"I never saw John Wayne on the Sands of Iwo Jima."

Thought I'd throw this up on the old blog in honor of Veterans Day. Veterans Day usually comes and goes without a second thought from myself, but in the wake of the Fort Hood atrocity (and that's the only word that does it justice) the true cost of the American life we all enjoy has come into greater focus. Thanks to Grandpa, Justin, Chevy and every other Veteran out there.

It ain't like the movies.



George A. was at the movies in December '41
They announced it in the lobby what had just gone on
He drove up from Birmingham back to the family's farm
Thought he'd get him a deferment there's was much work to be done
He was a family man, even in those days
But Uncle Sam decided he was needed anyway
In the South Pacific over half a world away
He believed in God and Country, things was just that way

Just that way…..

When I was just a kid I spent every weekend
On the farm that he grew up on so I guess so did I
And we'd stay up watching movies on the black and white TV
We watched "The Sands of Iwo Jima" starring John Wayne

Every year in June George A. goes to a reunion
Of the men that he served with and their wives and kids and grandkids
My Great Uncle used to take me and I'd watch them recollect
about some things I couldn't comprehend

And I thought about that movie, asked if it was that way
He just shook his head and smiled at me in such a loving way
As he thought about some friends he will never see again
He said "I never saw John Wayne on the sands of Iwo Jima"

Most of those men are gone now but he goes still every year
And George A's still doing fine, especially for his years
He's still living on that homestead in the house that he was born in
And I sure wish I could go see him today

He never drove a new car though he could easily afford it
He'd just buy one for the family and take whatever no one wanted
He said a shiny car didn't mean much after all the things he'd seen
George A. never saw John Wayne on the sands of Iwo Jima

Question: What's The Only Thing More Vain Than A Self Commissioned Portrait Of Yourself As A Centaur?

Answer: TWO self commissioned portraits of yourself as a centaur hanging above your bed. Two self commissioned portraits of yourself as a centaur hanging above your bed!? In case you have ever questioned that instinct we all have inside of us to hate Alex Rodriguez, he has given us all rock solid confirmation that he is in fact a douchy, ego maniacal, quasi homosexual jaggoff.

Observe.

Is this not reason enough to hate the filthy Yankees?

I read it on the internet so it has to be true. I mean it's not like some snotty, jilted ex would ever make something up to smear a high profile and thoroughly hatable celebrity and leak it to US Weekly. But you know, I really don't care if it is bull crap. I choose to believe it. The world is a better place in my mind when Alex Rodriguez's ego is confirmed to be so excessive and creepy that he paid what I imagine to be a sizable amount of money to a portrait artist teary with laughter to create such an abomination. And then do it again!

"Yeah, see the one I already have hanging there? I want it like that but better. No, I'm not replacing it. I'm putting the new one next to it. No, I don't want one to be humping the other. That would be weird. Just the two centaurs would be fine."

This is something you would see in hanging in one of Saddam Hussein's Palace.

It's a fair conclusion to read some homosexual overtones into this. A centaur is a very gay creature. First off, it's Greek. Secondly, it's a shirtless man torso combined with the animal most commonly associated with a huge dong. Now I'm not saying Arod is gay. I'm saying he's gay for himself. He would love nothing more on earth than to bang the hell out of himself. Not in a masturbatorial kind of way. But actually nailing a clone of himself. Of course, if he's going to play make believe than it isn't that much of a leap for him to want to do a centaur version of himself. Or be done by one. I actually have no idea how that would work.

So yeah. Alex Rodriguez is totally gay for himself. And Jeter. Not that there's anything wrong with it. Actually, all due respect to alternative lifestyles, I think it's safe to say that there is indeed something wrong with the centaur thing. It's only slightly more disturbing than banging Madonna or Kate Hudson. (Actually, Kate Hudson is adorable. But her movies are just too terrible. Almost Famous aside. But Madonna is just gross.)

While I'm bagging on one of the few sports figures to rival Kobe Bryant in his shear detestability, here's a link to an article from The Onion that I enjoyed.

F*cking Yankees.

Loretta Broke My Heart In a Letter

I've spent the last three weeks with this song rattling around in my head. Worse things could happen. Seriously. Usually when a song won't leave me alone, it doesn't take long for me to hate it. But I just don't get tired of this baby. It's not often that a song can be really good while it's also really funny. (I thought I told you shut u-hu-up.) It's sort of a parody on Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways Too Leave Your Lover". But in my humble opinion, it's way better. I love Paul Simon. But I think the Conchords edge him out on this one.

So when you find yourself singing this thing to yourself for the next month, feel free to thank me.

Enjoy.

A Few Things That Just Need To Go Away

Not that it matters much anyways.

Am I alone in thinking that 2009 has been a crappy year? I really don't want to sound like our suicidal, cartoon friend here. But I also don't think I'm being too dour to say that this year has just plain sucked. The economy is still in the toilet. Unemployment is getting worse. Lady Gaga is somehow popular. Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, Iraq, Israel, China, Russia and North Korea are all about to take turns in blowing everyone up. The world is dying of Swine Flu which actually doesn't matter much since we're all apparently doomed to perish in 2012 when the Earth reverses its rotation. Damn Mayans and their curses. I can't listen to TV or the radio for five minutes without hearing the word "Twitter". Glen Beck is a massive hit. As is Kieth Olberman. (What is a reasonable, non-hateful person to do?) And now to drop a crap covered cherry on this turd sundae, the dirty ass Yankees have won the World Series. Mind you, this is only a few months after the dirty ass Lakers won the NBA title. Which happened a couple of months after the dirty ass Utes won the Sugar Bowl.

