The Tao of Hauling Ass

I’m not old, but I’m behind. That’s my analysis of my life at the present time. Having seen many of my closest peers settling into something resembling adulthood, away from that self-centered universe I currently inhabit, I can’t help but feel like I’m dragging ass towards the rest of my life. My friend Steve and his doting wife are expecting their second child this summer. My cousin Brian married about six months ago. My cousin Robert, who is a year my junior, is married with a kid. Even my good friend Jasmyne, who's the closest to me in terms of a bohemian lifestyle, is currently living in sin with a guy she adores.

Then there’s me, four years out of college and just now settling into what may be considered a “career path.” I’m single and largely unavailable (don’t want to compound my own hang-ups with somebody else’s), and thankfully I don’t play Dungeons and Dragons or I’d be that guy who’s still living in his mother’s basement, etc, etc.

It’s odd that the weight of passing time is hitting me now, just when things are finally starting to go my way. I’ve gotten my foot in the door of the medium I’ve been trying to crack since college. I’m thirty pounds lighter since the beginning of the year. I’m in the best shape I've been in since hitting my 20’s. And in general, I’ve had a reasonably good disposition (for me anyway). Still, even as I’ve reached a point of contentment I couldn’t have foreseen even a year ago, I'm frustrated that I didn’t reach this point one year, two years, even four years ago.

Still, part of me still feels young and virile for one reason and one reason only: I can still sprint. There’s a scene in the new Mission Impossible where Tom Cruise hauls ass through Hong Kong. It’s a long take that goes ten seconds longer that it should have, but Tom Cruise is booking down the streets like a track star. Acts like that have become my gold standard for youth. It’s something nobody seems to do when they get older. Ask yourself when was the last time you ran as fast as you possibly could. Up until a few weeks ago, it had been years for me. There’s just no need to sprint as we get older. Some of us jog. A lot of us walk. But virtually nobody feels the need to sprint.

I do, though. There are songs that make me want to race through the hallways of KWQC during my workout. Movie trailers make me want to go action-star and leap over chairs (or, if they’re for romantic comedies, to race after a girl through the airport). It’s about vitality. It’s about intensity. It’s about urgency. It’s a little ridiculous, but I have a need – a need for speed.

As long as I have the virility to run the way Ethan Hunt races through the streets of Hong Kong, as long as I feel well enough to bolt through a crowd screaming “Get down! Get down!” (the ability, not the justification) all this prattling on about wasted years will just be the occasional pangs of vanity that we’ve all been subject to at one time or another. It’ll just be me talking about getting older. Not feeling like I'm getting older.

So, if you ever see me randomly take flight down a hallway or across a street or through your backyard, don’t be afraid. Sometimes I just need to remind myself of my own energy, my own vitality. In the sage words of Forrest Gump, sometimes I just feel like running.

Sort of a Cool Moment For Me

Ever since I became a TV fanatic, I've been going to TVGuide.com for news and reviews and the like. During my time there I became a fan of a certain columnist there by the name of Michael Ausiello. It's kind of interesting the stuff you can become a fan of. Like my recent admiration for Roger Ebert, I'm now finding special enjoyment in how people write about things more than what they're writing about. Anyway, Ausiello is the "inside guy" at TV Guide. He's the one who gets the dirt on what's coming up on shows like Lost and 24, and then teases some of what he's learned in his weekly column Ask Ausiello. But like I said, it's how he writes about it. You can check out his column to see what I'm talking about, but mainly I'm drawn to the site because Ausiello is 100% wiseass (sound like anyone you know?). He's a lot of fun to read.

So, recently TV Guide began hosting blogs, and I decided I'd create one... being the TV junkie that I am. And I was stuck on a name. Finally I came up with this... Ausiellics Anonymous. Now the entire first post is dedicated to why I chose this name, so I'm not going to repeat that here. However, I got quite a nice surprise when I found out that my favorite TV Guide columnist had, if not read, at least heard of and seen my new blog. He posted a brief blurb about it on his own personal website this morning. While this probably isn't all that big a deal to you lot, I have to say this is probably the biggest geek-out moment I've had since I met John C. McGinley (Dr. Cox) during my internship at NBC.

