Goddam it.
For some godforsaken reason, my browser decided to jump to another page, destroying at least a half an hour of midnight ramblings about the state of the world. With links galore, no less. Well, screw it. I'm tired. I'm grumpy. The world's going to hell in a handbasket. Film at 11.
Okay, quickly: because you don't need to a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, you just need a browser, a passel of links, and a curious mind.
Maybe because we live in such an instant age we're knowing more than we ever did, but, Christ, this little green gem of rock, water, and various carbon-based life certainly seems poised for one big clusterf*ck, don't it? Or, actually, a bunch of medium sized ones.
North Korea, the socialist workers paradise, is in the midst of an eight-year famine. Couple of delightful consequences: according to a UNICEF study in 1998, North Koreans seven year olds are, on average, eight inches shorter than their South Korean peers. And a new delicacy is popping up more often in North Korean markets: special meat. Here's another story about it. Motherdear is probably gloating right now, as she's a vegetarian. But, hey, who knows, maybe these industrious Koreans are on to something. "People, the other white meat". Too bad Robert Mitchem's still dead, I can almost hear him doing the commercial voice over.
PJ O'Rourke once wrote "Man developed in Africa. He has not continued to do so there." Horrible stories of cannibalism are coming out of the Congolese Civil War. The Guardian had this story in January about pygmies being eaten by rebel troops. Other news outlets have these atrocities being practiced by both sides. The UN has ridden in to save the day, sending unarmed observers who don't speak the language. And then letting them get slaughtered. Of yeah, Kofi and his Anamaniacs really would've had Saddam on his knees with just a few more months.
In happier news, it looks like something is getting ready to happen in Iran. Iran has a huge cohort of twenty-somethings. They are a product of a repopulation program undertaken during the devastating Iran-Iraq war. These kids have no love lost for the Mullahs, and are starting to get pissed off at being told what to do. Their college professors are getting in on the act and protests are popping up across the country. Now, as a particularly snarky friend of mine said to me today (unless it was on Instapundit, if so, sorry to Blog Master Glen), "so, you're saying it's like USA, circa 1968?". Well, except, wasted youth and hippified college professors during the summer of love and the Cambodian Moratorium had middle class lives and concerns to get back to. These kids in Iran got nothing. And when you ain't got nothing, you've got nothing to lose. It will take some time, these are secular kids missing the "will of God" fire that toppled the Shah in '79, but it'll happen. That'll be tic-tac-toe, three in a row: Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan.
Some predictions (all guaranteed to be wrong, but if they aren't: remember you heard it here first).
1. North Korea will implode within a year. If the drought/flood cycle persists, and Kim who-ever continues his Dr. No ways, he'll have his head on the end of a pike (supplied by the North Korean army) by next June. One Caveat: the army is the only thing Kim is paying any attention to, and to whom he is diverting what little food he has. Maybe they're too loyal. But, man, it looks like that breaking point is close, doesn't it?
2. UMASS President William Bulger will disclose in testimony to the House Government Reform Committee tomorrow that his brother James "Whitey" Bulger actually passed away of natural causes a couple of years ago, and is buried in Ireland, or maybe even Southie. Just a funny feeling. Completely unfounded. I just think that this saga demands some sort of poetic ending like that - that's the denoumount of the "Lawmakers and Lawbreakers, The James and William Bulger Story" telefilm, brought to you by AC Delco, on the SuperStation: President Bulger emotionally tells the House Committee about his brother's secret funeral in a small cemetery in Killarny on a misting April morning. The final scene, naturally, features an umbrellaed drink being brought on a tray to a man lounging in a chaise facing a setting sun on some Carribean Island. "Your drink, Mr. Baxter..."
3. The Red Sox will win the pennant.
4. And monkeys will fly out of my butt......
G'Night.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Friday, May 23, 2003
A Perfect Morning in an Imperfect Time
Did you ever think that you would be looking back so fondly to the Halcyon days of 1989?
I think I graduated from high school at the most perfect of times. Our senior year, 88-89, saw "The End of History" as the cold war ended, the commies turned into nice guys, and the Wall fell. We were in college for the 90-92 recession, so the bad job market didn't really hit us, we left college with the New Economy in full swing and either got established in "old economy" jobs with enough time to burrow deeply enough to avoid layoffs when the bubble burst, or made truckloads of dough in the new economy that gave us the abliity to ride out the 99-03 recession (the economy's waking again, feel it?). We're old enough so that Osama and the end of the world scares us just enough to take it seriously, but we're not young enough to actually believe this is the End of the World (I assume that people my age in 1982-83 were just as frightened of Reagan/"evil empire" as folks are these days of Bush/"american empire").
We really are a lucky few. I look around to those younger than I, who were broomed out of their first jobs without so much as a "fare thee well", who are looking at the world situation and seeing nothing but terrorism, war, and cruelty until the end of time, and I truly feel sorry for them.
Actually, it's the computer science and business majors I feel sorry for. The history / poli sci / and even english majors understand this as just another variation on that favorite disc of time's jukebox: "Man's inhumanity to man". (ooo boy, get a load of that! I crack myself up sometimes.).
So, as for my part, things are going fairly well. Job is motoring along; hopefully they'll keep me until I don't wanna be kept anymore. Wife's good. Kids good. New cat is a laugh-riot -- if not a bit annoying at 5:15am when he's reminding me it's time to get up and chase the sun. And I actually like this weather. I think perhaps it's the Scottish in me -- but this morning, walking to work with the old Jethro Tull on the MP3: "Grey the mist cold the dawn; cruel the sea and stern the shore. Brave the man who sets his course for Albion", I could imagine my Scottish ancestors keeping watch in the towers of Castle Moil, waiting to raise the chain that ran from Skye to the mainland to collect the toll on the ships sailing southerly down the coast.
Just a perfect morning of a perfect life in the perfect time. At any rate, beats the shit out of the alternative.