I need to start drinking. Or freebasing heroin.

But you know, this really isn't anything new. The economy will (eventually) rebound. People lose their jobs but guess what? They get other jobs. And even though there's always some crisis somewhere, the world will survive. It turns out that the Swine Flu is not that big of a deal. And even though the bad guys sometimes win in sports, none of it really matters worth a damn. And if the Mayans knew a damn thing about anything, then there would still be Mayans.

So really, it's all more of the same old nonsense. But friends, I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness. Certainly one can't expect to recover from an illness without the proper diagnosis. So I am here to play doctor. (Ladies?) I have decided to highlight a few elements of our culture that need to go the hell away. They need to stop. Some may dismiss this is a whiny, trivial bitch fest by an angry Red Sox fan who feels the need to lash out at meaningless irritants in the name of some imaginary greater good in an effort to distract himself from the terrible reality that this purple lip gloss wearing dick hole has a World Series ring. I wouldn't disagree with that statement.

So for your time wasting pleasure, here is a list of things that for the sake of all humanity, just need to go the hell away. You can't deny that life would be a lot more livable without them.

Velour sweat pants with stupid things written on the butt.

Ladies, this ain't sassy. It ain't sexy. It's played out. And it was trashy as a herpes scab before it got played out. If your ass is worth looking at, you can trust me, it will be looked at. But don't compel my glance with this misleading, desperate commercial. Juicy? I'll be the judge of that. Pink? Well, that's just down right confusing. It should say, "I wish I was younger than I really am." I realize that's a pretty long slogan. But most of the women I see actually wearing these things in line at Cafe Rio seem have plenty of ad space to sell. They look nothing like our friend up there.

Sports memorabilia that are not in their proper team colors.
Look upon that abomination! It is a hybrid of all that is unholy. A Yankee hat in Lakers colors. It's as if Satan himself birthed a hybrid spawn of concentrated evil straight from his fiery anus. But let's forget my predisposition to hate these two teams. This is just plain merchandising greed. When you wear your team's colors, that is a proud display of your loyalty. It's your identity as a fan. When you commit to a team, you commit to their colors. And confusing that logo with conflicting colors just ain't right. There are three exceptions. Any team merchandise in pink. I don't really like it, but let's make the ladies happy. Red Sox caps in green. It's Bean Town. Irish to the bone. And the Padre's Caps in camo. Camp Pendleton is next door to the Pads and they've been doing it forever.

Kanye West's stupid robot voice.

I don't know Kanye's music. It isn't my taste so I don't care what he sounds like. And I don't really care if he makes an ass out of himself at a make believe awards show. Nor do I care if he hates George Bush. Nor do I care that he is a gay fish. But I seem to hear a lot of unsolicited music (commercials, at parties, basketball games) that feature that stupid robot voice effect. This one. Cher did it a decade ago. As did Kid Rock. So I guess I shouldn't blame it all on Kanye. But my issue with this lazy little device is that it makes it impossible for me to ignore mediocre music. And that's really all I want to do. Your music doesn't have to be good. Just uneventful. But I can't tone that Optimus Prime thing out. It is needlessly antagonistic.

Nancy Pelosi's face.
Have you ever seen Brazil? Weird movie. Look, when a middle aged man has an obvious case of hair plugs, it's hard to take him seriously. Clearly it is a man who was so consumed with his own physical imperfections, that he subjected himself to a painful and futile effort to conceal something that isn't worth hiding in the first place. It is a man that lies to himself every time he looks in the mirror. That is a man I cannot trust. Similarly, when a woman has stretched and botoxed any natural expression away from her face forever, it destroys her credibility. Pelosi does not portray herself as a confident woman of authority. She comes off as an insecure divorcee trying get back in the dating game as she drives her Miada to the 50 and older singles bar. I don't care for her politics in general. But she is so ineffective at persuading anybody to follow her, the more she's in the public light, the more damage she does to the far left political spectrum. That's just fine with me. So I don't want her to go away. I just want her face to go away. Be considerate Nancy. Most people have HD TV's now. Paper bags are cheap.

This request also applies to Jerry Jones.


Those pop up ads that start an audio sales pitch after you have closed them so you can't shut off without closing down your entire browser.

F*ck those things.

The History Channel wasting my time with nonsense about UFO's and Nostradamus.

When the slogan of the show questions if the subject is legitimate history, maybe it should be broadcast on the Alien Bullshit and Ghost Chasers Channel. And yet despite all the deeply relevant and fascinating historical subjects that could be the subject of compelling and challenging programs, the damn History Channel more often than not kills its time chasing Big Foot, validating these idiots and confusing Nostradamus with Alexis De Tocqueville. But every once in a while they do talk about actual history. A few weeks ago they did a week long focus on the Kennedy's. It was fascinating. I ate that stuff up. But too often they cop out. Look, I realize that the History Channel knows what it's doing. They're chasing ratings. It's what a TV station does. This means there's apparently an audience for "Haunted History" and "Monster Quest". I am not among that audience. I wouldn't mind this that much if the Discovery Channel didn't also kill all of its time with fishing, truck driving and logging themed reality shows. Is it too much to ask that I feel a false sense of productivity while I piss away time in front of the TV? Give me interesting infotainment that fools me into thinking I've actually learned something. Then I can repeat what I happen to remember in conversations providing me with the illusion that I am well informed. And all without touching a book. The History Channel is seriously letting me down.

