I think I’m a funny guy. No, I take that back. I’m certain I’m a funny guy. I wield my wit as Errol Flynn wields the epee (we’ll talk about my ego later). I'm always reliable for a snappy one-liner or witty retort. Yet the more I consider it, the more I realize that my expertise in all things wiseass is best suited for conversation. I could never be a stand-up comic because I work better when I have somebody to return my volleys. The great tragedy of my give-and-take humor is that it doesn’t translate readily to the page. I start writing and an impenetrable earnestness wraps around me, stifling whatever jovial or light-hearted spirit that initially compelled me to write. It’s as if my subconscious sees humor as a slight on my character.
“Funny people aren’t taken seriously,” the Gravitas Gnome in my head warns. And like the great sage Lindsay Lohan says every time she stumbles out of The Viper Room and pukes in a paparazzo’s lap, “I really want to be taken seriously.”
This inherent weakness revealed itself when a friend passed me a classified ad searching for columnists for a film and television website. Can you say wheelhouse? I revisited some of the columns I’ve composed over the past year to see what I could scrounge up for a potential writing sample. I wanted something brief and glib, something to demonstrate my deft touch with the written word. Instead what I found were dozens of long-winded essays that, while heavy on the insight, lacked a certain flair that made them even slightly readable. I mean how can a review of a film as laughably atrocious as Fantastic Four want of any genuine laughs of its own? That’s not natural.
If only there were a surgical procedure -- a hubrisectomy, if you will -- that could alleviate the gravity with which I conduct my pop culture examinations. They have a pill for everything these days. Why not one that removes the stick from one’s ass? Well, until Merck sees the profitability in curbing pretension, I guess I’ll just have to be satisfied with my conversational dexterity and hope that my drollness eventually seeps into my literary endeavors.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
A Good Day With a Splash of Irony
There's a rule in life. The minute you settle for something less than what you want, the original object of your desire will come calling. So, when you want a certain job, the rule says you won't hear from said job until you have another, less appealing employ. A month or so ago I interviewed for a studio crew position at KWQC Channel 6, the fillet of local news. Well, I never heard from them. So, I went about looking for other employ (nothing happened there), as well as applying to St. Ambrose's Radio and Television program (accepted). So, while Channel 6 was my dream entry level job, and I never heard back from them, I decided I should get a little more experience in TV in case the opportunity should present itself again.
So, this morning I called my R&T advisor to schedule an appointment for Monday morning, and not three minutes later... wait for it... KWQC called to offer me the studio job.
I start tomorrow afternoon.
And I can't stop smiling.
So, this morning I called my R&T advisor to schedule an appointment for Monday morning, and not three minutes later... wait for it... KWQC called to offer me the studio job.
I start tomorrow afternoon.
And I can't stop smiling.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
March Madness in the 21st Century
One of the most ludicrous platitudes we've heard over the past sxi years is that everything changed on 9/11. In truth, nothing changed. The country is still greedy, self-centered, myopic, and addicted to the quick fix. Nothing's changed, because we haven't changed.
But occasionally we're reminded that things should have changed more than they did. Usually it's the uptick on the warning color. But today there was a different one, one that more people will probably pay attention to. As I write this the NCAA tournament has begun, with office workers nationwide eyeballing their brackets, but the west coast games have been delayed because bomb-sniffing dogs discovered a suspicious package in a vending cart inside the Cox Arena in San Diego.
Now, it's good to see law inforcement has done their job, and I hope this situation proceeds without incident. Still, a part of me is grateful for the reminder that things are not as they once were. We get bogged down by disctactions, of which the NCAA tournament is one, that allow us to avoid those issues that linger in the dark shadows we don't like to examine.
Well, next to the Super Bowl, March Madness is the most buzzworthy sporting event this country has to offer. Perhaps the eerie image of the empty red seats in Cox Arena, and the throngs of fans standing outside, will help remind us, however briefly, that things did indeed change on 9/11. We're just reluctant to accept it.
But occasionally we're reminded that things should have changed more than they did. Usually it's the uptick on the warning color. But today there was a different one, one that more people will probably pay attention to. As I write this the NCAA tournament has begun, with office workers nationwide eyeballing their brackets, but the west coast games have been delayed because bomb-sniffing dogs discovered a suspicious package in a vending cart inside the Cox Arena in San Diego.
Now, it's good to see law inforcement has done their job, and I hope this situation proceeds without incident. Still, a part of me is grateful for the reminder that things are not as they once were. We get bogged down by disctactions, of which the NCAA tournament is one, that allow us to avoid those issues that linger in the dark shadows we don't like to examine.
Well, next to the Super Bowl, March Madness is the most buzzworthy sporting event this country has to offer. Perhaps the eerie image of the empty red seats in Cox Arena, and the throngs of fans standing outside, will help remind us, however briefly, that things did indeed change on 9/11. We're just reluctant to accept it.
Kid Sis
The list of people who I envy is short, but those people all share one characteristic: they love what they do.The list of people who I admire is shorter, but those people also share one characteristic: they’re all good at what they do.
I just got home from spending a half-hour with someone I both envy and admire: my cousin Amy.
My brother and I always wanted a little sister. We liked the idea of being chivalrous in the name of family. We liked the idea of interrogating potential suitors. And even my brother must admit that we unfairly outnumbered Mom on our Florida vacations; we relish the challenge of a more even match-up on the pontoon boat. In the past couple years we’ve unofficially adopted Amy as our surrogate kid sis.
Andrew set the process in motion while I was away at college. Since the two of them were closer in age, they became social confidantes during his junior and senior years in high school. The two of them bonded further during my summer in Los Angeles when Amy pinch hit for me during the family’s annual vacation in Florida. Slowly but surely, he pulled her into our dysfunctional web.
Amy was always somebody both my father and brother shared a great affection for. My dad always commented on what a remarkable (and beautiful) young woman she had become. My brother, on the other hand, seemed to have a unique insight into Amy’s trials because of their similar branches on the family tree – that of the younger sibling. On the list of people of whom my brother feels most protective, Amy is at the top, and I’m sure I can speak for him when I say she is one of the people of which he is most proud. I heartily agree with him.
It’s remarkable how similar Amy’s and Andrew’s stories have been. They both had their share of troubles in their teens before finding a niche for themselves that christened them with adulthood almost overnight. For Andrew it was West Point. And for Amy it was, for lack of a better word, style.
Although it’s laughable now, there was quite a bit of controversy regarding Amy’s decision to pursue a career as a stylist. I guess that’s understandable; it does seem sort of impractical at first glance. But looking at Amy now, living in her own apartment, essentially running her own one-woman salon, those who questioned her choice – it’s ok if you feel a little shame. And for somebody four years her senior living at home, battling for jobs, and returning to school in the fall, seeing her success makes me feel more than a little sheepish.
Before I left for my year in Florida, Amy was in the middle of beauty school. My way of showing support was to regularly offer my mane for her to experiment with. Those first sessions with Amy were terrifically entertaining, as Amy’s apprehension, enthusiasm, and genuine gregariousness combined into this effervescent personality that couldn’t help but make me smile even as she held my vanity in her trembling hands.
“Oh my God,” she always said right before putting clipper to crown.
Still, when somebody you love finds something that they love, you can’t help but want to be a part of it. So I returned time and time again for trims, shampoos, and colorings as Amy became more competent and confident. When I left for Florida, Amy was still pretty green, but she had come along way since our first adventure.
Uncertain about my finances in Florida, I cut corners where I could. One of those corners was my hair. I got a pair of clippers for twenty bucks and sported the shorn skull for the duration of my stay. By the time I returned home, Amy had long since graduated and earned herself a spot at J Michael’s salon. Though I was excited to see Amy’s new digs, my low-maintenance lifestyle meant that I had no hair for my cousin to manage.
