Number 35: We've All Read Books, It Doesn't Make You Special (And Neither Does Disliking The Expendables)

I've just seen Sylvester Stallone's The Expendables, I loved every minute of it, and you're not smarter or more cultured than me if you didn't. Here's why:

First, I have an English degree and here's what I realized when I picked up my diploma. Most of my time in school was spent catching up. What I mean is, taking two semesters of Shakespeare, reading Thoreau or Whitman, or writing pages upon pages about Orwell, Salinger and Fitzgerald brings me simply to a starting point. It only serves to catch me up with what history already testifies to, that these men matter and that the art they created was timelessly important. The fact that you can graduate college without getting a healthy sampling of their work is a travesty, not because everyone should be a literary enthusiast, but because their work is a significant part of how we got here and their voices are still relevant today. It's fundamental. Knowing of their work, to me, seems no more a thing to boast in than knowing what started World War II. To be sure there is always deeper understanding to be found with focused study, but my point is that simply having a spot on your bookshelf for Faulkner doesn't strengthen your opinion. It is, or at least should be, a pre-requisite. Enjoying such work mustn't be required, but acknowledging it should be an unspoken starting point for discussions about art.

I see music in much the same way. Many, myself included, are often quite proud of themselves for loving the Beatles or listening to Dylan. Ironically, this feeling of superiority is only possible because we've allowed these artists and others like them to be labeled as trends or types which some are into and some are not. They are not. They are absolute truths of music. Dylan matters. The Beatles matter. Personal enjoyment of them does not, but acknowledgement of them should be assumed.

I say all that to say that these are often the types of things which people, and again I do not separate myself from their number, tend to believe will bolster their argument when it comes to matters of art and culture. The point I intend to make is that to be 22 and think that my opinion of a movie is inherently superior to someone else's because I get Shakespeare is laughable. If you've read Hamlet it doesn't make you special, it means you're mildly educated. It is one of the greatest works of literature in the English language that exists. That's not my opinion, thats hundreds of years worth of the opinions of people who have read more than you or I ever will. To have read it simply means you might be close to getting out of the negatives with regards to exposure to the art that matters historically. If you haven't, I don't look down on you because you undoubtedly have been exposed to things in a different field which are of equal importance to that field. I probably know nothing of those things. I know nothing about cars. But if I were to have a conversation with a mechanic, he would not get pretentious because he knows how an engine works. Its fundamental. The fact that I don't know how an engine works means I'm behind when it comes to knowledge about cars, it doesn't mean that he's ahead. All I'm saying is that much of what we allow to inflate our intellectual ego should actually serve to humble us. We have to realize that even if we read the entirety of the Top 100 English Language Novels of All Time, we've merely approached a base knowledge of how we got to this point in cultural history. In my own experience, whenever I give myself too much credit for the things I've read, listened too, or seen, discussions about films or literature or music become pissing matches, an opportunity to prove how enlightened one is by praising a slim category of works and judging everything else by their standard, making most things easily dismissible.

What does any of that have to do with The Expendables? Quite a bit actually. Whenever you enter into a discussion about a movie, different people come at it from different points of view. Inevitably, there is someone in the discussion who fancies themselves an intellectual because they've read a few 50 year old books. Secondly, because I have read reviews of this film in which people who I'm sure view themselves as highly cultured bash the movie. It is a bit like Jordan's Bulls facing off against the WNBA's Chicago Sky. The Expendables is not high art. Anyone who claims it is, is an idiot, and anyone who is proud for pointing out that it isn't, is an even bigger one.

Have you seen the trailers for this movie? More people die in the TV spot for The Expendables than did in the first Gulf War. Have you seen the cast? Sly Stallone, Jason Statham, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren (is that the guy who played Ivan Drago in Rocky IV? Yes), Randy Couture, Steve Austin, Terry Crews and Mickey Rourke. Not to mention small appearances by Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger. This movie never hid what it was trying to be. And it delivered. In fact, I'd say it might be my favorite movie involving any of these guys, with the exception of Mickey Rourke (whose actual acting abilities stick out like a sore thumb in this group.) To the film's credit, it did not ask much of the cast. Dialogue was limited to witty quips in the middle of wildly entertaining action sequences. The most and perhaps only deeply meaningful piece of dialogue is actually more of a monologue, with Rourke reflecting on his days as a killer and Stallone nodding along. The point is, the filmmakers, Stallone primarily among them, deserve a great deal of credit for being honest with themselves and with us. Those with acting chops were given the bulk of the character building responsibilities, while the rest were asked to blow things up and kill people. They never bit off more than they could chew, shoot or detonate.

If you don't go to see The Expendables, I have no issue with you. I avoid movies all the time for a variety of reasons. I don't go see Nicholas Cage movies because I know I'll hit a child on the way out if I do. If action movies aren't your thing, I can understand. Nine times out of ten, I want a movie with meaning and significance that goes beyond the couple hours spent watching it. I love to watch great actors with a great script and a great story. I think it ultimately makes for a better movie. I get it if The Expendables seems like a waste of your time. My only point is this; If you do take the time to see the film, leave your moleskin at home. This movie never asked to be a part of that discussion. If someone tries to convince you that this movie deserves awards, acclaim or more than two and a half hours of your attention, then by all means curb-stomp them with your cultural heel. But for those of us who went in knowing what we were paying for and were happy to get just that, spare us.

Number 34: Speaking Up For The Defense Of Marriage

I feel that given the current plight of marriage in this country I felt it was finally time for me to speak up on the issue. As someone who is about to be married and someone who hopes to follow Christ in everything I do, I feel compelled to look to his words on the matter as it continues to be a significant part of our national discussion. I hope you'll join me in defending marriage as God intended it.

