I don’t have premium cable. Every now and then, Comcast’ll run some sort of special and I’ll have access to HBO for a month or so. That’s actually how I saw the first three episodes of “Rome.” The way I figure it, anything I might want to see on any premium cable channel will be available on DVD eventually — and with a large DVD collection and a three-a-time subscription to Netflix, I can wait for those DVD release dates.
Really, the attractive thing for me about HBO isn’t the movies they air — er, Netflix? — but, rather, their original programming: namely, The Sopranos and The Wire. When you’re talking about cable television, until recently, HBO was the only channel you could go to for quality cable TV: remember that USA show about bike cops on the boardwalk? Yeah. But even with f/x, and sci-fi, and all this great stuff that’s coming out, Showtime’s programming isn’t anything I would’ve wanted to see.
I mean, isn’t Showtime just the poor man’s HBO, anyway?
So, recently, and after much pressure, I stuck a couple of Showtime shows onto my Netflix queue: Dexter, and Weeds (in that order). I’m on Dexter’s fifth episode, and I’m enjoying it so much I went out and picked up the books that inspired the show: Darkly Dreaming Dexter and Dearly Devoted Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay (the third book in the series, Dexter in the Dark, comes out next week). Is it normal for tv series to be based on books? Scratch that: Homicide by David Simon springs to mind.
So Dexter’s essentially a psycho serial killer who preys on serial killers while working in forensics for the Miami PD. I don’t know if it’s true, but Dexter’s narration claims the PD has a 20% homicide clearance rate (hey, check it, Baltimore DOES do better). I’m curious to get into the books to see the differences between the two formats. Meanwhile, James Remar is on this show? How awesome is that? He’s such a great character actor, and his brief appearance in Battlestar Galactica’s second season was just such a horrible waste.
“It’s important that you seem normal,” is Remar’s advice to his son (Dexter) in the flashbacks that feature in every episode. Remar’s character, a cop, is grooming his son for his future as a serial killer. Because normal offers protection. Especially, I suppose, for serial killers, but I think there’s truth here for anyone who isn’t mainstream suburb-living SUV-driving Americana. Anywaaaaay.
Meanwhile, considering the show is about Dexter, it’s a little strange how I find myself empathizing with him. I mean, not in a “Gosh I want to be a serial killer” way, rather, more with Dexter’s anxieties regarding social interactions.
Christ, I think I’ve said too much.
I’m sure the police’ll be batting down my door soon.
The other day, I was in the backroom at the Franchise, with my feet propped up, re-reading The Hunt for Red October.
The day started out with a good amount of deliveries, and then slowed down. The door chimed a few times, but Zebulon didn’t seem to need me — in other words, there were no thum-splaaaaat! sounds indicating pizzas committing suicide — and, frankly, I was losing myself in Clancy’s best novel (most of them, you must admit, read like technical manuals with characters).
As the afternoon came along and the night staff started showing up, I gathered my money together and made my way to the front to be counted out.
“A customer was asking about your car,” Zebulon said.
Erm. Huh? I mean, I was parked illegally around the curb. Was the guy complaining?
“No, he asked if I owned the Celica, I said no, it was yours, then he said it was a pretty car.”
Erm. Pretty? My Celica?
I mean, don’t get me wrong, my Celica has some nice pretty lines, but I’m really awful about washing the damn thing. Or about keeping it clean. Really, I was much more suited to owning a Wrangler — who cares about a dirty Jeep? They’re supposed to be dirty, after all. But a sports car? I should be spending half of my Saturday every week washing and waxing and buffing and whatever else it is to keep a sports car beautiful and shiny and gleaming and fast looking.
Yeah, so anyway, I said something along the lines of, “What? Was he fucking kidding?”
Because, really, if I took all the plastic bottles in my car to a recycling plant, I’d probably get enough money to buy, like, I dunno, a nice little rowhouse down in Remington or something.
“No, he seemed really sincere.”
I don’t know how much faith I place in Zebulon’s appraisal of someone’s sarcasm meter. Really, I’m surprised “warsh me” isn’t scrawled in finger across the back of the car. Meanwhile, my hood is coated in dirt from the mess of leaves I found on it when I came out this morning (and how about this weather? FALL is in the AIR, baaaaby!)
In any case, I think I’m starting to come out of my “Holy Crap, Less Than A Year Until I’m Thirty!” funk. Tomorrow: an actual grocery store run, some laundry, writing some cover letters, and, yes, maybe a stop at the car-wash on York Road in Cockeysville with a pocket full of quarters. I wants me a clean car.
(I mean, okay, there’s only so clean I can get the damn thing without getting it detailed, but the first thing I do when I’m done with pizza, is taking the thing down to Diamond Detail. Beautify it up! And get the driver’s seat patched.)
It wasn’t until I was reading through the Blogtimore aggregator that I remembered what today was the anniversary of.
It’s strange, but for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking of September 11th not as the anniversary of the day of the terrorist attacks in Virginia and New York, but rather, as the day Baltimore might elect someone who could drag the city out of the cesspit its slipping into. Yes, I know the actual election day isn’t for another couple of months, but let’s face it, whoever wins the Democratic Primary today is probably going to have, oh, a pretty good — almost impossible to beat — chance at winning.