Mission: Impossible 3

For those with more than a casual interest in film and television, two questions matter most about Mission Impossible 3. The first question is "Can Tom Cruise shed enough of his increasingly bizarre public persona to deliver the grand escapist entertainment we've come to expect from this franchise." The other question, the more important question for me, is "Can J.J. Abrams, the mastermind behind Alias and Lost leave as strong an imprint on the big screen as he has on the small screen?"

The answer to the first question is well enough. The film moves so fast, starting en media res with one of the better opening teasers I've seen on film (Abrams used it repeatedly on Alias) that establishes much higher stakes for Cruise's Ethan Hunt than he's had before. He's fallen in love with a sweet girl named Julia (Michelle Monaghan), an adorable nurse with brown hair and big doe eyes (remind you of anyone) who thinks Ethan studies traffic patterns for a living. As long as either Ethan or Julia are in peril, Cruise is terrific. One thing you can't criticize Cruise for is laziness; he jumps and falls and shoots his way through the action scenes with a physical gusto lightened of the vanity that many action stars bring with them. "If I'm cut make sure its a sexy cut. If I fall make sure its a sexy fall." None of that for Cruise. He gets tossed around by jets, parachutes, and even Philip Seymour Hoffman, with more concern for realism than posturing.

Ethan Hunt only starts to dissolve into gossip-magnet Tom Cruise during Hunt's engagement party, when he has to mingle with his fiancee's friends. We start to see glimmers of that slightly psychotic grin and maniacal laughter, but in all honesty this scene is brief enough that it's actually kind of amusing, especially with Mini-Kat Monaghan as Cruise's love interest. But we don't linger in the domesticated world long enough for the illusion to crumble completely. A phone call from IMF spoils the party and we're off to the races.

Apparently Hunt is no longer a field agent, but serves IMF by training new agents. As Ethan celebrates his engagement to Julia, he gets a call telling him that his first trainee Lindsey Ferris (Keri Russell) went off the grid. Suddenly, Hunt is back in action and knee deep in a conspiracy involving nasty gun runner, Owen Davian (Philip Seymour Hoffman), and something called The Rabbit's Foot.

So, with the story set up, we must now confront question number two: How does Abrams do?

The answer is poor.

Awful.

Mediocre at best.

Oh, who am I kidding? J.J. Abrams has made a slick, confident feature debut that will likely steal another of my favorite writers away from serial television. First Joss. Now J.J. Well, at least Aaron Sorkin is coming back; TV has managed to keep its hooks in him.

But back to Abrams and Mission Impossible. It's everything you could want from a summer blockbuster. Its not quite on the level of last years Batman Begins, but I enjoyed it a great deal more than any other offering from last year's peak season. I can only hope the rest of the summer continues in this vein.

Abrams and Co. keep the film moving through its labyrinthine (but decipherable) plot at a fantastic clip. Not including the great pacing, two things really stuck out for me about Abrams handling of the film.

First, the tired quick-cut, mish-mash, ultra close-up style that action hacks like Michael Bay have dumped on movie-goers since the 90s is largely absent here. There's not a single sequence where we have to stop and ask wtf is going on. Not only does Abrams keep his cuts reasonable, but he also makes liberal use of wideshots and medium-shots -- two compositions all but lost on today's action filmmakers. The scene on the bridge (the one from all the ads) is one of my favorite action scenes in a long while and it's all because Abrams pulls back and lets us see everything. It was probably expensive to work that way, but I much prefer it to the visual mush we usually get.

I was also relieved to see the action scenes pulled off with a bare minimum of coyness. Too often action films like to wink at us in the gravest of situations; Bad Boys II comes to mind. The entire world is crumbling, but there's always time for a snappy one-liner. M:I:3 doesn't go for that. It keeps things serious, keeps things real, and it adds a certain layer of suspense and danger that we lose when characters don't take their predicaments seriously.

And nobody takes things more seriously than the franchise's best villain so far, Owen Davian. Holy s--t was he fun to watch. Hoffman plays the role with such a grave nastiness you might think he's in the wrong movie. Everybody has seen his threats to Hunt at the beginning of the films trailer:

"You got a wife? Girlfriend? I'm gonna hurt her. I'm gonna make her bleed. And then I'm going to kill you in front of her."

