Sixteen days. That's how long my sleeping schedule has been thrown out of whack by watching the Olympic Games. From the audacious opening ceremonies to the, um, equally audacious closing ceremony, I watched an ungodly amount of Olympic competition. Thanks to DVR, I became an old pro at navigating all the channels owned by NBC that they felt fit to throw any Olympic coverage on. NBC, USA, CNBC, MSNBC, Oxygen (I know, right?!), and yes, even Telemundo (sssh! Don't tell those border fence builders). Two weeks of sleepless nights watching both the marquee and the lame events. While not entirely pleased with the network coverage here stateside, I did enjoy the Games for the most part. In fact, I paid far more attention to these Games than any since Atlanta in 1996. Heck, I think I even learned a few things, and I'd like to share. Here are the top 8 things I learned from the 08 Olympics.

1. Aquaman Lives!



Who knew swimming could be so mesmerizing and dramatic? Michael Phelps, thou are the golden one. 8 gold medals. Eight. I couldn't even win eight events in that Mario/Sonic Olympic video game, much less in real life. Now, that one victory by 0.01 of a second had me jumping and hollering like a madman. I was so pumped I wanted to pull a "Frank the Tank" and go streaking down the street, but I didn't want to honor U.S. Olympic prowess by spending the night in the clink. The only question I have is… what the heck does Phelps do between now and 2012? Simple. Movies! If Johnny Weissmuller can play Tarzan, sign up this Olympian to play Aquaman. You know Hollywood will make any comic book hero into a film. Some even make beaucoup cash (Ironman, The Dark Knight). Heck, even if Phelps can't act, it can't be any worse than The Punisher movie or those two Fantastic Four movies. So yeah… Aquaman. I call dibs. I'm sure that guy from "Entourage" won't mind. If so, they can hug it out.

2. Lightning Bolts come from Jamaica.



I'll be blunt. Maybe because I'm not exactly in shape, but I marvel at the acheivements the human body can produce in these competitions. Now, I've always been a moderate track & field fan, but no one, I repeat, NO ONE has ever made it look so effortless as Usain Bolt. This guy is fast. Darn fast. He makes cheetahs drop their jaw in amazement. A bit of a showboat, but hey, it's the world's biggest stage. The display of the Jamaican track team was astonishing, while the USA track performances went to pot. What are they smoking down there, anyway? Wait, don't answer.

3. Redeem Team? Hardly.

Even though they won the gold, I'm not convinced that USA basketball is quite back in prime shape. In fact, this latest "dream team" again just illustrated what's wrong with American basketball. We have a team loaded with slasher and dazzling finishers, but still so lean on fundamentals. And it took someone of Coach K's caliber to get these guys to play consistent defense. Maybe in the years to come we can develop real basketball skills like jump shooting or post-play or free-throw shooting, instead of a collection of isolation plays and dunks. The biggest surprise to me was the play of Chris Bosh, a Texas product languishing in Toronto playing for that Jurassic Park team. Can we get Mark Cuban to try and bring this guy back home and play for the Mavs? On a side note, how worried are Rockets fans to have seen Yao Ming wince his way through the tournament, clearly not 100%? This could be another injury-filled, heartbreaking season ahead.

4. Corporate sponsors

If they sponsored the Olympic team, they WILL let you know.
Visa took all your APR and late fee payments and handed them over to Morgan Freeman to narrate a seemingly endless series of commercials. My favorite is when they had the "Phelps congratulations" commercial the very next commercial break after he broke the medal record. While I commend the choice of Freeman, I can't hear his voice without thinking of: penguins, Batman gadgets, and the hope every time I see Se7en that Brad Pitt won't ask what's in the box.

Also, what the heck is with this Lenovo company? Let's see, they had commercials with Sumo wrestlers turning into aircraft, a vaporizing laser-shooting computer, and the gold medal of oddity… that bizarre laptop commercial where some hairy troll gives a fruit basket. That one in particular kept me up watching games late into the night because I had nightmares.

I also like how Coca-Cola didn't bother to make new ads. They just replayed that Sprite ad where the basketball players jump into the court/pool (no longer impressive after three years) and that Diet Coke rollerskating ad that I thought had Maria Bello in it when I first saw it four years ago.

5. Chinese have a flair for the dramatic!

How about that opening ceremony for getting things started? That made Cirque Du Soleil look like those folks from Waiting For Guffman. I mean… wow. Nothing makes one stop thinking of a country's human rights violations for a few hours like a spectacular show like that. Ambitious and awe-inspiring, even if they had special effects for fireworks and they pulled a Milli Vanilli with a 7-year old girl. The real 7-year old probably had to get ready for gymnastics… oh, I' m sorry, I meant 16 year old (eyes rolling). Sure, China, whatever you say.


As far as the show… I gotta tell you, Zhang Yimou is a friggin genius. Of course with that estimated $300 million budget, who wouldn't look like a genius? Oh yeah. Me. My show would have been a fraction of the cost, but then again… I'd have had a few million Black Cat fireworks and then some assorted party hats and glow sticks from the local Dollar Store. Then I'd hire Chuck Mangione to perform. Heck yeah! Feels so good!



6. NBC Coverage? Not so good, Al.


He may be proud as a peacock, but I can't abide Bob Costas. Every phrase out of his mouth makes me groan audibly. The guy thinks he's witty, but he's only annoying. I can't fathom why NBC continues to trot this guy out and make him the centerpiece of any sports coverage. Couldn't they wrangle up Keith Olbermann? I'm sure we could've taken a few weeks off from slamming Rush Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly to be the broadcast MC.

And while no where in the vicinity of "ESPN annoying," the other networks coverage was also lackluster. The cretins they had on USA covering boxing made me cringe. And whatever that daily wrap-up show they had with Tiki Barber gave me a headache. Tiki's also high on the totem pole of annoyance. No wonder his former NY Giants teammates said good riddance and promptly won a Super Bowl without him.

Oh, and NBC? Enough with the self-promotion. Does anyone watch "Deal or No Deal" anymore? Did anyone ever watch "America's Got Talent?" I have no interest in that Christian Slater show that looks like The Long Kiss Goodnight. Or in Val Kilmer as the voice of the new KITT in "Knight Rider." Or in Season 3 of "Heroes" unless you can wash out the bad taste of season two. On the other hand, thanks to your endless parade of promos, I now know "ER" is still on the air. I had no clue. I haven't watched that since Clooney and that Soul-Glo guy were still on it.


7. There are some questionable sports in the Olympics.



Three letters. B.M.X. Seriously. Olympic committee, I'll help you. Ctrl+Alt+Del. Reset and eliminate this bike thing. When I think of real sports in the Olympics, I have a hard enough time letting Badminton, White Water Rafting, and Synchronized Diving slide. You're getting rid of baseball and softball, but you have BMX racing. Wow. Just wow. This isn't the X Games, people. Give it the pink slip.

I mean, what's next? Boggle Tournaments? Bingo? Wii Bowling?


8. There were plenty of American characters to hold interest.

First, how heartbreaking was that Softball medal game for the USA women? It's a shame we won't see any softball in the Olympics until at earliest 2016. Sigh. Where am I gonna get my Cat Osterman fix??



It was great to watch women's beach volleyball. May-Treanor and Walch (and that nicotine patch-looking thing) made it impossible to root against them.


Shawn Johnson, what a sweet kid. Not quite Mary-Lou Retton, but Johnson could easily pull off a Minnie Mouse costume off for Halloween. Come on, tell me she's not "mouse-like."

Even non-medal winners may have a day in the sun. Alicia Sacramone may have completely come unglued and cost her team a medal, but she seems poised to become sport's next Anna Kournakova.


