The Red Box Menace

This should come as no surprise to anybody, but I'm a nerd. A tremendous nerd - like, just short of comic-book nerd, but way beyond hipster-geek (also note that the very fact I can use these mile markers for different genres of 'nerd' is pretty fucking lame). One area in which I'm consistently dissatisfied with my own nerddom, though, is in film - I love movies. Seriously, I'm semi-hard at a great red-band trailer, and think that the movie is really the last form of transcendent art . . . plus, I laugh at farts, so that's cool too. However, I see far fewer movies than I really should - whether it's due to work, drinking too much, women, or simple laziness (or, likely, all of the above in some combination), I simply do not make the movies as much as I'd like.

Enter: Red Box. First, full disclosure: I'm fucking pissed I didn't think of this idea myself. That's really it - the best ideas are the simplest, and every redneck on EARTH will plop down $1 at the grocery store or McDonald's to see the latest regurgitated bit of shit that Hollywood has steamed onto their chests. Unreal. However, at the same time, the convenience and affordability really represent a new media era, especially as Sony and MS race to get streaming content from Netflix onto their respective platforms - movies are proliferating. This is a good thing - unless you're an idiot like me.

See, the Red Box Era creates a problem - the simplicity means that I can't justify not renting a movie when I have a free evening. After all, I need to catch up on all the shit I've missed, and it's a fucking dollar. However, the Red Box is generally picked over and has shitty selection to start - so we wind up with my last two rentals, which may be the two worst movies that have ever existed in any form anywhere. This is not exaggeration.

(WARNING: Fuck you. Obviously there will be 'spoilers' for the next few paragraphs as I purge my soul of the two films - it will not matter, as they are seriously that bad. I'd rather watch Holocaust footage on loop for days at the National Holocaust Museum than re-watch this garbage. So yeah.)

Flashbacks of a Fool: The Only Fool Was Me

Another confession, while I'm getting all Chris Carraba on your asses: there is a significant part of me that thinks Daniel Craig is the best James Bond, and by a good margin. This is even after the mediocrity of QoS - Casino Royale was actually that good. The brooding, complicated mess of the Craig Bond seriously tops the playboy perfection of Connery, at least in a theoretical sense in my mind - obviously there's no longevity yet, but I'm just laying it out there.

So yeah - the promise of Craig playing a disturbed, fucked-up washout actor with a 'seedy secret' prompted me to think, "Hey, self - this seems like a proven winning formula, there's no chance that a character-driven movie could write itself into oblivion, right?" Yeah. Whoops.

To make a long story short: NOTHING. FUCKING. HAPPENS. EVER. Short of some epic MILF boobs while Young Lead Character goes on a romp with the horny mom next door, absolutely nothing happens. Then, when the "dark secret" is revealed, it's not only a total and complete accident that Craig's character can't possibly consider to be his fault . . . but it involves a naval mine. Like, a mine that you would use to blow up ships. Like this:



Fuck my life. I actually laughed out loud at the denouement - I mean, a ship mine? Plus, this supposedly takes place in some ambiguous seaside village circa 1975-1980 (there is a complete anachronism dealing with timeframe for the flashback - whether this is intentional is completely up for grabs, but surprisingly, this is like the 30th worst part of the movie), and where in the hell would a naval mine from like WWII wind up but on a remote English seaside? Obviously. It's the worst Deus Ex Machina since the Tuck Rule Game against Oakland.

Finally, the movie (mercifully) just ends. I mean that literally - all the sudden, it's back to modern day, and the movie is over. We have no idea if the characters involved learned anything, or whether anything even really happened. We have no real reason to tie the (fucking terrible) plot twist to any sort of realization or character arc. It just . . . stops. It's just Daniel Craig and Eve the Rapper (with her tiger-paw boobie tattoos unfortunately hidden away) driving down the Santa Monica Freeway while I sat slack-jawed and tried to choke myself to death with my bare hands. Holy shit.

88 Minutes That Was More Like 130 That I'd Like Back

I don't even have a cute lead-in story for this one - I'd read the horrific reviews of this movie, but it was literally the only thing on the entire Red Box that I found remotely interesting that night, since I wasn't feeling Ed Norton as the Hulk (note: I'm an idiot). How bad could Pacino really be?

Answer: UNREAL.

Seriously - Pacino's limp-dick 'psychiatric profiler' performance is so badly mailed in that I'd almost have preferred Frank Caliendo doing his caricature of Pacino. The story is so fatally flawed that I wanted to punch myself in the penis during at least seven key points. The transparent attempts to connect the plot holes to Pacino's doting top student (whose unrequited love is so out-of-place, I kept waiting for the 'reveal' to be that she's a Mormon on Rumspringa and can bang with impunity) fall amazingly flat, as you know it's the weird-looking chick who sucks in everything as soon as she makes the crack about the "Law school" in the first 10 minutes. Even worse, the flashback scene unfolds so slowly and lamely that it actually began to make me upset - like "FUCK YOU, just stop with the slow-wipe camera work and the half-diffused look, we know they were drinking, GOD".