Well, what you wont get from the trailers is that Davian is actually in IMF custody when this conversation takes place. This is supposed to be Hunt interrogating Davian. But Davian works such a swift and savvy mindf--k on our hero that Hunt absolutely loses control. This was a perfect chance for some moustache-twirling, but instead Hoffman gives this sadistic soliloquy with a mix of irritation and ennui that would be laughable if it wasn't so disturbing. He plays it like he's pissed that he's held up in traffic, even as he's talking about torturing Hunt's lover. Hoffman's choices here are totally unconventional for a summer movie villain, and the movie is all the better for it.

All in all, M:I:3 is exactly what you'd expect from summer entertainment -- thrilling action, breakneck pace -- but both Abrams and Hoffman spiced up what could have been a standard meal of fast cars and big explosions with enough style and wit to send me home a little more satisfied than I might have expected. Great start to the summer.

Final Grade for Mission: Impossible 3 -- B +

How Does One Translate Apoplectic Rage to the Page

Yesterday my laptop screen just went black. After trying the all-American Reboot Remedy, nothing happened. So I was forced to take my computer in to Best Buy for the ole check up. And as it has been every other time I've taken my laptop in to get serviced (five times now), they can't actually FIX anything in the store. They have to send it away. So, I'll be landlocked with my online exploits until May 30th. I have a fair amount of potential blog topics (good ones, at that), but I find it hard to write on this desktop. So, I don't know how often I'll be subjecting you to my special brand of commentary over the next month. I hope I can get something out, but me without my laptop is a little like Mozart without his Piano.

Fat Hands and Open Sores

When does a blister become a boil? This has become an essential question for me over the past month as I've returned to an exercise regimen in order to restart my stalled Weight Watchers momentum. Previous to my current streak of physical activity, I have yet to go longer than a week before inconvenience and a lack of motivation left me with a gym membership that saw less action than a Star Trek conventioneer. Once in a while I'd venture into a weight room and confirm that the bench press operates just as it did in my glory days (although, judging by the diminishing number of plates I could handle in my post-college years, I'd say that gravity has increased substantially since high school).

But today, I'm thrilled to say I've crossed that essential one-month exercise plateau and I'm currently in the best shape I've been in since an Alleman lineman turned my kidney into pudding. Still, it hasn't been easy, maintaining my enthusiasm for the blood, sweat, and tears that come with the FDA recommended physical activity. I'm being tested. Even as I've found a routine I can stick to, my body has introduced me to a number of new degenerative tics that have added a new, aggravating dimension to my workouts.

The first, and most peculiar malady involves an abundance of blood accumulating in my hands. Apparently, when I spend an extended period of time on a treadmill without concerning myself with those extra calories I could burn with the mall-walk shadow-boxing, my hands swell up like the Incredible Hulk. It's not anything I'm concerned about, but it's an unusual sensation to make a fist and wonder whether your palm fat is going to spring a leak.

On the other hand, I am a little concerned with the epic battle of wills I'm currently fighting with my feet. Now, I expected blisters might become an issue when I started spending an hour on the treadmill five days a week -- its only natural -- but their precise nature and veracity I could never have predicted.

When one thinks of blisters, where does one usually envision them appearing? Back of the heel? Sure. The sides of the feet? Absolutely. Even the bottom of the heel I can understand. But how does a blister arise on the inside of my big toe? I never expected to develop blisters in such a remote area of my foot, shielded, as it is, from the main pediatric irritants of the shoe. But apparently there's some animosity between Big Toe and Pointer Toe, and Pointer spends the majority of my sixty minute workout bitch-slapping Mr. Big all around my New Balances. So, I'm now dealing with two dime size blisters in an area I've discovered is highly prone to toe-on-toe violence. The blisters have also exposed a new wrinkle in my biology; apparently blisters can double-up. I have blisters bubbling up through previous blisters; the inside of my big toe is beginning to look like bubble wrap.

I think it's a testament to my determination that I can look at the deterioration of my primary Piggies and still get myself to the gym every afternoon. Of course, there is a line where Band-Aid isn't going to provide sufficient reinforcement against the constant bombardment from Pointer Toe, and I'm close to crossing it. I suspect I'm three or four days away from complete mummification. But until that time comes when I'm weighing the pros and cons of amputation, I will not be deterred in my renewed quest for physical fitness.

Vanity is such a splendid motivator.

