Saturday, September 29, 2007

Performin' Artz

I wish I could go to an elite but charmingly run-down urban performing arts high school so I could wear no end of clingy, revealing dance costumes and loom in the hallways and devise dance numbers that would win me the Nobel Prize, not to mention successfully liberate quarks from hadrons, and I could get into all sorts of tepid interpersonal conflict because I'm from a different social class than my fellow dancers and my upscale parents don't think I should dance with beetle-browed spawn of garbagemen, but everyone knows it'll be all right in the end because love and athletic modern dance conquers all especially when set against a backdrop of Mozart (to convince us we're cultured) and watered-down hip-hop (to convince us we've got cred), though there'll be a scrape with the law because my street cred is such that I run with dangerous dudes who'll get me in trouble, but the school principal, who has become frankly astonished by my raw physicality, will ask the judge to not throw the book at me because she can fix me with a program of hard work, simmering glances, lingering attraction, and fairly large amounts of Kaopectate because she knows that under my backwards-hat-wearing thug exterior lies a soul as true and artistic as Bob Fosse and I just need to stop hanging out at krunk nightclubs and stealing cars to realize my full artistic potential.

On second thought, I think I'm just going to go back to bed.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Uncle Fritz

I'll grant that I'm not the wisest person in the world and I'm not a source of really profound life advice. I've never gone skydiving, base-jumping or cave-diving, so I can't speak knowingly about the issues and opportunites that attend death-aspected thrillseeking. I can't even tell you how to hit a halfway decent tee shot, since my golf experience is limited chiefly to bombarding the tractor shed and having the wheel on my golf bag pull cart fall off.

But listen to Uncle Fritz when I tell you, in all earnestness, to never, ever, spend a whole day drinking crappy light beer and watching Bridezillas on the WE channel. I've done it, and I'm here to caution you strongly against such shenanigans. I'll go so far as to steal the remote control or have the power to your house turned off. I might even gnaw through the TV cable and throw away all your beer if that's what's required to keep you from drinking light beer and watching Bridezillas.

To paraphase every single Bridezilla they ever show, Oh My God! It's a complete skull-shattering nightmare when you're sober, but when you're about half-lit, it's enough to make you long for death. I kept wondering if I screamed really loud if I could get my coronary artery bypasses to fall off, and if not, if I could saw through my wrists with a can opener or blind myself with a pair of tongs. It's the kind of jaw-dropping lack of taste, perspective and circumspection that makes you think that maybe the Muslim Brothers aren't entirely wrong, that maybe in their calls for moderation and rejection of Western excess they might be on to something.

It's amazing there aren't more murders in wedding parties. It's amazing there aren't more suicides in wedding parties!

Holy Moses!

And can I say, for the record, that for all the snooty beer hauteur displayed on Samuel Adams beer commercials, their light beer gives me headaches just like Milwaukee's Beast does. There's your high-end beer for you.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Blue Max

I've always liked the movie The Blue Max.

The plot overview is this: Bruno Stachel is a German infantryman in World War One who decides to become a pilot (smart decision, I think). He's completely eaten up with lust for the Blue Max, Germany's highest military decoration, and pretty soon he's completely eaten up with lust for Kaete, who happens to be the wife of a well-placed German general and the aunt and lover of a pilot in Stachel's squadron.

Everyone in the movie is a bastard. Stachel is a bastard. Willi is a bastard, just a somewhat cultured one. The General is a bastard, just an officious one. Even Kaete is a bastard. The only person who isn't a bastard is Stachel's squadron commander, and he's kind of a well-intentioned boob who doesn't fully realize that 1918 isn't the same as 1450.

In the end, nobody is well-served. Willi and Bruno have a penis-measuring contest, and Willi crashes into a building and dies in the midst of it. Stachel is double-crossed and dies in a prototype monoplane fighter that we're not supposed to recognize as a Moraine-Saulnier trainer from the 1930s. Kaete ends up with The Stuffy Old General, which doesn't seem like the desired outcome from her point of view (but since her other lovers are dead, well, one takes what one can get). And The Stuffy Old General is on the losing side of a doomed war and a few short months will no longer be a general and will be asking the German equivalent of "You want fries with that?"

