Fat City vs. The Savages

I watched Fat City (on an old videotape, I think it may be out of print on dvd) and The Savages back to back the past two nights. Fat City is one of my all time favorite movies (the book is pretty great, too). I'm going to go out on a limb and say it is the best boxing movie ever made (yes, even better than Raging Bull which looks like a pretentious arthouse movie in comparison--and I love Raging Bull). And, of course, it's much more than a boxing movie. Stacy Keach plays Billy Tully, a washed up boxer who tries to make a comeback after being inspired by a young amateur named Ernie (a very young Jeff Bridges). Neither one of them has a whole lot going on in their lives in Stockton, California, which looks like it never made it out of the Great Depression. Along the way Tully meets up with Oma (Susan Tyrrell in the best performance of a drunk ever) and things deteriorate quickly. I won't give away any more plot details, but don't expect a Rocky-like ending. Every scene in Fat City feels natural; there's not a false note in the movie. The same cannot be said for The Savages. About halfway through I got the sense that the writer had lost confidence in her ability to handle such a serious subject (adult children dealing with a parent with a terminal illness). Unlike Fat City, it shies away from grim reality by piling on one quirky, unrealistic scene after another (the tennis scene, the neckbrace scene, the fling with the nursing home orderly scene, etc.). Because the characters are so unrealistic (particularly Laura Linney's character), there was no emotional attachment to them at all which was strange considering the heavy subject matter. It was the complete opposite of Fat City where you felt every cutting remark as if it were a punch to the gut. Fat City over The Savages in a knockout.

Pull my finger, son

Last year I lamented the lack of guilt-free Mother's Day cards. This year, while perusing Father's Day cards, I couldn't help but notice a predominant theme: farting. Judging by the quick sample I took, at least 3 or 4 of the 10 cards I read before settling on the one I bought featured dear old dad as a laughable gasbag. Is this really what it's come to? Has respect for American dads fallen so far that the only thing we can think about when we think about Dad is his recurring bouts of flatulence? Just a couple years ago, I recalled Father's Day cards that poked fun at Dad's attachment to the television remote. Before that it was his less than handy ways around the house. What can we expect after the current farting trend has run its course? Cards gently ribbing Dad about his alcoholism or drug addiction? How about a card that light-heartedly goofs on his philandering or incontinence? Get on it, Hallmark!

The gawkers

I passed a car accident walking home from work last night. A cable television van and a SUV appeared to have collided head-on a block from my apartment building. Judging from the damage, it looked as though the drivers from either vehicle could have been seriously injured. By the time I passed, the police had already blocked off the street and the injured had been taken to the hospital or were being treated inside the ambulance still on the scene. Of course this didn't discourage the gawkers from gathering in groups on the corner to share what they had seen or heard. Even more gawkers could be seen up the street, their morbid curiosity urging them into action (a regular drunk I recognized from a restaurant I frequent appeared to have been dispatched as a scout to gather information and report back to his drunken cohorts). One woman appeared to have been in such a rush to get to the scene that she hadn't bothered to change out of her pajamas. I didn't stop to ask what happened. I knew that whatever happened, it wasn't good and that knowing the details wasn't going to change that. There was nothing in the newspaper about it today, but I'm not surprised. They need space for more important news like the recent story about a guy who got caught trying to shoplift 48 packs of gum from a Rite Aid.

Scott McClellan's tan

There was something deeply disturbing about Scott McClellan's appearance on The News Hour last Friday: his tan. It was so distracting I could barely follow what he was saying which, by most accounts, isn't as revelatory as the media would have us believe. It's only been a week since the release of his book, but it already feels like yesterday's news. But that tan! How does an elite Washington D.C. insider acquire such a tan! When his hands fluttered at the bottom of the television screen, they were as dark as a Mexican day laborer's! My guess is that he sensed that this would be his moment to shine before the cameras and, by golly, he was going to do it deeply tanned. Male vanity of this sort is always comical, but I suspect in this instance even George Hamilton would have blushed. Enjoy your moment, Scott; like your tan, it will fade.