My Brother Just Murdered My Ego

So, thanks to an enormous MySpace cult at KWQC, I decided I would jump on the bandwagon. As of this afternoon, I had three friends: Jules from work, the MySpace Guy, and Pam from The Office. So, the co-worker, the friend-whore on everybody's list, and a fictional character from a TV sitcom. That's just sad. I looked to alleviate my measely inner circle by leeching off a young man whose social adventures are that of legend: my brother. So, I punched in his e-mail address and hunted him down.

At first I was quite delighted to find that Andrew's profile picture was the now legendary "Pelican Picture" shot by yours truly. But then I scrolled down to his friend window.

You see... it's not just the number. I mean it is. The number's ridiculous. 134. Not counting my pending friendship (approve me ass). But it's also the... well... it should come as now surprise...

Beautiful

Women

Everywhere

Quantity AND quality.

Now, I knew my brother was friends with a lot of attractive girls. We had quite the harem about the homestead on Thanksgiving weekend before he left. Much as I can appreciate the charms of the "old-schoolers" who've been regulars at the Rockwell home since high school -- the Briannes and the Mels and the Lindsays -- never could I have imagined the magnitude of my brother's magnetism. It's truly a national phenomenon, reaching far beyond the tiny burg of the QC.

I don't want to give people the wrong impression. My brother is truly tired of the lothario label that was stamped on his forehead in his younger days, and he will probably try to kill me (with his bare hands (because he can)) for publicizing my reaction. So let me be clear; I'm not impressed by his friend list in some sort of frat brother, bedpost-notching, drunk high-five sort of way. I'm impressed because I've dated five people in my life and none of them speak to me anymore (ok one would like to, but she's crazy). My brother's dated... many more than that... and I wouldn't be surprised if every one of them is on that list! And all of them still have a genuine love for him.

Hmm. When I look at it that way, it's hard to be jealous. The more love sent his way, the better.

Let me see what I can do to boost that number.

Baseball With Nobody To Call

I cannot properly convey the tremendous uplift I get each spring with the return of the baseball season. Since I retired from sleds and snowball fights, the winter months have been particularly difficult to manage. I get by with new episodes of my favorite television shows and football on Sundays, but there are some days when there’s just nothing interesting going on. All of that changes on opening day, when I no longer have to scour my schedule with a microscope to find a reason to get up in the morning. If it’s spring or summer, there’s a good chance the Cubs are playing. If they happen to be on an off-day, I just turn my attention to the Cordova Confederacy Fantasy League and the odds are good I’ll have somebody to root for or against. But with each euphoria I relish during these next six months, an unfortunate anti-climax will follow close on its heels.

This Monday’s Cubs game against the Florida Marlins is a perfect example. Carlos Zambrano was his usual mercurial self on the hill, alternating between unpredictable flamethrower and off-speed magician. Though the performance was far from the majesty of a Greg Maddux, Big Z proved unhitable save two home runs. It was the type of performance my brother and I love to talk about. We easily could have spent a half hour on Zambrano’s first at-bat alone, a strike-out he punctuated by snapping his bat in half across his knee. This guy is batshit crazy and a watercooler GOD!

Sadly, for the majority of the 2006 season, the Rockwell watercooler diatribes will be tragically infrequent. The full weight of this missing link in my baseball zeitgeist struck me during the Cubs eighth inning rally against the Marlins. Down 3-0, the Marlins opened the door with a number of walks and base hits. Then, with the bases loaded, rising star Matt Murton stroked a liner into center that tied the game.

Any other year, I would have reached for my cell phone and hit speed-dial four: Andrew. We leave dozens, if not hundreds of messages for each other over the course of a baseball season. Brevity is the rule:

“Maddux, baby!”

“Big Z!”

“Murton’s a PIMP!”

Hours or days later, we’d break the voice message cycle and more fully digest the many tagline observations we’d accumulated since our last conversation.

Monday was a night filled with potential euphoric voice messages, but then the blunt reality hit me. I can’t even call my brother. That seems like a realization that would have hit me sooner, but it didn’t. My brother and I only spoke sporadically during the winter months even when he was home. But when baseball starts, we’re locked in a relentless back-and-forth. Only after Jacque Jones followed Matt Murton’s game-tying hit with a three-run blast did it finally strike me that our give-and-take, which is so essential to the baseball experience for me, will be sidelined longer than Prior or Wood.