But around Christmas the sight of my round dome started to bore me, and I decided to restart the growth. In the few months that followed Amy became a regular visitor at the Rockwell household. I became her TV dealer, getting her hooked on 24, Lost and Smallville as I freely lent out my ample collection of programs for her consumption (Veronica Mars is next). Whenever she stopped by, Amy made sure to check my scalp to anticipate when she’d finally get her hands on my hair again.
That day was today. It’s probably been anywhere from 18 to 20 months since I’ve had Amy cut my hair, and it’s remarkable how far she’s come. For starters, she didn’t say “Oh my God” before she began. She just went at it. Whereas the last time she cut my hair, it was all very much about proper technique (Amy didn’t want to mess up her cousin’s head), today it was clear that technique had given way to instinct. The work had become second nature. The nerves were gone, replaced by an unbridled enthusiasm for all the skills she had mastered over time. Amy gave me a full work-up this afternoon, but she made it clear she still had a handful of tricks she couldn’t wait to employ when she got the opportunity. Highlights are most likely next.
I’d recommend anybody, family or no, hunt down my cousin after J Micheals makes its move to its new location. Not only does Amy do a tremendous job (I walked out of there one handsome cat), but you’ll never find a sweeter, more charming girl in all your days. I can’t recall ever seeing Amy in a bad mood (and she rode to the airport with me on Thanksgiving), and her bright personality and enthusiasm are instantly infectious. She’s like our own little Reese Witherspoon; a ball of limitless positive energy you can’t help but be instantly smitten with. I’m so thrilled to go see this young lady again, my hair can’t grow fast enough.
So, from this honorary big brother, I salute one more family member who followed her dreams and has been rewarded for it. I’m proud of you, kid. We all are.
P.S. Good luck with dad, tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Ten Tiny Netflix Reviews -- Ranked For Your Pleasure
10. Broken Flowers -- Critics love Jim Jarmusch. My film professors loved Jim Jarmusch. I don't get it. Not even Bill Murray can save this film from being one of the most boring films I've watched in years. Ah, but in honor of the pretention that is Jarmusch's filmography I will sum up my review with this one word: ennui.
9. The Fog -- A horror movie with no legitimate scares, no convincing acting, and .... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
8. The Ice Harvest -- If Oliver Platt is off-screen in this film, feel free to fast forward until he reappears. He's drop dead funny. Unfortunately, the rest of the film just drops dead.
7. Lord of War -- A well-made, but ultimately flat satire of the Small Arms race. Played like a gun-running GoodFellas, it seems to be making a statement about... something. Can't say what. Guns, I'm sure. But what? No idea. Still, the film looks really pretty.
6. Prime -- Uma Thurman dates a younger man. In other words, my best dream ever. Actually, no. Last month I had a dream that I took Veronica Mars to Wrigley Field. Holy shit. But I digress. I liked this movie, but I have a semi-irrational crush on Uma Thurman, so her charms may have made this movie more charming in my eyes than it actually was.
5. The 40 Year Old Virgin -- Sweet and funny movie, sprinkled with the appropriate raunch. Steve Carrell follows up his movie-stealing roles in Bruce Almighty and Anchorman with a genuinely honest and heartfelt leading role. This man is the next Jim Carrey. I watched the Unrated cut, which is a tad too long. So, if you can find the theatrical cut, I'd go with that.
4. Domino -- The Love It or Hate It movie of the year. I loved it. Pure balls-to-the-wall excess with Mickey Rourke and Keira Knightley as bounty hunters. Flashy and noisy and relentless. But in a good way.
3. Thumbsucker -- One of the most honest and frank dissections of teenage confusion I've ever seen. It's all about finding your place in the world. By my record, that doesn't stop in your teens. But still a good movie.
2. Walk the Line -- Standard celebrity biopic but brought to remarkable life thanks to Joaquin Phoenix and the luminous Reese Witherspoon (deservedly won an Oscar for this role). If last years' Ray was adequate, Walk the Line is trascendent.
1. History of Violence -- A taught thriller without an ounce of fat in its 90 minute running time. Commentary on our fascination with violence, even as it gives us violence in spades on the screen. Viggo Mortensen deserved some recognition for his work here, going from aw shucks farmer to elite killing machine so seemlessly it's as scary for us as it is for his family. Best movie I've seen this year.
9. The Fog -- A horror movie with no legitimate scares, no convincing acting, and .... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
8. The Ice Harvest -- If Oliver Platt is off-screen in this film, feel free to fast forward until he reappears. He's drop dead funny. Unfortunately, the rest of the film just drops dead.
7. Lord of War -- A well-made, but ultimately flat satire of the Small Arms race. Played like a gun-running GoodFellas, it seems to be making a statement about... something. Can't say what. Guns, I'm sure. But what? No idea. Still, the film looks really pretty.
6. Prime -- Uma Thurman dates a younger man. In other words, my best dream ever. Actually, no. Last month I had a dream that I took Veronica Mars to Wrigley Field. Holy shit. But I digress. I liked this movie, but I have a semi-irrational crush on Uma Thurman, so her charms may have made this movie more charming in my eyes than it actually was.
5. The 40 Year Old Virgin -- Sweet and funny movie, sprinkled with the appropriate raunch. Steve Carrell follows up his movie-stealing roles in Bruce Almighty and Anchorman with a genuinely honest and heartfelt leading role. This man is the next Jim Carrey. I watched the Unrated cut, which is a tad too long. So, if you can find the theatrical cut, I'd go with that.
4. Domino -- The Love It or Hate It movie of the year. I loved it. Pure balls-to-the-wall excess with Mickey Rourke and Keira Knightley as bounty hunters. Flashy and noisy and relentless. But in a good way.
3. Thumbsucker -- One of the most honest and frank dissections of teenage confusion I've ever seen. It's all about finding your place in the world. By my record, that doesn't stop in your teens. But still a good movie.
2. Walk the Line -- Standard celebrity biopic but brought to remarkable life thanks to Joaquin Phoenix and the luminous Reese Witherspoon (deservedly won an Oscar for this role). If last years' Ray was adequate, Walk the Line is trascendent.
1. History of Violence -- A taught thriller without an ounce of fat in its 90 minute running time. Commentary on our fascination with violence, even as it gives us violence in spades on the screen. Viggo Mortensen deserved some recognition for his work here, going from aw shucks farmer to elite killing machine so seemlessly it's as scary for us as it is for his family. Best movie I've seen this year.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Long Distance Sit-Down #2: The Longest Month
Based on Instant Messenger Conversations
Inertia holds enormous sway over my brother’s personality. He’s not one who takes to stasis with much enthusiasm. If he had his druthers, he would be constantly moving, constantly active, constantly reminded of his vitality. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always afford us perpetual motion, and my brother seems to take that personally.
After graduation, Andrew took a number of assignments before heading to his permanent residence in Fort Collins. He spent several months at Fort Monmouth, the West Point prep school, teaching Calculus and assisting the girl’s basketball team. From what I gather he really enjoyed his time there. Despite his social limitations, he was always involved in something, always busy. After a semester at the prep school he transferred to Fort Benning for his Bradley Tank training and Army Ranger School. Unfortunately, as a result of Andrew’s tenacious work habits, he finished up nearly every class in the Benning catalogue in a matter of months before facing a wait of several more months before the next session of Ranger training began. I don’t know how long he actually waited, not long I’m sure, before deciding to move on.
Now in Iraq, it seems Andrew’s has found a new front for his battle with his own internal kinetics. It goes without saying that he’s at his best when he’s on the move.
