As I type this, the Phoenix Suns are losing by 19 points to the San Antonio Spurs. It looks like they are going to go down 0-3 in this first round best of 7 playoff series, and in all likelihood, they’re season is, in the immortal words of some unspecified girl on either Laguna Beach, or the Hills; “Dunzo”. A Greg Norman syndrome of sorts.
It’s inherently sad for me to see these Suns struggle. They represent all that is good and noble in the NBA. They embody fun, seemingly effortless basketball. They try and score as much and as fast as possible, and they deal with the consequences later, a veritable college student drinking heavily on Cinco de Mayo. They’ve had all kinds of regular season success, and even moderate to strong postseason success, but can’t seem to grab that championship.
Their qualities alone are enough to make my heart frown when the Suns struggle, but even moreso, the rise and fall of the Suns parallels my college career, and to witness their last stand brings to the forefront the fact that I’m graduating in about 3 weeks. Appropriately, my college years will die with these Suns.
Let’s hope in our DeLoreans and drive* back to July 14th, 2004. An 18 year old version of myself had just graduated high school and was enjoying the rest of the summer before falling down the coast to college. The Phoenix Suns, coming off a 29-53 season, signed Steve Nash when the Mavericks weren’t all that interested in trying to bring him back. Both of our futures were bright.
The next four years saw the Suns win 62, 54, 61, and 55 games, arguably the most successful run in their history. The same could be said for me, I learned a lot, had a few drinks and laughs with friends, enjoyed the company of probably a few more beautiful women than I deserved, traveled around the world, and even fell in love once. The Suns and I both inhabited a charmed, higher level of existence.
This season, faced with their inability to get to the NBA Finals, the Suns made a bold, borderline reckless, trade. They traded Shawn Marion, a swiss army knife of a basketball player, and backup point guard Marcus Banks, to the Miami Heat for Shaquille O’Neal. It was unclear at the time whether or not Shaq was still alive. (Like I said, it was a bold trade.) The trade meant the end of the Suns as we knew them. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required. There were some half court sets, and definitely more throwing the ball into the post than anybody was comfortable with. The Suns were growing up.
So was I. I knew this was my last year. I did stuff solely for the sake of my resume. I added the extra internship and classed up the wardrobe. I had one foot on the next step and one foot still on the ground floor. I still would run and play, but always washed my hands afterwards. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required.
Now the Suns are crashing and burning, and if Game 1 was any indication, quite spectacularly. Steve Nash is getting old, Grant Hill is held together by scotch tape and Elmer’s glue at this point, we now know that Shaq is alive, but he’s certainly staring his own mortality right in the eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised to see some big changes for them this summer. The prevailing sentiment seems to be to make some trades and build around Amare Stoudemire and Leandro Barbosa. I like to think I’m not crashing and burning, but my college years certainly are. They’re just about over, it’s sad solely for that reason, but also because, like I said, their story played out a lot like the Suns did. Plenty of success, but ultimately their potential was never reached.
I don’t regret anything, but I know I could have stood out a bit more, really made my mark. Sometimes I was too content to do well enough, the equivalent of lots of regular season success and less post season success. I didn’t fail by any means, but I didn’t necessarily come through in the clutch. I imagine the Suns feel the same way, in no way do they regret anything, but they’ve got to feel a bit whistful about what could have been.
Both the Suns and I face uncertain times this summer and on. We’ll both be ending a really great chapter and hoping to write an even better one. I imagine J.K. Rowling felt like this after she wrote Half Blood Prince and felt Deathly Hallows looming. The pressure is formidable, and I hope I am too.
I watched Teen Wolf the other day for the first time since I was probably about eleven (11). I had forgotten both how awesome this movie is, but also how almost nothing in it makes any sense as far as werewolf, or more correctly, lycanthrope, lore goes. I’m absolutely willing to concede that I need to suspend my disbelief on some level in order to make most movies work, and I’m going to go ahead and concede the existence of werewolves. Problem is, this movie cuts down all standards we have established for werewolves. Teen Wolf knocks down all expectations we have of how a werewolf should be. As I said, it’s a deliciously awesome movie, but I want some effort on the believability scale. I know I should embrace pioneers, or we would have no George Washingtons, no Amelia Earharts, No Ansel Adams, not even any Krangs in our world, but for whatever reason, this perturbs me.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #1: Werewolves can’t control when they change from human into human-wolf.