"But I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for marital unfaithfulness, causes her to become an adulteress, and anyone who marries the divorced woman commits adultery."

Matthew 5:32

Now, who's marching with me?

Number 33: Of Things To Come

It's not that I haven't been writing.

Number 32: Dead You Everywhere

Most household dust is made up of human skin. There are little pieces of dead you everywhere. I bet you'll feel kind of weird next time you clean your house.

Number 31: Sherlock Holmes Review

If there is one fact, fact my dear Watson, which can be taken from “Sherlock Holmes” it is this: there are still smart, well acted adventure films being made and while this may serve as the last nail in Nicholas Cage’s proverbial coffin, it is a fact which should be celebrated by the over-charged movie-going masses. Director Guy Ritchie does not rely on the audience’s knowledge, or lack there of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s now hundred year old character as a crutch. Instead, he he has presided over an engaging adventure with mass appeal, literary junkie or not.
Robert Downey Jr. stars brilliantly as the fascinatingly eccentric Sherlock Holmes alongside the perfectly casted Jude Law as his side-kick Dr. John H. Watson. Throughout the film the two exhibit chemistry not unlike Paul Newman and Robert Redford in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” The duo verbally dances through the film, riding the line of hokey and hilarious to perfection. As Holmes, Downey Jr. is fantastically engaging and convincing. Law is no different, playing the perfect other half, though being an actual Londoner can’t hurt when it comes to believability. Rachel McAdams rounds out the cast (make that the part of the cast that puts people in the seats) as Holmes’ criminal love interest Irene Adler.
Watching the film on mute will leave no doubt as to why it earned an Oscar nomination for Art Direction. The film looks stunning, portraying a hazy turn-of-the-century London. Turning the sound back on will reveal the films Oscar nominated original score, which adds a great deal to the film, but especially to its brilliant opening and closing credit sequences. With regards to direction, Guy Ritchie is a star here in his own right. In particular, two slow motion fight scenes, narrated by Holmes are perhaps the film’s most memorable moments and while exaggerated reality in a fight scene is nothing new, Holmes’ step by step self-instruction on how to defeat his opponent brings unique flair to a common device.
“Sherlock Holmes” is a movie that should alienate no one. The dialogue is smart, the cast is attractive and the explosions are big. In fact, one of the film’s few flaws is an ending which feels slightly sloppy as a setup for the obvious sequel. But even that, should be quickly forgiven. After all, we know that another “National Treasure” will likely be made, but as long as there are those striving for what “Sherlock Holmes” accomplishes, there is still hope for the genre.

Number 30: Up in the Air Review

A caveat before you gather your friends for a viewing of Jason Reitman’s latest film; if you’ve hardly gotten over the awkwardly charming, mall-indie phenomenon that was “Juno” and have spent the years since its release seeking out every oh-wow-it-looks-like-someone-handwrote-the-title film in existence, don’t be fooled by clever marketing. Despite the fact that the words “From the Director of ‘Juno’” are almost as prominent on the DVD’s cover as the title of the film, this is not that. That is not say, however, that fans of Reitman’s previous work will not be pleased with “Up In The Air,” starring George Clooney, Vera Farmiga and Anna Kendrick, all in Oscar nominated roles. While Reitman’s fingerprints are present, here he trades in the sexual naiveté of the barely-pubescent for the unsettling reactions of the newly unemployed.
It should be noted that “Up In The Air,” aptly given a winter release to theaters, is not particularly uplifting. Then again, neither were the last two years and that is where “Up In The Air” finds its context. While the film does elicit the occasional laugh, thanks in no small part to the contributions of Jason Bateman and Zach Galifianakis, it is ultimately the sobering tale of identities in crisis.
George Clooney plays Ryan Bingham, (not to be confused with the singer-songwriter of the same name responsible for the Oscar winning theme from “Crazy Heart”), the film’s occasional narrator and a man who receives a paycheck for notifying employees across the country that they can no longer count on theirs. That is, he fires people on behalf of companies who’d rather not do the deed themselves. Not surprisingly, Clooney is great, portraying a man who finds more comfort in the airport conveniences earned by his frequent-flyer status than the presence of any meaningful human connection. Still, he finds a kindred spirit, also “turned on by elite status,” in Alex Goran played by Vera Farmiga. Her talent for portraying a strong female character is on display here and she more than holds her own opposite the imposing Clooney. Stellar performances by both are to be expected. After all, Clooney is an Oscar regular and Farmiga even stands out in the Hollywood who’s who that was “The Departed.” Anna Kendrick, however, is the surprise here as determined newcomer, Natalie Keener. Her idealist youth collides with Clooney’s jaded age, exposing the flaws in both and providing the film with its poignant theme.
Upon seeing the film, a friend remarked to me that it is “basically just people sitting around talking to each other.” After several condescending sarcastic remarks, I found myself unable to completely disagree. “Up In The Air,” yet another film based on a book, watches like one. Stunning shots from 30,000 feet serve as breaks between what can be slow moving dialogue-heavy chapters. It is a movie entirely dependent on above average performances by its actors, and it is precisely because of those performances that it works. “Up In The Air” is not an escape from reality. If anything it is an immersion in it that is mostly troubling. It is not a film that can be watched so much as dealt with and in that regard, what is an achievement for the filmmakers is a heavy handful for the viewer.

Number 29: Precious Earns the Hype…Eventually

If you haven’t at least heard about Precious by now then I’d love to know the rock you’ve been living under and if there’s anyway you could make room for me. Anyone able to miss the overwhelming, Oprah-induced buzz about this film has beaten the odds and just may be rewarded for it. For the rest of us, when a movie garners as much pre-Oscar attention as this one, The English Patient syndrome seems to come with it; “How could you not like Precious?” So if you’re like me, having heard all the praise but missed the chance to see the movie in theaters, this DVD can be an intimidating one to approach. Few films live up to such high expectations and at first, Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, directed by Lee Daniels, is no different.