BYU Football.

It's not that I don't love them. I love them so very much. But cheering for this team is like cheering for an insecure 13 year old girl. "You're really good! You just don't know it. If you just believed in yourself, you'd be so successful! Oh no. Please don't cry. No no no no. You're just so talented and smart and pretty. And the boys think you're cute. They really do. But you just don't see it." A team this talented and experienced should get better and better as the season goes on. But when they get punched in the face, they collapse into the fetal position every time. They still haven't recovered from that damn TCU game last year. Look, I have a whole lifetime of self induced failure to reflect upon. I don't need to see the same insecure sabotage displayed every week in my football team. Life's too short.

Mac v PC commercials.



Apple has certainly done an exceptional job branding it's product over the years. And generally I like Justin Long. He was great as the likable, supportive boyfriend in Drag Me To Hell. (Awesome movie, by the way.) But these stupid ads have just become smarmy. It's not that it bags on Microsoft. I don't care if they do. But it's done in such a passive aggressive, smug way. I think it's the cutesy poo piano in that background that puts it over the top for me. This viciously negative slam combined with such childlike music is like the really friendly traffic cop that smiles while he jams you up with bullshit ticket. I don't have any kind of loyalty toward Microsoft (no real complaints either) but these ads make me defensive of Windows. Also, the commercial above is total bullcrap. Only those square, uptight PC's have failed in hilarious dated ways in the past as portrayed by the Daily Show guys ugly suits. Really Apple? What about this massive failure? Or this. Take a look at this monstrosity . As successful as it was tell me that doesn't scream "late nineties" louder than Pokemon and The Spice Girls.

Also Apple, would it kill you to put a right click button on your mouse?



Alright. You know, I actually feel slightly better having gotten that all off my chest. Thank you for humoring me. I'm sure there's more stupid things that would do the world a favor by vanishing. But nothing else is coming to mind. Sadly, complaining about annoying trivial bull crap really does make me feel good. That doesn't reflect anything too flattering about my true nature.

Oh well. I gotta be me.

OOOHHHH!! Now I get it!

The hooker picture will makes sense in a few paragraphs. Just go with me for a second.

A million years ago, probably about 1988, my cousins from my dad's side came to town from Arizona for the biannual Westenskow family reunion. It was the end of July in Utah. Hot as hell. Of course, it was quite temperate for our Arizona friends but that's beside the point. We decided that it was the right time to exercise our duty as a Mormon family in Salt Lake with more than nine kids (it was a total of 11 with the Whitmers and us) and camp out on State Street to get a great spot to enjoy the 24th of July parade. It is a rite of passage for all of the proud decedents of pioneer stock. We show our appreciation of the gut wrenching sacrifice of our ancestors by sleeping on an air mattress, waving at marathon runners and then watching a float that features Dick Norse slowly drive by.

Now I can think of few things on this planet less interesting than parades. Unless it features the members of the Utah Jazz and we are all celebrating the 2010 NBA Championship (This is the year, right? No?) then I have exactly zero desire to watch a parade on TV. Much less watching it in person on a hot ass July day. Much less investing a sleepless night to get "great seats" to watch it in person on a hot ass July day.

However, that was one damn fun night. I was about nine or ten years old and I had a cousin that was just a year older than me named Westen. (For the record, his Mom is a Westenskow, hence the name.) For all intents and purposes, we were the same age. And we had a great time just screwing around. We went by all the local fast food places that were open all night and grabbed all the sugar and salt packets and made a huge pile of powdered condiments in the gutter. That thing was the size of a traffic cone. When your nine, this constitutes a good time. We actually pretended it was cocaine and that we were going chop it up to get it ready for distribution. We had Scarface accents and everything, even though neither of us had seen that movie. It was the 80's, man. A time when couple of lilly white Mormon kids playing "Drug Dealer" in the streets while waiting for a Pioneer themed parade just didn't seem that weird.

There's a reason I bring this up. Have you ever had a moment in your life where something happened and for some reason, you weren't completely aware of the moment's complete significance. But a few years later, the full impact dawns on you in a dramatic "Oh duh!" kind of epiphany? Let me illustrate what I'm saying.

As my cousin Westen and I were stealing and then wasting sweetener packets from Arctic Circle, I remember a car full guys pulled up in some beat up muscle car and started talking to some lady that was standing on the corner. Now, State Street isn't the best part of town. It's littered with pawn shops and crappy used car lots. But that's the parade route. It's always been the parade route. As a result, that's where the happy families set up their sleeping bags. Hookers or not. Yeah, I specifically remember the lady getting into the car. And I thought it was a little strange. But didn't think twice about it the rest of the night. I crashed about 5:00 that morning in a sleeping bag on the lawn of a credit union and refused to wake up when the sprinklers came on. I somehow woke up in a corner booth of that Arctic Circle, disoriented and confused. I had slept through the stupid parade. My feelings weren't that hurt.