Other than the first time it happens to him, Michael J. Fox’s character, Scott Howard can change into the wolf whenever he pleases. Everybody knows that werewolves can’t control when they change into wolves, the moon controls it. Unless they are in Harry Potter, and that’s only because of a potion. Presumably, Howard didn’t have access to potions because there doesn’t seem to be any magic in his world. Except werewolves, which makes this weird quandary. How is this possible that werewolfery is the only magic in Howard’s world? I have no explanations, and to be frank I can’t think about this for too long because it’s far too confusing.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #2: When werewolves are not in their human form, they are totally out of control.
When Howard turns into a werewolf he doesn’t go on any killing or maiming rampages. He doesn’t really hurt anybody at all, except for arguably Boof, but that has nothing to do with his wolfery, but rather his penchant for hot blondes. In fact, Howard’s only discernible difference, personality wise, when he becomes a werewolf is that he is far more confident than when he is a human. This really makes no sense to me either because if I were to become covered in hair and sharp teeth and claws it would not boost my confidence. It would most likely lower it. I doubt I would be comfortable in my own skin, as it were, anymore.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #3: Werewolves dress poorly.
In almost every case of werewolves throughout history, they either wear no clothes, or just throw on some tattered rags and call it a day. The werewolves in Underworld sometimes have ripped pants (the Incredible Hulk look), but usually have nothing. Professor Lupin skips clothes all together. Animals generally skip clothes, lest they be considered whimsical. Disney is the gold standard for animals wearing clothes, and I highly doubt most animals want to be pigeonholed into the Disney stereotype, thus, they don’t wear clothes.
When Howard is a wolf he either wears his regular clothes, his basketball jersey, or an awesome Vanilla Ice Cream pimp suit. The suit needs no further explanation, as it is plainly and obviously awesome.* But even when wolf Howard rocks his basketball jersey, he does it in style with a headband, presumably as a tribute to one of my top ten (10) favorite NBA players of all time: Clifford “Uncle Cliffy” Robinson.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #4: Werewolves can’t play basketball.
I’m not sure if this is a standard or not, but it should be. Werewolves basically just maul stuff and bite people, which is not conducive to holding a basketball, much less dribbling like Zeke, dunking like ‘Nique, and shooting like Thunder Dan Majerle.** It’s inconceivable that Howard turning into a werewolf would actually make him better at basketball. I could see if it would make him faster and able to jump higher, and maybe he’d even have quicker reactions. I just can’t see a werewolf putting it all together to become the best prospect since Harold Miner. And we all know how well that turned out.
I guess what I’m saying is that we really need some sort of standard set of rules when it comes to magical creatures. A veritable Montreal Protocol of the fantastical. Especially if we want them to ever have a chance of being accepted as something that sort of seems real, but ultimately isn’t. Like the abominable snowman, or of course, the chupacabra. Werewolves just want a chance, which takes us full circle, as that is sort of the underlying message of Teen Wolf. Give werewolves a chance, even though they are different. Give Boof a chance. She isn’t like a werewolf, yet she is still different. It’s the theme, it’s ok to compare girls to wolves. Just this once.
*Maybe it does need a bit more explanation, he is not a pimp when he wears the suit. I apologize if I portrayed that Teen Wolf somehow involves prostitution and pimping.
**Sorry for not continuing that rhyme, but I couldn’t resist the chance to drop a Dan Majerle reference. I had a folder with him on it in 3rd grade.
A friend of mine recently upgraded her cell phone. Now, admittedly I have never seen this new phone, but the powers it has given her are immense and impressive. She’s omnipresent on AIM. Her email is always accessible, as is the internet, and thus, pretty much anything in the world. People tend to refer to this as a digital leash, as if it somehow holds you back or restrains you. In reality, this gives people powers previously unforeseen in humans. It’s a Godlike manipulation of the internet and communications.
It’s certainly a lot of responsibility. Most of the population can’t handle this power. People gridlock interstates and Starbucks lines as they text message. They annoy their co-workers with their breakroom phone use. A society of people incorrectly using their powers is dangerously close.