Add to this the fact that somehow, Pacino is tabbed as the "prime suspect" in the murders, yet convinces cops to just let him run free for no reason no fewer than FOUR TIMES (including one at gunpoint), and that the movie tries so hard to hide the ending that it becomes convoluted to the point of absurdity, and I can't even explain to you my utter disappointment. It might be the worst movie I've ever seen. Honestly, I can't even go into any more detail, other than to say that an Al Pacino movie was actually worse than a movie whose crux involved a fucking naval mine. Should this keep up, Pacino will rocket toward the early rounds in my death pool rankings for this year - fuck, I might just kill him myself, to preserve his legacy.

On the NL Cy Young Award -

As first reported by my inexplicably Mormon-loving compatriot (via Facebook, your outlet to the WORLD!), the NL voters definitely got the Cy Young right, ignoring Won/Loss records (somewhat) and going with Tim Lincecum, the only professional athlete whose ass I could probably kick. Now, the strikeouts (A SHITLOAD) sell themselves, as does the sterling ERA, but there's more to the story, as Baseball Prospectus shows us below (click to see the full stats):



SNLVAR is shorthand for, essentially, support-neutral wins above replacement - i.e. how many more wins Lincecum provided his team in an environment devoid of the Pol Pot-level frightening run support Tiny Tim received from the Giants this year. The Giants, remember started a SS opening day that had never put up an OPS above .660 . . . in AA ball. This would be the equivalent of me subbing for a chess Grand Master in a tournament, or me getting Matt Jarmon to take the LSAT for me. LOVE YOU MATTY!

Anyway, the important things to note are that, by really any objective measurement from RA+ (64% above average for Lincecum, 60% for Santana) to SNLVAR, Lincecum put up better numbers while facing approximately equivalent competition (if you haven't yet, click on the image above, and check out Opponent's OPS - now check out the guys in the AL East . . . wow). The NL East simply wasn't good enough to make up the difference in either raw or adjusted numbers between Lincecum and anybody else, but especially not Santana.

Check out Cliff Lee's numbers, though - he's the odds-on favorite to win, and rightfully so . . . hopefully, in a similar season to the NL (where the top teams' top pitchers were markedly worse than the absolute cream of the crop), Lee can pull it out in the AL, and we'll feel all giddy and progressive, like the reverse Bradley Effect from a few days ago. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just don't yell at C - he's sensitive, you know.

Post-election, pre-change: The Thoughts of a Hopeful Republican

I waited to comment on the election, in the hope that the time would allow me to comment intelligently. As a huge Presidential/political dork, I hoped that I would be able to say something thought-provoking or interesting about the election. Additionally, I got involved in a moot court competition (which I did pretty well in) and school stuff, which distracted me. If the following sounds more like the rambling thoughts of an over-worked law student, and less like the intelligent thoughts of a guy with a history degree, well, you've been warned.

As most of the people who read this blog probably know, I'm a Republican. So, this election was a bit of a disappointment for me, albeit a disappointment that wasn't completely unexpected. President-Elect Obama had momentum coming out of the primaries, ran a solid campaign, and never really allowed the momentum to slip. McCain made small gains at certain points throughout the summer and fall, but as anyone who has followed the polls can attest, he never really became a real threat, and the election was all but assured for Obama.

I went through the election with some conflicting thoughts. First, I'm a huge Romney backer, a fact that should be known to most of the readers of this blog. I'm not going to go into the reasons, but, needless to say, I was extremely disappointed when he lost in the primaries. So, after researching all candidates extensively, including Bob Barr, I supported the McCain campaign. Obama is a brilliant guy, with quite the impressive resume, but after doing research, I realized that I couldn't back him with my vote.

As the campaign progressed, I became less hopeful about the direction of the election. When it became apparent that McCain was going to select a woman as his running mate, I thought that Texas Congresswoman Kay Hutchison would be a wise choice. She's smart, has a ton of experience, and could have helped to sway independents. She held a number of conservative beliefs, and was someone I could readily support. However, she is also pro-choice, and while I hope that didn't disqualify her, I understand that the far-right portion of the base couldn't support her. As we all know, McCain chose Palin, and the rest is history.

Somehow, some way, a significant portion of my fellow party members have become anti-intellectual. What began as a way to criticize Obama (essentially, the "pointy-headed liberal" argument used since the Nixon campaigns) became an attack on all intellectuals. To listen to the talk-show hosts and some of the people during the Convention (Mike Huckabee, I'm looking at you), being educated was somehow a drawback. Being educated meant that you couldn't understand middle-class and lower-class America, that you couldn't be a part of the solution, that you were part of the problem.