On the morale roller coaster that has been my brother‘s deployment, I’ve reached a new nadir. Since I’ve started work I’ve shared maybe three or four conversations with my Andrew. I definitely got spoiled by unemployment and our near-daily Instant Message conversations. The big fantasy showdown I was so psyched for ended up on the anti-climactic note. Sure, it ended up being a route -- I beat Andrew 13-5 and threw him into a three-way tie in the cellar -- but my brother still would have had some angle from which to talk shit. He’d call it luck. He’d remind me he still knows more about baseball than I do. Something, anything to add some flavor to our contest. But alas, the week passed with not a word between us. Where’s the fun in that?

So, yes, baseball season is here, and I’m loving every minute of it. But like so many other things in The Longest Year, a very important piece will be missing.

When Death Is Your Reward

This afternoon the jury in the Zacharias Moussaoui trail began deliberation. They will now decide whether the lone man to be charged as a result of 9/11 will either be executed or spend the rest of his life in prison. Now, I understand the natural compulsion to kill a man who played a part in such a tragic day in our country's history, and who shows absolutely no remorse. But seeking eye-for-an-eye retribution in this case will be less punishment for Moussaoui than it will be a reward.

Moussaoui comes from a section of Islam that values martyrdom so highly that scores of young men sacrifice their lives on a weekly basis in a quest for this holy status and its celestial rewards. By executing him, not only are we giving him what he wants, the Americans who continue to suffer because of 9/11 will not find themselves liberated from their grief or anger. Moussaoui has already shown his predilection towards defiant outbursts; expect nothing different on the day of his execution.

Death and martyrdom is the only thing Moussaoui can hope from his life now. He hopes to be remembered, by Al Qaeda and their brethren, as a hero who defied the Great Satan of the United States all the way to the grave. And the great irony is that only the United States, specifically the 12 men and women now considering Moussaui's fate, can grant him his last wish.

I hope the jurists have the ability to put aside thoughts of vengeance and justice, and choose instead to truly punish Moussaoui. Put him in jail for the rest of his life. Don't give him or his cohorts anything to celebrate. Don't let him turn death row into a platform for more of his tired rhetoric. Moussaoui's still a young man. It'll be decades before news of his death will come at the tail end of a nightly news cast, long after he's been forgotten by even the most ardent supporters of Al Qaeda. He'll die quietly, without extravagance or fanfare, and we'll take away the attention that he's used to such great effect during his trial.

We love quick fixes in this country, and I'm sure many are hoping their grief and anguish will die with Moussaoui. Unfortunately, there's no quick fix for the wounds of 9/11. Those who suffer today will suffer, to some degree, for the rest of their lives. I say we should let Moussaoui suffer with us.

Wild Night

I first saw the lightning when I walked out of Target. At the time, around eight o'clock, it was far in the distance -- just a handful of flashes every minute or so. I returned home to an empty house; mom was getting her hair done and dad was tending to his booster club. Uninterested in Thursday night's TV offerings, I decided I'd spend some time on the porch -- storm-watching.

Back in my adolescent years I spent a great deal of time watching storms from my front porch. In fact, I commonly took our camcorder with me for those afternoon firecrackers. We probably still have 10-12 video tapes around the house with thunderstorm footage. Well, our video camera has long been retired, but I still had access to my Nikon D70 digital still camera. So, I plucked it out of its case and took a seat on my front steps.

For the next hour, I sat perfectly still against the porch railing, my camera set to rapid-fire, snapping as fast as I could when the clouds flickered. After about an hour of fiddling with shutter speeds and apertures I had gotten fairly good at catching the occasional bright cloud (occasionally good last night meant probably one out of every fifteen shots wasn't completely black). I had been outside for nearly an hour when I heard something I've never heard before.

The town sirens went off. For real. Not a test.

Now, I had spent the afternoon at KWQC and it didn't seem like anything too serious was coming our way in terms of weather. Let alone something so serious that, for the first time in my 26 years in Rock Island, the town sirens would need to be used. This was fairly alarming. I quickly ran inside and turned on the television to see Rock Island county coded in red: Tornado Warning.

I hung out at the kitchen table as the veteran TV6 news team used phrases like "this is classic" and "I've never seen..." Then I saw something on the radar I've never seen before: the color black. Black. What the hell is black? In addition to this rather unpleasant hole in the radar, there was literally a wall of spirals that doppler uses to indicate rotation. And it was all headed our way. I got through three (two and a half) hurricanes in Florida without the slightest hint of a bowel mishap, but I definitely had to clench last night.