I pine after iPhone’s and the power they hold and will give me, yet I know I’m not ready yet.* My life’s biggest regret thus far is the lack of any superhuman powers or abilities. I’m fascinated by the NBA, as it’s top performers seem to have higher power level athletic abilities, moreso than any other sport. Football size can be gained, without steroids baseball is an everyman sport, Hockey is Canada. A phone with the internet would appear to be my best chance at anything resembling super powers. Steve Jobs has placed these abilities within my reach. Yet I know I’m not ready yet. I would abuse the power, endlessly browsing the tangled world wide web. A fly caught within it, not the Brown Recluse that rules with a graceful iron fist over his domain.
Perhaps I will be ready when I no longer care for Facebook or fantasy basketball. My uses will be stripped down and streamlined. I will return email with frightening precision. I will spin and weave the world wide web with a clarity and accuracy previously unforeseen. I will reach that God level of communication. One fine day.
As time goes on and technology advances, the human race will inch closer to the Godlike status so many of us secretly desire. Today, the internet on our phones and the ability to communicate with all beings. Tomorrow, the power to teleport? Invisibility? They sound absurd right now, but we have to assume they will come about. Eventually they will become commonplace, as will the power of current phones. Superpowers will fall back into the echelon of a properly and averagely functioning person. It’s a less-than-vicious cycle. The true superheroes are the ones that not only adopt available powers early on, but also complete the phrase and use them heroically. They will adapt to new powers. They will hope from lilly pad to lilly pad on the pond of earth, always staying one step ahead of the rabble they rouse.
I don’t want to be God, I don’t want to play God. I have no knowledge of whether or not a God exists. But when powers comparable to one surface, they must be used properly and thoughtfully.
Teleporting is undeniably awesome, so I suppose it was inevitable that I would go against fashion (and some would say common sense) and go see the movie Jumper. My love of teleportation overcame any bitterness I have of Hayden Christensen doing his best to ruin Star Wars. The premise of this movie is that some people are born with the power to teleport anywhere in the world, and Samuel L. Jackson is apparently tired of the motherfucking teleporters jumping all over this motherfucking earth so he makes it his life goal to hunt down and kill all of them, under the guise of the religious title Paladin. Also, his inexplicably silver hair seems to say that he subscribes to the Sisqo method of personal grooming.
As promised, Hayden Christensen did plenty of eyebrow acting and looking uncomfortable, but this was more than overshadowed by the unadulterated joy of watching a grown up Billy Elliott play a borderline sociopath teleporter. I could see the grace he carried over from his days as a possibly homosexual dancer as he bashed in Paladin heads with a baseball bat.
The tragedy of this movie though is watching Rachel Bilson as she gets all Radiohead and attempts to disappear completely. Skinniness aside, there is something inherently sad about seeing her play somebody other than Summer. She’s playing pretty much the same character that Summer was from OC season 2 and on, and it brings up painful memories. It makes me mourn for the potential that show had and the emotion I had invested in it. My life is littered with the corpses of 1,000 failed tv shows and I miss none more than I miss the OC.
It wasn’t terribly bad, certainly better than say, 1408 was. Although, I suppose it can’t be that good of a movie when the main thing I get out of it is that I miss the OC tv show. I really should move on.
As a naive 18 year old starting my college career at Chapman University in Orange County, I was given a veritable encyclopedia of advice. It ranged from the comedic (“Fuck bad bitches!”) to the well meaning, possibly true, but ultimately extremely clichè (“College is the best years of your life, make sure to live it to it’s fullest.”), to the sublime (Those, I will take to my grave.). However, never was the advice overtly specific, it was always more of the meandering inner-peace type magniloquence. In retrospect what I needed was some specificity, specifically a little advice on the addictive nature of television shows on DVD.
That’s correct, if I were to give an incoming college freshman some advice it would be this: Beware the TV shows on DVD! Yet, I fear that this advice would be in vain. It’s inevitable that one will discover a new television show and end up spending an entire weekend (sometimes an entire WEEK) watching the show. This is the precise reason that TV shows are aired once a week, so people don’t sit down and accidentally watch them for 16 straight hours. Sometimes you don’t even notice until it’s dark outside and you realize that you haven’t moved your legs at all today.