“I went 70 hours without sleep and 48 without anything but Gatorade,” speaking of the days immediately following the destruction of the Golden Mosque in Samarra. But despite health care that would make my Aunt Becky (a nurse practitioner) pass out, Andrew tells me: “It’s fun.”
Andrew’s unwillingness to sit on his ass even comes into play in the field. He often takes the reigns on jobs he should delegate, like the day his men stumbled across the weapon’s cache.
“It was like 89 degrees. Privates should be digging, but we didn’t have any with us. And we’re not patient enough to wait.”
Unfortunately, as we enter the seventeenth week of his deployment, it appears that the days of run-and-gun fun are going to be fewer and fewer:
“I found out today that we’re handing everything over to the Iraqi Army in April,” he tells me.
It’s a good news/bad news situation.
The Good News: Andrew will be safer.
The Bad News: “Time will go slower, and I’ll be bored,” Andrew says.
Andrew’s trying to find ways to occupy his time, but with the strain of ADD that seems to run through our blood (blame that for our infrequent e-mails and posts) nothing holds our attention for very long.
“I’ve read 5 books in the past five days,” he tells me. “I started studying Arabic for an hour, working out, then reading till I fall asleep. And most times I don’t fall asleep until 4 or 5. I was up till 4:30 last night for no particular reason. I’m bored out of my skull.”
At the risk of alienating my audience, that boredom has infiltrated my interactions with Andrew as well. He and I have talked more in the last two months than we did when he was stateside. And once we get through the political bluster that prologues every one of our conversations, our responses are usually one or two sentences followed by ten minutes of nothing. Then we’ll ask what the other is doing. Then ten more minutes of nothing.
“Why don’t you go to sleep?” I ask him. We usually talk between ten and midnight Iraqi time, and he always seems to be sleep-deprived.
“Not tired. Besides, I’m writing a response to someone that posted a blog entitled “Fuck the Soldiers” on MySpace. I privately messaged the 16 year old kid that started the site. I wanted to call him a pussy, but I figured a nice well thought-out argument would be more appropriate.”
“Yea, but somebody like that doesn’t deserve your time,” I tell him. “Of course, if you’re just killing time that’s something else.””That’s precisely what I’m doing.”
Of course, Andrew and I are optimistic that we’ll soon have a wealth of conversation in April when baseball season finally begins. Not only did our cousin Brian set us up with a friendly (as of now) fantasy league, but Andrew fully expects the Cubs to win the World Series the one year he can’t witness it.
“Cubs are going to the playoffs this year – wild card. Cardinals will win the division by 3 games, but we’ll go to the Series. D. Lee and Ram Ram are going to combine for 280 RBIs and Prior is going to win the Cy Young. Of course, my Cubs predictions are always flawed, because I cannot give an unbiased prediction. I have the Cubs schedule in magic marker on my wall.”
For somebody whose only concern for Andrew is his morale, I couldn’t be happier to see baseball season approaching. Andrew is obsessive compulsive about baseball, and he can easily kill two or three hours studying not just the Cubs, but all of baseball. I recently ventured into hostile territory – the mall – to purchase three Cubs hats that are on their way to Gabe as we speak – two in desert camo, the other the faded, worn blue that is Andrew’s “style.”
For now we’re distracting ourselves with the WBC and Spring Training, but that’s not really the same thing.
“Holy shit. The Netherlands pitcher threw a no-no yesterday. What is the world coming to?” I tell him.
“Doesn’t the ball rotate differently where he comes from? Gravitational pull is different I’m betting.”
Yea. The WBC is definitely not the same thing.
* * *
The past four weeks have seen a monumental shift in the state of Iraq. I’ve also seen a less seismic shift in my brother’s attitude.
“We’re not trying to win this damn thing. We’re trying not to lose public opinion. That much is clear.”
I ask him about this week’s big news item, Operation Swarmer: “You guys going Apocalypse Now over there or what?”
“Shit no. That whole mission is a PR stunt. They won’t get anything out of it.”
Much of what I’m reading on the news sites seems to confirm this assessment.
I ask him about Najaf. Newsweek recently ran an article claiming it is completely under Iraqi Army protection, and it’s one of the few places that is under control.
“First, yes we handed Najaf off to the IA,” he says. “Second, it’s not under control at all. It’s just as bad as [everywhere else]. But we have to report that it’s safe in order to look good politically.”
From what I gather from my brother and my inner circle of news sources, the final phase of the Shock and Awe Shit War will be a public relations campaign. Things will not be better when we start to withdraw troops; the administration will only make it appear that way. And since so much of the American public supports withdrawal, most of us will chug that Kool-Aid by the bucket load.
And Andrew’s not happy about that: “We came here, and now we’re going to leave without finishing the job.”
The most striking change in my brother’s rhetoric since landing in Iraq is he wants to get the job done. He doesn’t like the idea of pulling out, having already seen a preview of what will happen if the US decides to leave; in a word, genocide.
“We found those 47 bodies,” he tells me. A busload of civilians had been executed the day after the Golden Mosque attack, and Andrew’s team made the discovery. “And it’s destined to get worse. 47 slaughtered civilians, Phil. On their way to work. I’m not sure what the civilian casualty numbers are right now, but whatever CNN’s reporting, add 20%. The AP is reporting that we’ve only found 53 bodies in my AO, and that reports that more people have been killed are false – which is a lie. The number they are getting are from the mortuaries. 90% of the people that die over here are buried on the spot by their families. I’ve seen 100 bodies since the mosque got hit. [They can’t keep track of bodies buried in somebody’s backyard] or people that we kill. They bury them and claim we didn’t kill them.
“I found a town that was destroyed – genocide. No men or women or children in it. Just one boy that had been gunned down from behind. All the homes burned. All the livestock slaughtered. They are trying to say it wasn’t a religious thing, but the Shia villagers homes were untouched. What’s worse. It was the Police and the Ministry of Interior that did it. There are 27 missing people, all women and children, gone. No bodies.
“My question of the week is “What role do we play in an Iraqi Civil War?” Right now we’re basically sitting back and waiting for something to happen. I have no idea what’s going on or what’s going to happen, but everyone I talked to said that if we left the Sunnis would die.”
Then Andrew makes this unhappy assessment:
“Unfortunately, they need a Civil War.”
This admission shows what an impossible position we’ve put our military in. They can do their job to the best of their ability, but in the end they know the Iraqis are just going to have to fight it out amongst themselves. But Andrew, despite being American, already feels a part of their conflict. On Andrew’s nastiest night in Iraq, a matter of days after the Golden Mosque attack, they raided a suspected enemy stronghold. Five US soldiers and five Iraqi soldiers in the dark of night.
“They are now my brothers,” he says simply.
But the most touching and heartbreaking reality of Andrew’s growing attachment to the Iraqi people is, not surprisingly, the kids. Andrew is always looking for pens to hand out on his visits, and he recently requested a hundred one-dollar bills from home to give to his kids.
“I harass the kids. Bad guy [in Arabic] is ali baba. So, I call them all ali babas and throw them in the truck.”
And I’m sure they love every minute of it. The image of Andrew walking down the Iraqi streets followed by mobs of children, Lt. Pied Piper, doesn’t strain the imagination.
Although the tragedy of this image is that these children will likely never know a life without peril or war. An Iraqi Civil War is not only likely (if it isn’t here already), but likely to spread, like a cancer, to its neighbors. In fact, it seems some of those neighbors are already getting involved.
“We surrounded a Shia town to keep the factions apart,” Andrew says. “But there’s a faction in the Shia area called the Mehdi Army. They take their orders in the form of Fatwas from Iran’s Shia religious leaders. I asked some questions and found out that al Sadr, Iraq’s Shia leader, also issued a fatwa to kill Sunnis.”
“So the stuff the administration is saying about Iran pissing in your pool is true?”