I think I graduated from high school at the most perfect of times. Our senior year, 88-89, saw "The End of History" as the cold war ended, the commies turned into nice guys, and the Wall fell. We were in college for the 90-92 recession, so the bad job market didn't really hit us, we left college with the New Economy in full swing and either got established in "old economy" jobs with enough time to burrow deeply enough to avoid layoffs when the bubble burst, or made truckloads of dough in the new economy that gave us the abliity to ride out the 99-03 recession (the economy's waking again, feel it?). We're old enough so that Osama and the end of the world scares us just enough to take it seriously, but we're not young enough to actually believe this is the End of the World (I assume that people my age in 1982-83 were just as frightened of Reagan/"evil empire" as folks are these days of Bush/"american empire").
We really are a lucky few. I look around to those younger than I, who were broomed out of their first jobs without so much as a "fare thee well", who are looking at the world situation and seeing nothing but terrorism, war, and cruelty until the end of time, and I truly feel sorry for them.
Actually, it's the computer science and business majors I feel sorry for. The history / poli sci / and even english majors understand this as just another variation on that favorite disc of time's jukebox: "Man's inhumanity to man". (ooo boy, get a load of that! I crack myself up sometimes.).
So, as for my part, things are going fairly well. Job is motoring along; hopefully they'll keep me until I don't wanna be kept anymore. Wife's good. Kids good. New cat is a laugh-riot -- if not a bit annoying at 5:15am when he's reminding me it's time to get up and chase the sun. And I actually like this weather. I think perhaps it's the Scottish in me -- but this morning, walking to work with the old Jethro Tull on the MP3: "Grey the mist cold the dawn; cruel the sea and stern the shore. Brave the man who sets his course for Albion", I could imagine my Scottish ancestors keeping watch in the towers of Castle Moil, waiting to raise the chain that ran from Skye to the mainland to collect the toll on the ships sailing southerly down the coast.
Just a perfect morning of a perfect life in the perfect time. At any rate, beats the shit out of the alternative.
Fun with chemistry
An interesting piece in the NYTimes about those mobile labs.
While we have not been able to definitively determine whether they had actually ever been used to produce chemicals (the mobile labs had been decontaminated with an "unknown caustic agent" prior to their discovery by the Americans), I think the tiniest bit of Socratic reasoning allows us conclude:
1) Hussein used chemical weapons (against the Kurds, during the Iran-Iraq war).
2) These labs have very little utility beside the production of biological agents. (One of the competing theories is that they are used to make hydrogen for weather balloons, and of course, the usual pesticide dodge. Apparently, Iraq has more "pesticide" plants per person than any other nation on the planet.)
3) The U.S. has transcripts of Iraqi military officials that seem to point toward a concerted effort to hide the existence of chemical weapons: "We evacuated everything. We don't have anything left." On the second, one Republican Guard commander told another, "Write this down: Remove the expression 'nerve agent' whenever it comes up in wireless instructions."
4) why would someone clean to the point of microbacterial decontamination equipment for producing hydrogen for weather balloons?
To sum: he had 'em, he used 'em, he had to make 'em, these labs don't look like they could've made anything else, ergo: these mobile labs are the chemical weapon smoking gun.
So why did it take so long to find anything, when apparently, according to Colin Powell, Iraq was so cluttered from chemical and biological weapons that Hussein had to bring in "Merry Maids" every Thursday to tidy up? Slate notes that General Tommy Franks admits that US Special Forces bribed a number of Iraqi military officials to sit on their hands during the conflict. He has defended this as essentially a cost-benefit decision: one Tomahawk costs $1 million, we can demobilize an entire unit with one $1 million bribe. Looks like a good deal.
A natural conspiracy theory that could run off of that news is that, perhaps, some of our bought and paid for Iraqi generals know a little more than they're saying about the location of chemical goodies, and, just maybe, the US govt., figuring that they'd be able to find good evidence elsewhere, have "excused" them from divulging everything they know. The reasoning being that there is no way the US Govt could "harbor" military folks they know had possession of / had been ordered to use chemical weapons, buuut, if we never asked, then bribing these guys and bringing them over is okay. Sort of a don't ask, don't tell, chemical weapons version.
Your theory?
While we have not been able to definitively determine whether they had actually ever been used to produce chemicals (the mobile labs had been decontaminated with an "unknown caustic agent" prior to their discovery by the Americans), I think the tiniest bit of Socratic reasoning allows us conclude:
1) Hussein used chemical weapons (against the Kurds, during the Iran-Iraq war).
2) These labs have very little utility beside the production of biological agents. (One of the competing theories is that they are used to make hydrogen for weather balloons, and of course, the usual pesticide dodge. Apparently, Iraq has more "pesticide" plants per person than any other nation on the planet.)
3) The U.S. has transcripts of Iraqi military officials that seem to point toward a concerted effort to hide the existence of chemical weapons: "We evacuated everything. We don't have anything left." On the second, one Republican Guard commander told another, "Write this down: Remove the expression 'nerve agent' whenever it comes up in wireless instructions."
4) why would someone clean to the point of microbacterial decontamination equipment for producing hydrogen for weather balloons?
To sum: he had 'em, he used 'em, he had to make 'em, these labs don't look like they could've made anything else, ergo: these mobile labs are the chemical weapon smoking gun.
So why did it take so long to find anything, when apparently, according to Colin Powell, Iraq was so cluttered from chemical and biological weapons that Hussein had to bring in "Merry Maids" every Thursday to tidy up? Slate notes that General Tommy Franks admits that US Special Forces bribed a number of Iraqi military officials to sit on their hands during the conflict. He has defended this as essentially a cost-benefit decision: one Tomahawk costs $1 million, we can demobilize an entire unit with one $1 million bribe. Looks like a good deal.
A natural conspiracy theory that could run off of that news is that, perhaps, some of our bought and paid for Iraqi generals know a little more than they're saying about the location of chemical goodies, and, just maybe, the US govt., figuring that they'd be able to find good evidence elsewhere, have "excused" them from divulging everything they know. The reasoning being that there is no way the US Govt could "harbor" military folks they know had possession of / had been ordered to use chemical weapons, buuut, if we never asked, then bribing these guys and bringing them over is okay. Sort of a don't ask, don't tell, chemical weapons version.
Your theory?
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Wifeypoohish
The Independent, a British newspaper, has online [pardon me while I dangle my participle] a story about a new study with the troubling news that the planet's languages are being lost at an alarming rate. Faster, indeed, than those subspecies of newts and gekkos we typically get ourselves so worked up about.