Ah, the power of google searches and internets can make anyone a star...


So the net conclusion of two weeks of constant Olympic viewing?
Those Chinese sure know how to throw a party. Yeah, a Communist party (hardy har).

While mostly spectacle over substance, the Beijing games provided a rare look (albeit completely sanctioned) at the most populous country on Earth. In many ways a Disney-esque production; it was heck of a lot more interesting than going to Epcot center.

For two weeks, China played nice. They tried to make "Made in China" mean more than American outsourcing. While they government's acts leave much to be desired, for two weeks we got to enjoy some genuinely fun and historic moments in the world of sport. Where medal counts are only important to the big wigs, but also where everyone could enjoy a brief global community.

Pity we must return to the world not preoccupied by the Olympics.
After all, for two weeks, it was all fun and games… wasn't it?

http://community.victoriaad... 700, 620 )" id="firstimg"> The Happening
Review by G. Barraza       

What happened to M. Night Shyamalan? I recall a time nine years ago when he was being hailed as the next Spielberg. The Sixth Sense was a Best Picture nominee, if you don't recall. He followed that up with Unbreakable, a highly underrated film about superhero mythology (long before people lauded the television show "Heroes" for the same concept). Since then, it's been a long, uninspiring slide downhill. The buzz on his career used to be lightyears ahead of any other young directing talent. Now, his motto should read: "to mediocrity and beyond!" After the lackluster Lady in the Water, it appears interest in Shyamalan began to wane. Two years later, he comes back with The Happening, and it splashes down with all the ceremony and subtlety of a trip to the restroom. I'm talking about good ol' number 2, and it's wise to just quickly flush this **** and move on. It's bad. Boring bad, uneventful bad. Not even "make fun of it" bad. It's almost too easy to say, but it's the truth. In this film, there's nothing happening.

This is the most bland piece of film I've had the displeasure of viewing in years. It's too unoriginal to be a Shyamalan movie. It doesn't look like one. It doesn't really even feel like one, and not just because this film lacks that "twist ending" that unfortunately has become a trademark of his. Everything is flat and lacking in flavor. Sitting through this is like eating a big stale bag of stale Cheetos. The normal ones, not the curly ones (you know, because there's no twist). You crush and crush and it's miserable. You really want to enjoy it, because it's still Cheetos, but it's insufferably unappealing.

The Happening has the most uninteresting visual style in recent memory. Cinematographer Tak Fujimoto, who has worked with Shyamalan twice before, is more than capable of making beautiful imagery. But here the drab neutral tones and visuals are as boring as the action on screen. At least they match. When the best images of a film are shots of a mood ring, you know you're in trouble. Yet it appears no one happened to tell either the cinematographer or the director.

Technically, the only thing of merit is the haunting score by James Newton Howard. It really is a great musical companion, and stands out in sharp contrast to the inactivity. In fact, I wish The Happening would have been released as a silent movie with only the score to drive the narrative. Not only would that have been daring to try, it would've spared us some truly horrendous dialogue.

The strongest human element in this film is provided by Mark Wahlberg, and this is still one of his worst performances since he was rapping with The Funky Bunch. Heck, his old Calvin Klein ads had more substance. For all his efforts in this film, Wahlberg is not believable as an earnest character here. He only serves to explain the scientific method in trying to figure out cataclysmic events, but as the main character he should be much more relatable. His wife, played by the normally charming Zooey Deschanel, is an inconsistent and annoying character. I'm not sure what happened during the filming, but her role changes wildly from one shot to the next, and it's clearly not in the name of character development. Her performance is all over the place. Are we supposed to care about these people? Is the story even about them? If so, similar themes have been done a dozen times before. In fact, it was done much better in 2002's Signs, which happened to have been directed by M. Night Shyamalan.

The biggest sin is that the film is not engaging at all. Also, for a film marketed as "M. Night Shyamalan's first R-rated feature," this is some tame and non-scary stuff. We're supposed to be scared by wind rustling through the tall grass and trees? Due to my lack of attention, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. I wondered, "how big are the fans off-screen being used to blow the grass like that?" Hey, I had to entertain myself. The film wasn't trying to do so.

Why there was a need to be an R-rated film is also beyond my comprehsion. Typically, regardless of whether he hits or misses, Shyamalan has always been more cerebral in his building of suspense or terror. He used to know that the film's scariest element existed in the audience's mind. Here, there are numerous gratuitous shots of violence that never look convincing, because the visual effects are so bad. And the degree of gory deaths in this film is simply absurd. Lion attacks viewed on iPhones (was that video on YouTube, I wondered)? Lawnmowers running over people? Suicide gunshots? Building jumpers? Jeeps crashing into trees? I've seen stronger stuff on the TruTV network.

I have no idea what Shyamalan's goal is in this film. Is it a study of fear? If so, I've also seen better in Frank Darabont's adaptation of The Mist by Stephen King last year. Instead, The Happening feels like an empty episode of "The Twilight Zone" stretched to a laborious 90 minutes. His style in this film is near self-parody. It brings to mind the self-indulgence of Tim Burton's Mars Attacks!, only that film actually had a few chuckles in it. In The Happening, moronic story elements are left out to dry, and only add stupidity instead of mystery. When the characters wonder why the events only happen in the American Northeast, I want to shout at the screen "Don't you watch Shyamlan movies? They all take place in Pennsylvania!"

The positive is this: rock bottom has arrived. There is literally no where to go but up from this weakest of films. It still begs the question though of what happened to this former wunderkind of talent. Has ever a filmmaker declined so rapidly based solely on his body of work? It's almost as if he's trying to flush his career down the toilet. Are the police pounding on his bathroom door and he thinks his talent is a kilo of drugs? Perhaps he's simply tapped as a screenwriter, because each story has become more pretentious than the one before. In that case, he should be prescribed to handle some Stephen King adaptations. Frank Darabont can't do them all, right? Yet after watching The Mist, one can argue Darabont can do it better. Perhaps M. Night needs a nice long sabbatical. It's really a shame, because we are witnessing the irrelevance of a formerly promising filmmaker. That is what's happening.

 

 

Sex & The City
Review by G. Barraza       


Love them or hate them, the women of Sex and the City have been culturally significant for the past decade. Look at the quartets of ladies now parading around having "girls' night out," with their heels, big purses, and liberated attitudes. Liberated, or maybe selfish… take your pick. Point is, numerous twenty-somethings live by the gospel according to Carrie Bradshaw. Yes, that HBO show sparked a new-fashioned material revolution about new fashions that revolve around material things. Now after a few years comes the big-screen continuation of these Manhattan ladies. Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), Samantha (Kim Cattrall), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) and Charlotte (Kristin Davis) are older and a bit wiser. Well, some of them are. After years of glam frivolity, it appears fabulous has become fabuless. Sex and the City is a very long film trying to tie up loose ends that were mostly tied up at the end of the series. For a coda about what happens after "happily ever after," it's not a lot of fun. Somber in tone and reflective by nature, it feels like a hangover rather than a fruity drink.

Much has happened since this show left TV four years ago. "Sex and the City" left a void that not even "Lipstick Jungle" or "Cashmere Mafia" could fill. Although clearly tailored to meet the appeal of the xx chromosome audience, the main appeal of "Sex and the City" was the camaraderie of the four central characters. The series concluded with closure for all, and yet here we are. Set four years after the series' conclusion, the girls have scaled back as their lives mature. As a result, the themes of the film are more admirable, but the movie itself is lacking the spunk of the series. What lacks is that spark, that personality of the New York lifestyle. It's Sex without the City.