“Iran is definitely a target. We have more justification for going into Iran than we ever did going into Iraq.”
Though he realizes the uselessness of dwelling in the past, Andrew can’t help but become frustrated by the obscene prologue to this war.
“Let me tell you about our [Rules of Engagement] so you can write about it. In order to shoot a suspected enemy, they have to have means and intent. Means – the ability to harm us. Intent – some sort of show of force. Both things have to be present in order to fight. Now, isn’t that ironic? Iraq had neither the means nor intent to attack the United States. Yet the soldiers are limited by an ROE that our federal government did not even follow. Food for thought.”
Last week, Bill Maher, on his HBO show Real Time, featured John Burns, the New York Times’ Baghdad bureau chief on the war in Iraq who voiced this assessment on the war: “There were many mistakes made but my feeling is that if this fails, as I have to say on the balance of the odds, it seems now likely to do, it's probably not going to be because of American mistakes but because the mission was impossible in the first place.”
For my brother’s sake, I didn’t want to believe this statement, though my gut has told me it’s true since this whole circus started. So, I asked my brother: “Do you think you eventually could get the job done?”
“Twenty to thirty years of committed force and the willingness to go to war with Iran… and Syria … and anyone else that’s truly harboring terrorists.”
“So basically the majority of the Arab world?”
“Basically.”
I honestly can’t say if that means Andrew would agree with Burns or not.
* * *
With the prospects for success in Iraq dwindling and Andrew’s responsibilities and operations reduced, it has left my brother with a lot of free time. And in the quiet, as Andrew said, “homesickness hits like a hammer.”
The frequency of Andrew’s e-mails has tailed off in the past month, but mostly because Andrew is mindful of his readership.
“I think if all I had to say was that I’m homesick and bored, it wouldn’t be a very good time for me. Or a good read for our loyal audience.”
Though Andrew might not appreciate this section of this article, I can’t help but voice my own displeasure with the disconnect between the soldiers and their country. At best, it’s depressing. At worst, it’s infuriating.
“The whole package process is nice,” he says. “Most of the guys here are definitely jealous. Some have only gotten one or two boxes the whole time. Some none. And you gotta keep in mind that for some people this is their third trip.”
“That’s amazing. Who are these guys?”
“My NCO for sure.”
“Career Army guy?”
“Something like that. His kid has heart problems and the Army pays for them. So, he can’t get out and be uninsured. And that’s not all the uncommon.”
If that doesn’t make your yellow ribbon bumper sticker look extraordinarily inadequate, I don’t know what will.
Andrew has a way of allowing things to roll of his back that I don’t really understand. He’s earned the right to dispense a few F.U.s. But he doesn’t. Amazingly, he doesn’t.
“Is it wrong that I’m kind of pissed that more people aren’t keeping in touch with you?” I ask him.
“Don’t lecture anyone,” he tells me. “I don’t really care. Just a lil bit. It doesn’t really matter to me. As long as I come home, I don’t give a fuck who supports me while I’m here. I knew it was going to happen. Only four or five people send me messages now, and it’s only [March]. I got about 9 e-mails today (the day after an IED destroyed his hummer), which was nice, but I just wish I didn’t have to almost die to get them.”
“Well, you know where the real love is at,” I assure him.
“Yea. I always knew.”
Though Andrew plays off the relative lack of correspondence from home, going so far as to sew a “give-a-shit meter” onto his uniform, the great disparity between his considerations of his friends and his friends’ considerations of him differ in both frequency and intensity. In his downtime, all he thinks about is home. And despite what he says, I know it matters to him who keeps in touch and who does not. I know he cares because of the great lengths he went to reconcile with a girl who he left on frosty terms.
“I want to talk to her,” he says. “I’m over it.”
“I’d imagine most personal grievances seem kind of retarded in your circumstances.”
“Yea. Pretty fucking stupid.”
“I think an awful lot,” Andrew continues. “Not about Iraq. About getting a fresh start. About me and my life. It’s crazy man. I wanna get married, have kids, and grow up. I probably should find a girlfriend, but I’ve thrown away good girls by being in the Army and moving all the time.
“Reality is I’ll be 25 when I get back.”
“Fuck you. I’m 26,” I interject.
“I need to start towards what I want. I want to own a bar and a skydiving company. I want Andy [Reiff] to manage the bar. I’m going to get out and get a government job. I think I’m going to take Mark’s job. 2010 – Rockwell, Mayor of Rock Island.”
“I’d jump on that bandwagon,” I assure him. “Is there any information you want me to pass along to mom and dad?”
“Not really,” he says. “I think it’s time for me to settle down and start popping out grandkids. That’s about it.”
Inertia holds enormous sway over my brother’s personality. He’s not one who takes to stasis with much enthusiasm. If he had his druthers, he would be constantly moving, constantly active, constantly reminded of his vitality. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always afford us perpetual motion, and my brother seems to take that personally.
After graduation, Andrew took a number of assignments before heading to his permanent residence in Fort Collins. He spent several months at Fort Monmouth, the West Point prep school, teaching Calculus and assisting the girl’s basketball team. From what I gather he really enjoyed his time there. Despite his social limitations, he was always involved in something, always busy. After a semester at the prep school he transferred to Fort Benning for his Bradley Tank training and Army Ranger School. Unfortunately, as a result of Andrew’s tenacious work habits, he finished up nearly every class in the Benning catalogue in a matter of months before facing a wait of several more months before the next session of Ranger training began. I don’t know how long he actually waited, not long I’m sure, before deciding to move on.
Now in Iraq, it seems Andrew’s has found a new front for his battle with his own internal kinetics. It goes without saying that he’s at his best when he’s on the move.
“I went 70 hours without sleep and 48 without anything but Gatorade,” speaking of the days immediately following the destruction of the Golden Mosque in Samarra. But despite health care that would make my Aunt Becky (a nurse practitioner) pass out, Andrew tells me: “It’s fun.”
Andrew’s unwillingness to sit on his ass even comes into play in the field. He often takes the reigns on jobs he should delegate, like the day his men stumbled across the weapon’s cache.
“It was like 89 degrees. Privates should be digging, but we didn’t have any with us. And we’re not patient enough to wait.”
Unfortunately, as we enter the seventeenth week of his deployment, it appears that the days of run-and-gun fun are going to be fewer and fewer:
“I found out today that we’re handing everything over to the Iraqi Army in April,” he tells me.
It’s a good news/bad news situation.
The Good News: Andrew will be safer.
The Bad News: “Time will go slower, and I’ll be bored,” Andrew says.
Andrew’s trying to find ways to occupy his time, but with the strain of ADD that seems to run through our blood (blame that for our infrequent e-mails and posts) nothing holds our attention for very long.
“I’ve read 5 books in the past five days,” he tells me. “I started studying Arabic for an hour, working out, then reading till I fall asleep. And most times I don’t fall asleep until 4 or 5. I was up till 4:30 last night for no particular reason. I’m bored out of my skull.”
At the risk of alienating my audience, that boredom has infiltrated my interactions with Andrew as well. He and I have talked more in the last two months than we did when he was stateside. And once we get through the political bluster that prologues every one of our conversations, our responses are usually one or two sentences followed by ten minutes of nothing. Then we’ll ask what the other is doing. Then ten more minutes of nothing.
“Why don’t you go to sleep?” I ask him. We usually talk between ten and midnight Iraqi time, and he always seems to be sleep-deprived.
“Not tired. Besides, I’m writing a response to someone that posted a blog entitled “Fuck the Soldiers” on MySpace. I privately messaged the 16 year old kid that started the site. I wanted to call him a pussy, but I figured a nice well thought-out argument would be more appropriate.”