Starring an unknown-until-now Gabourey Sidibe, the film starts out slow, featuring a good bit of narration by Sidibe as the film’s main character Precious. While Precious’ uneducated speech lends a telling voice to the story, it also lessens film’s reliance on Sidibe’s on camera performance, allowing her to walk silently through several of the film’s early scenes. As we begin to learn Precious’ predicament in life, we are more compelled by the intellectual knowledge that these circumstances are hard than by the evidence we see on the screen. When we meet Mo’Nique as Precious’ mother, we are shocked but that is where it ends. A flurry of swearing and insults lets us know that Precious’ home life is bad, but at first meeting, Mo’Nique’s portrayal of Mary comes off as a caricature of a bad mother and not much more.

However, in the middle Precious finds its stride and doesn’t look back. Paula Patton seems to initiate the comeback as Ms. Rain, an alternative school teacher who takes a special interest in Precious. While Patton’s performance is decent, it is the character she portrays who brings just enough hope to the film to keep us in our seats and from there Precious grows and grows into the film you may’ve been hearing about.

Surprisingly enough, especially if the word Glitter means anything to you, Mariah Carey helps the film along nicely in the role of social worker Mrs. Weiss. While the role is admittedly not overly demanding, Carey exceeds any expectations even her mother could have for her and is a player in the pinnacle of the film. In what turns out to be the final scene a shaky camera zooms in and out of the actor’s faces as if even the camera operator was feeling the tension and weight of the moment. It is here that Mo’Nique earns her Oscar for Best Supporting Actress and while Sidibe doesn’t quite earn her Best Actress nomination, her performance, like the film, gets better with every scene.

In a season fraught with acclaimed post-Oscar releases, Precious comes like a wave; small if not underwhelming at its beginning but a towering, undeniable force at its end. Whether you have managed to sidestep the freight train of hype or found yourself caught in its headlights, give Precious a chance to the end and you might want to get on board.

Number 28: Coheed and Cambria - Year of the Black Rainbow

The mistake of some reviewer or label employee is my gain. These are live, as-I-listen reactions to the new Coheed and Cambria album, due out on April 13th.

1. One

Wind sounds. A slow piano. This is how you know a Coheed album is beginning. Give me a sword.

2. The Broken

Heard this before as it has already been released. I like this track though. Good chorus. Gives me hope for the album having more balls than No World For Tomorrow. Another Coheed staple; the obligatory chant, though not much of it. Really like this song.

3. Guns of Summer

Hmm, there's Chris Pennie on drums. Not sure how to feel about this. I like when it opens up a bit. Yeah. The choruses are strong, but quick. This one might take more listens to get into. Some sounds in here that are new to Coheed. Jury is still out.

4. Here We Are Juggernaut

Another song that has already been released officially. Another song that I liked the first time I heard it. I suppose that either means they picked good songs to release first or I've become more familiar with these tracks. Juggernaut is such a perfect Coheed and Cambria song. Love the little bridge here. Really like the chorus. Its big, just the way I like my Coheed. This song manages to sound angry and somewhat bright all at the same time.

5. Far

Oh yes. I'm feeling this for real. Nice guitar / drums groove. I don't know that I've felt this from a Coheed song before, but I like it. A lot more noise on this album then on previous albums. Might be the fact that this is a leak and not the proper release, making for muddier production. I suppose we won't know 'till the real thing comes out. In any event, this song is great.

6. This Shattered Symphony

I don't really like the "it sounds like a miniature guitarist is playing far away" effect that starts this song. Its getting a bit better as it goes on. Good thing about Coheed is you always have 4 minutes at minimum to get into a song, but this isn't exactly grabbing me. Especially not after "Far."

7. World Of Lines

Yes please. Doubled guitar riffs are what I'm here for. What else am I here for? Some whoa ohs in the chorus. And now I have both. Sign me up. This album is very Verse-Chorus-Verse-Chorus-Bridge-Chorus oriented. Not necesarrily a bad thing, (I mean come on, most of you have heard my band), just a note. Really into "World of Lines."

8. Made Out Of Nothing (All That I Am)

Well this seems to be a catchy little ditty, in a Coheed sort of way. A chorus that is a bit on the bright side, but not too much as was sometimes the case on NWFT. And another bridge. This song isn't bad. A good one to move the album along. Not too memorable, but a good song nonetheless. A role player you might say. Also Tiger Woods is coming back at the Master's if you haven't heard.

9. Pearl Of The Stars

That is not Claudio...not sure how I feel about it. That is a xylophone. Well played. Claudio on Claudio harmonies. Add that to the list of reasons I'm here. I'm feeling this. There are always a few tracks like this with Coheed. Pretty slow at first and then....there it is, the guitar solo. And back to this other guy. I guess it could be Claudio. But. No. Can't be. Horns? Yes please. Really happy with that track.

10. In The Flames Of Error

Riffing guitar under soaring vocals. Did you forget who you were listening too? This song will remind you. More double vocals, rolling drums, lead guitars. I'm really interested to see if this noise is the production or the crappy leak. Not sure which I'm hoping for. I do like some of the noise though. Interesting to note that this is the longest song so far, coming in at 5:30. Looks like the last and title track is 7:35, but for Coheed to only have one track over 7 minutes is rare.

11. When Skeletons Live

This ones a bit poppy, try to keep up. When a chorus you've never heard before is familiar is that a good or bad thing? I suppose it can be either depending on the situation. Put this with "Made Out Of Nothing" in the role player category. Moves the album along well. Good song, catchy chorus but nothing special on first listen. I can see this getting stuck in my head though. The longer this song goes, the more I like it. Fun track.