There are shiny elements sprinkled throughout, but it all seems so artificial. Random scenes of photo shoots and personal modeling are showcased, but serve no real purpose. In fact, much of the film is unnecessary. The characters are only stagnant for those four years because the screenplay requires them to. Sadly, the film feels contrived. It operates like it has to include all of the characters we grew accustomed to. How many different characters floated in and out of their lives in six seasons? Yet here it is four years later and nothing new is happening? Why don't their lives become interesting until the opening credits roll? When viewed through those lenses, Sex and the City feels as organic as a deliberate reunion tour.

To be fair, there is one new significant character that pops up after about an hour of the film has passed. Yet after showing so many characters, it is a grave misstep to add a new character to an already thinly spread ensemble. Jennifer Hudson is horribly miscast as a personal assistant to Carrie. Her role is useless. Presumably she is a naïve counterpart to all the rampant cynicism, but she really serves no other purpose other than to allow Carrie to make as many riffs on the phase "Saint Louis" as humanly possible.

Oddly, this particular misfire brings to mind the issue of minorities in the Sex and The City universe. Many have clamored on the topic before, and I was never one to subscribe to it… until now. The references are few, but the attempted humor used in regard to minorities is slightly appalling. The best they could do is an assistant with a Louis Vuitton fetish (although to be fair, ALL the characters are materialistic), a cab driver with a turban, and a five-star Mexican resort that's only good for diarrhea jokes? If that's the type of beverage this film serves, no wonder no one even drinks the water.

For all its droll and unnecessary dressing, the interaction of the quartet is still the selling point. Their dialogue and banter still bring an occasional smile, but the film adds ill-fitting situational comedy that mixes like water and suede. Why try and solicit guffaws from the audience about bikini waxes or someone crapping their pants? Is this an American Pie spinoff about a group of MILFs? Is this a Kevin Smith movie? For a film with this title, there isn't anything sexy about the humor. Subtlety is clearly NOT the new black. Gone are the annoying clever touches that passed themselves off as sardonic wit. What we have here in its stead is plenty of disillusionment. Both for the characters and the audience.

The anchor for the storyline is still the defining relationship of Carrie and Mr. Big (Chris Noth). Their stormy romance made for some interesting melodrama in the series, but sitting in a theater for two and a half hours I can't help asking myself why these people insisted on acting like middle-aged children after all these years. After all they went through, they still flake out in the same old ways? Why can't they grow up already? Aren't they all pushing fifty by now?

I guess if one has invested enough time in viewing the entire series and simply want to revisit some "old friends" like Carrie, Sam, Miranda and Charlotte, this might be enough to satisfy them. I have actually seen all episodes, and must admit I've never been a big fan (although, I must confess, a fan of Big). However, I always enjoyed the interaction of the four women and how they tried to cope with real (if petty) problems in their constructed lives. Here it mostly leads to cheesy clichés and redundant conclusions, with no payoff for anyone who really wants to know what happens after "happily ever after."

As a standalone film, it just does not work. There is no appeal except what was hinted at years ago on HBO. The film relies way too much on its past to maintain its attractiveness. I'd venture to guess that if Carrie herself had to describe this movie, she'd likely say it was like an old flame she was hoping to reignite a spark with. Alas, they only ended up lying there, and she went home unsatisfied. Leaving this film, I felt the same.

Ultimately there is no reason for this story to be told other than to make money off of the success of the series. After all, we never saw "The Golden Girls" movie or "Designing Women: The Movie." Much like last year's The Simpsons Movie, it's only more of the same on a larger canvas, only much less animated (in every sense of the word). Sex and the City is a menu picture of a cosmopolitan made with Grey Goose, but serves a mere cranberry Jell-o shot with lesser vodka. It's Absolut mediocrity. Do yourself a favor and stay at home and watch it on TV. For Carrie as well as the moviegoer, Bigger does not necessarily equate to better.

Hooray for real sports! After what feels like a long sabbatical after the conference finals, the NBA Finals are about to get underway. As a basketball nut myself, I am so glad to see its return. The past week has shown just how empty the sports world can be. 
For instance, the biggest story has probably been the prime time performance of YouTube thug, Kimbo Slice.

 

Dude. Seriously, this guy looks terrifying. MMA may not be a real sport (it's not to me), but I find it curious this is the poster boy they trot out for primetime. On CBS, no less. The tiffany network, now featuring this guy! He looks like a deranged homeless person. He's like a freaked out, roided-up Dave Chappelle as Black Gallagher. The dude looks like he would turn Mike Tyson into Tyson chicken salad. I mean, Slice could just go to Chick-fil-A and have some of that tasty chicken salad, but I have a gut feeling his diet is mostly comprised of rusted bolts, broken glass and blood. Deep down, I tell myself not to be scared of this guy. His name is "Kimbo," for crying out loud. What a pansy name… but I'll let you tell him that.  

Some have been talking the Triple Crown this week, but for some reason it centers around this.

 

A horse. Of course. Sorry, this is not sports news. The Triple Crown should not be brought up the past week unless you're talking about the Texas Rangers' Josh Hamilton or the Houston Astros' Lance Berkman.  

The closest I've had to real sports the past week was watching Maria Sharapova at the French Open. Mmmmm. Maria.  

Sure, the Stanley Cup Finals have been going on. Sure, I'd like to see the breakout NHL league superstar Sidney Crosby in action, but good luck finding NHL on TV. Is it still a finals if no one watches?  

With that in mind, I'm sure Commissioner David Stern has been doing back flips at the potential ratings matchup of the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. Kinda like this.
   
Some people claim it was a conspiracy to get to this point. To prevent a San Antonio / Detroit matchup no one would've watched. After watching the conference finals, I can't say I agree with that assessment. The Pistons were lackadaisical with their backs against the wall, and my beloved Spurs were too sloppy. Without an energized Manu, there was no spark. Yes, that blown call on Brent Barry was a heartbreaker, but the fact is the Spurs should never have been in a situation where one last second call would decide a game. The Spurs are a far better team than the Lakers, but they never showed up to play. Anyways, what's done is done.  

What we have before us is a marketed, retro NBA Finals. Clearly they hope this will be a rating bonanza.

People tuning in with fixed memories of Magic and Bird. Worthy and McHale. Parish and Rambis. Heck, I can see the appeal. I use to play LA vs. Boston all the time on my own NES copy of Double Dribble.


I, however, am not getting my hopes up. Why? Well, it's simple. Retro 80s hasn't necessarily translated well lately.

Exhibit A:
 

Exhibit B:

 

Exhibit C:

 
 
The prosecution rests your honor. Even My Cousin Vinny can't argue against that case. Besides, the cast is far different than it was 20 years ago. The NBA game is overrun with yutes. I'm sorry... youths.

For some reason, people are claiming the Lakers will dominate. Ninja please! All I can offer in response is this…

   

Granted the Lakers are a LOT better than they should be. They're basically a two-man team. Kobe Bryant and Pau Gasol are the only reasons they've made it this far. Lamar Odom is far too inconsistent to be a legit threat. Although I've always felt Coach Phil Jackson is more lucky than talented, he has done an incredible job this year to come out of the loaded Western conference with this cast of players.

My problem with the Lakers is centered around this guy.
  

Kobe Bryant is a faux superstar. His game is so over-patterned on Michael Jordan it is no longer amusing, funny or entertaining. Watching him play is like going to Vegas and paying to watch a Cher impersonator. That's assuming Cher could pair with the likes of Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, Dennis Rodman and that Kukoc guy to win some NBA titles.  