I’d be going out to my polling station … if, in fact, I lived in Baltimore City. But I don’t. I live in Baltimore County. I elect a County Executive instead, and not on the same schedule as the city elections.
It seems to me I’ve written posts about September 11th — y’know, that September 11th — every anniversary. It doesn’t seem like six years, does it? This seems to be a recurring theme of my September 11th posts — it doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. It still feels like yesterday, perhaps not so much in a chronological sense but in the fact that I can remember it like it was yesterday.
And for me, the most vivid thing was, standing in that student union at Towson, watching CNN on one of the many monitors that had been set up — and were, still, being set up — and seeing the second plane crash into the second tower and hearing that woman scream “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” as the fireball exploded through.
It wasn’t so much the “Jesus Christ” thing, more that added middle name she gave him. When the guy at the bleep-button at a major cable channel isn’t bleeping stuff like that out, you know the shit has really hit the fan (y’know, as if the exploding airplanes hadn’t already illustrated that).
There was a week in August where I took off so much work that Geisha, at one point, snapped at me: “HOW ARE YOU GOING TO PAY YOUR BILLS?” (Erm, rob banks?)
It was, in fairness to myself, the week not only of my outing to the O’s/Red Sox game, but also my “Hot Fuzz” movie night and birthday. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve had a day off since then, but I know when my summer vacation will be: September 30th through October 4th, when I’ll be chillin’ by my lonesome in a West Virginia cabin.
Yes, I’ll be packin’ the shotgun. This is, after all, Wes Viginny.
I’ve heard of “The Wicker Man” before, of course: essentially that the Nick Cage remake of the British horror film was crap. I had no desire to watch either film until I listened to the Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg commentary on “Hot Fuzz”: Jim Broadbent, The Wicker Man! So, I decided I might as well see for myself and Netflixed both films. Last night, I watched the original. Right now, I’m hoping the remake ends sooner (rather than later), because it’s total, unadulterated, CRAP.
The original film, about an orthodox Christian Scottish cop who travels to a remote island populated by pagans to investigate the disappearance of a young girl, is very, er, strange. It doesn’t get scary until the end, when you really feel the emotion Broadbent channels — “NO! NO!” (and, in that circumstance, who wouldn’t?). The movie is a mix of a musical, a horror, and a porno, but it’s very effective, and well worth a watch (just, um, lock the kiddies up, first).
The second film isn’t worth the time. Can Nick Cage act? If I hadn’t seen “Adaptation”, I would say ‘no.’
When I saw the previews for “Shoot ‘Em Up”, I thought it might make a fun movie to rent on DVD — to watch while munching on popcorn and drinking a frosty tall glass of skim milk. Then I read a review of the film in today’s The Baltimore Sun, and what caught my eye was “[Mr. Smith's] overreaction to inelegant or thoughtless behavior – from slurping coffee to changing lanes without a turn signal – is the film’s richest source of humor.” So here I am imagining Clive Owen (Smith) grabbing some ya-hoo-boy driver out of his car and jamming a carrot through the idiot’s eye socket so that his brain drains out. Rockin’!
However, I’m still not willing to spend nine bucks for the pleasure of seeing it on DVD. I’m sure it’ll be available on Netflix before Christmas so that the male viewing audience craving a little cartoonish violence after spending many days in the close proximity of family will have a safe outlet.
In any case, I don’t really mean to be writing about Shoot ‘Em Up, but, rather, about a shoot ‘em up.
Right now, I’m trying to remember the first western I saw — not the first western I half-watched in the background as a kid while building castles in my parents’ basement — but the first western I ever saw that I actually paid attention to. I think it must’ve been “Silverado”, although my memory is being over at my friend Nate Naddell’s house, watching TV, and he stopped flipping channels when we came to the end of that movie, a western he’d seen several times. I must’ve been working at Blockbuster, as I remember renting it and getting caught up on it. I think that movie — Kevin Costner’s second film (technically), also with Scott Glenn and Kevin Kline and Daniel Glover (and John Cleese as a sheriff!!!!) — remains my favorite film of the genre (I’ve even got the Criterion Collection Laserdisc, even though my player has long since failed to function).
I’ve never seen Unforgiven (it’s on my queue, somewhere), but The Quick and the Dead is a favorite of mine. Blazing Saddles, of course. A year or so ago I rented one with Henry Fonda as a brutal thug (can’t think of the name), and High Noon I saw in a high school film class — what a great movie! Who can forget Young Guns? (I wish I could). The Magnificent Seven was magnificent, although I can’t bring myself to watch any of the sequels. One of my favorite television shows is a western with a sci-fi twist: Brisco County Jr. Another of my favorite shows is sci-fi with a western twist: Firefly.
I think the only western I’ve seen on the big screen was “Dances With Wolves”, with my parents, at the Uptown Theater in Washington, DC. Beautiful theater (saw Contact there), boring film. Well, to a young’un like me, anyway — I was, what, twelve? — although I’ve found an appreciation for it as I’ve aged. (Costner’s recent “Open Range” wasn’t too bad).