But it's still a good movie. The flying scenes are particularly good. Most of the airplanes are recognizable as British Tiger Moth trainers equipped with Pfalz-shaped rudders, but that's okay; at least they're biplanes and they are neither models nor computer-generated. But some of the airplanes are very nicely done - the Fokker Dr.1 triplanes, the Fokker D.VII biplanes, and the British SE5A fighters are reproductions, but excellent reproductions. (The only real giveaway that the Dr.1s are reproductions is the fact that they are powered by conventional fixed-crankcase radial engines and not rotaries, but I can live with that. And I think the SE5As are missing a Vickers MG on the cowling. But I can live with that too.)

In general, the flying scenes are magnificent, the airplanes are excellent, and the movie conveys a very strong sense of realism in its flying scenes. Throw in George Peppard as a grinning and ice-cold bastard, and Jeremy Kemp as a sly aristocratic bastard, and you've got the makings of a war movie masterpiece.

But I ask you, how did they get that towel to stick to Ursula Andress's breasts?

Morning Rehab

Since I started rehab I've been on a waiting list to get into the 6:30AM class, which is apparently wildly popular. I wanted to get into the early morning session so I could still to go rehab if I found a job. I haven't found a job yet, but there are a few leads developing, and I was worried that I might have to abandon rehab.

Let me say, right here, that I don't enjoy physical work. I'm not turning into Jim Fixx or one of those people who experiences a flood of endorphins when I exercise. But I feel better after I exercise, mentally and physically, and... hey, wait a second, maybe I am one of those people! The point is that I enjoy the structured rehab - it gives me motivation to go and it reassures me that medical professionals are watching my EKG and will intervene in the unlikely event that something goes haywire (when I walk in the desert, the only things liable to intervene if something goes haywire are vultures).

So I finally got into the 6:30 session, and it's harder. My body isn't used to working at that ridiculous hour and I experience a definite and large amount of suffering before my body "breaks over" and starts to work better. What's most odd is that the level of physical work that would drive my heart rate to 130 at noon will only drive it to 110 at six AM. The rehab guys think it's because it's closer to when I took my medications and they're all concentrated and hard-hitting. I think my heart is just sleepy, along with the rest of me.

But what's most interesting is the demographics. If I had to guess beforehand, I'd have said that the early-morning rehab session would be populated by the fifty-something guys who still have to work, and the noon sessions would be populated by the retired guys who could go at any time. But it's actually completely backwards. The noon session was mostly working guys, while the morning session is completely populated by retired country club golf Episcopalians. The difference is very marked.

The noon crowd tended to do a lot of that hail-fellow-well-met business, not quite backslapping but close, and they'd always trot out the same jokes about challenging one another to exercise bike races. Cell phones were always going off, and most of the guys tried to engage Jessica (one of the Rehab Persons) in hearty repartee.

The morning crowd is very different. There's no joking and no clowning around. There's hardly any talking at all. They aren't rude, really, or even unfriendly; it's more a matter of refinement, as though they believe that gentlemen shouldn't open their mouths before the sun is over the yardarm. Or perhaps they prefer to conserve their strength for the golf games that inevitably follow, where they can invoke the spirit of Goldwater to aid them in avoiding double-bogeys and liberals.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

"8 Seconds"

In keeping with this week's apparent theme of bull riding, I ordered the movie 8 Seconds a few days ago and it appeared at the post office today, so we popped it in the malfunctioning DVD player and had a look. (I don't know what's wrong with the DVD player, but sometimes you have to give the thing a fairly liberal thump to get it to work. What do you expect for a $30 made-in-China thing? I guess I'm lucky it doesn't leak propylene glycol or spray chips of lead paint at me or poison my dawg with industrial solvents.)

It proved to be a very polite movie. It came to the door and rang the doorbell and said "I'm going to be an entirely conventional movie. I'm going to observe all of the traditions of B-grade American movies, such that when it's all over, everyone will have reconciled with everyone." In short, it came to the house, wiped its feet, took its hat off before coming indoors, and left immediately after it was over without leaving water rings on the coffee table.

The movie is a dramatized biopic of a young bull rider named Lane Frost, who was killed in 1989 at a rodeo in Cheyenne. Immediately after his ride, the bull (named Taking Care of Business) gored Lane in the back, tearing Lane's aorta with the end of a broken rib. Nothing could be done and Lane was dead before he left the arena. This is all true.