Bryant wants to win a title so bad on his own, and I pray he's denied. After ousting Shaq in 2004, Bryant finally realized that he needed help. Even with Gasol, he's a pale shadow of what the 2000 Lake Show used to be. Today, Bryant is but a spinoff of a successful show. Sorry Kobe, not all spinoffs are successful. "Cheers" has a good run, and for every "Frasier," there's also "The Tortellis" (anyone remember that one?).  Guess which one you are, number 24? 

One year ago Kobe was whining for a trade. He was ripping teammates. He was angling for a move to the Chicago Bulls so his Michael Jordan impersonation revue would be complete. Like a pouty child he gets denied his wish, but after the mid-season trade (i.e. theft) of Gasol, they've gone on a tear. They're very good, but not great. Over-achieving has gotten them this far, but I can't see them closing the deal.  

On the other hand…   Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, and Paul Pierce are a trio worth rooting for. These three amigos play a very unselfish style of basketball that epitomizes team play. Plus, they actually play defense.

   

How can you not pull for these guys? One year ago it was the Paul Pierce show playing to angry home crowds. The Celtics were awful. Disjointed. Did he become a crybaby and try and force a trade to Chicago? No. Pierce has repeatedly shown character throughout his career, and I'm glad he has the chance to shine on the NBA's biggest stage.  

One of the great competitors, Kevin Garnett, arrived this year after toiling in the empty confines of Minnesota. His fire has lit up the Celtics this year, and I love to watch him give his all. 

Also arriving via trade this year, Ray Allen has always been one of my favorite NBA players, and is a class act. His game also features the sweetest jump shot in the league. Now that he's finally coming around offensively, he could be an important factor in this series. Allen has been the man in every place he's played, and so has given up the most in transitioning to the unselfish Celtics. He's more a role player on this squad, but his class, professionalism, and leadership still provide intangibles. 

   

The Lakers are most likely entering these finals with a false sense of security. They think they can turn it on at will, and can outscore the boys in green. With these amigos at the helm, I think the Lakers are in for a surprise. No, not a sweater.

  

I'm talking about defense. And I think Boston can shut em down.

Despite my enthusiasm for watching the Celtics, I don't think this will be a particularly interesting Finals matchup. After all, I'm pulling for substance over flash. Smart play over athleticism. Teams over superstars. But mostly, I'm pulling for the denial of Kobe Bryant. Ah, one allure of sports is thus: It's as much fun to root against a team as it is to root for one you actually support. You can't get that with a horse. Or a scary cage fighter. If I want brutality, I'd dust off my Playstation and play Mortal Kombat.
   

My prediction? Celtics in six. But I recognize it could go either way. The real question is what do I do if I lose interest? Oh well, there's always Laker girls.


A.K.A. The real reason Jack loves the Lake Show.


It's quite likely I'll be drooling like Homer Simpson.

   

Double dribble, indeed.

Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Review by G. Barraza                                   



When we last saw our intrepid hero, Indiana Jones movies had always been about pure adventure. The elements of excitement, fun, and mystery had driven these films to be the gold standard of action films for the past quarter century. Each one was like a postcard from exotic locales. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is the latest installment after a gap of nineteen years, but this is not your father’s Indiana Jones. Indiana has aged a great deal since he last rode off into the sunset; and the years show. A once high-octane hot rod of adventure has a heavy coat of rust, as well as an engine that never quite get up and revving. If the previous installments were those postcards, this one seems to be only a greeting card for purposes of nostalgia. Crystal Skull is full of saccharine level sentiment and hallmark moments, but lacks any moments of real excitement.

The problems with this film can be seen from the opening frames of footage the audience sees. In previous chapters, the Paramount studio logo dissolves into a shot of majestic rocks or mountains where action is already taking place. In Crystal Skull, the logo dissolves to reveal… a groundhog’s hill… and no action. It’s unconventional, it’s disappointing, yet it’s appropriate. Producer George Lucas and director Steven Spielberg give us a handful of dirt, and then proceed trying to make a mountain out of a molehill.

Films in this series have always hitting the ground running. Each installment in this franchise leaves viewers with adrenaline flowing, blood pumping, and smiles gleaming. Yet here the film creaks in its beginning, plods to a slow trot, and then thuds to an indifferent conclusion. Little tidbits sprinkled in the dialogue hint at a colorful history for Dr. Jones since The Last Crusade. Spying in Europe during World War II? Fighting the Nazis again? Consulting at the Roswell crash? Why not give us those stories? In comparison to these “what ifs,” this atomic age tale seems absolutely pedestrian and soulless. Overall, this blasé attitude coupled with tedious editing makes this easily Spielberg’s most disappointing film since Jurassic Park’s equally half-hearted sequel, The Lost World.

The major problem is the storyline. We’ve seen quests for the Ark of the Covenant and even The Holy Grail, and now… crystal skulls. Rather than finding inspiration in the Old or New Testament, it seems our filmmakers found inspiration from a Time/Life book or an episode of “Unsolved Mysteries.”

The screenplay by David Koepp (War of the Worlds, Spider-Man) is merely serviceable. It’s clearly designed just to link a few action sequences together and to give the appearance of an adventure story. And as an adventure, it’s flat. Long gone are the strong characters from writers Lawrence Kasdan or even the cheesiness of Jeffrey Boam. There are no snappy dialogue or memorable lines. Too often the story does not elicit a sense of wonder, but instead groans of incredulity. Even with the required suspension of disbelief, there are far too many stupid moments in this film.

Although the stunt work is still fairly impressive, there is no sense of danger. You wait with anticipation for the tempo to pick up, yet the film never takes off. Even the John Williams score, normally one of the most recognizable in cinematic history, is surprisingly bland and yawn inducing. I could not identify a single new theme, but plenty of reprises from both Raiders of the Lost Ark and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

Another element that seemed out of place was the camera work and photography of Janusz Kaminski. Despite a working relationship with director Spielberg for over a decade, his cinematography does not lend itself to action films. Just like his work hindered the otherwise superb Minority Report, he strives way too hard to compose gorgeous imagery that only serve to interfere with the film’s atmosphere and overall tone. Indiana Jones films have always looked like pulp novels and comics, but here Kaminski is too concerned try to make every shot look like the cover of Vanity Fair.

A plethora of supporting characters also clog the story’s progress. There are far too many secondary roles to fill, and few of them are even necessary. Ray Winstone plods through an utterly useless role as a grave robber with constantly shifting allegiances. John Hurt mutters nonsense as a crazy lost professor; and sadly, the return of original heroine Marion Ravenwood is a waste of Karen Allen’s charm. Her return is just an excuse for some sappy moments and puppy dog grins.

One of Crystal Skull’s few strong points is Cate Blanchett’s appearance as the Soviet vixen Irinia Spalko. With her steely blue eyes, bob haircut and sword in hand, she magnetically grabs your attention whenever she’s onscreen. Yes, she’s over the top, but her scene-chomping antics at least display that she’s the only player with any enthusiasm, especially compared to an apparently disinterested Harrison Ford as the elder Dr. Jones.

One character added to the mix that obviously is going to be a part of potential future quests is Mutt Williams, a young pup played by Shia LeBeouf. I can’t comment on where the series would go under his stewardship, because he honestly isn’t given much to do except tag along with Jones. He’s not given enough time to give an impression, but the audience is told that he’s educated, tough and full of spunk. Oh, and that he must be related to Johnny Weissmuller based on his vine-swinging abilities. The only thing I deduced for myself watching Mutt Williams is that he’s clearly a big fan of Marlon Brando in The Wild One. Or perhaps that’s just Lucas or Spielberg.

