More Pop-Culture Musings

I thought B. Springsteen did a great job at the halftime show, but after I read this article today, I have to admit that the writer made some interesting points. Here's an excerpt:

Nothing will ever compete for sheer tone-deafness with Paul McCartney playing a zealous Super Bowl rendition of "Live and Let Die" at the height of the Iraq war. But Springsteen would have put America on its ass—its mind shortly to follow—had he strolled out with a Martin and played "The Wrestler." (And how about a nice "This one's for Danny," aka Danny Federici, the recently deceased keyboardist who was with Bruce for more than 40 years?) The national mood is sober bordering on a galloping panic. Lively as he was, I wouldn't say the Boss did much to either banish or capture it.

Right?And here's the link to the entire article, He Should Have Played "The Wrestler" if you're curious: http://www.slate.com/id/2210287/

The article is from slate.com, which is a really great online magazine (where else would you find an article about season 3 of Friday Night Lights titled Where in tarnation is Jason Street?) Loads of interesting columns on aspects of pop-culture that aren't always given their due in mainstream media, and what's more, Robert Pinsky is the poetry editor and he usually chooses/writes material that appeals to my tastes (and thus, possibly yours as well!).

Pictures forthcoming. Seriously.

New Cold Mountain Review Released

Cold Mountain Review has survived long enough to publish my poem, and I received my two contributor's copies yesterday. Angela and I each pulled one out of the packet, and leafed through at the same pace. Exciting.




http://www.coldmountain.appstate.edu/

I'll never be a critic/The new Springsteen album

A brief preface: Angela has found out I'm posting another pictureless entry, and warned me that pictures are what make blogs fun. There are no pictures below, but I promise that soon-- in the very near future-- there will be pictures posted on this blog of people, in some place, very possibly having the time of their life. That being said...

I recently realized that if I was a professional critic, I would be Peter Travers. Which means I wouldn’t be much of a critic at all. Travers, the film critic for Rolling Stone magazine, likes everything. I’m serious. If you read any of his movie reviews over the holidays, it seems like Pete sat around and tried to concoct unique ways of saying, “I love this movie.” Granted, the 08’ holiday season yielded some above-average films, but I guess many moviegoers and other critics expect a good critic to…well…criticize.

Check out Peter Traver’s take on…
Slumdog Millionaire: “What I feel for this movie isn't just admiration, it's mad love.”
Milk: “If there's a better movie around this year…I sure as hell haven't seen it.
Frost/Nixon: “It shouldn't work at all. But it does work, spectacularly, as a matter of fact.”

I think the last one is hilarious, like he really wants to criticize, but just can't bring himself to do it. Anyway. I’m making fun of Travers, but truthfully, I like him. The guy loves movies, and I imagine he sits down ready to enjoy the film, rather than searching for an opening to destroy it. That’s sort of how I am—I honestly want to like whatever media I’m engaging, which probably slows my inclination to acknowledge (or even notice) flaws/dislikes.

All that being said: The Boss—one of the last bastions of relevant (I’m using that word to discredit new music by Jackson Browne/Rick Springfield/Bob Dylan/John Mellencamp), classic American rock—released his new album Working on a Dream on Tuesday.
It’s got many of the inherent strengths and weaknesses of other Springsteen albums (Not counting those from 1990-1999, which even Springsteen refers to as “lost years”), but I’ll just skip over those and begin w/ a traversesque bottom line: Working on a Dream is brilliant, everything you could want it to be, and rocks all the way from the eight-minute-plus “Outlaw Pete” to the poignant “The Wrestler” bonus track, although technically the album ends on “The Last Carnival”, a poignant song about late band-member Danny Fedirici ,who died of cancer last year.

Working on a Dream is an updated Born to Run and an elevated Magic. It’s Bruce and the E Street Band celebrating what they’re good at—rock music with tinges of country, folk, and classic, and unafraid to ramble on with instrumentals and choruses as long as they please. To kick an abused adjective while it's down—the album is epic.

All those wonderful things being said…you know when an acquaintance is being a bit self-righteous, and you say “Don’t preach at me!” But then that same acquaintance is a pastor, so they’re allowed to talk like that? That’s how I am with Springsteen. I’ll cut the guy endless amounts of lyrical slack, because while what he’s saying sometimes come off as a bit awkward (The way he twists end-words in “Outlaw Pete” just to make some lines rhyme is painful.), he’s been doing his thing for over forty years and can write whatever the hell he wants. At least he's back to writing his old subject matter-- troubled, working class characters, who can't seem to decide whether life is something to be lived or survived. Their dilemmas are our pleasure.

For Blog Junkies

For the host of people who enjoy clicking through a list of links and seeing how other people are living their lives, I've added a new link to the blogroll on the right.