I never knew Lane, so I won't presume to guess how the movie did at portraying him. Consult the Lane Frost tribute site at http://www.lanefrost.com/ for all the discussion of Lane Frost and 8 Seconds you'll ever want, though I would describe the Frost family's attitude toward the movie as one of "slightly pained approval".

Nor am I going to say much about the world of bull riding. Thanked in the credits are guys like Tuff Hedeman and Cody Lambert, and they've already forgotten more about the world of bull riding than I'll ever know.

But what I WILL comment on is the fact that most of the 8-second rides actually seemed to take sixteen to twenty seconds. I never got around to timing Tuff Hedeman's 8+8 tribute ride and the National Finals Rodeo because I'd just flat given up by then, but it must surely have been in the thirty second range.

Great movie? Not great, no. But it was polite and respectful of my sensibilities, and there are worse ways to spend a couple of hours than watching this movie.

Tomorrow: The Blue Max, I hope, one of my favoritest movies of all time and the reason I get rowdy when people bad-mouth George Peppard.

Monday, September 17, 2007

My Garbageman

My garbageman is cute!

Well, I don't know that for sure, but you see so few blonde women driving 20-yard packers that you really can't help but assume that any blonde woman so employed would be cute. Why do I think that? I dunno. It just seems appropriate somehow.

Like a lot of suburbanites, I've put a lot of thought into discarding things that won't quite fit in the trash can. Once I poured a concrete slab for a storage building and had about a wheelbarrow full of excess concrete. So I shoveled it out on the ground and over the course of about a month threw the chunks away in the residential trash can (or "barrel", as my private waste management company calls it).

Somehow we ended up with a huge snarl of discarded hog wire, so I cut it into sections, folded the sections up into things about the size of throw pillows, and jumped up and down on them to crush them flat. Now I'm in the process of throwing the pillows away about six at at a time, a rate high enough to show progress but not so high that the garbagewoman complains that I'm filling the barrel with junk instead of trash. (I'm occasionally tempted to slip them into my neighbor's chronically unattended dumpster, but that would take the fizz out of the festivities, I think).

One advantage of living in the sticks is that one can burn certain kinds of trash, like broken chairs and wooden pallets. Mind you, you can't burn it just to get rid of it. If you do that, the volunteer fire department shows up and you end up in no end of hot water. But if you stand near the fire, preferably grasping a beer, you're not disposing of trash by burning it, you've enjoying a bonfire. And that's permissible. I'm not sure how the volunteer fire department knows the difference, but they always seem to.

So instead of cutting up old wood and throwing it away a few pieces at a time, I accumulate it in shabby piles and occasionally burn it. While grasping a beer, of course.

One year, not long after I bought my first house, I was trying to plant something and found a huge mass of rocks, concrete debris, nails, broken drywall and general junk the builders had buried just outside my back door. I shoveled the whole mass into the trash barrel and managed, through a process involving much wheezing and grunting, to wheel it to the street. I was on second shift at the time and was home when the garbage truck came. It stopped. The arms unfolded and grabbed the can. The engine roared. The can didn't move. The truck driver gave up and moved on.

You'll pardon me for drifting, of course. I'm just killing time before I have to go into town for rehab. Whee.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Barbarians

Has anyone else watched those "Barbarians" shows on the Histrionic Channel? Has anyone else concluded that they're the epitome of high school history? That is, lurid, pat, tidy, simple, and almost entirely wrong?

"History" of this sort wears me down. Instead of consulting the experts in the field and presenting what historians believe to be what's true, they find three or four guys at Moe's Bar and Grill who profess to be experts because they read the sidebar in a high school history book about the Goths and the Battle of Adrianople and, maybe, watched parts of Gladiator.

But sometimes the Histrionic Channel redeems itself. Just yesterday I watched a show called "The Conquerors" that, in this instance, was about C. Julius Caesar and the conquest of Gaul. I thought it was very well done. It was even-handed, reasonably comprehensive considering the hour-long format, and revelatory of Caesar's personality. And I have to say, the recreationists they used in the TV show were very, very good.

The difference, I think, is that the BBC was behind "The Conquerors" and the Histrionic Channel was behind "Barbarians". Hmm.