From the looks of the radar, I had some time before I had to consider diving into the crawl space. So, I returned to the porch with my camera, assured that things were going to pick up quite a bit. Both of my parents arrived without even noticing their son on the porch with a camera (probably shouldn't make that public knowledge). Not long after my cousin, Amy, came over to brave the storm with us. All in all I spent upwards of two hours shooting. Now 1 for 154 isn't the greatest batting average, but when this is your one hit... no complaints.


Interesting side note: I sent this photo in to my chaps at KWQC and they've made liberal use of it on its broadcasts last night and this morning. However, I didn't get credit for it, despite putting my name in the e-mail. That hurts my feelings a little. So, just remember good people, when you see the above picture on television over the next couple days, you know who shot it.

Ten Reasons Life is Really Good Right Now

I struggle to recall a time when my destiny dealt me so many great cards at once. The full magnitude of my recent good fortune struck me as I drove into work with the windows down, sun in my face and wind in my hair, after watching Aramis Ramirez take Bronson Arroyo into the bleachers with the most violent home run hack I think I’ve ever seen.

So this needs documentation. For those days down the line when I feel like nothing can go right – shoe-drop mode, I like to call it – I thought I’d run down the ten reasons my life is really good right now:

1. Paula Sands Live

Just getting the job at KWQC was a godsend, but Paula Sands Live is the best part of my workday. Unlike the newscasts that are rigid and monotonous, this half-hour talk show allows the camera operators to improvise. I’ve found myself competing with the other camera operators to get the most shots on air, and there is no greater motivator for me than competition. Speaking of which…

2. The Cordova Confederacy

In my first week of fantasy baseball I had one pitcher on the DL (Kerry Wood) who I missed the chance to replace in my lineup. On the first day of real baseball I lost another starting pitcher C.C. Sabathia to injury. Now, another pitcher, Eric Gagne, is having a possible season ending surgery on Friday. Needless to say, my first match-up with Brian has been a rout. And I honestly could care less. I was apparently a closeted stat geek all this time, and I have spent the better part of the past two nights scouring the waiver list looking for a solution to my pitching quandary. All of this is in preparation for my Week 3 match-up with Baby Brother. He talks oh-so-much shit.

3. Juan Pierre

As a Cubs fan, I’ve trained myself to look for silver linings. While I could be dwelling on the fact that I have no idea who is in the Cubs rotation besides Z and Maddux, I choose to look for those new elements of this year’s team that could push us the way of success this season. One such element is Juan Pierre. After the three years of praying Corey Patterson’s raw talent would materialize into a real ballplayer, the Cubs sent him packing and went and got themselves a serious lead-off man in Pierre. Mashers like Derek Lee and Aramis Ramirez were reliable last year, but with nobody on base all the long balls added up to a fourth place finish in the Central. But with his couldn’t-have-written-it-better triple to lead off the season, Pierre arrived in wonderfully dramatic fashion. If he can keep delivering, Lee and Ram-Ram should have ample opportunities for the RBIs that were so embarrassingly elusive last season.

4. Fox Mondays

If I hadn’t had the miracle of DVR, I don’t know if I could have accepted the job at KWQC. HA! I kid. I kid. A little. I could stand to miss a few shows, but Fox Mondays have become the most harrowing night of television I’ve ever seen. And I’m a TV geek. After several months hiatus, Prison Break returned with newfound character. Always reliable for harrowing cliff-hangers and sick twists, the first two episodes back took a more character-oriented tack. The downtime did little to diminish this show’s energy. Meanwhile, 24 continues to fire on all cylinders, ending this week’s episode with one of the more intriguing twists in its run (which I won’t spoil for my brother). Its most brutal season thus far (at least four major characters have bought it so far… nope five), season five is neck and neck with last season as the show’s best. And with this week’s shocking turn, it has the potential to get even better.

5. Fridays with Dad

One of the blessings of my job (thanks to DVR) is that I don’t go into work until three in the afternoon. That means my mornings are free. And that means for the first time ever, my dad and I will have a regular date on Friday mornings for golf. I love golf, almost as much as baseball. I would have been playing golf by myself, but I’d much rather be out there with my dad. Classic bonding time. Plus there’s always room to add some challengers to the mix every once in a while. Uncle Mike. Uncle Mac. Norm. I'm talking to you guys.