Apparently this planet has only 6,000 languages. (Actually, from experience in the Modern Historical Metropolis in which I work and play [don't tell wifey-pooh], I would say that that is about right. And 5,999 are spoken by local cabdrivers. Unfortunately, English is not one of them.) So, six point two billion people , 6,000 languages. Works out to about 104 million people per language. The US has, give or take, 290 million people, so we need about 2.9 languages. Makes sense: Spanish, Chinese, and American English, which is about .9 a real language.
[brother goodson interrupts: Hey, moron. Do the math. 6 billion (6 x 10^9) divided by 6 thousand (6 x 10^3), when dividing you subtract the exponents and get 1 x 10^6, or 1 million. (I took this right from his email, well, the math, not the "hey, moron", that was implied.) And yes, he's right. I did the math on my little calculator and figured out that I miscounted the zeroes. Fine, fine. The question is: who the hell actually does math with exponents? Sure, I may be a math imbecile, but at least I'm not a Freak. Here, here's a buck, go buy another pocket protector. Freak. We return you to the story, already in progress]
[brother goodson retort: Yeah, I'm a freak. With a Z4. And no wife. Suckaaaaaah]
Unfortunately, it doesn't work out like that, and 200 to 250 languages are the big bullies, all above one million speakers each, and 357 languages have under 50 speakers. Forty-six are known to have just one native speaker. One of these, no doubt, is wifeypoohish.
(I crack up just looking at that word. Wifeypoohish. Wifeypoohish. I'm dyin'!).
While wifeypoohish is related to English, it, much like the bushman language from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", contains several seemingly nonsensical sounds which actually carry significant linguistic importance.
Drawing another analogy from more commonly studied languages, like the Eskimo dialects which contain thirty-three words for snow, wifeypooish uses at least four hundred homonymic grunts and groans which, depending upon context, phrasing, tone, time of day, phase of the moon or butterfly migration patterns in China, can infer happiness, unhappiness, hunger, or deep homicidal intent.
And in closing: that Eskimo thing is bunkum. English has a ton of words for snow too, and, as a language that uses adjectives as appurtenant to nouns, and doesn't rely only on creating new words out of combining roots, we gots snow words up the ying-yang. Being frugal in most things, I only need one word for snow: shit.
Apparently this planet has only 6,000 languages. (Actually, from experience in the Modern Historical Metropolis in which I work and play [don't tell wifey-pooh], I would say that that is about right. And 5,999 are spoken by local cabdrivers. Unfortunately, English is not one of them.) So, six point two billion people , 6,000 languages. Works out to about 104 million people per language. The US has, give or take, 290 million people, so we need about 2.9 languages. Makes sense: Spanish, Chinese, and American English, which is about .9 a real language.
[brother goodson interrupts: Hey, moron. Do the math. 6 billion (6 x 10^9) divided by 6 thousand (6 x 10^3), when dividing you subtract the exponents and get 1 x 10^6, or 1 million. (I took this right from his email, well, the math, not the "hey, moron", that was implied.) And yes, he's right. I did the math on my little calculator and figured out that I miscounted the zeroes. Fine, fine. The question is: who the hell actually does math with exponents? Sure, I may be a math imbecile, but at least I'm not a Freak. Here, here's a buck, go buy another pocket protector. Freak. We return you to the story, already in progress]
[brother goodson retort: Yeah, I'm a freak. With a Z4. And no wife. Suckaaaaaah]
Unfortunately, it doesn't work out like that, and 200 to 250 languages are the big bullies, all above one million speakers each, and 357 languages have under 50 speakers. Forty-six are known to have just one native speaker. One of these, no doubt, is wifeypoohish.
(I crack up just looking at that word. Wifeypoohish. Wifeypoohish. I'm dyin'!).
While wifeypoohish is related to English, it, much like the bushman language from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", contains several seemingly nonsensical sounds which actually carry significant linguistic importance.
Drawing another analogy from more commonly studied languages, like the Eskimo dialects which contain thirty-three words for snow, wifeypooish uses at least four hundred homonymic grunts and groans which, depending upon context, phrasing, tone, time of day, phase of the moon or butterfly migration patterns in China, can infer happiness, unhappiness, hunger, or deep homicidal intent.
And in closing: that Eskimo thing is bunkum. English has a ton of words for snow too, and, as a language that uses adjectives as appurtenant to nouns, and doesn't rely only on creating new words out of combining roots, we gots snow words up the ying-yang. Being frugal in most things, I only need one word for snow: shit.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Thoughts for a Monday Morning
Ah, it's been almost a half month. In truth, I was just trying to up the anticipation. Or, I had nothing to say. You pick.
So, some random thoughts:
The ongoing Bob Ryan controversy:
Jason Kidd, who actually smacked his wife, got a $200 fine and agreed to undergo counselling. Bob Ryan, who said he would like to smack Kidd's wife, got a one month unpaid suspension.
Sooo, Jason Kidd, who actually beat his wife, loses 200 bucks. Bob Ryan, who only says he would like to beat Jason Kidd's wife, is out, at least, 10 grand.
The lesson: in America it is cheaper to actually beat your own wife than to say you want to beat someone else's wife.
Does this send the right signal? What the heck is wrong with this country?
And please, the nattering nabobs: I am not condoning wife beating. My mother taught me never to hit a lady. She taught me to duck and run when the lady is throwing vegetables, plates, cutting boards, etc, at you.
SERIOUSLY FOLKS ADDENDA
Actually, the disparity between Ryan's punishment and Kidd's (and put aside that Ryan's punishment is by a private party with which Ryan has a consensual relationship -- that is, if he were ticked enough about this he could tell his employer to go pee up a rope and he could take his golden prose elsewhere, while Kidd's penalty is imposed by THE MAN), anyway, Ryan's rather stiff penalty vs. Kidd's slap on the wrist, just perpetuates the double standard that domestic violence prevention labors under. Threaten a person outside your personal sphere -- big time trouble. Threaten (and hit) your wife -- well, that's a different (somehow less serious) matter. This is lunacy.