Probably five or six years later, I was in health class watching some scare tactic, after school special style video about the dangers of drugs. There was a scene that showed a big pile of what was supposed to be cocaine. That triggered my memory of my night on the mean streets, pushing dope with my cous. It then dawned on me like a revelation from above. "That was a hooker! Holy crap! Those guys picked up a hooker right in front of me. That's crazy." That little insight totally changed my view of that night. It suddenly felt all dangerous and seedy. And I guess that it kind of was.

These sort of realizations seem to happen for me a lot. Mostly with movies. I can think of several movies that I saw ten times when I was a little kid that featured some sort of dirty joke. But it wasn't until I saw it the eleventh time, years later, that I actually got it. Sometimes the question involves a complicated plot point. Or sometimes, it's just a realization that a movie I thought was good, in all actuality totally sucks. It just took me fifteen years to figure it out.

Here's a couple of examples that came to mind. These are all movies that I have seen over and over. They have a achieved regular rotation in the general pop culture lexicon. And yet despite my vivid familiarity with them, they have each hit me with one of those "Oh duh!" moments on the tenth or eleventh viewing.

1. Smoke Up Johnny!

The Breakfast Club. It's a Saturday afternoon standard. Federal law mandates that it will be rerun on some cable channel at least twice a month. And odds are good that if I catch any part of it, I'll probably sit on the couch and finish it off. I've seen some portion of the TV edited version probably over 20 times. But it wasn't until I watched the full version in college that I realized the central plot point. They all got stoned together. That's why they had to sneak to Judd Nelson's locker. That's what was in the bag they shove down Anthony Michael Hall's pants. That's why Molly Ringwald dances in her giant boots and why Emilio Esteves strips down to the tank top. In fact, smoking weed seems to be the moral of the film. If we could all just pass a joint around and talk about our feelings, we'd all get along. We'd realize that the dandruff ridden basket case is really Ally Sheedy in disguise.

"Of course, Brian. What movie have you been watching?"

Hey, it's clear to me now. And yet, somehow the full impact of the marijuana element eluded me. With the combination of my dense naivete and the fact that they edit out any actually smoking of a joint on the TV version, you can see why I would make the mistake. But it still took me twenty one years and probably fifteen viewings to get it. In fact I'm pretty sure when I saw the full version at that one guys house in college, I actually said out loud while I was watching it, "So THAT'S why they all of a sudden like each other." It's a statement whose obviousness is along the same lines as, "So wait a minute, Darth Vader is Luke's father? What? OOOOOHHHHH. Now I get it."

By the way, I saw Vacation probably thirty times (recorded off TV, so also edited) before I figured out that Audry was smoking weed she got from her cousin throughout the second half of the movie. I was pretty ignorant to the weed references. Then I started listening to The Beatles and it all became clear.

2. "I Can't Bare To Watch."

I mentioned Darth Vader earlier, so I might as well go with the segway. Now this isn't so much a revelation as it is a genuine question. What the hell is up with Jabba the Hutt and Princess Leia? Seriously. In Return of The Jedi, just after Leia frees Han from the carbonite and is captured by Jabba (if you think this post just got nerdy, wait till the next movie), the following exchange takes place:

Jabba: Bring her before me!
Leia: (Struggling as she is forced toward Jabba.) We have powerful friends. You're going to regret this.
Jabba: I'm sure. (Suggestively licks his lips)
C3PO: Oh, I can't bare to watch. (Turns away in horror.)

Salacious Crumb, the little rat thing that sits next to Jabba, then laughs nefariously. The next time we see Leia she is sporting the metal bikini slave girl outfit with a defeated, empty look on her face. The look that you would expect to see on the face of a sex crime victim.

Now let's ignore the trans species element for just a second. Let's just pretend that Jabba is a big fat human being. Read that conversation again and tell me if this can be interpreted as anything but an implied rape? A public rape at that? What exactly was it that 3PO couldn't bare to watch? I don't think I'm reading too much into this. I don't think this is my dirty mind filling in the blanks. This is clearly forced sex.

George Lucas, what in the hell? You had your female protagonist get raped? In a movie geared toward kids? The previous movie you had her making out with her brother. And in the movie before that you blew up her entire planet. Now you have her being violated by a giant slug? What the hell did Carrie Fisher ever do to you? Am I weird in being put off by this? There's a rape scene in the same movie in which the fuzzy wuzzy Ewoks dance around a bonfire. It's a bit of a shift in tone. And it isn't just a rape scene, it's an inter species rape with a hoard of gangsters presumably watching. But not 3PO because he's gay. And this then begs the unpleasant question of just how exactly would a thing like Jabba go about . . . yeah, I'm not going to bother finishing that sentence. George Lucas, you are a sick minded soul.

But I do appreciate the Leia slave outfit. Seriously, thank you for that.

3. Atreyu! AAAAATREEEEEEEYYUUUUUU!!!
Here's my late coming revelation for The Never Ending Story. Actually, this is more of a confirmation of an opinion I had as a kid. The movie doesn't make sense. The ending doesn't work. It confused the hell out of me as a kid and when I rewatched it a few years ago on TV, it still confused me. And it's not unclear in a "interpret it for yourself" kind of way. But in a muddled, incomplete kind of way.

I feel bad trashing a kids' movie. Not because the movie will have its feelings hurt but because it makes me sound like a massive dork. In fact, just for fun, as you read the next two paragraphs, do it with a Comic Book Guy voice in your head. It'll make this a little more tolerable. Here's a sample to get you going. But massively nerdy or not, this confusion needs to be exposed.

