catalog, move on. It's like letting the vultures guide you to the body.

Paparazzi kind of suck, by the way. They're looking for the $1500 picture of Mariah Carey wearing nothing but a ski cap, and they get the kid that played Frodo trying get a free can of Monster energy drink. And they'll shove old people to the ground for either one.

But you have to be sure. I also saw four little girls practically in tears with excitement over getting a picture with an attractive redhead yesterday. They were thrilled to have run into this woman, clearly a star of some kind. "We LOVE YOU," they sighed. The redhead was so gracious.

But she wasn't anybody. As she walked away, I heard her say, "I wonder who they thought I was..."