“Yea, but somebody like that doesn’t deserve your time,” I tell him. “Of course, if you’re just killing time that’s something else.””That’s precisely what I’m doing.”
Of course, Andrew and I are optimistic that we’ll soon have a wealth of conversation in April when baseball season finally begins. Not only did our cousin Brian set us up with a friendly (as of now) fantasy league, but Andrew fully expects the Cubs to win the World Series the one year he can’t witness it.
“Cubs are going to the playoffs this year – wild card. Cardinals will win the division by 3 games, but we’ll go to the Series. D. Lee and Ram Ram are going to combine for 280 RBIs and Prior is going to win the Cy Young. Of course, my Cubs predictions are always flawed, because I cannot give an unbiased prediction. I have the Cubs schedule in magic marker on my wall.”
For somebody whose only concern for Andrew is his morale, I couldn’t be happier to see baseball season approaching. Andrew is obsessive compulsive about baseball, and he can easily kill two or three hours studying not just the Cubs, but all of baseball. I recently ventured into hostile territory – the mall – to purchase three Cubs hats that are on their way to Gabe as we speak – two in desert camo, the other the faded, worn blue that is Andrew’s “style.”
For now we’re distracting ourselves with the WBC and Spring Training, but that’s not really the same thing.
“Holy shit. The Netherlands pitcher threw a no-no yesterday. What is the world coming to?” I tell him.
“Doesn’t the ball rotate differently where he comes from? Gravitational pull is different I’m betting.”
Yea. The WBC is definitely not the same thing.
* * *
The past four weeks have seen a monumental shift in the state of Iraq. I’ve also seen a less seismic shift in my brother’s attitude.
“We’re not trying to win this damn thing. We’re trying not to lose public opinion. That much is clear.”
I ask him about this week’s big news item, Operation Swarmer: “You guys going Apocalypse Now over there or what?”
“Shit no. That whole mission is a PR stunt. They won’t get anything out of it.”
Much of what I’m reading on the news sites seems to confirm this assessment.
I ask him about Najaf. Newsweek recently ran an article claiming it is completely under Iraqi Army protection, and it’s one of the few places that is under control.
“First, yes we handed Najaf off to the IA,” he says. “Second, it’s not under control at all. It’s just as bad as [everywhere else]. But we have to report that it’s safe in order to look good politically.”
From what I gather from my brother and my inner circle of news sources, the final phase of the Shock and Awe Shit War will be a public relations campaign. Things will not be better when we start to withdraw troops; the administration will only make it appear that way. And since so much of the American public supports withdrawal, most of us will chug that Kool-Aid by the bucket load.
And Andrew’s not happy about that: “We came here, and now we’re going to leave without finishing the job.”
The most striking change in my brother’s rhetoric since landing in Iraq is he wants to get the job done. He doesn’t like the idea of pulling out, having already seen a preview of what will happen if the US decides to leave; in a word, genocide.
“We found those 47 bodies,” he tells me. A busload of civilians had been executed the day after the Golden Mosque attack, and Andrew’s team made the discovery. “And it’s destined to get worse. 47 slaughtered civilians, Phil. On their way to work. I’m not sure what the civilian casualty numbers are right now, but whatever CNN’s reporting, add 20%. The AP is reporting that we’ve only found 53 bodies in my AO, and that reports that more people have been killed are false – which is a lie. The number they are getting are from the mortuaries. 90% of the people that die over here are buried on the spot by their families. I’ve seen 100 bodies since the mosque got hit. [They can’t keep track of bodies buried in somebody’s backyard] or people that we kill. They bury them and claim we didn’t kill them.
“I found a town that was destroyed – genocide. No men or women or children in it. Just one boy that had been gunned down from behind. All the homes burned. All the livestock slaughtered. They are trying to say it wasn’t a religious thing, but the Shia villagers homes were untouched. What’s worse. It was the Police and the Ministry of Interior that did it. There are 27 missing people, all women and children, gone. No bodies.
“My question of the week is “What role do we play in an Iraqi Civil War?” Right now we’re basically sitting back and waiting for something to happen. I have no idea what’s going on or what’s going to happen, but everyone I talked to said that if we left the Sunnis would die.”
Then Andrew makes this unhappy assessment:
“Unfortunately, they need a Civil War.”
This admission shows what an impossible position we’ve put our military in. They can do their job to the best of their ability, but in the end they know the Iraqis are just going to have to fight it out amongst themselves. But Andrew, despite being American, already feels a part of their conflict. On Andrew’s nastiest night in Iraq, a matter of days after the Golden Mosque attack, they raided a suspected enemy stronghold. Five US soldiers and five Iraqi soldiers in the dark of night.
“They are now my brothers,” he says simply.
But the most touching and heartbreaking reality of Andrew’s growing attachment to the Iraqi people is, not surprisingly, the kids. Andrew is always looking for pens to hand out on his visits, and he recently requested a hundred one-dollar bills from home to give to his kids.
“I harass the kids. Bad guy [in Arabic] is ali baba. So, I call them all ali babas and throw them in the truck.”
And I’m sure they love every minute of it. The image of Andrew walking down the Iraqi streets followed by mobs of children, Lt. Pied Piper, doesn’t strain the imagination.
Although the tragedy of this image is that these children will likely never know a life without peril or war. An Iraqi Civil War is not only likely (if it isn’t here already), but likely to spread, like a cancer, to its neighbors. In fact, it seems some of those neighbors are already getting involved.
“We surrounded a Shia town to keep the factions apart,” Andrew says. “But there’s a faction in the Shia area called the Mehdi Army. They take their orders in the form of Fatwas from Iran’s Shia religious leaders. I asked some questions and found out that al Sadr, Iraq’s Shia leader, also issued a fatwa to kill Sunnis.”
“So the stuff the administration is saying about Iran pissing in your pool is true?”
“Iran is definitely a target. We have more justification for going into Iran than we ever did going into Iraq.”
Though he realizes the uselessness of dwelling in the past, Andrew can’t help but become frustrated by the obscene prologue to this war.
“Let me tell you about our [Rules of Engagement] so you can write about it. In order to shoot a suspected enemy, they have to have means and intent. Means – the ability to harm us. Intent – some sort of show of force. Both things have to be present in order to fight. Now, isn’t that ironic? Iraq had neither the means nor intent to attack the United States. Yet the soldiers are limited by an ROE that our federal government did not even follow. Food for thought.”
Last week, Bill Maher, on his HBO show Real Time, featured John Burns, the New York Times’ Baghdad bureau chief on the war in Iraq who voiced this assessment on the war: “There were many mistakes made but my feeling is that if this fails, as I have to say on the balance of the odds, it seems now likely to do, it's probably not going to be because of American mistakes but because the mission was impossible in the first place.”
For my brother’s sake, I didn’t want to believe this statement, though my gut has told me it’s true since this whole circus started. So, I asked my brother: “Do you think you eventually could get the job done?”
“Twenty to thirty years of committed force and the willingness to go to war with Iran… and Syria … and anyone else that’s truly harboring terrorists.”
“So basically the majority of the Arab world?”
“Basically.”
I honestly can’t say if that means Andrew would agree with Burns or not.
* * *
With the prospects for success in Iraq dwindling and Andrew’s responsibilities and operations reduced, it has left my brother with a lot of free time. And in the quiet, as Andrew said, “homesickness hits like a hammer.”
The frequency of Andrew’s e-mails has tailed off in the past month, but mostly because Andrew is mindful of his readership.
“I think if all I had to say was that I’m homesick and bored, it wouldn’t be a very good time for me. Or a good read for our loyal audience.”
Though Andrew might not appreciate this section of this article, I can’t help but voice my own displeasure with the disconnect between the soldiers and their country. At best, it’s depressing. At worst, it’s infuriating.