Middlebuster

I tried my new middlebuster this morning. Yikes! That thing's a digging fool! I foresee getting much use out of that thing in the future. Even behind my relatively modest tractor it'll cut furrows through hard-baked desert soil about as deep as I care to go. It's cool!

It's a bit tricky getting the thing mounted on the tractor, though, especially getting the top link pin in. The factory pressed the ears a little too close together so I have to hammer the top link bushing into place, and then hammer the top link pin through (it's tapered so it tends to automatically center the top link bushing, but it has to be fairly close to right to start with).

My tractor runs like crap lately. It's missing steadily on one cylinder and occasionally on as many as three; it won't even idle without dying. It's an ignition problem; I sense the usual suspects of a cracked distributor cap, bad spark plug wires, or cracked/fouled spark plugs. Too bad it's so hot outside or I'd go do something proactive about it.

UPDATE: I can't find my spark plug sockets, so I guess I have no choice but to stay inside and drink beer. Darn!

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Celebrity Bull Riding II

I don't as a normal rule get sucked into commercial TV shows. If I watch commercial TV, it's usually out of the spirit of self-mortification. I enjoy being insulted by the shows and manipulated by the commercials and I flagellate myself like some strange Crusader knight dragging myself on bloody knees toward Jerusalem.

But I did get sucked into Ty Murray's Celebrity Bull Riding Challenge in a pretty big way. It's a good thing it wrapped up last night, except for the marathon reshowing of all the episodes on Sunday, or I'd have gotten nothing accomplished. Oh, wait, I did get nothing accomplished. Never mind.

Most of the celebrities in the show turned out to be pretty decent guys - Rocket Ismail, Francisco Quinn, "Nitro" Dan and I apologize for forgetting the remainder of his name. Even the guys I wouldn't normally see myself having a beer with, like Josh Haynes, turned out to be honorable men, if not exactly the sorts of personalities I like to associate with. In fact, I can only think of one guy on the show that disgraced himself, that being the ever-lovin' Leif Garrett.

The "story arc" is that Ty Murray, the world seven-time champion all-around rodeo cowboy, would teach these various celebrities how to ride bulls over the span of about a week, and they would go to ride fairly serious bulls at a PBR (Professional Bull Riding) event in Nashville. The celebrities included:

Vanilla Ice (rapper)
Leif Garrett (pop star)
Stephen Baldwin (actor and junior member of the bold, sprawling Baldwin clan)
Jonny Fairplay (reality TV "star")
Josh Haynes (UFC fighter and monolith)
Dan Clark (American Gladiator dude)
Kenny Bartram (motocross racer and X-Games freestyle motocross dude)
Francesco Quinn (actor and Famous Son)
"Rocket" Ismail (former NFL star and one of the fastest men to play in the NFL)

So out of this list, with all these tough guys like Quinn and Haynes and Clark and Ismail, who do you think was the only guy to ride his bull for eight seconds in Nashville? The tough guys like Haynes and Nitro? The guys with tons of natural athleticism like Ismail and Bartram?

No, the smallest and least physical of the whole bunch, Jonny Fairplay. Amazing!

Leif Garrett quit after the first day. Stephen Baldwin broke something in his shoulder. Francesco Quinn got stomped and broke three ribs in his back. So six of them went to Nashville and it was Jonny Fairplay that got to the horn.

To be fair (har har) it must be admitted that Jonny Fairplay's bull was relatively modest. I could have ridden it, and I'm not joking - at most, it ran around like a mildly spooked horse and never really bucked. But - and this is a big but - it's a standard rule in bull riding that you can't control the bull you drew, and you can't control the bull's performance day to day. So you ride what you drew, and that's where the griping stops. Jonny Fairplay's bull was pretty easy, but that doesn't matter. In the end, he rode for eight seconds and nobody else did. Amazing.

But I salute them all. And it was good TV for a change!

Friday, September 14, 2007

Principles of War

Every army observes principles of war, which are general rules or principles that commanders use to organize and clarify their thinking when planning and executing military operations. They aren't always the same from one country to the next - the Red Army, for example, placed much less emphasis on the principle of economy of force than the US Army, and the US Army placed less emphasis on the principle of a high tempo of combat operations than the Red Army did. This reflects the reality that the Red Army, being relatively unskilled, would have to rely on superior numbers, high-speed offensive shock, and a certain willingness to sustain heavy casualties to prevail in the face of smaller but more skilled opponents.