A friend of a friend is about to embark on a two year Peace Corp stint in Uganda, and he created a blog to record his experiences/reflections-- so it should make for some interesting reading.

Cheers.

Gran Torino Reviewed (Spoiler Alert)

There is talk that Gran Torino is Clint Eastwood’s final acting role. While I’ll believe that when the man (god forbid) dies, I will say it would be an unforgettable role to end a career on. Somehow, Eastwood found a way to direct a film where he plays a bitter, violent, and unapologetically bigoted old man who can barely form one sentence void of profanity or racial slurs, and then is still able to pull off—brilliantly—having that same man die in the unmistakable shape of a cross at the end of the movie. Gran Torino is cinema—that strange experience of pleasure and unsettlement, escapism and confrontation with reality—at its absolute best.

The story was engaging, and one that reflected reality—slightly characterized so that it would be easier for audiences to understand. An older man, Walt Kowalski, disconnected from his children. Their misguided efforts to try and move him into a retirement home, purchasing him a telephone with extra large numbers, a “gopher” for picking up items and pulling them off shelves so Walt doesn’t strain himself. The children’s busy lives that don’t allow them time to visit their father. The generational disconnect between Walt and his wild-clothes-wearing, disrespectful grandchildren. It was irritating, but well done. The audience was understanding the situation from Walt’s perspective. (Literally, at times—the camera angle represented Walt’s vision.)
Then Walt, a veteran of the Korean War, begins to develop an unlikely friendship with the Hmong family next door. First through an older daughter, Bee, then with the son, Thao, who becomes the target for a local gang of Hmongs.

Audiences are meant to understand right from the beginning of the movie that in some way, as unlikely as it seems, Walt and Thao are connected. Yes, Walt is old, American, and racist, as opposed to Thao, who is young, Hmong, and painfully shy. But in the early scenes of the movie, we’re shown through two juxtaposed scenes that there is still a similarity.
The scenes are from the funeral at Walt’s house, and a birth celebration in the Hmong house next door. We are shown Walt stepping outside to be alone, and then we see Thao removing himself from the crowd. So while we may not see any overt links between the two in personality or lifestyle, there is a connection. Death and birth. One is at the end of his life, the other is at the beginning. And, the two characters fill a void in each others lives. Thao has no father. Walt’s sons are not a meaningful part of his life.

This is not the only time Eastwood uses camera shots to add to his story. Towards the end of the movie, Walt decides its time to honor his late wife’s request, and go to confession. Although by that point audiences know Walt was part of some terrible things in the war (hacking bodies up with shovels, piling bodies up for sandbags), he doesn’t deliver the confession we expect. In fact, what Walt says seems almost trivial. Through the confessional screen, Walt said he regretted not being a better father to his sons. Very nice, Walt—but what about the women and children you hacked to death in the war?

Before Walt goes to execute his revenge on the Hmong gang, he locks Thao in his basement to keep him safe. Walt is preparing to make a larger sacrifice than Thao, or the audience, is prepared for—and it’s in that scene that Walt makes his second, more poignant confession. Between Walt and Thao is a metal screen to keep Thao in the basement, and as Thao is begging Walt to let him go with him, the camera is always viewing the character’s faces through the screen, as in a confessional. This is the confession we were waiting for, Walt explaining to Thao that killing is something “…you don’t want…on your soul.”

The camera communicates again when—as I mentioned—Walt’s ultimate sacrifice leaves him dead on a lawn in the shape of a cross—a sacrifice that liberates Tao and his family.
Gran Torino is a complicated, brilliantly done film. There’s a lot I simply don’t have time to write about—the humor, the violence, Walt’s relationship with the catholic priest—it’s all weaved together seamlessly. Nothing is ever forced or dumbed-down for audiences. Eastwood, in his directorial authority, never felt the need to beat us over the head with the fact that Walt loved his deceased wife. We are spared painful flashbacks. No one ever says, “Walt, you have lung cancer. And six months to live.” We see Walt smoke. We see Walt cough up blood. That’s enough.
The racism and violence is inarguably disturbing. But Walt is a flawed man, and the film reflects that. It’s his journey toward redemption that puts his words and actions in perspective, and ultimately justifies their inclusion in the film.

Morning themed poem by Mary Oliver

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.


I thought this poem was fitting for my continuing (and, at day 2, still successful) quest to rise at 6:15 each morning. I have to say, while I enjoy this poem, this post is not in any way an endorsement of Mary Oliver. I really enjoy her collection American Primitive, and some of her nature writing, but overall I think she's shallow and a bit of an air-head. A lot of people would disagree with me, but I guess those are the poeple who think writing six-plus poems about a little dog named Percy (and titling each poem "Percy" and numbering it) is an entertaining subject.