So why even make this overbloated and overproduced lazy film? Is this just a setup for future movies featuring LeBeouf? No, the real reason for an Indiana Jones film in 2008 is crystal clear. Look both ways as you leave the theater and witness the intent is to sell, sell, sell. Action figures, cereals, sodas. Time to cash in like the Star Wars movies have for so long. Perhaps Paramount was tired of the pretenders getting all the attention. After all, there was money made on Tomb Raider, National Treasure, even The Da Vinci Code. Finally, the original pedigree returns after nearly two decades, but does little to inspire. While there are a few things to smile at, there is very little fun. When it comes to adventure, hold on to those old postcards to spark memories of the good old days. Crystal Skull is but a sappy “thinking of you” greeting card that was simply mailed in.

(Blogger's note: Yes, I know my rantings are scattershot and I use obscure pop culture references. If you don't get something, Google is your friend)

Okay, so the star of Taxi gets to host "Late Night" after Conan O'Brien takes over "The Tonight Show" from Jay Leno? No, I don't mean "Taxi" as in Andy Kaufman. I mean Taxi, that awful movie from a few years ago. Oh, and I'm not even referring to Queen Latifah when I say star (even though she has charm and an Oscar nomination to her credit). No, the geniuses at NBC have decreed that the untalented and unprofessional Jimmy Fallon shall take the reins of "Late Night" in 2009. And I seriously can't think of a worse choice for the job. I'll admit I stopped frequently viewing "Saturday Night Live" years ago, and a big reason was The Untalented Mr. Fallon. Constantly breaking character, flubbing lines, and showcasing hack comedian skills. I could go on for days about how I dislike the guy and have no shred of respect for his talent, but I'll save you my most acidic tongue. So many give him a free pass because "he's cute." I don't see it that way. Quite simply, he's that annoying kid in your classroom that imitates what he saw on TV last night and thinks he's actually entertaining you. Somehow, he's made a career out of this.

Immediately I can think of several people I'd rather see host "Late Night." Alas, it appears anyone can host a television show nowadays. I mean, even Dory has a talk show ("Just keep swimming… Just keep swimming!).



But for every Ellen, there's a bald security guy from Jerry Springer that gets his own show.

Off the top of my head, these fictional characters can be a better host than Fallon.

The Volkswagen Beetle from the "Das Auto" ads.



He's German. He's playful…



…and he can handle Bobby Knight. No easy task. Just ask Jeremy Schapp.

The Cloverfield Monster



At least with this one, we could all expect a huge disaster. Oh wait. We do know Fallon's stale act is capable of destroying NBC's lineup. Seems only they don't know it yet. And no, I know that's not the real monster. I didn't wanna spoil it for those that haven't rented it yet. Or DID I???

Space Ghost



He at least has the resume...


Okay, so now that I got my snarky/sarcastic quota out of the way. I now plead to NBC to instead consider these realistic alternatives to the unfunny Jimmy Fallon.

Arsenio Hall



Truth be told, this started as a joke entry, but then I got to thinking... If they want to chase the minority demographic, this could be realistic. Now that we're all old enough for 1990's fads to make a comeback, why not Arsenio? What else is he doing? Seriously, if they hire Neal Brennan (co-creator of "The Chappelle Show") and get Charlie Murphy to be Hall's Ed McMahon... Recruit Paul Mooney, and I'm there. Odd thing is… I could see Obama showing up on this show. And I could easily envision an encore performance by this guy.


Eddie Izzard



Not the Eddie from Oceans 12 or even from "The Riches." I'm talking about vintage, executive transvestite Eddie from Dress to Kill era. The monologues would be gold, and you know it. I'd watch it every night. Ok, I'd try to. Or I'd DVR it if I remember. Or I'd probably put it on the Netflix queue. Or I'll listen for people at work to comment on it and then pass the stories to others to pretend that I'm hip enough to watch it. That reminds me, I've never watched "The Riches."

Zach Braff



Mostly because he needs to move on from "Scrubs." I know some people find him incredibly annoying, but I put him on here because he does have charisma, and he'd probably help book some incredible musical guests. You'd never have to worry about seeing Ashlee Simpson hoe down off stage on his show.

Amy Sedaris



First, I'd like to point out that she doesn't normally wear glasses. So don't think she's as annoying as Tina Fey. Ha ha.
I think Sedaris is plausible as a talk show host simply because she has an infectious sense of joy. Unless you ever watched "Strangers With Candy," you're probably unfamiliar with her work. And that actually works to her advantage as a possible host. If you want to catch her in this setting, watch for her appearances on Letterman. She's great! I don't know how she does it, but she's so relaxed yet goofy and comically manic in her delivery.

This may sound weird, but her bizarre brand of dorky wholesomeness makes it seem like she'd make an awesome nanny. So surely she could babysit my attention span for an hour late at night. If that made sense. Ha ha.

Michael Cera



You want to target that youth demographic, NBC? Here you go. This kid has been comedic gold since "Arrested Development." Unlike, say, Shia LeBeouf (finally cool now after Disturbia and Transformers) who has "Even Stevens" on his filmography. I'm a huge fan of Cera's. I actually wanted to see him host the Oscars over John Stewart. As a talk show host he could shine. He can even bring in Jonah Hill as his own part time Andy Richter to recreate Superbad banter on occasion.


So whether I was joking or not, all of these candidates would have made a better choice than Jimmy Friggin Fallon. If I wanted to have him on my screen, I'd pop in my copy of Almost Famous (I'll admit, he is very good as the cocky manager of Stillwater). Or just wait for FX to show Fever Pitch for the billionth time. Or click on E! to watch reruns of him ruining perfectly good sketches with him breaking character on SNL. What's he gonna do on Late Night? Giggle to himself for an hour? Laugh at his own monologue? Oh well, at least it's not comparable to Drew Carey replacing Bob Barker. Now if Jimmy Fallon replaced Johnny Carson, THEN it'd be offensive. Let's just cross fingers that this failed clown doesn't get handed "The Tonight Show" in 15 years. THAT will be cause for pitchforks and torches.

Oh well, I guess it's time to start talking bets on how bad this show will be. Pat Sajak show bad? Magic Johnson show bad? Will Jimmy Fallon become a term to describe "awfulness?" The way football fans think of Ryan Leaf? Oh well, NBC made their choice. Time to sink with it. Ride that taxi to its destination, if you will. Personally, if faced with the choice of a braindead comic and an actual dead comic, I'd much rather have Andy Kaufman, thankyouverymuch.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Review by G. Barraza


Forgetting Sarah Marshall is a movie with good intentions masquerading as a raunchy comedy. Although shackled by a ridiculously contrived plot and highly implausible situations, at its heart lays a sincerity and authenticity to its characters. Therefore, there a lot of comedic moments thrust into the movie that seem to serve no purpose other than to provide a funny moment to try and keep audience attention. It’s like fresh garden salad smothered by layers of unnecessary dressing and croutons and bacon bits simply because most people don’t like a healthy meal. After a flaccid first 20 minutes, it rises and holds our interest for the rest of the ride, even with comedic speed bumps hindering its underlying sincerity.

The title refers to the seemingly impossible task for our sad sap of a protagonist, Peter Bretter (Joel Segel). From the beginning it’s clear he’s the one we’re supposed to root for. Last year, this is the role that would’ve been played by Seth Rogan. He’s just broken up with the famous Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell), a successful television actress on a cop show that would likely air between “House” and “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” For the first 20 minutes of the film Bretter whines and cries and we ask where the comedy is. There are tiny moments of levity sprinkled through this excruciating first act, but all the humor feels forced. It feel disjointed and patchwork in its construction.