(Begin CBG voice.)

Okay. We are to believe that Falcor flies Atreyu to the Childlike Empress' meteor palace even though The Nothing has already consumed Fantasia. They speak of the weird kid reading the book. By the way, I sell replicas of that book in my store. It is a hot item. The child's name is Bastian, which also happens to be the name of my cat. In the real world, the storm breaks the window and Bastian has to give the princess a new name. Strange since this is a previously unmentioned condition. "I can't. I gotta keep my feet on the ground!" He finally yells out his name of choice which is Moon Child. That happens to be the name of my other cat. Oddly enough, they dislike each other immensely. Everything then goes dark. And suddenly Bastian, the real boy, is now talking to the imaginary Childlike Empress face to face. Now are we to believe he was sucked into the book's world a la Tron? Or is this all an elaborate fantasy of the child's? Perhaps. But we the audience do not know. They look at the grain of sand which is all that is left of Fantasia. And Bastion then learns that he needs to use his imagination more. As if THAT'S not a cliche. Next thing we know, Bastion is riding Falcor through a restored Fantasia. Excuse me? Just how did that happen? And look! Atreyu is riding Artex. Apparently the horse did not really die in the Swamp of Sadness. And now there's the Rock Biter on his tricycle and that really fast snail. Even though Fantasia was destroyed, apparently it really wasn't.

And now, Falcor appears in the real world. (Continue with CBG voice.) Excuse me? Just how did that happen? Are we to believe that a full sized Luck Dragon can leap from the pages of a novel? And if it can be done, then why not document such an occurrence in the actual film? Bastian is now riding Falcor through the streets of a city, chasing the bullies into the dumpster. We've got worlds colliding here with no explanation as to what is going on. Worst. Ending. Ever.

Alright, lose the voice. Now maybe all of it is just Bastian using his imagination. So he brings everybody back to life and then pretends to get those damn bullies. But if that's the case we needed a scene at the end, where he's back in reality closing the book and walking home, or something. There's no resolution! It's unclear.

But you know what? Who cares? It doesn't really have to make sense. It's a movie made for a nine year old for hell sakes. They don't care if works. Why should I?

Now watch this and feel good.

4. Stupid Is As Stupid D. . . Ah F*ck It.

Was it weird for anyone else, that Forrest Gump prematurely ejaculated onto to Jenaaaaay's roommate's robe? You know the exact scene I'm talking about. Yeah, that was a creepy moment for me. Sitting in the theater next to my folks back in '94. I'm pretty sure I understood what was happening at the time. Maybe. Actually, I think I was probably a little confused. But I've never been accused of being the sharpest pencil in the drawer.

Don't get me wrong. It's quite a funny scene. And I'm all for a good jizz joke. And Tom Hanks makes it work. The man really is a king. The guy can do no wrong. As main stream as his appeal is, there is virtually no backlash. Who doesn't like Tom Hanks? As an actor and as a person. He's just that good in everything he does. And you know what else? The Man With One Red Shoe was a fine movie, and I won't hear anything to the contrary.

But while I'm talking about Forrest Gump, I feel compelled to discuss some unpleasantness. Have you ever noticed how it's actually a cheap, manipulative movie that gets its mileage by focusing in like a sniper on the most easily exploited and obvious of nostalgic images? Hanks is still great in it. But you may have walked out of that movie in 1994 thinking that it was the greatest illustration of the Boomer generation of all time. When in fact, it's the cinematic equivalent of one of those infomercials for 60's music hosted by an incredibly old looking Davey Jones. But with tons of annoying catch phrases.

Go ahead. Think of five Forrest Gump catch phrases right now. You won't even hesitate to come up with them and that movies is 15 years old. And you also hate those catch phrases and the bad Gump voice that accompanies them.

I'm not going to say that Forrest Gump is a poorly made movie. In fact, its sentimental precision is astounding. It knows exactly what it's doing. It is, however, far from being the great movie it pretends to be. It fools you into thinking it's this stupendous generational achievement because it is an incredibly manipulative collage of iconic moments and images. It doesn't create real connections to well thought out characters. Instead it drops a goofy yet familiar guy into the equivalent of an iconic Life magazine photo. (Now blue screen Forrest carrying a bucket of water down the street, tripping and spilling the water in a hilarious way on the no longer burning monk and saying, "Sorry I ruined your suicide protest.") That's not real storytelling. That's just historical interloping. And then the directer cues "Smile on Your Brother" by the Youngbloods to warm your heart and fog your mind. You feel good. But in the way Snuggle the fabric softener bear makes you feel good. Not because you just saw a profound, honest film.

You know how in Family Guy, they constantly make random, meaningless references to pop culture nostalgia? And then they awkwardly stick Stewie into it? "Hey it's Thundercats but Quagmire is Lionel. There's no joke. There's nothing to get, there's no connection between that cutaway and the rest of the episode, but I remember Thundercats so I feel included in the reference. Ha ha ha." Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But even when it does work, it's still lazy. It's a comedic cheap shot. It isn't generating a real reaction. There's no satirical commentary. It's just nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia.

That is all Forrest Gump is. One giant Family Guy skit with Forrest inserted into it instead of Peter. "Hey, I remember Watergate! It was Forrest that called the cops! Ha ha! Forrest is dancing like Elvis, before Elvis even knew how to do it. And then they see Elvis dancing like Forrest on TV! And oooo, I also know the lyrics to Imagine. But John Lennon said them inadvertently on the Dick Cavet show when Forrest was talking about China! Man, that Forrest did everything. Shit happens! It sure does. And since I am familiar with the references, I'm in on the joke. Brilliant!"