Jukebox Zeros

Xmastime recently lamented the introduction of the internet jukebox (and I lamented, yet again, his fondness for Meat Loaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light). As someone who has spent an inordinate amount of time in The Turkey's Nest, the increasingly ridiculous hipster hangout in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I can also attest to the abuses of the internet jukebox. Almost like clockwork on a Sunday afternoon, patrons of The Turkey's Nest can expect to be treated to a set of death metal music (this is a guess on my part since I hardly qualify to judge the differences between thrash metal, speed metal, and the other various metals I may be completely oblivious to--all that shit sounds the same to me) . Every time this occurs I take a quick look round the bar to see if anyone seems to be registering delight or pounding their heads violently against the wall (that's what this music makes me want do!), but I always come up empty-handed. Generally, all I will see are looks of revulsion and bewildered patrons asking each other, "Who's the fuckhead who played this?" Of course, pissing off a crowd of people with bad music may have been fuckhead's original plan to begin with. Maybe that's how he gets his jollies.

And after my experience last Friday night at my uncle's bar in Bayonne which also recently installed an internet jukebox, I can't say I'm immune to the very same private jollies. When I first arrived to catch the Celtics/Cavaliers playoff game (and get drunk), the regulars were playing music I was completely unfamiliar with. It wasn't as horrible as the death metal in Brooklyn, but it was still pretty bad. I think it was pop-metal or hair metal which I'm sure was huge in Bayonne back in the day; Poison, Warrant, Motley Crue and bands of their ilk, bands I only heard intermittently in strip clubs. After that punishing set of music was over, I played a bunch of songs that went over well with the crowd (it wasn't that hard; I stuck to the hits--Rolling Stones, Tom Petty, Faces, CCR, U2, etc.). It was only after I began to play some country music as a favor to the bartender that the crowd began to turn on me. Johnny Cash went over fine, but when the harder stuff (Merle Haggard, George Jones, Gary Stewart etc.) kicked in, I went from hero to zero almost instantly (at one point a young guy across the bar who appreciated some of my earlier selections looked at me in disgust and said, "You lost me, brother"). I have to admit, I found all of the moaning and groaning very amusing. It's not the first time I've witnessed such a reaction. Country music has this effect on a lot of people. And the haters tend to be very vocal in their disapproval. But, by this time, I was so drunk I didn't give a shit. In fact, I was enjoying myself immensely.

Remedial math

I think I've discovered a new way to save money (or scam the mathematically-challenged). Wait until the cashier has rung you up, then give the cashier the change required to make the next dollar amount. Without the aid of the cash register, I've found that a lot of cashiers seem to be unable to do the most basic math to give you the correct change. Some will be entirely flummoxed and even look to you for help, but some will become so frustrated that they will just guess (incorrectly and to your advantage) what the amount is. Today while purchasing the reissue of The Replacement's "Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash," the price came to $17.11 (no wonder the music business is in the shitter!). I didn't have 11 cents, but I did have a quarter which I handed over with $20 after the cashier had rung it up. This threw the cashier off entirely. I got back $6.14 which was a more reasonable price for a cd, I thought, so I didn't say anything and walked away. Does this make me a thief or did the cashier learn a valuable lesson?

The biggest dunce in the world

Sean Hannity has got to be the biggest dunce in the world. After pitching a fit today over McCain's global warming speech, dismissing him for "buying into the phony science that doesn't exist," he then spoke with absolute authority about how "God in heaven above gave us the world as a gift." And millions of people in this country take this guy seriously? Listening to Hannity's virtual nervous breakdown, I'm almost tempted to vote for McCain for the effect his presidency would have on him and Rush Limbaugh, who similarly goes into fits whenever McCain veers from the right wing.

"You would know me if you saw me"

A woman I didn't know left a message on my answering machine last night. She said she was at the Bayonne Medical Center and that she couldn't go into details over the phone. I immediately assumed it was a member of the hospital staff calling to inform me of the latest calamity to befall a self-destructive friend of mine. When I called the number she left, I got no answer, not even a voice mail message. I tried the hospital's general number, but after the usual runaround was unable to get any information on the name the caller had left or my friend's name. I went to bed wondering what was going on. Of course, my imagination kicked in. I dreamt that my friend had "expired" and awoke earlier than usual and was unable to get back to sleep. Since the woman had said that she would be at the hospital through the night until 11 a.m., I tried the number again. This time "Theresa" answered the phone. I gave her my name and reminded her that she had left a message for me last night. After bungling my name ("Lask, Lisle" etc.), she informed me that she had been admitted to the hospital last night and would be homeless when they released her this morning. She wanted to know if she could stay with me. "Do I know you?" I asked, "I don't even know who you are." "You would know me if you saw me." I told her I didn't think so. "Well, OK, just forget about it then." Of course, the question still remains: where did she get my number in the first place? Did she do a random search through the phone book or is word getting out on the street that my apartment is some sort of safe haven for wayward women? I'm not expecting any answers soon.