To escape his sorrow, Bretter decides on an impulsive trip to Hawaii. Lo and behold, he runs into Marshall and her new beau Aldous Snow (Russell Brand), an obnoxious rock star who might as well be a lost Gallagher brother from Oasis. Oh, and get this! They’re staying at the same hotel. Coincidence, huh? And what a hotel it is. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the most bizarrely run hotel this side of the Eagles’ Hotel California. Rules are bent all over for these guys. Most striking, clerks let compete strangers stay in a $6000 a night suite for free. While suspending plausibility, it sets up the hotel with its own bizarre cast of supporting characters. For our two main characters, this eccentricity is apt in the little dance of posturing that takes place after a breakup. After all, some dance to remember; some dance to forget.

Luckily, once the story moves into the hotel, it finally builds momentum and goes in new, organic directions not just played for laughs. Coping and hilarity finally ensue, and the movie becomes poignant rather quickly. Bretter becomes a much less annoying character, and Marshall also gets a human face. Even the rock star Snow becomes more well-rounded. At that point, they cease becoming these cardboard caricatures and become real people dealing with real dilemmas. And the movie becomes infinitely better for it.

Helping matters in Forgetting Sarah Marshall are the plethora of supporting performances that add just the right touch of comic relief or just genuine sweetness. Jonah Hill, a staple of Judd Apatow (40 Year Old Virgin, Knocked Up) produced films, makes an appearance as a waiter with a serious man crush on Snow. And I must take an aside here to say, how affable is Paul Rudd? I couldn’t help but smile when his pot-smoking surfer pops up. The warmest surprise is Mila Kunis as a hotel clerk and possible love interest for Bretter. Here, she’s miles from being that girl on “That 70s Show” or being that girl with Meg Griffin’s voice (“Family Guy”). She’s beautiful and angelic without being flawless. Her bruised idealism and acceptance of the way her life has turned out thus far give her a sweet vulnerability. In short, she’s dreamy. Who knew? If I go to Hawaii, I need to find a girl like her, and not just because she’d let me stay in a $6000 suite.

What surprised me (and what I enjoyed the most) is that the film gave a fairly balanced view to both of the heartbroken. It would’ve been so easy to simply portray Sarah Marshall as a vampire of a woman. It was responsible to also tell her side, and to understand why her frustration led to the breakup in the first place. In fact, it becomes easy for the audience to sympathize with Marshall. One sees that it’s an act of desperation, but not in simple terms. You can see she’s a person that feels stuck in a no-win situation; where a major change in her life is necessary because she feels so disconnected and out of control of things. So many of the choices we make are fleeting, but there are many important decisions that lie in our hands. Through that prism, it may be a daunting task to forget Sarah Marshall, because her plight is so identifiable. 

Although it is genuine in its feelings and earnest in its overall execution, Forgetting Sarah Marshall feels largely disjointed. At times amateurish, it often feels like an ultra low-budget independent film or a TV pilot. Some shots of the Hawaiian landscape look lavish and beautiful (it is Hawaii after all), yet others still feel like sets or green screen reshoots. It’s still very romantic in its setting. In fact, this, along with 50 First Dates should just be co-opted by the Hawaiian tourism board and played on Pacific flights. Alas, the unevenness of the film does hinder its effectiveness (particularly the first half). I could easily imagine the narrative speed bumps to be reshoots recommended by the studio to inject more raunchy comedy. If allowed to stand on its own merits without these obvious additions, Sarah Marshall would truly be unforgettable.

For all its blemishes, Forgetting Sarah Marshall is still a very funny and poignant story. The biggest lament in this tale of break up and recovery is that it could’ve been so much more. This had the potential to be transcending instead of a mere comedy. It’s a fresh study on heartbreak, and sorrow and choices. Surprisingly, the movie’s so warm and life-affirming that you can’t help but leave the theater with an afterglow. It’s human nature to be fascinated with the tracks of one’s tears and how they cope with heartbreak. What’s invigorating is seeing someone finally turn the corner from depression to enlightenment. Love (and life) can be a series of reactions if you let it. We can easily just be prisoners here of our own device. Or, you can just take a leap of faith that something better lies ahead. Faith in others; faith in one self. Although the story may be forced, the emotions are real. For that reason alone, Sarah Marshall is one to remember.

And then there were six. It's time for me to comment on the remaining "American Idol" contestants because I've made it this far already watching season 7. And I'm so indifferent that the writer strike's end means the mediocre scripted shows are back. Oh! Britney on "How I Met The Longest Title For a Sitcom Ever?" Whoopty do (finger twirls). If I want to see Doogie, I'll go watch Harold & Kumar 2. And I soooo will, by the way. TV is so blah right now. Where's more Larry David? Where's Jack Bauer? Where's Sylar?

So now I get to displace my boredom and frustration on these poor souls who sold out for a chance at a record deal and making those horrid Ford commercials every week. Here are the remaining singers ranked from best to worst, in my opinion.

David Cook

Only contestant with personality. Also home of the worst comb-over since Donald Trump, he is alas... genuinely talented. Poor guy should've shaved his head, but then he'd labeled Daughtry II. Instead he looks like a default character from that Rock Band video game that is so ugly you can't wait to create your own character to replace him. "I don't care if it has green hair and a skeleton hoody and Summoner boots. It's gotta be better looking than him!"
I'll admit I didn't like him at first, but he's the best pure musician of the bunch. His song selections have been bold and refreshing, and I think he actually could win the whole damn thing. However, even if he does, I won't be buying any of his music.

David Archuleta


I know "Idol" is a FOX show, but this kid screams "Disney." Not just because of that bizarre song he sang that Simon accurately described as very "theme park." He's the Haley Joel Osment of this season. Handsome, humble and yet more than a little boring. If he doesn't win, maybe he can guest as Raven's buddy or Hannah Montana's new boyfriend.

Carly Smithson


A talented tattooed gal with a scary looking husband. Honestly, how many votes do those quick shots of him cost her every week? He looks like Dhalsim from Street Fighter II.


There's a bit of internet grumbling about Ms. Smithson (or Ms. Hennesey, if you want to look up her first album), and claims that AI is just a fraud. Are you guys serious? "American Idol," a mainpulated  show?!?  GASP!! What other secrets lurk in Idol's past? Clay Aiken's gay? WHAAAAT? Paula drunk? OMG! Taylor Hicks really sucks? Head... gonna... BOOM! (rolls eyes, Cowell-style)

Brooke White


I'd like to start by saying I have a gut feeling she probably owns a afghan hound that looks just like her. You know, one of those owner/pet resemblance things.


Anyways, she totally seems like she's losing steam. I loved her wholesome "Carly Simon" vibe at the beginning, but now it's wearing thin. How annoying is it when she palavers with the judges during the critiques? "Yes, Randy. Thank you, Paula. Eff yourself, Simon." Enough already, Brooke. Now go backstage and cry some more.

Speaking of annoying…

Jason Castro


Aside from Sanjaya, has there been a more annoying contestant… ever?
I hate watching this guy perform. His eyebrows dance all over like they just escaped from Eugene Levy's face. Up until a couple of weeks ago, he was so aloof it was irritating. Singing out of the corner of his mouth and smirking as if to say, "holy crap! I'm on tv… and you're not." Dreadlocks soooo don't go with this pretty boy, by the way.

When I think of dreads, I think of three things.
-The Predator

-These chicks…


-and this guy from that new Muppet Show in the mid 1990s that no one saw because Kermit didn't sound like Jim Henson anymore.


That is not the face of an American Idol.