12. The Black Rainbow

Here we go. Last track. A few seconds in and I'm pumped. If this song slowly grows for 7 minutes, its enough to please me. Ha. Well so much for slow, but I'm into it. This song is sort of hypnotic. Repetitive in the way I love. Even though this is techincally the first album of the concept, a prequel, its also the last. Sort of feels like listening to the last song of all. /nerd. And the end. Wind sounds. Ambient noise. Over and out captain.

Notable: YOTBR, like NWFT, lacks an epic song in the vein of "In Keeping Secrets" or "Welcome Home."

Also: IKSSE:3>GA1>SSTB>YOTBR>NWFT

Number 27: Listens for Last Week

Sometimes you might see me out and might feel that I ignored you in favor of whatever was playing in my headphones. If that happened to you, here is what might have beaten you out for my attention. Feel free to comment as to whether you feel more important than time spent with these artists.

Number one for last week:

http://www.last.fm/user/stevenhale/charts?charttype=weekly

Number 26: A Letter to President Obama

Dear Mr. President,

It is with the utmost respect and admiration that I write to you concerning a growing problem which has been largely ignored by your predecessors. While I am aware that you are hard at work trying to solve the many challenges which face us currently as a nation and global community, I think that you, as well as many of my fellow Americans will agree with me when I say emphatically that this is a problem which calls for your immediate attention. To say that I was inspired by you and your campaign two Novembers ago would be putting it lightly. It is because of the faith in our government which you have awakened in me that I am boldly confident in your ability to remedy the situation at hand.

I do not wish to diminish the importance of the issues which, at the present, are occupying your time and attention. Circumstances both at home and abroad are such that I am neither surprised nor resentful of your seeming lack of awareness regarding the issue of my concern. The vital importance of both Health care and the recovering economy is unquestionable. Likewise, a stable Middle East is a goal I am proud to see my President working towards. However, the issue which has compelled me to write to you is, in my humble opinion, of equal importance and I am hopeful that you will see why.

Sir, I am an avid movie goer. I enjoy going to the theater and participating in something which has for decades been an American past time. The unique American spirit is palpable in the lines for tickets and snacks. Unfortunately, there is another part of the theater experience which, sadly, is also a proud American institution. Getting ripped off.

To put it simply sir, I have been quietly bent over for the last time.

Allow me to share with you the theater experience I had just this afternoon. Perhaps it is an anecdote you can use at your next town hall meeting. First, let me address the hackneyed response which I have often heard when discussing this topic. "Go to a matinee." Sir, as smart as you are, you know what I know. The suggestion that matinee prices will save ones bank account from what can only be described as financial sodomy is insulting. That said, today I did go to a 1:40 showing, a decision which saved me a dollar at best, joining the disenfranchised masses (read: senior citizens) for Crazy Heart. After the initial affront I arrived at the snack counter and again I must pause to address yet another misguided "solution" to this problem. "Don't buy snacks or bring your own in the theater." Firstly, with regards to not buying snacks, consider this; would you solve the health care crisis by suggesting Doctors simply stop using stethoscopes? Fact-popcorn and a soft drink are as vital to the experience of watching a movie as the projector. Suggesting that forsaking them solves anything is akin to saying that if homosexuals would simply become straight, they would be entitled to the rights they seek. Secondly, on the subject of bringing one's own snacks to the theater; the idea of replicating the popcorn buttering technique at one's home may be simple to the privileged elite, but to those of us who are not the heirs to large petroleum companies or investment firms it is less feasible. But I digress. I should make it clear that while I do purchase a popcorn and soda I do not do so excessively. Were I buying more than my share, then perhaps my complaint should be dismissed, but I think you and any real American would agree that a bucket of popcorn and a large soda is a perfectly reasonable one-man purchase which should not break the customer's financial back.

The point, sir, is that by the time I reached my seat, by myself mind you since I can hardly afford to double the experience described above, despite the joy it would bring me to be joined by my lovely fiancee, I had spent more than the copay at my last Doctor's appointment. The conclusion that I came to is this; I sincerely believe that if granted more reasonable prices at the movie theater, the citizen, who today is unable to insure themselves medically, would be willing and able to do so. As it is, we are being hit from both sides and frankly can not take it much longer. At the present, we do not need government run health care which will treat us and heal us affordably only to send us out to the wolves at the theater.

What is most offensive, and with this I will close, is that after being essentially beaten and robbed in the lobby, a full theater is subjected to what is nothing less than nationalistic propaganda. I am positive that I sat through a military "commercial" this afternoon that would make the Third Reich's Ministry of Propaganda squirm in his seat. While I do not intend to imply that you are directly responsible for this pre-film offense, I do find it to be just that. To strip people of their hard earned money and dignity at the door only to suggest that they then call their nearest recruiter is insulting at best and exploitive at worst. Furthermore, despite the loud rock music and victorious scenes on the screen I have a feeling that one's actual experience in the military would be slightly different than the one advertised. Perhaps a clip of legless men serving an extra term in an endless war would be more accurate.

It is my sincere hope that you will consider my concerns and discuss them at length with your advisors. I would be more than happy to take part in a round table discussion or televised summit regarding this issue. In the mean time, I will do my best to keep afloat despite the best efforts of the local cinema. You received my vote because of the hope you inspired, the change you promised and those irresistible pop-art posters. I know that you will not let me down. Thank you for your time.

Your humble constituent and fellow American,

Steven Hale

Number 25: Seems About Right

There are metaphors in my mind about Taylor Swift being trusted to carry music and dropping it, but I've decided not to say them.