“The whole package process is nice,” he says. “Most of the guys here are definitely jealous. Some have only gotten one or two boxes the whole time. Some none. And you gotta keep in mind that for some people this is their third trip.”
“That’s amazing. Who are these guys?”
“My NCO for sure.”
“Career Army guy?”
“Something like that. His kid has heart problems and the Army pays for them. So, he can’t get out and be uninsured. And that’s not all the uncommon.”
If that doesn’t make your yellow ribbon bumper sticker look extraordinarily inadequate, I don’t know what will.
Andrew has a way of allowing things to roll of his back that I don’t really understand. He’s earned the right to dispense a few F.U.s. But he doesn’t. Amazingly, he doesn’t.
“Is it wrong that I’m kind of pissed that more people aren’t keeping in touch with you?” I ask him.
“Don’t lecture anyone,” he tells me. “I don’t really care. Just a lil bit. It doesn’t really matter to me. As long as I come home, I don’t give a fuck who supports me while I’m here. I knew it was going to happen. Only four or five people send me messages now, and it’s only [March]. I got about 9 e-mails today (the day after an IED destroyed his hummer), which was nice, but I just wish I didn’t have to almost die to get them.”
“Well, you know where the real love is at,” I assure him.
“Yea. I always knew.”
Though Andrew plays off the relative lack of correspondence from home, going so far as to sew a “give-a-shit meter” onto his uniform, the great disparity between his considerations of his friends and his friends’ considerations of him differ in both frequency and intensity. In his downtime, all he thinks about is home. And despite what he says, I know it matters to him who keeps in touch and who does not. I know he cares because of the great lengths he went to reconcile with a girl who he left on frosty terms.
“I want to talk to her,” he says. “I’m over it.”
“I’d imagine most personal grievances seem kind of retarded in your circumstances.”
“Yea. Pretty fucking stupid.”
“I think an awful lot,” Andrew continues. “Not about Iraq. About getting a fresh start. About me and my life. It’s crazy man. I wanna get married, have kids, and grow up. I probably should find a girlfriend, but I’ve thrown away good girls by being in the Army and moving all the time.
“Reality is I’ll be 25 when I get back.”
“Fuck you. I’m 26,” I interject.
“I need to start towards what I want. I want to own a bar and a skydiving company. I want Andy [Reiff] to manage the bar. I’m going to get out and get a government job. I think I’m going to take Mark’s job. 2010 – Rockwell, Mayor of Rock Island.”
“I’d jump on that bandwagon,” I assure him. “Is there any information you want me to pass along to mom and dad?”
“Not really,” he says. “I think it’s time for me to settle down and start popping out grandkids. That’s about it.”
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Best 24 Episode Ever
Warning! If you plan on watching the fifth season of 24 at any time, do not read this review! Spoilers are poison to 24, and since my immediate reaction to this episode is it is the best episode in this show’s history you do NOT, I repeat NOT want to read about it unless you have already seen it. The twists come rapid fire and the final three minutes are equally horrifying and heartbreaking. You do not want such a tremendously entertaining hour of television spoiled for you. So let me give you some room. Scroll down for the rest of my review.
Few can argue that 24 is one of the most exciting, visceral entertainments ever produced. Its twisted plotlines and agonizing cliffhangers have improbably gotten nastier as the show has gone on. Season four was the show’s best and most relentless to date, and then season five came in with a devastating first episode featuring the brutal deaths of two of the series’ most beloved characters. Its ferocity has not let up through the first half of the season, with ugly executions, civilian casualties, and the type of political situations that many of us have nightmares about.
Last night’s episode of 24 was not only the best I’ve seen in the five years I’ve been a fan, but it was also the scariest. Remarkably we should have been prepared. The show didn’t use its common staple of misdirection. From the opening moments of hour 12 it is clear what the terrorists plan to do, and much like last season’s attack on Air Force One, the anxiety comes from our belief that the writers wouldn’t actually go through with it. By now we should know better.
In large part this was a quiet episode, with striking moments of human drama to keep our attention as the threat built up around us. I found the return of Kim Bauer remarkably effective. Though she gets a fair amount of grief from online critics, I’ve never had any dislike for Kim. I agree that the writers ran out of things for her to do, and much of her weakness as a character can be traced back to that, but clearly she has something to do now. After her father’s “death,” Kim went to pieces. Now, the she finds the catalyst for her problems alive and (relatively) well. Clearly there’s a lot of drama to be mined here.
But what I found most remarkable about Kim’s return was its instantaneous humanization of Jack. Though Kim as a character sometimes lacked in plotline potential, her presence always reminded us that Jack is a father, and he will do everything in his power to protect his child. When Jack went off into the sunrise last season, I had minor complaint that his last phone call was to President Palmer and not his daughter. After watching the scene between Jack and Kim last night, that choice makes perfect sense. Every person who knew Jack was alive is now either dead or should be. Had Kim known, that would have put her name on the top of that list. The Kim haters will likely bemoan the scene between the two of them because she didn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms, but the scene played as it should have played: terse, awkward, cold. And Kim has a legitimate beef.
Even with the dramatic bombshell of Kim’s return, the show went off the rails at the 44 minute mark, when a terrorist, using Lynn McGill’s stolen keycard, infiltrated CTU and armed a nerve gas canister inside the ventilation system. Now, usually this would be the moment those last three seconds of an episode click off the clock. It’s prime cliff-hanger fodder. But 24 didn’t play by its own rules last night.
The bomb is armed. The plot is discovered. CTU is locked down. There’s the usual scrambling and then… at the 57 minute mark… the bomb… went… off.
What followed were the three scariest minutes in the history of this show. I don’t mean suspenseful either. I mean scary. Watching as the invisible force of the gas took down people in the hallway and our heroes converged on the operations center was nothing short of panic-inducing. I’ve seen horror movies that lacked anything as chilling as those last three minutes. Our heroes gathered in central command and then retreated to the situation room where Chloe sealed them in.
As the blast shields fell over the glass and the doors sealed shut, I could not believe what I was seeing. Panic of the unseen gas gave way to a frightening claustrophobia. A terrified woman pounded on the glass to be let in, but Jack had to turn her away. When the screen started its ritual breakdown to end the episode, I was so relieved that this agonizing ordeal was over for the week. I didn’t even stop to think if everybody had made it into the situation room.
And then Edgar stepped out.
24 is so good at crafting its labyrinthine plotlines that the remarkable cast of characters the show has assembled can be taken for granted. Everybody loved Edgar and his unrequited crush on Chloe, but I don’t think anybody realized how much until they watched him die. I’ve cried twice watching television this season. The first was the debut of “Laura” on Battlestar Galactica. The other was last night’s 24.
Perhaps it was the fact that Edgar was so harmless and innocent; his feelings for Chloe were the epitome of the schoolyard crush, lots of teasing and pulling of pigtails. Perhaps it was the staging, the cruel silence of the moment (even the final seconds of the episode ticked away without their signature chime). Perhaps it was watching Chloe’s heart break as Edgar crumbled to the floor just feet away from their sanctuary. Whatever it was, this death felt more painful, more personal than Michelle Dessler’s or even President Palmer’s at the beginning of the season. It’s remarkable how, surrounded by all the pyrotechnics that 24 employs, they still find a way to make us care so much about a character like Edgar.
My hat is off to 24 this week. They hit on all cylinders last night – personal drama, suspense, tragedy. That being said, I have to admit, I’m almost afraid to come back next week.
Few can argue that 24 is one of the most exciting, visceral entertainments ever produced. Its twisted plotlines and agonizing cliffhangers have improbably gotten nastier as the show has gone on. Season four was the show’s best and most relentless to date, and then season five came in with a devastating first episode featuring the brutal deaths of two of the series’ most beloved characters. Its ferocity has not let up through the first half of the season, with ugly executions, civilian casualties, and the type of political situations that many of us have nightmares about.