It's not brilliant. It's cheap.

You can still like the movie. I'm not trying to get you to hate it. But once you see through the stereotyped fluff there isn't much left.

One more thing; how the hell was Bubba not considered a horribly racist characature? I'm not big on politically correct enforcement. It just seems that in an era as self righteous and overly sensitive about offending anyone as the 1990's were, Bubba should have at least pissed off Al Sharpton. Instead he became a restaurant franchise. I'm not complaining. It's just strange.

5. You Sending The Wolf?! Sheeyat Negro! That's All You Had To Say.

While I'm railing on the astounding overrated nature of 1994's biggest Oscar winner, I might as well get a little jab at its chief competition. Pulp Fiction is possibly the most definitive film of the 1990's. And yet upon rewatching it a week ago, it didn't feel that dated. Probably because it is immersed in Americana Pop Culture of every decade leading up to it. It's a sort of Swiss Army Knife of zeitgeist. Sure, some of the dialogue feels a little contrived but that's only because conceited, aspiring screenwriters have been ripping of Tarantinospeak for fifteen solid years. As horrific, violent and vulgar as it is, it is one damn cool movie. But here's my revelation that didn't register with me until my most recent viewing last week.

Did Vince and Jules really need the Wolf to come and tell them to clean up the car?

Jules calls Marcellus from Jimmy's house, frantic because he and Vince have dead bits of Marvin all over inside of their car and they're in the Valley with no friendly contacts and Bonnie will be home in about an hour. Marcellus puts his best man on the job and Jules is down right excited to be working with the Wolf. I get it. Winston Wolf is an illustration of the hierarchy of respect among gangsters. He takes control and gets results.

But what exactly does he do? He basically says, "Clean up the car and then change your clothes." That's it. Like they wouldn't have figured that out? Seeing as time was a factor, why would they wait for him to drive across LA to tell them to do the incredibly obvious? What value did he add? It's like paying money to a corporate consultant that tells you customer service is important. Thanks, buddy. It's still a cool scene. Given the greatness of the rest of the film, it's a bit of nit pick. But I thought it was worth bringing up.


Wow. Sometimes I start on what I think is an original and concise idea and it ends up dragging way too long. The thing with blogs is that if it's longer than a few paragraphs people usually give up. One of these days I'll learn that, instead of beating a semi interesting dead horse into the ground. But again, if you're looking to kill time on a slow Monday morning, I hope I helped your cause.

A Nice Monday Morning Diversion

Odds are good you're checking this blog at work because you just don't feel like responding to your email inbox that you successfully avoided all weekend. Or you just don't feel like returning that one voicemail. I hear ya. Honestly, I don't know how people ground through an 8 hour work day in the pre internet dark ages. Without espn.com, I can't get through lunch. And I don't even have a job right now.

So I thought I would contribute this little gem to the cause of killing time. Perhaps you're already familiar with this website. I'm really not on the edge of online trends, so this could be old news. But I certainly entertained myself for an hour or two sifting through this baby.

The website is called awkwardfamilyphotos.com. Pretty self explanatory site, really. Just check out that group of badasses on the top of the page teasing us with the seductive and symmetric back pocket pose. Yeah, they may be a nice family but that doesn't mean they can't be sassy. You'll note the blue and white vertically striped Gerbeaus on Nike kid in the middle. I didn't have a pair of those things particular pants back in '91, but I sure wanted them. How much do you want to bet they were listening to the Saturday's Warrior Soundtrack as they drove to the Olen Mills Studio in The University Mall? As sure as the Nike kid has a tag on his crotch, they were. In fact that is a fun game to play. Sift through this site and guess which families are Mormon. Unless my radar is off (and it isn't) there are quite a few.

Though I gotta say was relieved when I first saw this site. None of my direct family is featured. I can think of a couple of extended Westenskow family photos circa 1983 that would definitely qualify. And just about every back to school picture of me featuring my immaculately combed hair (the secret is moose). As well as every elementary / junior high school photo. And the Thanksgiving line up of the cousins. Yeah, this site hits pretty close to home. But in the absence of actual self esteem, it's nice to be able to point your finger and scoff at people only slightly more derelict than yourself.

Here are a few highlights:

This poor kid. I bet his name is Ralph. And his dad regularly yells at him in public. But man I love that sweet half dissolve, double photo technique. I need to get married just so I can have some classy wedding photos with my spooky profile floating in the middle of my own head. In fact, I think I'm going to have a profile of Ralph here floating in the middle of my head. Like my buddy here, I proudly played the clarinet in 5th and 6th grade. I wanted to play the saxophone but my folks craftily convinced me to go with the old licorice stick and then move up to the saxophone. I'm pretty sure the clarinet was much cheaper to rent. But I was a friggen prodigy. I could have been the next . . . . (thinking of any clarinet player in history) . . . . . . guy who played on "When I'm Sixty-Four".

"I'm not gay! See?! I have a wife and kid! I just like to work out. A lot. It was a sunny day, figured I'd pop the top off and blast my nips. No big deal. And yes I naturally don't grow hair on my nipples. So what? Nothing wrong with a hairless man nipple every now and again. It can be a beautiful thing. But seriously, I'm not gay."