But the point is that if you canvas the principles of war as defined by most of the major industrialized states, you'll find that most of them observe certain basic principles. The one I wish to speak about here is Mass: Having enough forces to complete the objective.

Mass makes up for a great many military sins. If you just flat outnumber the enemy, you can get things done that you couldn't otherwise. Consider major Soviet victories in World War Two like Stalingrad, Kursk and Bagration. They didn't win these battles by being better than the Germans man-for-man or tank-for-tank; they won by outnumbering the Germans in every conceivable measure of combat power and simply working the Germans into the topsoil with a plowshare of artillery, armor and numbers. It aint pretty, but it gets the job done.

Even the US Army relied on mass in World War Two. Not to the extent that the Soviets did, but if the opportunity presented itself for the US Army to make use of superior numbers (and especially superior weight of artillery) the Americans were not loathe to do so. US commanders rarely, if ever, turned down opportunities to add more forces to their operations and were much more likely to claim they were undermanned, even though by VE Day there were a couple of million GIs in Europe, not to mention substantial numbers of British and Commonwealth troops to boot.

But since World War Two, the MBAs in the Department of Defense have started to toy with the principles of war. Some of them even argue that "flexibility" should be considered a principle of war, up there with mass and maintenance of the objective and unity of command. I argue that flexibility is an important quality for an army to have, but it is subsumed within simplicity and is an operational concern in any event, not a principle of war (such as the Bundeswehr's scary fascination with beweglichkeit, or agility. It's one of those things that either makes you look like a genius, or makes you look like MacMahon at Sedan in 1870).

What does this have to do with anything?

We invaded Iraq and defeated the Iraqi Army, which wasn't a surprise. We brought down Saddam Hussein's regime, which wasn't a surprise. We lost control of the streets because we didn't have nearly enough men in-theater, which wasn't a surprise. So what is a surprise?

That the MBAs of the war continue to screw with the notions of mass and objective. The situation gets out of hand, so we send in 30,000 more men. The situation improves slightly and the political cost of the "surge" grows. We take them back out, mostly to save political pain. And the situation will of course decay again. And this is all wrong.

There are only two possible courses of action. The first is to send enough men to Iraq to achieve the objectives quickly and decisively. In other words, to apply the principle of mass. Maintaining order in a mess like Iraq is more like a law enforcement operation than a military operation, and the only way to really do that is to have so many men patrolling the streets that the insurgents are if nothing else cowed into immobility. Granted, this kind of "troop icecap" can't go on forever, but it can provide stability and security while the government and society transition into something new and different. Give people stability, a halfway functional economy and security from car bombs and they'll start to develop a mild preference for the status quo.

The other course of action is to withdraw. If we cannot afford, politically, emotionally, financially, or strategically, to commit enough forces to the theater to achieve the military objectives, then we cannot afford to be there at all.

But this in-between state is lunacy. It doesn't come close to achieving realistic objectives as measured by real things, not 3D bar charts on some staffer's PowerPoint chart. But it doesn't protect US troops from attack. It leaves us exposed to enemy attack without us being able to really do anything about the enemy in the long run because we can't dominate all of his centers of gravity simultaneously. We beef up Baghdad, and they go to the provinces. We man up the provinces and they go to Baghdad. But we don't have enough men to man up everywhere, so the enemy can always find quiet sectors where he can tinker with car bombs and recruit suicide bombers.

How many men do I think it would require? Before the war started I thought a half a million men was a reasonable estimate. But I was opposed to the invasion of Iraq in the first place and felt from the very beginning that the decisive theater was Afghanistan, which was al Qaeda's center of gravity. But alas, we blew our opportunity in Afghanistan by, once again, not having enough men on the ground to achieve the stated objectives. And I think this shabby outcome can be attributed, at least in part, to the transformationalists in the Pentagon who read too many brochures about modern weapons and too few history books.

But then again, we're not so good at defining objectives any more either. What was the defined objective of the ETO in World War Two? Force Germany into unconditional surrender. That's pretty simple. But what's the defined objective of our occupation of Iraq? I'm sure I don't know. Do you?

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Robot Boy

According to AOL a "Robot Boy" has just been unveiled. Isn't that just what we needed, synthetic people. Synthetic people who don't actually do anything useful, like clean up nuclear accidents or shovel coal. The robot boy looks like a cross between Chuckie and Jonathon Winters. I don't know about you, but where I come from, that's high-octane nightmare fuel.