Number 24: Drive-By Movie Reviews

Invictus 7/10 - A more poignant and moving Cool Runnings, Invictus is what We Are Marshall should have been; a movie that made me care. Well, that might be a bit harsh, but seriously it took me three attempts to force feed myself Matthew McConaughey and the Thundering Herd's redemption. I have grown increasingly weary of movies of this type and even more weary of the immunity to criticism which is granted these films because, after all, "Dude, that really happened." Something that really happened is a bad excuse for Hollywood's lack of new ideas. But anyway, soapbox dismounted. When it comes to movies telling stories you already know, one could do much, much worse than Morgan Freeman, Matt Damon and Invictus.

Brothers 7.5/10 - A friend commented to me after seeing this movie that perhaps its true that the best role for a mediocre actor is a stoic or one of a character so wounded that only blank stares are required. Unfortunately for us, when Tobey Maguire's is not staring blankly, he is overacting; another go-to for bad actors. On the other hand, Jake Gyllenhaal and Natalie Portman are so good that it makes up for any shortcomings on Maguire's part. It also helped that this is one of the most gripping and emotionally draining movies I have seen in a long time and one that I would reccomend to anyone who has ever thought that Call of Duty tells one everything they need to know about war. (I'm looking at me.)

Avatar 5/10 - Equal parts Pocahontas, Jurassic Park and Fern Gulley, Avatar seems to justify the 300 million dollars spent to make it, but not quite the 9 dollars spent to see it. However, it did take place in the future and involve aliens, so my guilty pleasure centers wont allow me to give it less than a 5 on principle alone. What is unacceptable though is this film's suggestion of an America which would wipe out an entire race of natives or disregard the culture and lives of an entire people with purely selfish motives. James Cameron should be ashamed of himself for suggesting that a country as benevolent as ours would ever destroy another people's holy sites or force them to leave the land of their fathers simply for our convenience. Yet another example of liberal propaganda coming from those out of touch with real America.

Number 23: Its Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

When I left, I left for good. I was 20 and living with my mother in Princeton, Indiana when I threw a tooth brush in the car and put Alice Street and that little red house in my rear view mirror like some sort of Jack Kerouac knock-off. And that night the half moon looked liked God’s narrowed eye asking me what the hell I thought I was doing.

It wasn’t some adventure though you know? I didn’t come of age or find myself or anything like in books I’d read. I just got a job selling Hallmark cards at a corner store on 5th Avenue in Eaton, Ohio. For three years I sold people the apologies, condolences and congratulations that they didn’t really feel enough to say themselves.

And then my Mom called.

“Joe?” She said. She always said that and, ironically enough, it was always me.

“Your Dad came home.”

He had been gone since I was just old enough to know that whatever had brought him and my mom together was broken. I stayed home for a couple years after high school but, after a while, whatever had kept me there broke just the same. Now, my mom wanted me to come home for the weekend, like two days would make up for more than a decade. I went home anyway though.

The driveway. The state road. The highway. Exit 218. The red light. The stop sign at Jefferson Avenue. Alice Street. The little red house. The driveway. The front door.

My mom answered and pulled me in the same way she pulled me into the kitchen Christmas morning to show me my new bike. I have a surprise for you Joe, you’re gonna love it. And then the strange, familiar voice from the kitchen.

“Joe?”

She pushed me in like a friend trying to set me up with a girl. And then the reveal. The surprise. The damn bicycle.

“Heya kid.” Said the man.

Then like a leaky faucet.

“Hey Pop.”

“How ya doin son? Your mom tells me you’re livin’ in Ohio now?”

Then like a burst pipe.

“Pop you can’t do this. You can’t just leave and then come back like a cheap magician. You weren’t here when I learned to drive or when I ran the truck into a pole.
Ma doesn’t need you showin’ up like this.”

“Honey what the hell is all this?” He looked at my mom like nothing bad had ever happened.

“Don’t look at her like she’s your wife Pop. She’s my mom, I’m her son and you’re a stranger in the kitchen.”

The screeching porch door.

The slamming porch door.

The moon seemed to be asking me the same question as the night I left. I wondered if the answer wasn’t in the kitchen with Mom.

I heard my dad’s voice. I heard my sweet mother. Pop had always been the bull and my mom the china shop. At least this was familiar.

Even if you move to Ohio and sell greeting cards, one day you’ll end up back here and your Dad will be in the kitchen.

The screeching porch door.

The gently closing porch door.

My mother.

“Joe? You could try you know? For me. We…I mean, your dad and I, we’re trying to make things right. Were trying to start over and I only wanted you to come home so we could be here together again.”

The leaky faucet.

“I know Ma.”

“I just want to see if things can be like they were”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry Joe, but if you can come inside we can try…”

“It’s alright Ma.”

My mom’s hand on my shoulder.

The screeching porch door behind us.