Shit!

I can't confirm this one, but this is a possible Mormon family. Maybe. Nothing says "families are forever" like a big old pile of denim. Every family has done the "denim shirt photo shoot". In the Westenskow version, I'm doing a Rico Swave squat in front of everyone. Pretty sure you can see two well defined balls in it. I see these particular folks opted for the pig pile over the human pyramid. Good choice either way.

Somehow the nebula background seems to fit. Look at that poor woman. Her spirit is broken. She's been a single mom for a long time and she's just worn out. Her kids are a couple of shits. She gets a weekly call from the Junior High principal of Nosferatu in the bottom right corner, informing her of the latest fire he set in shop class. When she confronts him about, he just tells her to f*ck off. And instead of kicking out the dirtbags that sleep with her daughter in her own house, she just quietly cries in her room. But today they're getting their picture taken. She's using that coupon for a family photo she cut out of the Pennysaver no matter how black her son's lipstick is. "Damn it, we are going to be a happy family for one afternoon! Is that too much to ask?!"

This guy's got it all figured out. I would guess this baby was taken about 1988. Which means by now this kid is either a dotcom millionaire who is broke all over again or a registered sex offender. Or both.

These folks right here are the reason Glen Beck is as successful as he is. God bless America.

There's a lot of ways you could go with this one, but I'm gonna choose to focus on the dad's glasses. You like the splits kid? Nope, I'm sticking with Sensei of this dojo. The damn paterfamilias. Why? Because perma tinted glasses and a mustache always demand respect. It turns out this man was the real life inspiration for John Kreese. "OUT OF COMMISSION!"

If you look in the right corner, you will see that these are indeed genuine Glamor Shots. Not that fake crap. Nothing but the finest for this girls' day at the mall. Filtered lens. Denim Jacket theme. Matching poses. Denim looking backdrop. What looks to be a ten year old girl in full make up. Classy top to bottom. Now let's go get an Orange Julius.

The old Mexican Standoff. Except in this one, everybody wins. Also, I would be interested in seeing any concrete data on the mustache to mullet ratio. There are plenty of mulletless mustaches out there. But if a guy is sporting the old Kentucky Waterfall, odds are good he has a Magnum to match. And really why wouldn't you?

See the touchy feely kid on the top right? I had those exact same glasses from 1st to 5th grade. The thing is, it wasn't like I made one bad decision in first grade and got stuck with them. I broke those things all the time. Which meant I kept buying more of the exact glasses frames. That also means that in 5th grade, I wore those sweet brown framed classes while playing the clarinet. Like I said, there are no shortage of Westenskow family photos that would be a hit on this site. Also, what's up with the angry kid on the left? He doesn't look like the others. Is he a bastard brother who has yet to earn his pink and black sweater not to mention his mother's love? By the way, I like how one of the legitimate kids (the nonbastards) is wearing a pink shirt to compliment his sweater and the other is wearing a teal shirt. Excellence is found in the details. Although it's possible the angry bastard child is of no relation at all. Perhaps it's an option the studio offers. For an extra 3.99 you can have an pissed off stranger pose with your family. Either way, feather haired glasses guy accepts him. We brown framed glasses wearers are a compassionate bunch.

So there you go. A quick starter but by no means the best of what this website has to offer. I totally ripped this whole post off from awkwardfamilyphotos.com, so please visit them. You'll find yourself laughing because it isn't your family on there. And crying because it could be.

In Defense of Real Football

I have documented my love of football several times. Not a terribly original sentiment. This is America, damn it. Home of football, barbecue and Bill Murray. All of which undeniably kick ass. Have you seen Zombieland yet? But now that we're into the '09 season a solid month, let me get a niggling little football related irritant off my chest. Not the stupid football playing robot on the Fox broadcasts. Or the BSC. Or Lou Holtz's inability to pronounce a clean "s". No those are all a little obvious. Instead, I'm going to gripe about something that the vast majority of football fans love. Fantasy friggin football.

What can I say. I'm a rabble rouser. I rouse rabbles.

First, let me get a cosmetic complaint out of the way. Fantasy football is a stupid name. I get that alliteration is cutesy poo little way that make something catchy. And both words "fantasy" and "football" indeed start with "F". But the word "fantasy" has exactly three connotations. This one. This one. And this one. Primarily the first one. And I don't think I'm being too big of a dick to suggest that football in all it's majesty should have no common ground with dragons and wizards. You can like dragons and wizards and still love football. It's a big world. Room enough for everyone. But the two should never have any incidental association.

But here's my real problem with it all.

I know I’m in the minority on this one. But I am against Fantasy Football. It's not that I don't like it. I am against it. It is morally wrong. (Sarcastic sanctimony. But not that sarcastic.) I believe football is a glorious enough sport to be appreciated and savored on its face value. You shouldn't need to invent a little game within the game to make it interesting. If you do need some supplemental diversion to interest you in the actual competition, then you’re not a football fan. I'm sorry. If last Sunday's epic battle between Denver and New England (some seriously ugly throw back unis Denver has) was nothing but a means to update Tom Brady's QB rating for your crappy fantasy team, then you do not qualify as an actual fan of the sport of football.