My biggest fear coming out of this election is that the anti-intellectual portion of my party will only grow in the next four years. That shouldn't happen. Just as the smartest guy (or woman) in the room isn't always the best candidate, the smartest guy (or woman) in the room shouldn't be automatically disqualified. The party should be embracing the intellectual conservatives. We have brilliant conservatives like Romney, Jindal, and others, who could give us a real chance at taking back the White House in 2012.

I believe in the party, I believe in economic conservatism, and I believe that we could have found a way to be more competitive in this election. I just hope the party makes the correct decisions over the next four years, so that we can be in a good position (if not by the mid-term elections) by 2012.

You Beat One Wife, And All The Sudden You're A Wife Beater

Bob Nightengale, the guy known for possibly using off-the-record conversations as sources in articles, has graced us with yet another hack piece - this time, truly doing God's work in allowing accused wife-beater Brett Myers the chance to tell his side of the story. Part of this side notes that the whole thing was a giant big ol' cliched misunderstanding. Part of this side can be summed up, somewhat surprisingly, as "BOSTON WAS MEAN TO ME!"

Obviously, this deserves a dissection, FJM-style, and we'll get there in a second. First, though - it's important to note that while Boston is indeed the city that accosted Jason Kidd in the 2002 playoffs for being a, well, wife-beater, it's also the city that embraced Derek Lowe and Julio Lugo, among others. In other words, it's not exactly some bastion of anti-domestic-violence thought, in spite of the vigilant (yet mannish) lesbians protesting something 24/7 outside Marsh Chapel at BU.

Phillies' Myers puts past behind him, on and off the field

Interesting - this actually seems relatively neutral, almost as if the guy is moving on and improving his life. Maybe he's entered counseling, or perhaps he's found Jesus or Jo Bu . . . nope, turns out he's just a pussy:

PHILADELPHIA — Brett Myers still hears the taunts from the stands. He gets the obscene letters.

"I know there are people out there that think I'm a jerk. There are people out there who think I'm a wife-beater. That will never change," says Myers, alluding to a 2006 incident in which he was arrested and charged in Boston with assaulting his wife, Kim.

Seriously - fuck all those people who label me a wife-beater, simply because I . . . (ALLEGEDLY) beat my wife. In all fairness to Brett, he was never charged. That's because, in what may or may not be classic abused-wife behavior, his wife did not cooperate or press charges. However, let's take a look at what eye witnesses said at the time:

"He was dragging her by the hair and slapping her across the face. She was yelling, 'I'm not going to let you do this to me anymore.' . . . He had her on the ground. He was trying to get her to go, and she was resisting. She curled up and sat on the ground. He was pulling her, her shirt was up around her neck. . . . He could have cared less that we were there."

There's also the issue that Brett is 6'4" and 240 lbs, while his wife Kim was noted by the BPD as being 5'4" and 120 lbs. Oh - also, this happened at 12:26am on the way home from the bar . . . and Myers was scheduled to pitch the NEXT DAY, a 1pm afternoon start. This is the "When's the next time I'll be in Haiti?" of silliness. The guy only works every five days, and that's the day he gets picked up for a drunken fight with his wife? If I get in a hatchet fight the night before the LSAT, it really doesn't matter too much whether the fight was my "fault" - how the fuck did I get in a hatchet fighting zone to start?

Look, I'm the last person who will claim eyewitness testimony is all that credible - trust me, it's my job to know that eyewitnesses are notoriously poor as evidence. However, any part of that statement being true kind of invalidates his entire defense. That's a big deal. So, yeah, Brett - some things will never change. Holy shit.

"But you know what, I really don't care what people think about me. … If people don't like me, they can deal with it. This is who I am."

Now, here's something I can get behind - I'yam who I'yam, just like Popeye! Except instead of spinach, I eat shots of booze! And instead of Bluto, I beat up on Olive Oyl! And instead of a blind sailor, I'm a redneck blessed with a golden arm! If you don't like that, you can deal with it! Because if you make me deal with it, I'll punch you in the brain then drag you by the hair all caveman-style, because I don't really care what you think about me!

Also - note that this does NOT, at all, sound like "putting the past behind him." In fact, this sounds like "pretending the past never happened." But maybe he's putting the past behind him in other ways?

This was supposed to be the culmination of Myers' dream. The Phillies were in the World Series. He was as responsible as anyone, going 7-4 down the stretch after a minor league stint and winning his first two starts in the playoffs.