I may be the worst culprit of all here. People often talk about self control and how it relates to obese people. People say they have no sympathy for the obese because they should just stop eating, or eat healthy, or go exercise, or something, anything, just stop eating those bags of Chips Ahoy. Let me tell you, after discovering TV on DVD, I don’t agree with this at all. I have all the sympathy in the world for obese people. If television shows on DVD were food, I would be so fat. Grossly, disgustingly, fat. Fatter than pre-Trim Spa, but post-Playboy Anna Nicole Smith. Fatter (but with less of a weird accent) than John Travolta in Hairspray. Sales people would ignore me at stores, I would have to purchase two cinema tickets, I wouldn’t ever be able to travel by submarine, I would even have to shop at Mrs. Plus Size next to the Food4Less.* I simply have no self control whatsoever when it comes to a good TV show that I have unfettered access to. I always tell myself I will savor it, watch an episode every other day or something, but that never has happened and I fear it never will. Inevitably, I watch them all back to back to back to back. And then if there is another season, count me in for that too. I’m doomed to forever be a compulsive and obsessive watcher of television shows on DVD. There is no cure.
I bring this up because my affliction has recently struck again, this time in the form of the excellent science-fiction-Western** show: Firefly. I’ve started watching it, and much like some sort of Off The Wall era Michael Jackson, I won’t stop until I get enough. Right now Mal, Wash, Simon, and of course Kaylee and Inara are the only friends I need. If my blog isn’t updated with my usual witticism that you have come to expect much in the near future, you know why. If nobody sees or hears from me at all in the near future you know why. If my family actually calls you up, worried about me because they are concerned that my limbs might actually no longer function, tell them you know why.
And if you are currently languishing, with many hours to kill, might I recommend Firefly? Maybe you can be more responsible about it that I can.
Sound the horn of Gondor! Today is J.R.R. Tolkien’s birthday! He would be 118, and as we all know, if he were a hobbit he’d probably still be alive and enjoying his senior years. I imagine there are all kinds of celebrations going on in Middle Earth today, you’ve got to honor your forefathers, and especially the founder of your world.
Señor Tolkien, I think that you wrote some really damn good books and it would be great if you could come back from the dead and write more.
“Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling has strongly hinted for the first time that she could write an eighth book in the series.
Rowling, 42, admits she has ‘weak moments’ when she feels she will pen another novel about the boy wizard.
One of her biggest fans – her 14-year-old daughter Jessica – has already put pressure on her to revisit the character.
…
However, if an eighth novel were to be written, Rowling concedes it is unlikely that Harry would be the central character.
…
An interview with Time magazine, which put Rowling at No 3 in its Person Of The Year list, she said: “There have been times since finishing, weak moments, when I’ve said ‘Yeah, all right’ to the eighth novel.
“If - and it’s a big if - I ever write an eighth book, I doubt that Harry would be the central character. I feel I’ve already told his story.
“But these are big ifs. Let’s give it ten years.”
In the meantime, Rowling is working on two writing projects – an adult novel and a “political fairy tale” – and is involved in charity work”
As you embark on your journey through life, there are some things you’ll always remember, somethings you will never remember, and somethings you mustn’t ever forget. Now, I am probably the most useless person of all time when it comes to useful things to remember. In reality, I probably don’t have a single one. As far as useless information goes however, my brain is full of it. My brain capacity is literally 100% used up by useless information. I fear that that does not bode well for my future, as I have no further room for anything that may or may not occur in the years to come. (There’s something to be said about living in the present right?) Which all just goes to show you that in life, you must always play the hand you are dealt. You cannot fold, even if you just have a pair of twos. You ride that pair of twos and bluff the shit out of it, until everybody is convinced you have a straight flush. Then you win the pot and never have to reveal you were just packing a pair of twos. The moral of that story seems to be that lying is good, which it is in some cases, but I fear it may not be a good lesson to be preaching to the youth of our nation, that being you.
Another thing to keep in mind as you embark on your journey of living and learning and taking in life is irony. Now, I’m not talking about real irony, like if a human sized banana with legs and arms was walking down the street and it slipped on an actual banana peel. Brought down by his own kind. That would certainly be comical, no? And certainly it would be ironic. In the traditional definition of irony that is. I however never use that definition, I use Alanis Morisette’s definition of irony, which is “if it rains on your wedding day that is ironic.” We’ll ignore the fact that in no way is that ironic, it is just shit luck (probably combined with poor planning). The fact of the matter is that rain falls at an average of 7 miles per hour. Yes, you read that correctly, you would be able to outrun the average rain drop as it fell on your wedding day. By most estimations I would imagine everybody at your wedding could outrun that rain. Even if you had a really decrepit old great grandma there, she could probably outrun the rain. And even if she couldn’t, you know what they say, a little moisture never hurt a senior citizen. (And even if she is the rare kind of senior citizen that is allergic to moisture, she’s old, she’s had a good life. Let her go.) This may not make sense now, but some day in the future you will look deep into your heart and it will come clear that Alanis Morissette is slowly redefining the tool we use to define our most basic communication: the dictionary. For that, she is purely demonic and simultaneously purely genius.