Syesha Mercado


She's been playing a lot smarter the past few weeks. She was so empty for so long, it's a miracle she didn't get kicked out simply by blending into the background. Now look at her, she outlasted the male stripper, Biker nurse, Chikezie, tiny Malubay, and even the Australian Michael Hutchence. She's also outlasted Monica Seles and Penn Jillette and Guttenberg. Wait... Wrong show.

What she has going for her the most is that she looks like a pop diva. I can easily see her in a Vegas revue with Celine, Barbara, and Cher. She sings big like them, but in a false way. She's next to go.

And I might as well talk about this chick…

Kristy Lee Cook


To many "Cooks" spoil the pot. We had David Cook already, and they finally threw this one out of the kitchen! YAY!

I have NO CLUE how she lasted this long. Clever pandering to red states is how I figured she was staying above water. Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" was the most shameless display I've ever seen. "How can you vote against the USA?" she seemed to be daring us. Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like a bad country karaoke in a seedy bar called "Tumbleweeds" or something where everyone is drunk on Schlitz or Pabst. Where premium lager is a Rolling Rock. Thank god she's finally gone. I've picked her to be eliminated since week 1. Now her fans can finally gear up for taking their tractors into town in November to vote McCain, and she can go back and get a new horse.

So yeah, that's my view about your American Idol. One of these people will definitely clogging radio waves this fall. Drop me a line. Standard text messaging rates apply.

Another Wednesday, another celebrity I met.
This one didn’t have near the level of exposure that ol’ William Jefferson had last week.

It began like this. Tuesday evening (11-ish), and I’m enjoying a glass of iced raspberry tea. I settle in to do some late night internet surfing. You know the kind. You start with a quick glance at the Drudge Report, then end up on eBay looking at both things you want and junk you wanna get rid of (you know, to gauge the market). Sorry, maybe that’s just me. My bookmarks are chock full of sites I frequent even though I loathe them. I also make sure to do my daily chore of logging into MySpace and marking all the friend requests from fictional hotties as spam. Yes, my Tuesdays are the epitome of excitement.

But I digress…
One of the emails I open informs me that Sean Astin is going to be in Victoria at noon on Wednesday. Really?? Sean Astin? In Victoria? Campaigning for Hillary? Did I nod off at the computer? Is this for real?

Now, I’ve always known who Sean Astin was. Not that I was a huge fan of his work. I mean, everyone my age knows The Goonies. Although, now that I think about it, I always remember him in a movie called White Water Summer. I saw it when it came out on VHS (remember those days, you BluRay fans?), and all I can remember now is that Kevin Bacon played a real jerk. It took me years to finally see Rudy, but it’s a great inspirational movie in a real “coach who’s substitute teaching Social Studies can play the movie for the class” kind of way. Now Lord of the Rings was an achievement in film, although that guy from Clerks II did have a point. Sean also appeared in season 5 of “24.” I’ll keep it spoiler-free, but his role was of the “Melissa Gilbert in season 2” variety.

As I lay me down to sleep that night, I wondered why the heck Astin was coming to Victoria. The late notice makes me wonder if it’s a hoax. But, if it’s a joke, why Astin? “That’s the genius of it.” My inner-Seinfeld proclaims as I finally nod off,,.

Wednesday I shuffle my schedule to stop by the Victoria College Student Center around noon.



I park in some unmarked section of the parking lot behind the Victoria College Student Center and head towards the cafeteria. Nervously, I wonder if I need a sticker of come kind to park where I did. Looking around at VC and the University of Houston-Victoria, I can’t help but notice how much it’s changed around there. It really is growing around these parts. This town’s called itself a crossroads for years, but now it’s starting to show. I walk into the Center and find a sparse crowd of students and supporters.



No ardent protesters this time either. Quite refreshing. There are a few Obama supporters present, but they’re respectful.

I flutter around and touch base and eavesdrop to learn about Astin’s pending arrival. Time then ticks past the 12:15 estimated time of arrival. 12:30… 12:40… 12:50… The smell of anticipation and Subway sandwiches hang in the air.

Alone with my thoughts, I wonder to myself how to approach Sean if given the opportunity. He’ll definitely be more accessible than Clinton was last week. I don’t have to worry about Secret Service. Do I acknowledge The Goonies and drop a line from the movie to him? Do I chant “Rudy! Rudy!” in his direction? Nah, surely some would cast bizarre glances my way. Not for chanting at a small rally, but because they’d probably assume I was rooting for Guiliani, even though he dropped out long ago. I’ll be fine. I played it cool last week with Slick Willy himself, no reason to think I can’t do the same this time with a Hobbit. Although, I debate in my head what to say as a greeting. Christ, don’t let me open my mouth and say, “PO-TAY-TOES!”

Right around 1:00, he arrives. I’m near the door to snap a picture or two, and I actually am one of the first that greets him. I shake his hand and say simply, “Mr. Astin.” His demeanor is so casual and disarming, that I admit I was a little stunned when he turned to me and said “Hey, how ya doing?” I paused a moment. It was like I had known him for years. Like we were old high school buddies, or like we hang out all the time and play Wii Sports or something. After a beat, I reply, “doing really well. Beautiful day, huh?”

He makes his way with the small crowd to the assembly of Hillary supporters. He even graciously acknowledges the Obama camp and their supporters present at the Center. After a few moments, his handlers find a spot there in the cafeteria for him to address everyone. Wasting no time, he begins.



When he spoke, he was quick to put things in perspective. Yes, he is a Hollywood actor, but he’s not speaking on Hillary’s behalf as an actor. He is quick to explain that his words should count no more or less than anyone else who tries to express their opinion.



After a short while, it was clear he was here as a citizen. A citizen who wants to make a difference. Who is passionate about change. And who believes in a candidate wholeheartedly. There were certain things about his mannerisms and nonverbal acts that convinced me that he was 100% sincere in his endorsement. First, I was impressed that he was such a good speaker. He may be small in stature, but had a booming voice. His voice dripped with conviction. He used his hands to emphasize his points of contention. And when he came to issues that appeared to be close to his own heart, his voice raised, escalating the energy in the small cafeteria. I’ll say this, whether you agree with him or not… Sean had a fiery passion that was palpable and slightly contagious.



His time was brief, but he was courteous enough to acknowledge the crowd and sign autographs and even pose for photos. In fact, after his speech, he turned his attention to me and shook my hand again. All I could do was smile and thank him for taking time to come see us. While so many play it safe politically because it’s the prudent course, it was amazing to see a high-profile name who wasn’t a candidate’s spouse take a stand and try to make a difference. It makes us feel important. That’s a significant thing in apathetic times. One vote does matter.

It’s odd about celebrity endorsements. Surely the cynics will say it’s an attempt to sway voters in a direction. As if Astin’s voice is more or less valid than O’Reilly or Limbaugh. I came away impressed by Astin’s enthusiasm. The man clearly has a zeal for what’s at stake this election. He wasn’t selling anything per se. He was explaining his fervor. That was something I could connect to, identify with, and respect.



The important thing to note about these visits the past week is that clearly this election has a great impact. On the way home, I thought of two quotes from Astin’s movies that helped me perhaps glimpse his motivation to take the time to come to our town.

One was as Mikey from The Goonies:
“Our parents, they want the best of stuff for us. But right now, they got to do what's right for them. Because it's their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it's our time. It's our time down here.”

And more simply and perhaps more poignantly as Samwise Gamgee from The Lord of the Rings:
“That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for.”

Damn straight, Samwise... er, Mr. Astin. It’s remarkable that this town can actually see some actual rhetoric instead of more of the flippant and judgmental attitudes that have lingered too long. Even if one doesn’t agree with the message, how can anyone just turn up their nose? I feel blessed by these noteworthy visits. Not that I’m star struck, mind you. I have my own educated mind to guide my destiny’s compass.