But he couldn't escape the fear of the Phillies' possible World Series opponent. "I did not want to play Boston," says Myers, 28. "If Boston had beat Tampa, I would have gone to (manager) Charlie (Manuel) and told him, 'I don't want to pitch in Boston.'

"I don't ever want to pitch in Boston again."

Oh. Wait. So "putting the past behind him" means "never returning to where it happened" now? Jesus - that's like getting over the death of a grandmother by never seeing another relative, ever. I mean . . . it might "work" in the sense that you'll never "cry" but I'm not quite sure you're "over it." Look, I can see why a rape victim wouldn't want to return to the scene of the crime - same with someone who witnesses a death of some sort, etc. Trauma is incredibly difficult. Brett Myers is not a trauma victim, even if his version of the story is correct and the situation was misunderstood.

Let's skip ahead and see why poor lil' Brett hates Boston so much:

Myers planned to hire bodyguards for Kim if they played the Boston Red Sox in the World Series, he says. The Phillies summoned security when she was harassed by Los Angeles Dodgers fans in Los Angeles during the National League Championship Series, says Phil Myers, Brett's father.

The pitcher, too, heard taunts as he warmed up before Game 2. Fans called out, "How's your wife?"

[...]

Yet when Myers pitched the next day [after his arrest] in Boston, he was alone. He heard the vicious chants. He says he was pelted by plastic beer bottles and trash when he warmed up in the bullpen.

"What happened to me that day in Boston, on the field, I wouldn't wish that on nobody," Myers says. "It wasn't just the boos and the things people were throwing. It was just what people thought about me. I didn't have a chance to explain. My lawyers told me not to, so I couldn't talk.

"For me to even pitch that day was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in life."

Wow.

You know what? I'm perfectly willing to cut the guy some semblance of a break, and/or forgive a particularly stupid drunken moment of his life. No man should really ever lay a hand on his wife, but obviously most of us aren't really in a position to judge. Maybe they are stubborn douche bags and sometimes it gets out of control - OK, fine.

But to act like he's the victim because his actions resulted in fans (in Boston no less) absolutely burying him? To say that no man should go through that? How inane. If you plant the Turd Tree, you're going to get shitty little acorns all over the lawn. If you then mow the lawn, there's going to be shit everywhere. It's not the lawnmower's fault.

Oh . . . Sorry About That, Homey

So, my hero, Charles Barkley, apparently stuck his immensely fat foot in his mouth during a speech given to reporters:

"I think [the Knicks] have a better coach. This coach probably won't try to kill himself."

Totally sweet, Charles - this makes his crack about the Angola basketball team being a "bunch of spearchuckers" look like the Emancipation Proclamation. Seriously, I don't really even follow the NBA, but I can really appreciate a good suicide joke, especially in front of a group of New York reporters. Maybe he can fly to Indy and get some material from Tony Dungy next. I'm sure Isiah sleeps well at night knowing that the fraternity of ex-players has his back . . . actually, he probably sleeps well at night because of the thousands of milligrams of Lunesta still coursing through his veins, but it's still good to hear Charles keeping it real stupid on camera. I would watch the dude eat, or pay money just to sit in the backseat of his car one afternoon.

I'm sure Sir Charles will take a ton of shit for this, and likely deservedly so, but it's actually kind of nice to hear an athlete make a real-person crack on a guy universally considered kind of a douche. Chuck will just have to drown his sorrows by losing hundreds of thousands of dollars at the Palms, or swinging a golf club like it's a live rattlesnake.

RIP Professor Falla

http://www.boston.com/sports/other_sports/articles/2008/09/17/jack_falla_bu_professor_sportswriter_hockey_expert/

Apparently, I've been asleep for the past couple of months, because I missed that Professor Falla had passed away towards the end of September. I know we're pretty hard on sportswriters on this site (and justifiably so), but Professor Falla was one of the great hockey writers of all time, and a tremendous writer in general.

I got to know Professor Falla when I was a senior at Boston U, and I took his 8 am Sports Journalism class. He always said that he scheduled the class at 8 am because he only wanted students who would be serious about the course. That, of course, is because he was a serious, old school journalist. He had his pet peeves (no exclamation points, for one), and he expected you to work hard at your writing.

At the same time, he was incredibly supportive of his students, and always was willing to help a young journalist. His students have become beat writers for some of the most famous teams in sports, and media relations professionals at the highest levels. If you proved yourself to him as a writer, he became your fan for life, no matter what profession you chose.

I was lucky enough to count Professor Falla as a reference for my first couple of years out of college, and I traded emails with him whenever there was a big story in sports. His impressions were always honest, always to the point, and always on the mark. I consider myself extremely lucky that he was my Professor, and that I got the chance, however brief, to discuss sports with him.

He was an incredibly charitable person, a great teacher, and and a talented writer. He will be missed, terribly. Rest in peace, Professor Falla.