That douchy little nerd on ESPN that gives you fantasy hints? Not a football fan. The guy in your office that can't talk about anything else other than the awesome rushing attack from his cleverly named team "Sex Panther"? Not a football fan. He and his ilk, exploit the mighty sport of football for their make believe victories that have no direct correlation to the NFL. Or reality. If that description applies to you at all, then you are not a true fan of football. You are this guy.

"But it makes the games more interesting. This way, I care about the whole league." If that's honestly your response, then shame on you. Football is the greatest form of human competition ever bestowed to mankind from above. That's not enough? I'll say it again. You should not have to invent a little game within the game to enjoy football. Yet you reduce the fullness of that competition to a list of numbers on a box score. Sacrilege.

I think that's why I'm so bothered by fantasy football. Football, more than any other sport, is an emotional game. Statistical analysis has its place but in no way should they ever become the focus of any fan's appreciation of the sport. Every football game has two or three plays that decide the outcome or act as the turning point. Sometimes it happens in the fourth quarter, sometimes the second. Sometimes it's something dramatic like a blocked punt returned for a touchdown. But most of the time it's a three yard run on third down in which the running back breaks a tackle in the backfield to get a first down to preserve the drive. That play does not show up in the box score. And more importantly, the collective will, emotion and momentum of a team does not show up in the box score. Call it synergy, magic or just plain teamwork, football has an elusive quality that can't be duplicated by any other sport. And minimizing a game to a stat sheet neuters the sport of that elusive quality and its defining feature.

Any football player's success is entirely dependent on the performance of his teammates. You cannot assess the value of a receiver based on his receiving yards from any given game. Those receiving yards are a reflection of the quarterback's accuracy, the o-line's pass protection and the running back's ability to keep the defensive secondary honest and the other receiver's ability to demand attention. No individual performance can be separated from the performance of their ten teammates on the field. And fantasy football is built upon isolating stats of individual players. And it ain't right.

I say all this in my self righteous tone and yet, the majority of people who live and die with the NFL are all over fantasy football in every office and classroom in America. They are the ones that are loudly obsessing over their line up options in the cubicle next to you. They assault you in the break room with unwanted conversation as they brag about their GM wisdom or curse Jay Cutler's underachievement. Are they all phonies? Of course not. Most people who have been swept up in the fantasy bull crap are legit, die hard fans of the game. No question. Bill Simmons for example. I read that guy's column on espn.com regularly and I wouldn't dare second guess his devotion and understanding of football fandom. And yet he never shuts up about fantasy crap. The world is big enough for fantasy fans and purists like myself. But let me offer a reason for the fantasy GM's out there to mend their ways.

Let's say you're the commissioner of three different leagues that wastes an average of 18 hours a week of office time researching and coordinating your little imaginary world. If that is who you are, I've probably pissed you off a bit with this diatribe. That's fair. There are plenty of counter arguments to most of my points and I suppose questioning a fan's love of the game cuts to the heart of the passion that makes following sports so irrational and compelling. But there is a point where I think we can agree. Fantasy Football messes with your loyalties. And is there anything more sacred to a sport's fan than their loyalty to a team?

If, for example, you love the Eagles that means that you also must hate the Cowboys. It's the law. But let's say you drafted Tony Romo for your fantasy quarterback. He was the best QB remaining in your draft and there's a thousand dollar pot for the winner of this league. You want to win the thing and at the moment you felt that overrated pantload gave you the best chance. How are you going to feel this Sunday when the Falcons have a four point lead inside of two minutes, but the Cowboy’s are driving? If you love real football more than fantasy football, then you’ll hope Romo fumbles away yet another big game. (I love watching the Cowboys lose. It never gets old.) But if you love your fantasy bullcrap more than your beloved Eagles (and reality), then you have sold your soul to the stat geek, nerd world of pseudo fandom. So instead you actually want Romo to pass for another 30 yards to salvage his QB rating. And then you hate yourself just a little bit. There should be no conflict. There should be no upside of your hated rival's success. (The same applies to gambling.) This is when you know your head is screwed up in this fantasy nonsense.

It's time to walk away. Just walk away.

One more thing. If you are one of these die hard fantasy GM guys, please keep it to yourself. No one cares about your fantasy football team. Ever. No matter how brilliant your substitution may have been, unless someone specifically asks you about it, just shut up. Seriously, it's the most nauseating conversation you can force onto the guy in the next cubicle. Well, I guess second most nauseating behind the one that starts out, "So my college buddy and I were at the strip club last night . . ."

It’s like talking about your blog. Nothing wrong with having a blog (I hope), just don’t talk to everyone about it. If someone else brings it up, fine. But don’t ever start a sentence, “So have you read my blog? I wrote yesterday about how SSSSSSHHHHHH” See that’s what happens to the person listening. Your voice turns into white noise at that point. “So I drafted both Reggie Wayne and Andre Johnson, but I could only play one of them. So I decided to SSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH” Buddy, no one else cares. Now if you want to talk about the actual game, let’s shoot the bull. I love talking football. But the game actually happened. It was a documented event witnessed by thousands of people. You’re brilliance in managing your fantasy team exists only in the world of the hypothetical and therefore is of no value to anyone outside of that same land of make believe.

So to all the people who love the game of football but have allowed themselves to morph into a fantasy nerd, walk away. Come home and renew your original love of the greatest sport of all time.

*I recycled a few paragraphs of this from a post from last year. If you spotted it, then you need to spend your time reading something more worth while. Like say, Steinbeck. Or the back of a Cheerios box.