Last night’s episode of 24 was not only the best I’ve seen in the five years I’ve been a fan, but it was also the scariest. Remarkably we should have been prepared. The show didn’t use its common staple of misdirection. From the opening moments of hour 12 it is clear what the terrorists plan to do, and much like last season’s attack on Air Force One, the anxiety comes from our belief that the writers wouldn’t actually go through with it. By now we should know better.
In large part this was a quiet episode, with striking moments of human drama to keep our attention as the threat built up around us. I found the return of Kim Bauer remarkably effective. Though she gets a fair amount of grief from online critics, I’ve never had any dislike for Kim. I agree that the writers ran out of things for her to do, and much of her weakness as a character can be traced back to that, but clearly she has something to do now. After her father’s “death,” Kim went to pieces. Now, the she finds the catalyst for her problems alive and (relatively) well. Clearly there’s a lot of drama to be mined here.
But what I found most remarkable about Kim’s return was its instantaneous humanization of Jack. Though Kim as a character sometimes lacked in plotline potential, her presence always reminded us that Jack is a father, and he will do everything in his power to protect his child. When Jack went off into the sunrise last season, I had minor complaint that his last phone call was to President Palmer and not his daughter. After watching the scene between Jack and Kim last night, that choice makes perfect sense. Every person who knew Jack was alive is now either dead or should be. Had Kim known, that would have put her name on the top of that list. The Kim haters will likely bemoan the scene between the two of them because she didn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms, but the scene played as it should have played: terse, awkward, cold. And Kim has a legitimate beef.
Even with the dramatic bombshell of Kim’s return, the show went off the rails at the 44 minute mark, when a terrorist, using Lynn McGill’s stolen keycard, infiltrated CTU and armed a nerve gas canister inside the ventilation system. Now, usually this would be the moment those last three seconds of an episode click off the clock. It’s prime cliff-hanger fodder. But 24 didn’t play by its own rules last night.
The bomb is armed. The plot is discovered. CTU is locked down. There’s the usual scrambling and then… at the 57 minute mark… the bomb… went… off.
What followed were the three scariest minutes in the history of this show. I don’t mean suspenseful either. I mean scary. Watching as the invisible force of the gas took down people in the hallway and our heroes converged on the operations center was nothing short of panic-inducing. I’ve seen horror movies that lacked anything as chilling as those last three minutes. Our heroes gathered in central command and then retreated to the situation room where Chloe sealed them in.
As the blast shields fell over the glass and the doors sealed shut, I could not believe what I was seeing. Panic of the unseen gas gave way to a frightening claustrophobia. A terrified woman pounded on the glass to be let in, but Jack had to turn her away. When the screen started its ritual breakdown to end the episode, I was so relieved that this agonizing ordeal was over for the week. I didn’t even stop to think if everybody had made it into the situation room.
And then Edgar stepped out.
24 is so good at crafting its labyrinthine plotlines that the remarkable cast of characters the show has assembled can be taken for granted. Everybody loved Edgar and his unrequited crush on Chloe, but I don’t think anybody realized how much until they watched him die. I’ve cried twice watching television this season. The first was the debut of “Laura” on Battlestar Galactica. The other was last night’s 24.
Perhaps it was the fact that Edgar was so harmless and innocent; his feelings for Chloe were the epitome of the schoolyard crush, lots of teasing and pulling of pigtails. Perhaps it was the staging, the cruel silence of the moment (even the final seconds of the episode ticked away without their signature chime). Perhaps it was watching Chloe’s heart break as Edgar crumbled to the floor just feet away from their sanctuary. Whatever it was, this death felt more painful, more personal than Michelle Dessler’s or even President Palmer’s at the beginning of the season. It’s remarkable how, surrounded by all the pyrotechnics that 24 employs, they still find a way to make us care so much about a character like Edgar.
My hat is off to 24 this week. They hit on all cylinders last night – personal drama, suspense, tragedy. That being said, I have to admit, I’m almost afraid to come back next week.
Monday, March 06, 2006
The Last Notch on the Belt
I hate clothes. Not in an exhibitionist type way, but in a consumer type way. The consideration of style and cost, the trying on of items you know others have tried on not long before, the fact that at the end of the day I’m still going to wear the same pair of jeans for weeks at a time and make liberal use of sweatshirts, fleece, and T-shirts, it all makes shopping for new clothes both frustrating and futile. I just don’t care.
But then I decided I needed to get my weight under control. I’ve never been fat. My vanity always derails the gravy train before I get to that stage. But I’ve been chunky. Maybe a little husky. I add a chin here or there. Take my face to its cherubic max. Knock out a couple belt notches. We all know the drill.
This past Christmas I got to my heaviest ever. The loss of employment left me with little to do but watch TV and bore myself (when I’m bored, I tend to eat). Couple that with a little emotional support from Hostess during my brother’s Iraq deployment, and I scratched at 240 before I decided to halt my girth.
In a nice bit of serendipity, my mother and aunt had joined Weight Watchers to keep their emotional eating in check during Andrew's tour, and I quickly leeched the relevant dietary information from them. Instead of improvising “healthy eating” as I had done since college, I had an actual program that not only would give me some knowledge of culinary good and evil, but one that played into my borderline OCD. It’s all about points and charts and lists. And anybody who knows me and my organization habits (look at my DVDs) knows I’m all about the charts and lists.
So, seven weeks ago, I started tracking the points. For the first time since college, I’m below 215. Not only that, but I’ve done it in a healthy way. I’m quite thrilled with the results, and encouraged by the fact that it really hasn’t been that hard. The process has shown me just how much of my eating was just because I had nothing better to do. Once you can eliminate that, it's a piece of cake. Or piece of rice cake in my case.
Still, the slimming has not come free of cost. The earliest troublesome revelation was that of digestion. I’ve experienced noises from my innards that frightened me something awful, as if my stomach were asking “What the hell was that?” And at the risk of being a bit too blue for this broadcast, I’ve developed a much more intimate relationship with the restroom. To give you an idea, I finished In Cold Blood in a week, and it never left the basket next to the john. I’m hoping things will eventually settle down, but it’s a small price to pay to see my jawline again.
The costly payment I’m facing now is the one I’m dreading: clothing. The aforementioned favorite jeans have been retired. They’re now in the closet waiting to join the clothing convalescent home of Good Will. I’m down to the last notch on my two best belts, and unless I want to go ghetto fabulous and pop out some new holes they will both need to be replaced. I have shirts (like the one I wore to Christmas this year) that look like parachutes on me. The loss is even showing through some of my fleece, and the entire point of my fleece was to hide my weight.
Still, there is some hope. My brother bought more clothes in high school than I’ve bought in my lifetime, and I’m about five pounds away from raiding his closet. I knew his preppy ways would help me down the road. And there’s no greater kindness than keeping me from shopping.
But then I decided I needed to get my weight under control. I’ve never been fat. My vanity always derails the gravy train before I get to that stage. But I’ve been chunky. Maybe a little husky. I add a chin here or there. Take my face to its cherubic max. Knock out a couple belt notches. We all know the drill.
This past Christmas I got to my heaviest ever. The loss of employment left me with little to do but watch TV and bore myself (when I’m bored, I tend to eat). Couple that with a little emotional support from Hostess during my brother’s Iraq deployment, and I scratched at 240 before I decided to halt my girth.
In a nice bit of serendipity, my mother and aunt had joined Weight Watchers to keep their emotional eating in check during Andrew's tour, and I quickly leeched the relevant dietary information from them. Instead of improvising “healthy eating” as I had done since college, I had an actual program that not only would give me some knowledge of culinary good and evil, but one that played into my borderline OCD. It’s all about points and charts and lists. And anybody who knows me and my organization habits (look at my DVDs) knows I’m all about the charts and lists.