The last piece of golden advice I will let flow from the eternal fountain that is my mind is one of the utmost importance. Every year in New York there is a 1 in 4 chance that there will be a white Christmas. When a white Christmas does indeed happen, it is a joyous occasion. Small children play in the snow. Creepy adults kidnap small children playing in the snow. Chestnuts are roasted on an open fire. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care. People with red noses are celebrated, not rounded up and forced into internment camps. Bing Crosby is sung with gusto and glee. Now all that sounds well and good, but not so much when you consider that for every 1 white Christmas, there are 3 black Christmases. For all you racists out there who may be reading this, don’t jump to conclusions, a black christmas has nothing to do with black people. A black Christmas, as you may not know since I’m the one doling out advice here, is when the Dark Lord Sauron is particularly unhappy with Middle Earth and uses the power of Mount Doom to cover the land with ash and soot. In the chaos of this “black rain”, as it has come to be known in certain circles, the Dark armies are sent out. Orcs and Urukai terrorize the land, led by mighty Ringwraiths on their Nazgul steeds. As you may guess, that really leads to a less than perfect Christmas, plus lots of casualties.
Now before you dismiss these nuggets of advice as the nonsensical ramblings of a half drunk, fully unemployed college student, let them marinate for awhile. I predict that one day in the near future, you’ll be minding your own business, perhaps paying for a nice pastry at your local bistro when suddenly the logic of my advice will hit you. If I may, I will warn you in advance that it will hit you hard, and it may possibly be painful and may possibly knock you off your feet. This is why I don’t recommend buying coffee or any other hot drinks while at said bistro. You could burn yourself during that shining moment when everything comes clear. And burns last for life. You can take that to the bank.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles never made that much sense. It’s about four giant turtles, a giant rat, and an egomaniac villain with a blade fetish. Albeit, TMNT always did an excellent job coming up with convincing sounding explanations that at least made the entire premise seem plausible. For all we know, there really could be a company that developed a mutagen-like substance that really can meld human DNA with animal DNA. If that were really discovered, it would be considered dangerous and morally questionable, so of course it would be covered up and kept secret. This made total sense to my 10 year old mind, and it makes total sense to my 21* year old mind now.
However, this precedent of faux logic that the cartoon version of TMNT set was not held up by the live action movie version. This bothered me when I was younger, and it bothers me more and more every year.
In the cartoon version of TMNT, Splinter was portrayed as a man, a very advanced (and very betrayed) ninja in fact, who got turned into a rat by mutagen. The cartoon series began in 1987. Yet, completely flying in the face of this presupposed factual statement, in the TMNT live action movie (made later, in 1990), Splinter was a regular rat (owned by a ninja) who got turned into a bigger, more man-like rat by mutagen. Now, I know you are thinking: that this has to be entirely logical, as this is the direction the Turtles mutation went, from animal to more man-like animal. But bear with me. We are supposed to believe that before Splinter was mutated, he was a pet rat who actually practiced Ninjitsu. A normal rat would never practice Ninjitsu, I have to assume they are only concerned about things like cheese and gnawing.** Yet, here was Splinter, before he was mutated, practicing kicks and flips in his rat cage (that I think was actually a bird cage). Even as a TMNT worshipping young child, I found this to be ridiculous, and I think that in itself should speak to the lack of believability. I was willing to accept pretty much anything this movie fed me, including a Vanilla Ice dance party in TMNT 2, yet I could not and would not accept this blatantly false information.
When Bobby Herbeck and Todd Langen were writing the screenplay for this movie there was just absolutely no excuse for them to not use the much more convincing explanation given in the cartoon series. It was already written, and they kept most other aspects of the TMNT world, why change this small, yet very significant, detail into something that makes so much less sense?
This is a live action movie, if anything, it should be more believable than a cartoon, certainly not less.
*22 in one hour and 9 minutes!
**Or according to Steve Jobs and Pixar, cooking.
your legs at all today.
And then if there is another season, count me in for that too. I’m doomed to forever be a compulsive and obsessive watcher of television shows on DVD. There is no cure.