No, what impresses me is the genuine passion that has been revealed in this town. I respect anyone who is genuinely concerned with an issue at hand. Who can articulate their beliefs without petty comments, knee-jerk sniping and name-calling. This is what this fine country is still all about. Hope, my friends and neighbors. Hope is what I saw before me today, not just a mere actor.

Sean Astin? Really? In Victoria??
To that I say… yes, really. It wasn’t just a fluff appearance either. I should know. I was there and back again…

I woke up with nary a starstruck or giddy thought at the pending events of the day. Former President Bill Clinton was to arrive today for a campaign speech in downtown Victoria that evening. Keeping my own political preferences aside, I was still looking forward to attending the rally. I conducted my business at hand during the day and then prepared to head out early. He was scheduled to speak at the plaza at 5:30, so I headed out at 3:00 with my trusty messenger bag of goodies. Enclosed inside is my trusty camera, notebook, Game Boy DS, sunglasses, iPod, flashlight and other items. No sharp objects, though. I don't need to be detained by the Secret Service. Not that I'd draw attention to myself. No Travis Bickle here, thank you very much.

So it's lightly raining when I get downtown. I park at the library and start walking the block or so towards the plaza and get out my umbrella. Walking towards the event area was almost like venturing onto a scene of an accident. Police cars and ambulances are blocking the roads. Officers are congregating at street corners. Although I have no ill intent and nothing to hide, I still feel uneasy in the presence of such... authority.

Quickly I learn that, due to the continuing rain, the venue has been moved indoors into the Welder Auditorium and tickets are required to get in. As I ask varying clipboard carriers, I find the details to be confusing at best and conflicting at worse. I was initially told that only early voters would get in by acquiring a ticket. Luckily, I had got there early enough to secure a place inside. Success!

We're ushered inside (with no security check of our bags, mind you), and I take my seat. Now, I planned on taking many photos, and I knew there would likely be lots of folks on their feet. While most where clawing each other to sit up front. I decided to sit further up by the press. Good enough for them, good enough for me. While conversing with a kindly old retired nurse about politics, I take a few test photos.



So while sending text messages at regular intervals to my friends Lisa Marie and Scott, I'm sensing something amiss. A little man I presume to be part of the Clinton campaign keeps running in and out of the auditorium to converse with Secret Service. Okay, I think, he's running late. After all, he likely landed at the local airport (assuming they're still operational). Maybe Bill stopped by Whataburger to grab one of those rockin' Honey BBQ Chicken Strip Sandwiches. Mmmm, those are to die for. Have I eaten today? I wonder. Nope. I should go grab one after the speech. Or maybe a Sonic burger... hmmm... Burger...

It's 5:47. What the heck??

Little man approaches the mic. The crowd starts to go nuts. He announces that because so many are left outside, Bill wants to climb atop the bed of a truck outside and address everyone. Sounds fair to me, but many around me grumble in disapproval. I have to smile and laugh to myself. Well, he is here to campaign, after all. It's not like he was pulling an Eddie Izzard and was gonna show up in drag and humor us with tales of Star Wars canteens, the Queen's handbags or monkeys on a branch (in French, no less).

I venture outside to scrambling masses vying for best views. The ground level was packed, and I was bummed that my efforts were only gonna yield a street level view with the abortion protesters and Ron Paul supporters. Glancing around looking for options I can't help but think to find high ground. WWJBD? What would Jack Bauer do? In front of me was a parking garage. Looking straight up I see police snipers and SWAT guys in tactical gear at the very top. Everyone on the roof looked like Hunk from Resident Evil. i decide to take my chances and race to the parking elevator. Third floor is as far as the Secret Service lets us. So I find myself a nice little sniper's perch to park myself and watch the speech. Yikes, poor choice of words perhaps. My apologies.



So yeah, my view was considerably farther than the previous vantage point. Vantage Point? All of a sudden I recall the trailer of the upcoming Forest Whitaker/Dennis Quaid/William Hurt movie. Haven't they shown the same trailer for like 10 months? Will that film even be decent? Not now. Not now. I shake the movie reviewer out of my head and focus on the task at hand: how to improve the view. All of a sudden, my bag comes to my rescue. I had forgotten that I had packed binoculars because I had expected an outdoor event to begin with. Hoorah for forward thinking! I'm set, and awaiting Bill's approach to the pickup truck. I smile at this "good 'ol boy" method of campaigning. Visions of O Brother, Where Art Thou? swim in my head. Heck, let's just all go to the Livestock Show and grab some candy apples! Hmmm... candy apples- Hey! There he is!



He rambles up to the pickup and begins. Although a definite "rah rah" speech in support of the Mrs., it's vintage Bill. I can't help but smile as he charms the crowd. Dare I say he even squeezes some genuine applause from this Republican hotbed of a Texas town. As I listen, I'm reminded of what hope in politics feels like. For about 20 minutes, I have no pretense of a voter's cynicism. I won't even mention voter apathy. If I was apathetic, I wouldn't be here at all. I wouldn't be registered to vote. At times like this, I can't fathom why anyone would not vote or show interest in politics. Is anyone's life that comfortable that we shouldn't care who gets elected to lead us? To cradle our hopes and dreams? To forge the future?



After his speech, he begins to work the crowd. After finding my way back down to the street level, I have a decision to make. Pull a Bill Belichick and leave early? Or stick around and try to get a closer look? Remembering that I made a promise to Lisa Marie that I'd try and get her an autograph, I turn towards the mob and pick a spot that appears less frenzied. I dig in my bag and pull out the trusty Moleskine notebook and a sharpie marker. I wait for him to make his way towards my spot. Secret Service is scanning the crowds. I debate whether to hunt for the camera, but I don't want to raise suspicion by digging in my bag a few feet away from Secret Service. So I take my chances on the autograph only. Finally, he gets closer... 10 feet... 8 feet... I can see him in detail that TV and print could never duplicate. He's just a flesh and blood man, but he has a glow to him. The man oozes charisma. The crowd surges behind me as many rush to shake hands or touch him... 6 feet... Wow, he's right there. 4 feet... and then...

He's right in front of me. Face to face. The crowd pushes me forward still. I offer my notebook, but he doesn't take it. Switching the book to my left hand I do the only thing I can think of. Or maybe I didn't think at all. I extend my right hand to him. Our eyes meet, and I open my mouth and say:

"I'm Giraldo. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

Our hands grip and a handshake begins. For a split second, he looks taken aback. Clearly the rest of the crowd has only tried to touch him, and no one has introduced themselves properly like I just had. Then, a small smile curls at the corner of his mouth. He quickly looks me up and down, and responds, "it's a real pleasure to meet you too."

Our hands separate. In a flash of cameras and waving arms, he's swept away to more outstretched arms. I'm able to glide back away from the mob. I'm a bit dazed as i wander back to my parked car. I look at my right hand. I had just met a former head of state. His hand had touched many people. Greeted many leaders. Finally I look up at the night sky. "And he now knows my name," I think to myself. Maybe he won't remember me tomorrow. Tonight the honor was mine, but if I get my life in order and do something positive and meaningful... maybe he'll remember me one day... that lone man with the messenger bag he shook hands with that night in February.

My mind's made up for this election. A unique crossroads lies before all of us this year, and I feel pretty good about things for the first time in what seems like ages.

Smiling still as I start the engine of my car and begin to drive away, I turn my mind to the next important and immediate decision... Whataburger or Sonic? Freedom of choice, indeed. God bless America...