What Ryan did was essentially to get up on a park bench and say he would like to smack somebody. This is somehow worse than me going out and actually smacking the next passer-by? Oh, no, I see, if the next passerby was my wife, then that's a matter for counseling. But if it was a private citizen then it's off to the hoosegow with me. See this for a discussion of the term hoosegow. I just like that word.... This double standard makes absolutely no sense at all.
Okay, back to the trivial...
And you were expecting?:
The new JD Powers survey says the Hummer owners are slightly upset at the vehicle's gas mileage.
Umm..
Boy, getting 10 mpg rather than that 12 you had expected is certainly a bummer. Are these folks really that dense? This frickin' car weighs like 9,000 pounds! It has more interior room than my first apartment! A hummer with a gun rack is enough firepower to coup d'etat at least four or five central american nations!
And you pay $50,000 and are worried about gas mileage? It's like griping about the lack low number of cupholders in brother Goodson's BMW Z4.
Morons. A nation of morons. Of rich morons.
Evil triumphs, because good is stupid.
Well, Jenna picking up the $1million was fairly pukey. Talk about a hobson's choice though: vapid jenna or crazy matt. I guess I just don't understand Christy. I mean, somebody did tell her that you wrote down the person you wanted to win, right? Motherdear will be devestated, although not as much as if manboobs bob had won. She thought rob was the nexus of all evil in the universe, but isn't that the lesson we take from the six seasons of survivor? Evil is rewarded with the million bucks, good wins a car.
Z4.
Drove brother Goodson's Z4 this weekend.
Niiiiice.
Mucho boosto, as our south american friends would say. Shift that baby into second and step on the gas. Woooooosh. One problem. The nose is entirely too long. How do I know this? Because I managed to hit the curb while parking in the local donut establishment. Sickening "crunch" sound. Abrupt stop. Nausea. Visions of fratricide.
Relatively unknown BWM safety feature: it is impossible to put one's head behind a tire and commit suicide by releasing the parking brake. Car is too low to the ground to accomodate normal human-sized noggin.
brother Goodson was very understanding. Am only banned from driving said Z4. Can still oogle it and wax once per month.
Okay, that's all for now.
Did the hip among us get the movie reference? As always, emails to Kalezac@gmail.com guarateed to be completely ignored.
So, some random thoughts:
The ongoing Bob Ryan controversy:
Jason Kidd, who actually smacked his wife, got a $200 fine and agreed to undergo counselling. Bob Ryan, who said he would like to smack Kidd's wife, got a one month unpaid suspension.
Sooo, Jason Kidd, who actually beat his wife, loses 200 bucks. Bob Ryan, who only says he would like to beat Jason Kidd's wife, is out, at least, 10 grand.
The lesson: in America it is cheaper to actually beat your own wife than to say you want to beat someone else's wife.
Does this send the right signal? What the heck is wrong with this country?
And please, the nattering nabobs: I am not condoning wife beating. My mother taught me never to hit a lady. She taught me to duck and run when the lady is throwing vegetables, plates, cutting boards, etc, at you.
SERIOUSLY FOLKS ADDENDA
Actually, the disparity between Ryan's punishment and Kidd's (and put aside that Ryan's punishment is by a private party with which Ryan has a consensual relationship -- that is, if he were ticked enough about this he could tell his employer to go pee up a rope and he could take his golden prose elsewhere, while Kidd's penalty is imposed by THE MAN), anyway, Ryan's rather stiff penalty vs. Kidd's slap on the wrist, just perpetuates the double standard that domestic violence prevention labors under. Threaten a person outside your personal sphere -- big time trouble. Threaten (and hit) your wife -- well, that's a different (somehow less serious) matter. This is lunacy.
What Ryan did was essentially to get up on a park bench and say he would like to smack somebody. This is somehow worse than me going out and actually smacking the next passer-by? Oh, no, I see, if the next passerby was my wife, then that's a matter for counseling. But if it was a private citizen then it's off to the hoosegow with me. See this for a discussion of the term hoosegow. I just like that word.... This double standard makes absolutely no sense at all.
Okay, back to the trivial...
And you were expecting?:
The new JD Powers survey says the Hummer owners are slightly upset at the vehicle's gas mileage.
Umm..
Boy, getting 10 mpg rather than that 12 you had expected is certainly a bummer. Are these folks really that dense? This frickin' car weighs like 9,000 pounds! It has more interior room than my first apartment! A hummer with a gun rack is enough firepower to coup d'etat at least four or five central american nations!
And you pay $50,000 and are worried about gas mileage? It's like griping about the lack low number of cupholders in brother Goodson's BMW Z4.
Morons. A nation of morons. Of rich morons.
Evil triumphs, because good is stupid.
Well, Jenna picking up the $1million was fairly pukey. Talk about a hobson's choice though: vapid jenna or crazy matt. I guess I just don't understand Christy. I mean, somebody did tell her that you wrote down the person you wanted to win, right? Motherdear will be devestated, although not as much as if manboobs bob had won. She thought rob was the nexus of all evil in the universe, but isn't that the lesson we take from the six seasons of survivor? Evil is rewarded with the million bucks, good wins a car.
Z4.
Drove brother Goodson's Z4 this weekend.
Niiiiice.
Mucho boosto, as our south american friends would say. Shift that baby into second and step on the gas. Woooooosh. One problem. The nose is entirely too long. How do I know this? Because I managed to hit the curb while parking in the local donut establishment. Sickening "crunch" sound. Abrupt stop. Nausea. Visions of fratricide.
Relatively unknown BWM safety feature: it is impossible to put one's head behind a tire and commit suicide by releasing the parking brake. Car is too low to the ground to accomodate normal human-sized noggin.
brother Goodson was very understanding. Am only banned from driving said Z4. Can still oogle it and wax once per month.
Okay, that's all for now.
Did the hip among us get the movie reference? As always, emails to Kalezac@gmail.com guarateed to be completely ignored.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Red Dragon v. Manhunter
Some thoughts while trying to not obsess about the computer solitaire game the KEEPS CHEATING ME SO I CAN’T GO TO BED. (Yes, yes, we are developing a nice little obsessive compulsive tic that requires I beat solitaire before I go to bed. And I’ve got to beat the four different solitaires on my Palm Pilot in sequence to have a good day at work. I tell you, I’m about two degrees separated from needing live chicken blood and the earth from a graveyard harvested under a full moon to get dressed in the morning….)