There are two high profile westerns coming to an overpriced cinema near you this autumn: the first opened today: 3:10 To Yuma, with Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. The second, The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford, opens next month.
Meanwhile, I’m off work at 4pm Sunday, and I think I’d like to see a western on the big screen. There’s a 4:20 at the Regal in Hunt Valley … but I’ll miss the cut off time for a matinee by a little over an hour. Whatever, I’ve got faith that I’ll be paying my nine bucks for a good story, great cinematography, and a killer shoot ‘em up.
I’ve got a train to catch, and a six-shooter to load.
First, Ayn Rand stopped me reading like a brick wall stops an accelerating sports car (ever see Bad Boys?). I’ve been digging into my Stephen King collection, instead.
It’s funny, how “into” blogging I was just three or four months ago — not just writing blog entries, but surfing to other blogs and commenting. I think it’s pretty clear to anyone that blogging hasn’t been a top priority this summer — truthfully, not much has. After a year spent working full time and taking 12-credit hours worth of classes a semester, I was pretty much completely burnt out by the time finals rolled around. This blog has certainly been a victim of that burn out.
I’m finally starting to pull myself out of the burn out, however. I’ve been spending time on my job search — I sent out two resumes and cover letters today. That might not sound like a lot, but cover letters can be a real bitch to write. The other thing that this means is that my job search has officially kicked off … today. Or, I should say, “my renewed” job search has kicked back off, as the original essentially died back in May or June with a couple of half-hearted attempts between then and, er, now. (Note to self: the cats have been sleeping on the dress shirts, get those to the dry cleaners).
I registered myself on a dating site I heard about on the Ed Norris show yesterday morning: something about being a geek. I’ve got it bookmarked on my laptop, and need to decide if I want to go back and actually fill in my profile and upload a photo. I’m thinking “yes”, because god knows I’m getting zero dates from the blog (and, really, after reading this blog, why would anyone want to?)
I also need to lose weight. More rice cakes, less pizza. Too bad rice cakes aren’t free.
In addition, I’ve been writing a “novel” — I’d like to say it’s a “coming of age”, but the main character is, like me, in his late twenties, delivering pizzas, trying to get ahead in life, and, oh yes, the unwitting target of a murder scheme after he stumbles on a scheme involving pizza-sponsored school nights and the local board of education. After reading that description, you’ll be happy to know the last few items are being written out in the second draft — second draft? I’ve got ten pages written, I mean second draft of the outline — and I completely blame their inclusion as the fault of a free “Writing Mysteries” book I found in a “TAKE ‘EM OR WE’LL PITCH ‘EM!” book donation box at Towson University last winter. With luck, I’ll be returning to West Virginia sometime later this month or early October for a five-day writing-intensive vacation.
So, between the job search, and the pizza jobs, and the “novel” (I’ll stop quotation-marking it when I broach 100 pages), the blog remains a low priority. I’m going to try to update more frequently. It’s interesting to look back when I was posting five or six times a day. Now, posting that much in a week seems like a lot. Every now and then I talk to people who sit in front of a computer for a living — they often remark that after spending eight hours a day in front of a computer, the last thing they want to do at night is spend more time in front of the computer. But, without a computer, how could I write? And I do, in fact, love to write.
(Yes, I know I could write long-handed, or buy a typewriter, but I’ve written on computers for as long as I can remember — and I can remember way back to when I was a kid and my family lived in Adelphi — right off Riggs Road — and we had a bulky old IBM and a dot-matrix printer and my friend Russ and I would write bad Star Wars/Trek stories — me at the keyboard, him, frequently, on the phone dictating his parts of the stories to me).
Meanwhile, speaking of mysteries — if you’ve never seen 2005′s “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang“, you really should take the time to add it to your Netflix. It’s a spin on the classic old film noire, with Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer. If you’re not a fan of either of those two actors, or if you’re not a fan of movies with a narrator who is self-aware, or main characters who spend the bulk of one scene dissing Baltimore (the film itself is set in New York and L.A.), you might be a fan of Michelle Monaghan’s boobs (especially if you’re a straight male or a lesbian): in that case, good news, there’s a topless scene. Meanwhile, here’s a sneak peek:
No, see, sneak peek of the movie, not of Michelle Monaghan’s very lovely and natural breasts. And, y’know, frankly, if the only reason you want to see “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang” a second time is to see her upper chest again, you’ve got strange taste in cinema.
I’m about fifty pages into Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged.” When I know what to make of it, I might have more commentary. Right now, I’m a fan of the sorta art-deco imagery she’s channeling.
Following the resignation of the disgraced Larry Craig — and let’s be clear here, his disgrace comes not from his sexual orientation (unless of course you’re an ultra conservative Christian, in which case, that’s the only that matters) but from his conduct, including soliciting sex in a public bathroom and lying to a police officer — I came across a post on Lugnet which restores a sense of pride and honor to the United States Capitol (because, um, you can’t render politicians in Lego bricks*):
The finished model gallery is here, construction photos here, and an interview with the builder (he’s German, living in Germany) here.
*Well, I mean, if you can render Bill Shatner, you can render a politician in Lego, but … why would you want to?