Number 22: Like Some Passing Afternoon

Today was Tuesday and here was the Pike Place Market in Seattle, Washington. Sam and I were here like we were most afternoons, smoking cigarettes under the flying salmon and pretending to wait the rain out. For one thing, in Seattle, the rain waits you out and not the other way around. For another, neither of us wanted to sit alone in our apartments waiting our lies out so this, for now, was ideal.
“I figure death and sex are pretty much the same you know?”
Sam was always philosophizing. He was 23, just a year older than me, but since that year had been spent out of college and in the real world I always kinda figured he knew some things I didn’t. I worked at the Pike Market Medical Clinic as a transporter, which meant I moved patients from the room they were barely living in to the one they would probably die in. Most days, I thought about death and even felt like an active participant in the process. Sam worked at a Kwik Mart down Post Alley from the market. Both of us made enough for rent and cigarettes.
“I mean,” Sam stared through the wall of water coming from the overhang we were sitting under, “I know about as much about what’s supposed to happen after death as I do about what’s supposed to happen after sex.”
Sam had been in several serious relationships. Some of them had come to an abrupt end and some had just faded away. I had only been in one, which hadn’t lasted long and I wasn’t in a hurry to revisit the whole ordeal.
“Ha.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just, I don’t know. Made me laugh.”
“I’m saying,” Sam said, “people always smoke after sex but I never understood why. I figure if I’m ever relaxed during the day it’s after I have sex.”
“Oh? So you have sex most days now?”
“What if I do?”
“What if you do.” I sort of laughed. You could never tell when Sam was being serious or joking or some mix of both.
Sam was real anxious. Always anxious. His eyes were always bouncing around, which I imagined seemed rude to people when they first met him. Sam would take a cigarette out of his mouth with one hand and bite a nail on the other. Real anxious.
“My point is people talk about death as this ‘final resting place.’ Well, I don’t want to get to heaven or wherever and feel like I need a smoke you know?”
“So you figure if sex isn’t enough for you to rest in peace then death might not be either?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Sam had big round glasses, which I suppose made the whole darting eye routine a bit more noticeable, and a scar on his face. Not the kind that makes you feel sorry for a guy though, just the kind that tells you he’s been places. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but not scrawny. I guess he looked like people must have looked before everyone cared so much.
“It would be kind of ironic, though.” He turned away, exhaling a stream of smoke and, while I appreciated the courtesy, it seemed in vain as I looked ahead, exhaling my own.
“What’s that?”
“I mean if you got to heaven,” he said, “and you still wanted to smoke.”
“Why’s that?”
“If smoking kills you and you keep smoking anyway, you beat the system.”
“Well at the rate we’re going we’ll be finding out pretty soon. You got anymore?”
“Last one.” He offered me the remaining cigarette.
“Ah, you have it.”
“Yeah I better,” he said wiping his fogged glasses, “You’re the one who’s still pretty optimistic about life and sex and all that.”
He always figured he’d die young and I always thought that’s why he stared off into the distance and did his hair up like James Dean. He kept his face clean shaven. Sam’s father had run a tight ship when he was growing up and although he had abandoned most of the enforced principals of his youth, this was one that he had not yet shed.
“Thing is Sam, sex causes life.”
“And life causes death.”
“So I guess you’re gonna stop having sex because it eventually causes death?”
“No, Jack.”
“And we’re not gonna stop smoking either. So lets go get some more and head to my place.”
“Alright.” He stood up and put on his brown Members Only jacket that was just a little too short for his torso.
“So why do you think sex and death are pretty much the same anyway?”
“I wake up every morning waiting for one of them to happen.”
“Ha.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just, I don’t know.”
“Alright, Jack. You’re buying.”
The Pike Place Market sits on Pike Place which runs northwest from Pike Street to Virginia Street, overlooking Elliot Bay. Sam lived alone in an apartment on Virginia Street, just a block away from the market. I lived in one of the market apartments which are home to mostly low income seniors. My neighbor Joe was an 82-year-old man, separated from his wife, who functioned as an ever-present grandfather to me and Sam. He was racist in the way that older people can get away with and he had taught us how to smoke. Every day I’d play him in a game of shuffle board. When we got there Joe was sitting outside and met us with his standard greeting.
“Sam, Jack how the hell are ya?” He always seemed surprised to see us, even though this was a daily occurrence. Come to think of it, he and Sam always greeted each other the same way too, each one sarcastically reminding the other of their estrangement from their not-loved ones.
“Seen your Pop lately, Sam?”
“Na, Joe, you seen your wife?” The conversation never went further than that and I guess it didn’t need to.
That night we decided against our usual game of shuffle board because Joe’s back was acting up and instead we sat outside listening to Miles Davis, accompanied as always by Joe’s commentary.
“You know for a black man,” Joe said as if the light bulb had just flipped on, “he can really pay a tune.”
“Joe, you know its 2009?” Sam said with a sort of indifference. This, not unlike our entire relationship with Joe, was routine.
“Boy, I know what year it is and I’m sayin’, for a black man, he’s really something.”
“Sure is.” I said. Its not that I minded them arguing, but I’d heard this one before. “Sam thinks death and sex are pretty much the same thing Joe. You agree with that?”
Joe was ready for death. He had fought in Korea and he always said there was no resting in peace after that. He also said that he was so sure he was gonna die over there that once he got back, death didn’t worry him much. I had transported vets like him at the med clinic and I believed him. They never seemed worried, like they found some comfort in knowing that they should have died a long time ago and that the death they now faced would be much more kind. A lot of them told me that they’d slept but they hadn’t rested for years.
“I think people don’t know what to do after death same as they don’t know what to do after sex.” Joe said, lighting a cigarette and leaning forward slowly to turn Miles down a bit. “Sex is just like life boys. It either ends too soon or takes too long and when it’s over most people don’t know what the hell to do.”
“You liked to cuddle didn’t ya Joe?” Sam could never resist the chance to get a rise out of him.
“I’m saying when things are finished I’m ready to sleep. People don’t know what to do when they feel at peace for a minute so they gotta light a cigarette or talk. What’s more, when you die they got two or three planned events before they even put you in the ground. It’s the same reason I don’t want to be cremated. When I’ve smoked my last I want to rest, I don’t need folks lighting me up again.”