In summary: mixed feelings on Mary Oliver, enjoy this poem.

Rising Early, 1

I've always liked New Year's resolutions, and try not to let the cheesy factor (or the fact that some people make the same resolutions and then abandon them year after year) bother me. I've always said and believed that change is important--as long as you're struggling (even if you're failing), you're doing something right. Anyway. I was planning on blogging about getting up in the morning, not writing a sermon, so I'm going to stop there.
One of my resolutions was to wake up at 6:15 in the morning Monday through Friday, so that I can pull more out of my weekdays. The only days I actually need to be up semi-early are Tuesday and Thursday, when I teach my English 112 (theme: Travel Writing) class from 8:00-9:15. Wednesday I don't have to be at class until 10:00, and Monday and Friday I don't have any classes. So, I could sleep in until fairly late, if I so desired.
I thought I could use the extra morning time to read, write, eat a bigger breakfast, and jog.
Today was the first day my alarm/cellphone actually went off at 6:15. I reach out and turned it off so it wouldn't wake Angela up, and then I just laid on my stomach with my head lifted up for a moment, trying to decide if I wanted to go back to sleep. Not surprisingly, I did want to-- but I wasn't sure if I was actually tired. My body felt heavy, my mind was groggy, and I felt slightly (and inexplicably) angry, but I wasn't exactly sleepy.
I began to use the power of logic against myself.
"What," I reasoned, "Am I getting up this early for? I know I could get up if I wanted to. But why would I?" It was dark out, and I wouldn't be able to jog for another hour and a half. I could read at any point in the day. All signs began to point for me to reset my alarm for seven (an admirable time to rise!), and fall back asleep.
But on that precipice between bed and beakfast, I overcame my own neo-serphent rhetoric and decided that rolling out of bed because I said I was going to was good enough. I think there's something to be said for mornings (just as there is something to be said about staying up late), and being a "morning person," and I didn't want to miss out on some of the benefits they offer. Such as time, and silence, and a certain kind of beauty that's absent at other times of the day.
So I got up quietly, made my way out into the hall, and switched on the light as I closed the bedroom door. I went downstairs and made a pot of coffee, then read my bible while I drank. I looked outside. Dark. I went upstairs, checked my email, and read about the Golden Globes. I finished, checked cnn.com, and looked outside again. Still dark.
Now, at 7:41, the dark outside my window is beginning to gray, and I can see footprints in the snow behind our building. Soon, I suppose, the sun will come up.

Blue-Collar Anniversary

Another year, another unromantic anniversary. Two years ago today, Angela and I married. Here is a picture of us, exactly one year ago.

We were visiting a water-treatment plant that powered Bongolo Hospital in southern Gabon. Here we are today, helping my dad paint the living room.

We did go out to dinner afterwards. Cheers.

Holiday Life, Pt. II (Accomplishment)

Merry Christmas.

Although I haven't been writing much over this holiday break (I mean writing in general, not posting on this blog), I'm not worried. I think it's beneficial to take a break once in a while, so I don't burn myself out like some short-lived roman candle-- and also, I've had other worthy accomplishments.

Below, you are going to witness a photo of what is more than likely, the best gift an uncle has ever given a niece-- a realistic, stuffed guinea pig. Upon presentation of said guinea, there was some confusion:




But it wasn't long before uncertainty gave way to love.

Love, however, was short lived, as evidenced by this 1:41 video clip. You'll have to forgive my vaugely homosexual-sounding commentary, I guess it's a combination of How I Really Sound and How I Talk To Little Kids-- also, I keep referring the the guinea as a gerbil.

And, finally, a movie update:

Slumdog Millonaire and Marley & Me have both been knocked down. Both were excellent films. I was pleasantly surprised with Anniston, and thought she was at her best in the post-partum scene(s). Angela made the solid point that the latter film did a nice job of not glorifying either owning a dog, or having kids. And I agree.

Tonight at 9:30, I'm crossing off Benjamin Button. Maybe I'll actually see all the films on my list before the 12th...

Finally, here is a photo of Ang. and I in line for Marley & Me.

Holiday Life, Pt. 1

Angela and I are in Toledo, OH, for the first part of our Christmas Break (I am aware that at some point, adults are no longer supposed to have a lengthy Christmas Break-- but I'm still a student, and Ang. is a substitute teacher), and today was the day we had planned to drive up to my parents in Michigan.

The weather, however, intervened. I'm sure others already know what I'm talking about, as this storm is affecting many areas of the mid-west.

In other news, I began reading Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian today. I need to take a break from poetry (both writing and reading), and read some fiction.

Here are some pictures from the Kalb's house in Toledo, post-ice-storm.