When I was a kid science fiction authors used to assure me that robots would take over all of the work of maintaining civilization so human beings would be free to do whatever they felt they wanted to do - finish crossworld puzzles, write the Great American Novel, finally get to the bottom of why most of the spoons seem to be missing from the kitchen. Even Star Trek made the same promises, though it was the replicator more than robots what dun it.

I think I'm disappointed. Instead of being freed by technology to do what moves us, we work longer hours at jobs that suck significantly more than they used to.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Petraeus Report

I see General Petraeus is due to submit his report to Congress. It wouldn't particularly surprise me if it said "My commanding officer is a genius! A military genius!" I'm always just a little skeptical of "independent" reports that come out of the military. "This aint a democracy, this is the ARMY," they always shout, and it's for that very reason that I question just how independent any such report could really be. (A quick way to solve it might be to make USAF generals report on Army doings, and vice versa. It might not lead to independent reports, but the swelling profusion of insulting nicknames would be amusing.)

But really, why doesn't Congress ever ask me to compile weighty reports? I could come in with my halfway passable command of Pentagonese, some PowerPoint slides, and a pitcher of water, and offer all sorts of interesting commentary on the Cinnabun Surge, or the results of Operation Taco Bell, or (one of my favorites) the Macaroni Grill Through History. ("Julius never ate at the Macaroni Grill. Neither did Napoleon. That concludes my presentation. Thank you.") I'm sorry, Mr. Chairman, but I can't speak about Pizza Hut yet; we need another $1.5 million to give the cheesy bread adequate study. No sir, "Pizza Pizza" is from Little Caesar's. You're welcome, sir.

And when it comes to Iraq, does one ill-informed report make much more sense than any other? Killings are up! No, they're down! IEDs are up! No, they're down! The morgue is full! No, the morgue is empty. We can't even agree on the statistics, fer cryin' out loud!

So here's my weighty Iraq report:

It sucks over there! Thank you, Mr. Chairman.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Enough Already!

I found out yesterday that my insurance company had declined to pay some of my medical claims. The biggest ones, as it turns out, leaving me liable for about $40,000 in medical bills. I am going to appeal, of course, and I think because of technical considerations that need not detain us here that my appeal is sound.

But really, it's not about the money. It's about the way that all summer long the wheels on my cart have loosened, begun to wobble, and fallen off altogether. All I'm waiting for now is for my life to grind to a shuddering halt and burst into flames. Or for the summer to end and for autumn to bring a new dynamic. Is that an irrational hope? Yeah, sure, we all know that the seasons don't really impact what happens to us, but I can't help but think that autumn will be somewhat more tenderly disposed toward me.

So now, on top of everything else going on in my life, I have to worry about filing multiple appeals with the insurance company, something I never thought would be necessary (what part of "medical emergency" don't they understand?) nor wanted to have to do.

But I guess there's nothing to do but to do it. It just cheeses me that I have to do it at all. I'd pronounce myself depressed if being depressed wasn't ruled out by the Cowboy Way. Maybe it's time to see how the Newcastle Brown Ale Way works.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The What River?

I've been watching a series of lectures on VHS. This set of lectures is by Professor Brian Fagan and it has to do with human evolution and prehistory. It's quite good, and Professor Fagan certainly knows way more than I do.

But last night he was talking about the Pueblo cultures of the American Southwest and referred to the Hohokam people who lived along the Jilla River in central Arizona.

One problem with that. It's pronounced Hee-la, not Jill-uh. Oh, all right, he's English, I'll leave him alone.

Oh well, my own family makes the same mistake and to this day I chuckle at the thought of going to Gill-uh Bend. Or Jill-uh Bend. Or I suppose Gee-la Bend.

But when in Gila Bend, do stop at the Space Age Hotel for lunch. It's time well-spent.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

80s Metal

Last night I watched a show on VH1 Classic called "Metal Mania".

Did metal in the 80s really suck that badly? I remember there being a lot of bad metal in those days - the likes of Whitesnake and Poison and Ratt and Krokus (or "Crockus" as I liked to call them, and I never could get over the idea that the front man was really the guy from Air Supply). But gee whiz.