Rented “Red Dragon” on Friday night. In a fit of typical maleishness, slept through good portions of it. Went back the next morning and watched it while wifey-pooh and the fruits of my looms were out. While I was grouting. You know, if you’re ever too scared of a movie to fully enjoy it, just watch it while you’re grouting. There’s nothing like polishing that skim coat of grout off tiles 400 times to dull the terrifying effects of a movie.
Of course, try writing a review of said scary movie at 1:30 in the morning in a house full of various and sundry sounds. Not good times.
Not that Red Dragon was particularly scary. Actually, I didn’t find it at all scary. Or in the least scary. Or the teensiest bit scary. Well, perhaps Ed Norton’s pathetic attempt at Wil Graham was scary. Yeesh. I hold no particular grudge against Ed Norton. I haven’t seen American History X, so I can’t see him as a tough guy. I did see him in that god awful film with Ben Stiller and Jenna Elfman, where he plays a nice guy priest, and I think I’ve seen him in some other films where he basically plays a nice, dull, young man.
But Wil Graham ain’t a nice young man. He’s a tortured, world-weary veteran of mayhem, death and destruction. Ed Norton as a world weary detective able to see through the eyes of a homicidal sociopath – I’d rather be forced to sit and watch Al Gore speeches, for goodness sakes.
Now, perhaps had I come to this movie as a “Red Dragon” virgin, then perhaps I could’ve bought the whole thing. But I didn’t. You see, Manhunter, the 1986 version starring William Peterson (“Hey. Ain’t that the movie with Grissom?” Says wifeypooh. Pretend not to shudder…. Pretend not to shudder…. “Ah, yes… It is…”) is perhaps one of my favorite movies of all time. And Red Dragon, for all it’s production values, for the valiant consistency with the printed material, just, well… sucks. Let’s do a tale of the tape and compare these movies side by side, Manhunter from 1986, and Red Dragon from 2002.
Wil Graham: Ed Norton (02) vs. William Peterson (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Manhunter came along at a very impressionable time for me. And William Peterson’s portrayal of Graham, combined with his role in “To Live and Die in L.A.” and the HBO Bull Durham rip-off “Long Gone” remain the trifecta of crusty, world weary, macho dude role models. There’s a scene in both versions where Graham is talking to Freddie Lounds, feeding him the B.S. story meant to draw the Tooth Fairy into a trap. Peterson-Graham (I keep trying to write “Grissom”) comes off as contemptuous of Lounds and impatient with the whole charade. Norton-Graham practically giggles like a school-girl comparing notes with Lounds (played in 02 by Phillip Seymor Hoffman, who is very good). You do the math.
Lecter: Sir Anthony Hopkins (02) vs. Brian Cox (86) ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Ah, yes, you say to me. Obvious proof the boy has flipped his lid. Sir Anthony is a member of the Royal Shakespeare theater… Sir Anthony has been knighted by the Queen… Sir Anthony was in “Remains of the Day” a costume drama period piece you actually liked! All these things you say to me. I respond: true, all of the above. I say to you: Sir Anthony chewed so much scenery in this movie (and Hannibal) that I needed a sympathetic dose of Maalox. He’s become a caricature of himself. And his accent has become weird to the point of distraction. What the hell is it with that phony southern affectation he does from time to time? And he looks absolutely awful. In one of the DVD extras the director says that Hopkins put on 30 pounds for the role – was it to try and bloat up so the wrinkles wouldn’t show so prominently? This movie was supposed to take place before the other two! Sir Anthony playing Lector has become like Jack Nicholson to me, just playing the same character on autopilot. Cox WORKED to give us Lector, and it’s much more satisfying.
The Tooth-Fairy: Ralph Finnes (02) vs. Tom Noonan (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Well, Duh. The Tooth Fairy is supposed to be a scarily deformed man who is shy and awkward with others. Tom Noonan is freaky. Uber freaky, as our good friend Shaggy would say. I mean that little scar on Finnes-Dolarhyde’s upper lip is supposed to be enough to turn him into a serial killer? Puh-leeze. And Finnes accent?! Ye Gods. Between Finnes and Anthony Hopkins it’s a murder-the-generic-american-accent fest. Plus, Ralph Finnes spends entirely too much of this movie naked. Now, I don’t need to see that. I really don’t need the scene where Finnes-Dolarhyde has his morning-after dialogue with the dragon (the dragon wants him to off Reba, Dolarhyde thinks about blowing off his own head instead). When Finnes-Dolarhyde comes bounding up the attic stairs, we are treated to…. Well, you know… Suffice it to say: Damn you Ralph Finnes, for making me feel inadequate to a cleft-palate homicidal sociopath bedwetter. Like I needed to feel any more insecure.
Crawford: Harvey Keitell (02) vs. Dennis Farina (86). ADVANTAGE: Silence of the Lambs.
Okay, okay. I like Harvey Keitell. I loved him in Reservoir Dogs, and I haven’t seen The Bad Lieutenant, so I don’t get PTSD flashbacks from seeing him on screen. Farina from Manhunter loses points for doing that god awful “The Inlaws” series last year. Sure, that’s not fair, but nobody said life was fair. Of course, both of these Crawfords are far inferior to Scott Glenn’s portrayal in Silence of the Lambs. Scott Glenn rocks. Jeez, they brought back Frankie Faison as Barney the Orderly, why did they feel the need to change Crawfords each movie? Bastards.
The obligatory girl in trouble, Reba: Emily Watson (02) vs. Joan Allen (86). ADVANTAGE: Push
Actually, thinking about this, I’m going to change my mind. Joan Allen gets the nod here, for one particular scene. The tiger scene is in both movies, the scene were Dolarhyde brings Reba to “see” a tiger. It’s during this part of the movie where Dolarhyde gives us a glimpse of his suppressed humanity and we begin to root for him, just for a moment, to be able to get himself out of his psychosis. Joan Allen really sold this scene, laying on the tiger to hear it’s heartbeat, caressing the tiger in this, perhaps not so, subtle foreshadowing of her laying with a far more dangerous creature later in the movie. Emily Watson basically pats the tiger, and listens to it with a stethoscope. Ho hum. Just another day at the office, fondling a ten foot long tiger. (Actually, the tiger in Red Dragon seemed a lot less sedated that the tiger in Manhunter. Perhaps Ms. Watson was afraid of being eaten. Perhaps Ralph Finnes had yet again taken off his clothes and was prancing around naked just off camera. Either way, she doesn’t really communicate the sensual nature of the contact, and what it means to her. So, we gotta give this category to Joan Allen and Manhunter.