So, seven weeks ago, I started tracking the points. For the first time since college, I’m below 215. Not only that, but I’ve done it in a healthy way. I’m quite thrilled with the results, and encouraged by the fact that it really hasn’t been that hard. The process has shown me just how much of my eating was just because I had nothing better to do. Once you can eliminate that, it's a piece of cake. Or piece of rice cake in my case.
Still, the slimming has not come free of cost. The earliest troublesome revelation was that of digestion. I’ve experienced noises from my innards that frightened me something awful, as if my stomach were asking “What the hell was that?” And at the risk of being a bit too blue for this broadcast, I’ve developed a much more intimate relationship with the restroom. To give you an idea, I finished In Cold Blood in a week, and it never left the basket next to the john. I’m hoping things will eventually settle down, but it’s a small price to pay to see my jawline again.
The costly payment I’m facing now is the one I’m dreading: clothing. The aforementioned favorite jeans have been retired. They’re now in the closet waiting to join the clothing convalescent home of Good Will. I’m down to the last notch on my two best belts, and unless I want to go ghetto fabulous and pop out some new holes they will both need to be replaced. I have shirts (like the one I wore to Christmas this year) that look like parachutes on me. The loss is even showing through some of my fleece, and the entire point of my fleece was to hide my weight.
Still, there is some hope. My brother bought more clothes in high school than I’ve bought in my lifetime, and I’m about five pounds away from raiding his closet. I knew his preppy ways would help me down the road. And there’s no greater kindness than keeping me from shopping.
Oscar the Grouch
The ratings for this year's Academy Awards dropped ten percent and is the second lowest in history. It's a shame. From what I saw of the program, in between Iron Chef and American Chopper reruns (I was clicking, get it?), there was a healthy dollop of tasteful, watchable moments: George Clooney's humorous, yet poignant acceptance speech, Philip Seymour Hoffman thanking his mother, Crash's big upset. Yet there remains something about this ceremony in general that makes me believe that the Oscars turnout will only continue to get worse.
"You used to love watching the Oscars," my mom said as I clicked away after Jon Stewart's introduction. I did. But not anymore. What happened?
Well, the first thing that happened was my realization that the Oscars are about nearly everything but the movies themselves. I used to watch the Oscars because I had a sincere interest in seeing my favorite films rewarded. I wanted to see my favorite films go down in history. But eventually I learned that that little statuette has little to do with a film's legacy, nor its quality. We don't remember awards. We remember films. We remember performances. And Oscar doesn't have anything to do with that past the watercooler talk on Monday morning.
Sure I loved seeing Reese Witherspoon win last night -- who wouldn't? Look how cute she is. But even if she hadn't won, that radiant performance changed her career. No longer will we remember her for Elle Woods or Tracy Flick (Ok, I'll remember her for Tracy, too), but for her nuanced, pitch perfect June Carter. As she said in her acceptance speech, all she wanted to do was to make movies that matter. Well, she can scratch that to-do off her list.
And really, she has the right idea. As much as Crash's upset makes for great watercooler talk this morning, I don't think anyone can argue that Brokeback Mountain is going to be the film that changes the landscape. Much like Shakespeare in Love's upset over Saving Private Ryan, Brokeback will establish its own legacy much like Ryan did. The award has little to do with it.
So, take out the victory factor to the award show, and you're left with the pageantry. And for something that nobody seems to enjoy -- save the Rivers freak show -- there sure seems to be a lot of interest in it. Who's wearing what? Who's with who? Who gives a fck (did I mention my "U" key is broken?)?
I don't. I know there are people who do, but the whole award show circus gives me anxiety. And I'm not even in the room. Nobody in the Kodak Theatre was comfortable last night (ok, maybe Jack Nicholson, but hell, if I could shrug and make people laugh I'd be a very secure cat). Whether it was the impossible grace of the losers (or non-Oscar receivers, whatever the PC/PR word is for losers) or the starlets with their breasts pushed up past their collar bones, there are more fake smiles in that room than fake breasts. And it's painful to watch.
And then there's Jon Stewart. He was on fire last night, but you wouldn't know it by the live audience. His liberal skewering of Hollywood artifice was a delight for me in my living room, but it just helped illustrate how the majority of Hollywood takes itself way too seriously. As George Clooney proved, you can make poignant films and still wink at the fact that in order to make those films he had to play Batman (the one with nipples, not the cool one). Still, it seems an impossible dichotomy for most of Hollywood to master, and Jon Stewart suffered because of it. He's gotten mixed reviews for his hosting gig, probably because of the crickets he received from the Hollywood elite. But for the people at home, he was a breath of fresh air. I could stomach a good deal of the show only because he refused to let the pretension of Oscar night spoil the fun. And for that I'm grateful, for no other reason than there just wasn't a lot on television last night.
"You used to love watching the Oscars," my mom said as I clicked away after Jon Stewart's introduction. I did. But not anymore. What happened?
Well, the first thing that happened was my realization that the Oscars are about nearly everything but the movies themselves. I used to watch the Oscars because I had a sincere interest in seeing my favorite films rewarded. I wanted to see my favorite films go down in history. But eventually I learned that that little statuette has little to do with a film's legacy, nor its quality. We don't remember awards. We remember films. We remember performances. And Oscar doesn't have anything to do with that past the watercooler talk on Monday morning.
Sure I loved seeing Reese Witherspoon win last night -- who wouldn't? Look how cute she is. But even if she hadn't won, that radiant performance changed her career. No longer will we remember her for Elle Woods or Tracy Flick (Ok, I'll remember her for Tracy, too), but for her nuanced, pitch perfect June Carter. As she said in her acceptance speech, all she wanted to do was to make movies that matter. Well, she can scratch that to-do off her list.
And really, she has the right idea. As much as Crash's upset makes for great watercooler talk this morning, I don't think anyone can argue that Brokeback Mountain is going to be the film that changes the landscape. Much like Shakespeare in Love's upset over Saving Private Ryan, Brokeback will establish its own legacy much like Ryan did. The award has little to do with it.
So, take out the victory factor to the award show, and you're left with the pageantry. And for something that nobody seems to enjoy -- save the Rivers freak show -- there sure seems to be a lot of interest in it. Who's wearing what? Who's with who? Who gives a fck (did I mention my "U" key is broken?)?
I don't. I know there are people who do, but the whole award show circus gives me anxiety. And I'm not even in the room. Nobody in the Kodak Theatre was comfortable last night (ok, maybe Jack Nicholson, but hell, if I could shrug and make people laugh I'd be a very secure cat). Whether it was the impossible grace of the losers (or non-Oscar receivers, whatever the PC/PR word is for losers) or the starlets with their breasts pushed up past their collar bones, there are more fake smiles in that room than fake breasts. And it's painful to watch.
And then there's Jon Stewart. He was on fire last night, but you wouldn't know it by the live audience. His liberal skewering of Hollywood artifice was a delight for me in my living room, but it just helped illustrate how the majority of Hollywood takes itself way too seriously. As George Clooney proved, you can make poignant films and still wink at the fact that in order to make those films he had to play Batman (the one with nipples, not the cool one). Still, it seems an impossible dichotomy for most of Hollywood to master, and Jon Stewart suffered because of it. He's gotten mixed reviews for his hosting gig, probably because of the crickets he received from the Hollywood elite. But for the people at home, he was a breath of fresh air. I could stomach a good deal of the show only because he refused to let the pretension of Oscar night spoil the fun. And for that I'm grateful, for no other reason than there just wasn't a lot on television last night.
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