I think the world owes Metallica something. Whether you like Metallica or not, they rose up and hammered a wooden stake into the heart of that ridiculous glam metal that covered the landscape in the 1980s like so much spilled Dippity-Doo. I don't personally like the direction Metallica took after ...And Justice For All, but that's okay, they don't need my approval and I don't need their music. But it's hard for me to watch a video from the 1980s of some glammed-up prancing pretty-boy band all smeared with lipstick and hair oil and not think "Oh thank God for Metallica!" You almost want to see Hetfield come striding into the video and swing his guitar into an elaborately coiffed head with a toothy roar of genuine emotion. Take that, you mincing poser!

It's scary to think where American metal might have ended up without Kill 'Em All, Ride The Lightning and Master of Puppets. There would be lots of elaborately coiffed hair, to be sure, and excessively tight Zubaz, and lipstick, and plenty of that guitar-as-phallus business, something I personally can't seem to get enough of... European metal would probably have evolved more or less as it did (especially since Anthrax, Testament and the like would have emigrated), but it would have been sealed off from America by a hermetic membrane of hair gel, mascara, crappy riffs, and extreme superficiality. So while fans outside the United States would be enjoying bands like Carcass, Mercyful Fate, Bathory and Opeth, fans inside the United States would be buying Poison reunion tour albums and Twisted Sister greatest-hits compilations and (ach, say it aint so!) Bullet Boys Unplugged.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

The Worst Things Ever

After years of dedicated and selfless research, the Committee Studying Things That Suck is ready to release its list of the three worst things ever:

1. Whitesnake.

2. Plutonium.

3. Cat poop.

Dubious Metaphysics

I watched The Lake House today, or at least enough of it for me to claim I watched the whole thing. I missed five minutes of it in the middle while I was feeding the cat, and I missed about five more minutes when the glacial pace of events caused me to go channel-surfing before my entire central nervous system shut down from lack of stimulation.

But I'm not here to really trash the movie, which was decent as such movies go and I like Sandra Bullock as long as she doesn't get too New Joisey on me.

Mostly I'm just disturbed by the metaphysics. She's two years in his future, if I understand correctly. So when they sign their marriage certificate, he'll have to sign (say) November 8, 2008, and she'll have to sign November 8, 2010. I think that's illegal.

Or if they're smooching on a bench in this ridiculous overly-idealized version of Chicago (akin to but not as over the top as the Nora Emphrom version of New York) and they see a fatal traffic accident. John Q. Victim dies in 2008 according to him, and again in 2010 according to her. This, if it isn't illegal, ought to be.

Could she pass him winning lottery ticket numbers? Or the winners of the Kentucky Derby? I don't see anything preventing such a thing.

Maybe I ought not to think about it so much.


Strictly as an aside, I watched a TV show the other day where the narrator kept saying "Some scientists believe..." as a way of wrapping outrageous claims in objective respectability. "Some scientists believe that the laws of physics don't prohibit time travel." Huh? First of all, the "laws of physics" aren't written on tablets of stone like the Ten Commandments. Nowhere does it say "time travel is possible" and nowhere does it say "time travel is not possible"; you have to work out the implications of Special Relativity to know whether time travel is possible or not.

The argument was that since the laws of physics don't prohibit time travel, it must be possible. Well, the laws of physics don't prohibit me suddenly turning into Ethel Merman, so that also must be possible - and possibly even an improvement.

But mostly I'm ticked out the "some scientists believe..." line. Sure, some scientists will believe almost anything. The inventor of the transistor, a good rational scientist by any measure, believed in the inherent superiority of white people. The show needs to be more specific. Instead of "some scientists believe..." they need to quantify the matter. "Nine scientists believe that it is possible to travel in time into the past. Seventeen thousand, four hundred and six believe that it is not possible, and some were too busy covering their mouths and tittering to give coherent answers."

Did you ever see the "debate" on TV about the Apollo Moon Landing Hoax? The TV show lined the two sides up so it seemed that the numbers on either side of the question are the same, but they are not. You saw, in that one show, pretty much all of the "serious" representatives of the hoax theory, but you didn't see the huge number of people who disagree, including the four or five hundred thousand people NASA employed during the Apollo program. But the strange gimleted eye of the TV camera flattens the argument so every point of view had equal validity.