Graham’s wife: That chick who Josh Lymon gets down with on West Wing (02) vs. Some oldish haggard blonde (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
In the story, Graham’s wife has a 11 or 12 year old son from a previous marriage. The relationship between Graham and the boy, how the boy learns about Graham’s past and begins to fear him just a bit, really shows us how different Graham is from us, and maybe how much he is like the men he chases. The wife plays very little role in this whole thing, so it’s not exactly a juicy role for an actress. You’ve just gotta be the Mom and wife figure. So, if you don’t bring anything to the party, please be sure to just not pee in the punchbowl. Josh Lymon’s girlfriend fails miserably in this regard, distracting me throughout the movie with thoughts like: hey, this chick is my age, what’s she doing with a 12 year old? And: hey, is the kid the lovechild of her relationship with Josh?, etc etc.
(editor’s note: Acutally, Ms. Mary-Louise Parker would have been 27 when she had the twelve year old in question. She just looks hotter than you. Kal’s note: I would hope freakin’ so.)
Ambiance: Silence of the Lambs look-alike (02) vs. Miami Vice look-alike (86). ADVANTAGE: Miami Vice baby!
Michael Mann, he of Miami Vice and MTV videos, directed Manhunter, and it shows. Everything is that clean, modern 1980’s look. Lots of white, very antiseptic. The soundtrack is moody and synthesized, except for the use of Iron Butterfly’s “Innagoddadavida” during the climactic scene. Red Dragon is very visually similar to Silence of the Lambs, with the sort of world-right-after-a-rainstorm look. It’s much more consistent with the written material: Manhunter almost laughably had Dolarhyde living in this bachelor pad with a large poster of Mars on one end of the living room and Japanese screens (all the better to fall through) in another part of the house.
(I may have made that bit about Japanese screens up. You see, this is the great benefit of writing a blog that nobody reads. No smartass can write you emails saying, “Kal, you ignorant sl*t, we learn that Lector is from Lithuania in the book “Red Dragon” on page thirty-seven, in paragraph six, obviously that’s where his odd accent comes from…” or “they were falling though the poster, not a Japanese screen, in “Manhunter”.)
But this movie captured so vividly a time I hold so dear: no wifey-pooh, no Fruits of my Loom, no mortgage, no J-O-B, that to watch it is to, for two hours, be catapulted back to the age of thin ties, stubble, and Ronnie Reagan. Red Dragon just makes me feel like I need a shower.
Final Score: Manhunter 6, Red Dragon 0, Silence of the Lambs 1.
Till next time, sports fans.
Oh – for obsessive compulsive finders of movie trivia: nothing in this posting, as it’s all about movies. Would be sort of redundant, wouldn’t it now?
Rented “Red Dragon” on Friday night. In a fit of typical maleishness, slept through good portions of it. Went back the next morning and watched it while wifey-pooh and the fruits of my looms were out. While I was grouting. You know, if you’re ever too scared of a movie to fully enjoy it, just watch it while you’re grouting. There’s nothing like polishing that skim coat of grout off tiles 400 times to dull the terrifying effects of a movie.
Of course, try writing a review of said scary movie at 1:30 in the morning in a house full of various and sundry sounds. Not good times.
Not that Red Dragon was particularly scary. Actually, I didn’t find it at all scary. Or in the least scary. Or the teensiest bit scary. Well, perhaps Ed Norton’s pathetic attempt at Wil Graham was scary. Yeesh. I hold no particular grudge against Ed Norton. I haven’t seen American History X, so I can’t see him as a tough guy. I did see him in that god awful film with Ben Stiller and Jenna Elfman, where he plays a nice guy priest, and I think I’ve seen him in some other films where he basically plays a nice, dull, young man.
But Wil Graham ain’t a nice young man. He’s a tortured, world-weary veteran of mayhem, death and destruction. Ed Norton as a world weary detective able to see through the eyes of a homicidal sociopath – I’d rather be forced to sit and watch Al Gore speeches, for goodness sakes.
Now, perhaps had I come to this movie as a “Red Dragon” virgin, then perhaps I could’ve bought the whole thing. But I didn’t. You see, Manhunter, the 1986 version starring William Peterson (“Hey. Ain’t that the movie with Grissom?” Says wifeypooh. Pretend not to shudder…. Pretend not to shudder…. “Ah, yes… It is…”) is perhaps one of my favorite movies of all time. And Red Dragon, for all it’s production values, for the valiant consistency with the printed material, just, well… sucks. Let’s do a tale of the tape and compare these movies side by side, Manhunter from 1986, and Red Dragon from 2002.
Wil Graham: Ed Norton (02) vs. William Peterson (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Manhunter came along at a very impressionable time for me. And William Peterson’s portrayal of Graham, combined with his role in “To Live and Die in L.A.” and the HBO Bull Durham rip-off “Long Gone” remain the trifecta of crusty, world weary, macho dude role models. There’s a scene in both versions where Graham is talking to Freddie Lounds, feeding him the B.S. story meant to draw the Tooth Fairy into a trap. Peterson-Graham (I keep trying to write “Grissom”) comes off as contemptuous of Lounds and impatient with the whole charade. Norton-Graham practically giggles like a school-girl comparing notes with Lounds (played in 02 by Phillip Seymor Hoffman, who is very good). You do the math.