6. Windows Down

Simple. Classic.

7. Kingdom Hearts II

I’m not a video game guy. When I worked at the boat, there were fleets of my co-workers who spent hours upon hours in front their X-Boxes duking it out in Halo or …. That’s the only one I really know. Still, there are those times when I go through a month or two flurry of gaming. This past binge was a little longer, being that I was unemployed, but over the course of that time I discovered an absolute gem for PS2 called Kingdom Hearts. This remarkably entertaining title mixed characters from the long-running Final Fantasy video game franchise with an abundance of characters from Walt Disney’s vaults. How can you go wrong when your sidekicks are Donald and Goofy? Honestly. One of the breakthrough launch titles for the PS2 when it was released in 2001, the much-anticipated sequel dropped last week. While I can only play about a stage at a time with the job running interference, I can’t wait to get back to this quirky adventure as soon as I get home. Fun for the whole family.

8. Sexy Beast in Training

It’s been a long while since I was pleased with my physical appearance. Nearly a decade, I think. But thanks to Weight Watchers and my two hour lunch break, I’m just about as close as I can be to aesthetic contentment. Since starting Weight Watchers eleven weeks ago, I’ve gone from 235 to 208 (as of this morning), and since KWQC has a company gym in the basement I spend my time between the 6 and 10 newscast rotating between the treadmill and my brother’s West Point try-not-to-puke workout. By my own estimation that puts me approximately twenty pounds away from Sexy Beast status.

9. Mix CDs

I don’t listen to the radio anymore. The Top 40 station around here is so saturated with generic thug rap that I’d rather bang my head against a Casio than endure another gold-tooth bitches and hos remix. But thankfully, I still find a handful of gems, mostly from The OC and IPod commercials, to bolster my music library and keep my driving time easy.

10. St. Ambrose University

Ironically, I applied to SAU to bolster my resume for the channel 6 job. Then I got said job. Fortunately, that allowed me more freedom for my class schedule. I no longer needed to learn how to operate studio cameras. Instead, I can turn my focus to my calling (according to mom) – video editing. So come fall, I will be permanently latched to SAU’s Final Cut Pro Stations.

Now, in the sake of full disclosure, here are five things that remain a concern to me. I hope my luck these can eventually turn my way as well.

1. Ouch My Bank Account

Despite the prestige one might infer from the words "television job" unless you run the station or appear in front of the camera, TV doesn’t pay squat. So while it might be sexy to say you work for a TV station, it remains the worst paying job I’ve had since high school. Positive Spin: Doing something you love is its own reward.

2. Duck and Cover

Obviously, I wish people would stop shooting at my brother.

3. Single

This one really doesn’t bother me a whole lot. Still, it would be nice to find a lady I could spar with (intellectually). At the moment I'm looking forward to a potential hot Wrigley Field date with an old friend lined up for later this summer.

4. Thank God My Parent's Don't Have a Basement

Technically I have four years before I become the full cliche – the 30 year old man still living with his parents. But with my lowly income, I have some concerns.

5. Hamstring

I tend to get a little overzealous on the new workouts, and I think I tweaked my hammy. Oh well. I'll have to take her easy tomorrow.

Wavering Loyalties in America's Pasttime

Though the ChiSox kicked the season off last night, for most of us baseball begins today. Talking to my brother on the phone last night (yes he called), he told me he had butterflies in his stomach awaiting the Cubs opener. I know how he feels. And I'm sure he's having a good day so far after the Cubs put up a five-run first inning which included wonderful contributions from off-season acquisitions Juan Pierre and Jacque Jones, not to mention the Cubs big prospect Matt Murton.

But there's also the spectre of the Cordova Confederacy, my cousin Brian's fantasy league. Already this adventure is playing mind games with me. Acquring Cub killer Albert Pujols with my first pick started it off. Now the Cubs have put up a five run first inning against my bottom pitcher Aaron Harang. I'm a competitive guy. And I really want to do well in my first year in fantasy baseball.

Well, if I must lose in the fantasy league, the least the Cubs could do is give me a World Series. Is it too much to ask?

Identity Crisis: Am I Funny?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.