I don’t think Joe meant to trust us with his last wish, but it turned out that way. He died in his sleep later that week. Sam and I acted as his family and made sure that folks didn’t go ‘lighting him up again.’ There was no funeral except for me and Sam smoking while two black men buried him and spending the night listening to Miles Davis outside my apartment. I think that was the first time I realized why Joe felt the way he did about death and why Sam was so anxious. It was the same way I felt about jazz music. A jazz song usually ends much like it begins, with a slow fade. I think life left Sam and Joe feeling unresolved, like eight minutes of a Miles Davis song. All they could hope for was to slowly fade and pass away.
The day after Joe was buried, Sam and I were back in the market and things were all like they had been and it was raining. I didn’t smoke as much as I watched several cigarettes burn down to their end. A man with an open guitar case played and sang;

“There are times that walk from you, like some passing afternoon”

“You think Joe’s smoking?” Sam asked. His smoking had not slowed down at all and he was methodically working his way through the pack as normal.
“No. I don’t actually.”
“Well good for him huh?”
“Is that how you wanna go?” He took off his glasses and looked right at me.
“Just kind of burn out in the middle of the night you mean? Yeah I guess that’d be alright.” Outside the rain had slowed and I motioned to Sam, figuring we’d take this chance to walk to work mostly dry. We got up and walked in the direction of the man with the open guitar case.

“There are things that drift away, like our endless, numbered days”

Sam took the pack of cigarettes out of his pockets and I opened my hand for another. He pulled his away from his mouth with his middle finger and thumb and flicked it away. He took the remaining cigarette from the pack and dropped it in the guitar case as we passed.
“All out.”

Number 21: Jon Stewart

Number 20: Ehhh (Plus or Minus Ten People More Deserving Of The Nobel Peace Prize Than Barack Obama)

I decided I was listening to music the wrong way so I'll continue the list later.

Anyway, its nothing personal Mr. President.

1. Sarah Palin - Look, she wakes up every morning a spit ball away from Russia and she hasn't started anything yet. Granted there was the whole turkey drowning situation and her feud with David Letterman, but in an effort to not offend any one news publication, she reads them all; what could be more peaceful? This maverick for the Nobel Peace Prize? You 'betcha.

2. Kanye West - I'm sure you disagree, but then again you probably don't care about black people either. First of all, he, like the President is from Chicago. After losing the Olympic bid and watching the Cubs for the last 100 years, I think this city deserves a bone. Secondly, you may think what he did at the VMAs was anything but peaceful, but I disagree. For one thing, Taylor Swift sucks. But more importantly, by interrupting her moment, West won a victory for peace. Swift's lyrics are the antithesis of peaceful and only encourage cafeteria confrontation. Take this lyric for instance; "She wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts / She's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers." Do our schools really need this kind of influence? Kanye West is not a jerk for interrupting a celebration of this kind of incindiary lyricism, he is a hero. And before you go petting your debate skills by bringing up Yeezy lyrics which you find offensive ask yourself this; is the world a better place thanks to Kanye's head on confrontation of world issues such as the proliferation of "Drunk and Hot Girls?" Yes. A thousand times yes.

3. Bob Dylan - I have no argument for this choice other than to say that if there is an award, Bob Dylan should win it at least once.

4. Beyonce - Miss Sasha Feirce deserves the Peace Prize for her efforts to bridge the gap between single ladies and their commitmentless boy toys. Barack Obama has a way with words? Please. Go try to tell someone they need to man up in a more sophisticated and inspiring way than "If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it." You can't. Add to that dance moves and Jay Z as your husband and I say the free world owes you a debt.

5. Sarah Palin - Anyone with this many credentials deserves two slots on the list. The former Governor's moose hunting adventures are well documented and for that she deserves the prize. Every year in Alaska there are more moose related deaths than bear related deaths. Doesn't hold a candle to the amount of deaths from lack of health insurance but who's counting. She thins the moose population and that promotes peace.

6. Geraldo Rivera - You know because of his investigative reporting and all....ok not really. The guy's a douche bag.

7. Ghandi - This one's actually kind of serious. This guy inspires more peace posthumously then most do currently.

8. Jimmy Fallon - I used to have a lack of peace within myself about which late night show to watch. Letterman or Conan? I love both so dearly that I could harldy deal with the conflict. Couple that with the arguments that are sure to pop up amongst friends about who is better. Not to worry anymore though. Jimmy Fallon's show is so awful that we can all peacefully lay in traffic together and feel less awkward than if we were to watch him.

Number 19: Album Number 9

Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea (1998)

Cliche? Yes. Great? Yes. I'm pretty sure this album doubles for ID at most indie/hipster/elitist gatherings, but nonetheless, no matter how many times I listen to it, it remains one of the most absolutely intriguing, confusing and beautiful albums that I own. Jeff Magnum's lyrics touch on spirituality and World War II, particualrly Anne Frank's diaries. I think so anyway. Much like the rest of my list, Magnum is appealing because he can not sing and so comes off seeming more like he must. In The Aeroplane Over The Sea's beauty is akin to that of a Jackson Pollock painting. It is riveting in the way of old war footage. Despite an intuitive sense that carpet bombing a city is tragic, you don't change the channel. There is something strangely beautiful about a voice straining for notes it cant reach and it seems all the more poignant when the unattainable notes would support the words I love you Jesus Christ, Jesus I love you, yes I do. It seems not unlike our fascination with death, a simultaneously tragic and beautiful thing.

And one day we will die / and our ashes will fly / from the aeroplane over the sea / but for now we are young / let us lay in the sun / and count every beautiful thing we can see

In Holland, 1945 Magnum's affinity for Anne Frank seems apparent when he sings; The only girl I've ever loved / was born with roses in her eyes / but then they buried her alive / one evening 1945. The way that Magnum wraps such tragedy in such beauty only serves to compliment the spiritual element present in Aeroplane. Magnum's often ambiguous and abstract lyrics are matched by the music which accompanies them. Horns reach and bend along with his voice and fuzzed electric guitars seem most appropriate.