Lecter: Sir Anthony Hopkins (02) vs. Brian Cox (86) ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Ah, yes, you say to me. Obvious proof the boy has flipped his lid. Sir Anthony is a member of the Royal Shakespeare theater… Sir Anthony has been knighted by the Queen… Sir Anthony was in “Remains of the Day” a costume drama period piece you actually liked! All these things you say to me. I respond: true, all of the above. I say to you: Sir Anthony chewed so much scenery in this movie (and Hannibal) that I needed a sympathetic dose of Maalox. He’s become a caricature of himself. And his accent has become weird to the point of distraction. What the hell is it with that phony southern affectation he does from time to time? And he looks absolutely awful. In one of the DVD extras the director says that Hopkins put on 30 pounds for the role – was it to try and bloat up so the wrinkles wouldn’t show so prominently? This movie was supposed to take place before the other two! Sir Anthony playing Lector has become like Jack Nicholson to me, just playing the same character on autopilot. Cox WORKED to give us Lector, and it’s much more satisfying.
The Tooth-Fairy: Ralph Finnes (02) vs. Tom Noonan (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
Well, Duh. The Tooth Fairy is supposed to be a scarily deformed man who is shy and awkward with others. Tom Noonan is freaky. Uber freaky, as our good friend Shaggy would say. I mean that little scar on Finnes-Dolarhyde’s upper lip is supposed to be enough to turn him into a serial killer? Puh-leeze. And Finnes accent?! Ye Gods. Between Finnes and Anthony Hopkins it’s a murder-the-generic-american-accent fest. Plus, Ralph Finnes spends entirely too much of this movie naked. Now, I don’t need to see that. I really don’t need the scene where Finnes-Dolarhyde has his morning-after dialogue with the dragon (the dragon wants him to off Reba, Dolarhyde thinks about blowing off his own head instead). When Finnes-Dolarhyde comes bounding up the attic stairs, we are treated to…. Well, you know… Suffice it to say: Damn you Ralph Finnes, for making me feel inadequate to a cleft-palate homicidal sociopath bedwetter. Like I needed to feel any more insecure.
Crawford: Harvey Keitell (02) vs. Dennis Farina (86). ADVANTAGE: Silence of the Lambs.
Okay, okay. I like Harvey Keitell. I loved him in Reservoir Dogs, and I haven’t seen The Bad Lieutenant, so I don’t get PTSD flashbacks from seeing him on screen. Farina from Manhunter loses points for doing that god awful “The Inlaws” series last year. Sure, that’s not fair, but nobody said life was fair. Of course, both of these Crawfords are far inferior to Scott Glenn’s portrayal in Silence of the Lambs. Scott Glenn rocks. Jeez, they brought back Frankie Faison as Barney the Orderly, why did they feel the need to change Crawfords each movie? Bastards.
The obligatory girl in trouble, Reba: Emily Watson (02) vs. Joan Allen (86). ADVANTAGE: Push
Actually, thinking about this, I’m going to change my mind. Joan Allen gets the nod here, for one particular scene. The tiger scene is in both movies, the scene were Dolarhyde brings Reba to “see” a tiger. It’s during this part of the movie where Dolarhyde gives us a glimpse of his suppressed humanity and we begin to root for him, just for a moment, to be able to get himself out of his psychosis. Joan Allen really sold this scene, laying on the tiger to hear it’s heartbeat, caressing the tiger in this, perhaps not so, subtle foreshadowing of her laying with a far more dangerous creature later in the movie. Emily Watson basically pats the tiger, and listens to it with a stethoscope. Ho hum. Just another day at the office, fondling a ten foot long tiger. (Actually, the tiger in Red Dragon seemed a lot less sedated that the tiger in Manhunter. Perhaps Ms. Watson was afraid of being eaten. Perhaps Ralph Finnes had yet again taken off his clothes and was prancing around naked just off camera. Either way, she doesn’t really communicate the sensual nature of the contact, and what it means to her. So, we gotta give this category to Joan Allen and Manhunter.
Graham’s wife: That chick who Josh Lymon gets down with on West Wing (02) vs. Some oldish haggard blonde (86). ADVANTAGE: Manhunter.
In the story, Graham’s wife has a 11 or 12 year old son from a previous marriage. The relationship between Graham and the boy, how the boy learns about Graham’s past and begins to fear him just a bit, really shows us how different Graham is from us, and maybe how much he is like the men he chases. The wife plays very little role in this whole thing, so it’s not exactly a juicy role for an actress. You’ve just gotta be the Mom and wife figure. So, if you don’t bring anything to the party, please be sure to just not pee in the punchbowl. Josh Lymon’s girlfriend fails miserably in this regard, distracting me throughout the movie with thoughts like: hey, this chick is my age, what’s she doing with a 12 year old? And: hey, is the kid the lovechild of her relationship with Josh?, etc etc.
(editor’s note: Acutally, Ms. Mary-Louise Parker would have been 27 when she had the twelve year old in question. She just looks hotter than you. Kal’s note: I would hope freakin’ so.)
Ambiance: Silence of the Lambs look-alike (02) vs. Miami Vice look-alike (86). ADVANTAGE: Miami Vice baby!
Michael Mann, he of Miami Vice and MTV videos, directed Manhunter, and it shows. Everything is that clean, modern 1980’s look. Lots of white, very antiseptic. The soundtrack is moody and synthesized, except for the use of Iron Butterfly’s “Innagoddadavida” during the climactic scene. Red Dragon is very visually similar to Silence of the Lambs, with the sort of world-right-after-a-rainstorm look. It’s much more consistent with the written material: Manhunter almost laughably had Dolarhyde living in this bachelor pad with a large poster of Mars on one end of the living room and Japanese screens (all the better to fall through) in another part of the house.
(I may have made that bit about Japanese screens up. You see, this is the great benefit of writing a blog that nobody reads. No smartass can write you emails saying, “Kal, you ignorant sl*t, we learn that Lector is from Lithuania in the book “Red Dragon” on page thirty-seven, in paragraph six, obviously that’s where his odd accent comes from…” or “they were falling though the poster, not a Japanese screen, in “Manhunter”.)
But this movie captured so vividly a time I hold so dear: no wifey-pooh, no Fruits of my Loom, no mortgage, no J-O-B, that to watch it is to, for two hours, be catapulted back to the age of thin ties, stubble, and Ronnie Reagan. Red Dragon just makes me feel like I need a shower.
Final Score: Manhunter 6, Red Dragon 0, Silence of the Lambs 1.
Till next time, sports fans.
Oh – for obsessive compulsive finders of movie trivia: nothing in this posting, as it’s all about movies. Would be sort of redundant, wouldn’t it now?