Fact is, were it not for Jeff Magnum and Neutral Milk Hotel, it is likely that you would not enjoy bands such as mewithoutYou, Brand New, or Manchester Orchestra nearly as much. Whether there is an apparently direct influence as is clearly the case with mewithoutYou's latest offering or a more subtle one as is the case with countless indie bands, Neutral Milk Hotel and particularly In The Aeroplane Over The Sea has remained consistently relevant for over 10 years which is likely more than you'd be able to say for half of the music on your iPod or mine.

I don't think anyone will ever quite get this album. I don't even think Jeff Magnum completely does. But if I did, I wouldn't keep listening to it. Not to mention that at least one Neutral Milk Hotel experience a week will make make your skim-milk latte taste significantly better.

Favoite Song(s) - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, Two Headed Boy (Pts. 1 and 2)

Number 18: Plus or Minus 10 Of My Favorite Albums

I'm chronically indecisive so it feels safer to say that if you were to take a handful of albums out of the latte stained messenger bag that I keep them in, these would be at the top. I'll do them one at a time, with the exception of this time.

These first two (well I'm doing them in descending order so make it last two) were difficult for me to decide between so my editor allowed me to include them both.

10. Ray LaMontagne - Till The Sun Turns Black

I never learned to count my blessings

I choose instead to dwell in my disasters

The cover of Ray LaMontagne's follow up to Trouble is enough to make it obvious that one album was not enough to purge him of his demons. Common is the artist with ten songs worth of heartache. But after listening to Till The Sun Turns Black it is abundantly clear that LaMontagne's misery is no gimmick. In fact, one gets the distinct feeling that he would rather not be sharing the depths of his sadness with 20 somethings who see sadness as recreation. The tragic quality of Ray LaMontagne is that he doesn't want to sing about these things, but he must. Its this internal dissonance that seems to leave LaMontagne feeling isolated. He says as much in the aptly titled Empty when he sings, his voice accented by years of finding solace in cigarettes, "Will I always feel this way, so empty and estranged?" While songs like Can I Stay and Three More Days do lighten the mood, it is a light which is hazy at best. Still, Can I Stay is absolutely beautiful and Three More Days is infectious. In fact, I dare you not to play air horn along with this one. Ray LaMontagne makes misery, longing and the depths of human sadness and desire beautiful.

Favorite Song - Empty

10. Bruce Springsteen - Nebraska

Everything dies baby thats a fact, maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on and your hair up pretty and meet me tonight in Atlantic City

I don't like Born in the U.S.A. And while I can appreciate The Boss' habit of giving concert performances twice the length of most touring bands, if I'm honest my favorite part of Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band is Max Weinberg. But Nebraska is different. If you ask me, The Boss earned his name when he followed up The River with an acoustic depiction of American life that is decidedly dark. Written during a bout with depression, this is not the patriotic, purveyor of Dad-Rock you saw at the Super Bowl. The first five tracks are nearly flawless and the entire album features the kind of guitar-harmonica interplay that you know you'd lose your girlfriend to. The narrative lyrical style fits the scarce instrumentation, and a raw production quality fits Springsteens gravelly vocal delivery. Once again, the album's artwork betrays its grim content. Seeing a trend yet?

Favorite Song - Atlantic City

Number 17: May Angels Lead You In

Billy Mays

Michael Jackson


Farrah Fawcett


Ed McMahon

Number 16: All Morons Hate It When You Call Them A Moron

This guy Frederic Colting has written a book entitled "60 Years Later: Coming Through the Rye." It's a book he claims is not a sequel or rip-off of J.D. Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye," and one that Salingr has called "a rip-off pure and simple." Colting wrote the book under the pseudonym John David California. That's right, J.D. California. Ohhh I see what you did there.


And here's what bothers me;


Colting says the book is not a sequel or a rip-off and yet the book's main characters are a 76 year old Mr. C and Mr. Salinger, a bitter and angry reclusive author. While Colting may have semantics on his side he and his book are, as Holden Caulfield would say, phony at best.

J.D. California?

Mr. C?

Really?

Colting says that the book is, in fact, a "critical exploration of such themes as the relationship between J.D. Salinger, the famously reclusive author, and Holden Caulfield, his brash and ageless fictional creation." Thats the thing Fred. He was ageless. UNTIL YOU MADE HIM 76 YEARS OLD. Perhaps we should go dig up James Dean's bones and make posters?


Furthermore, Colting states that Salnger has "excercised iron-clad control over his intellectual property, refusing to allow others to adapt any of his characters or stories in other media." AND THANK GOD. Not everything needs a movie and t-shirts in Hot Topic. Some classic works are better left un-mollested (I'm looking at you Zach Snyder). Salinger has had the nerve to do what most don't. To let an important work rest in peace. He has turned down numerous offers, including one from Steven Spieldberg, to bring "Catcher" to the big screen. And again, THANK GOD. Shai LaBeouf doesn't need anymore work.

The point to be made here is simple;

Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. Colting may have the law on his side but it is a distinction which is irrelevant to me. Given the chance I would not ask Mr. Colting if he felt he should be able to bastardize one of the best pieces of American literature (and my personal favorite). No, I would rather know why anyone who calls themself an admirer or fan of J.D. Salinger's work would ever want to. And even if I could get my head around the desire to mess with masterpiece, I could never understand why one would continue in such a pursuit after the creator of said masterpiece states his displeasure with the enterprise. If J.D. Salinger asks you not to mess with "The Catcher in the Rye," why would you mess with "The Catcher in the Rye?" Why fight him about it? He has only asked one thing of the world since 1965. He has asked that he and his work be left alone. It is a request the world has continually ignored.

In a written declaration, Mr. Colting states that he is "not a pirate." Well a pirate he may not be, but a moron he is.

And all morons hate it when you call them a moron.