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
A Boy's First Post
Northeastern called again the other day, ostensibly to make sure I was still getting the alumni magazine, but of course to ask me for money. While I am very grateful to NU for giving me -- er, strike that -- providing me the opportunity to earn a serviceable, if not spectacular, education, it cheeses me off to no end that they are constantly looking for money from me, after I just finished paying $250 a month for my 1/3rd share of college. (okay, I didn't finish paying it off, I rolled it into my mortgage, which thanks to these Great Depression Redux interest rates I raised the extra 20K for about $75 a month). And what the heck do they do with my $10? They build more freakin' buildings like the four-story health club -- that's right, health FREAKIN club -- on Huntington Avenue.
Now, not to sound like my dad, who walked ten miles to school each morning in the snow, uphill, both ways, in July, but when I went to Northeastern (cue music) we ate in a flippin cafeteria. With LINOLEUM. Probably ASBESTOS LADEN linoleum. And if the asbestos laden linoleum didn't kill you, the smoke coming out of the "game room", featuring one archaic Pole Position, a geriatric Asteroids, and perhaps Dig-freakin-Dug, that old whore of a game, would croak you. Like I want to make these kids' college years any more cushy. Screw that.
Anywho, I usually promise to throw them $10 per year, and then have to beg and plead with my wife, who wisely controls the finances, to let me send them a check after about 15 reminder letters from them, the cost of shipping and handling thus exceeding the $10 I eventually, grudgingly, send.
For some reason I was in a bit of an odd mood when the latest pimply faced workstudy student called looking for dough -- it was a guy, which perhaps doomed the effort to failure, as usually the voice of a youngish co-ed fresh from the leafy suburbs of Connecticut will elicit my interest enough to trade Professor McShane stories, after which I will usually promise the half-sawbuck, sort of the equivalent of the money on the dresser the morning after, I guess.
So I tell Mr. Sophomore that yes, indeed, I still get the beautiful alumni magazine. Which I read for the articles, really. Or, rather, would, if the articles were interesting. Which, is, not so much the case. Yes, I say, I get the magazine, which is rather puzzling as I graduated from Boston College.
Stunned silence.
Then, "Uh, you sure?"
Okay, perhaps he was asking if I was sure that I was receiving the Northeastern alumni magazine, not that I was sure I graduated from Boston College. I can understand him perhaps thinking I was addled enough to mistake the BC magazine for the NU magazine, as NU is quickly turning into a leafy green campus with expensive buildings, and the alumni magazine so rarely catches that real essence of Northeastern life, Punters Pub and classes at the Y (complimentary flak jacket included).
I am hoping that Northeastern has not taken to accepting students who would believe that I perhaps was not sure WHERE I HAD ATTENDED COLLEGE. I would have understood had he told me, "hey, you shitting me buddy?", or perhaps "oh yeah, you're the deadbeat who talks to the girls for thirty minutes and then promises ten bucks". But, please, am I aware of where I went to college? What the hell kind of question is that?
So, I said: Yup. BC, class of '93. Brilliant ad lib on my part, as due to Northeastern's patented water-torture-for-five-years I graduated NU in '94, but would've finished a normal school in 1993.
More stunned silence.
"Uh, could you hold?" So he put me on hold for 30 seconds, came back on, apologized and hung up.
So, no $10 bucks for Northeastern this year. Unfortunately, I may also lose my free subscription to the Alumni mag.
Jeez, I wonder if they'd print this story as an article? I'd read that.
Now, not to sound like my dad, who walked ten miles to school each morning in the snow, uphill, both ways, in July, but when I went to Northeastern (cue music) we ate in a flippin cafeteria. With LINOLEUM. Probably ASBESTOS LADEN linoleum. And if the asbestos laden linoleum didn't kill you, the smoke coming out of the "game room", featuring one archaic Pole Position, a geriatric Asteroids, and perhaps Dig-freakin-Dug, that old whore of a game, would croak you. Like I want to make these kids' college years any more cushy. Screw that.
Anywho, I usually promise to throw them $10 per year, and then have to beg and plead with my wife, who wisely controls the finances, to let me send them a check after about 15 reminder letters from them, the cost of shipping and handling thus exceeding the $10 I eventually, grudgingly, send.
For some reason I was in a bit of an odd mood when the latest pimply faced workstudy student called looking for dough -- it was a guy, which perhaps doomed the effort to failure, as usually the voice of a youngish co-ed fresh from the leafy suburbs of Connecticut will elicit my interest enough to trade Professor McShane stories, after which I will usually promise the half-sawbuck, sort of the equivalent of the money on the dresser the morning after, I guess.
So I tell Mr. Sophomore that yes, indeed, I still get the beautiful alumni magazine. Which I read for the articles, really. Or, rather, would, if the articles were interesting. Which, is, not so much the case. Yes, I say, I get the magazine, which is rather puzzling as I graduated from Boston College.
Stunned silence.
Then, "Uh, you sure?"
Okay, perhaps he was asking if I was sure that I was receiving the Northeastern alumni magazine, not that I was sure I graduated from Boston College. I can understand him perhaps thinking I was addled enough to mistake the BC magazine for the NU magazine, as NU is quickly turning into a leafy green campus with expensive buildings, and the alumni magazine so rarely catches that real essence of Northeastern life, Punters Pub and classes at the Y (complimentary flak jacket included).
I am hoping that Northeastern has not taken to accepting students who would believe that I perhaps was not sure WHERE I HAD ATTENDED COLLEGE. I would have understood had he told me, "hey, you shitting me buddy?", or perhaps "oh yeah, you're the deadbeat who talks to the girls for thirty minutes and then promises ten bucks". But, please, am I aware of where I went to college? What the hell kind of question is that?
So, I said: Yup. BC, class of '93. Brilliant ad lib on my part, as due to Northeastern's patented water-torture-for-five-years I graduated NU in '94, but would've finished a normal school in 1993.
More stunned silence.
"Uh, could you hold?" So he put me on hold for 30 seconds, came back on, apologized and hung up.
So, no $10 bucks for Northeastern this year. Unfortunately, I may also lose my free subscription to the Alumni mag.
Jeez, I wonder if they'd print this story as an article? I'd read that.
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