I Can't Believe I Just Said That, Part X

"Ah, tears . . . the dew drops of the human heart!"

I said this to Max, who was disappointed that I wouldn't un-pop his balloon.

I Can't Believe I Just Said That, Part IX

"You're supposed to be playing with guns, not lipstick!"

You see, it's like they were shooting nerf guns, and, and, the next thing you know they'd gotten into Wendy's purse and then, um, they sort of like took out the lipstick, and -- I don't know why 3-year-olds think they need red hair gel, but still... "You're supposed to be playing with guns"?

May Day Political Thoughts

As you may have heard, today marks the fourth anniversary of George Bush standing in front of the Mission Accomplished banner and proclaiming that major military operations have ended. Here we go again, with the phone calls and emails from politicians and pundits who want to know what I think about the subject. You see, as a middle-income wage earner with a mild fondness for political news, I get bombarded with questions from influential people who want to know what I think about the political landscape in general and the Iraq War in particular. So I'll lay out my thoughts in this blog. Readers: You have my permission to quote me, but please quote me exactly in context and give me credit.

Is Bush the worst American president ever?

Yes. Worse than Chester A. Arthur, who was a doughy pig-beast.

Is the war in Iraq won or lost?

I don't like to think of the war in Iraq as won or lost. I like to think that our mission there has been a total failure.

When should we leave Iraq?

This may surprise you, but we shouldn't leave just yet. I am 90% sure that when we do leave, the in-fighting will escalate to such a degree that military intervention will be necessary within 5-8 months of our departure. Such intervention requires our leaders to be, in short, competent. Our current leader, George W. Bush, is not competent. In fact, he is incompetent. We should stay the course, keeping our troops and Iraqi civilians in harm's way for a little over a year, and then we should pull our troops out. At that point, we'll have a different president, Republican or Democrat, who is not George W. Bush. That person can then work with an international coalition to deal with the post-invasion mess in a sane way.

Who will be our next president?

Rudy Giuliani, who has experience not only as a mayor, but as America's Mayor. He also looks like the love child of Ivan Lendl and Simon Bar Sinister.

The Big C

I just found out that my best friend's wife's cancer has returned. She went through chemotherapy treatments a few years ago for breast cancer, and they thought she was cured. But now the cancer has returned and spread to her bones, spine, and lymph glands. I don't have anything to say about it, other than it's awful to think about. Elden and Susan have four kids: two teenage boys and 5-year-old twin girls. Susan, if you're one of the three people who reads this blog, my thoughts are with you.

Favorite Malapropisms from The Sopranos

I was going to start this by talking about the significance of the humor in The Sopranos, about how the show's creators can break up intense scenes with light, humorous scenes, like Shakespeare does in his tragedies, and how they can even throw in some humdingers in the middle of deadly serious scenes, but I'm not going to get into all that. I just know that whenever Little Carmine is on the screen, I make sure I'm not drinking anything. You know, because I don't want to spit out the drink? From laughing? Nevermind.

Here are the best ones I can find. Let me know if you have others:

"Quasimodo predicted all of this." -Bobby

"She's an albacore around my neck." -Johnny Soprano, about his wife Livia

Christopher claims that Issac Newton created gravity after someone hit Newton in the head with an apple.

"I agree with that Senator Sanitorium. He says if we let this stuff go too far, pretty soon we'll be fucking dogs." -Tony, talking to Dr. Melfi about homosexuality

"Revenge is like serving cold cuts." - Tony

"A pint of blood costs more than a gallon of gold." -Little Carmine, ever waxing philosophical

"We're in a fucking stagmire." Little Carmine, who I predict will run for President as a Republican in the season finale

At the screening, Little Carmine's daughter points out the interesting juxtaposition of the crucifix with the creepy figurine, to which Little Carmine replies, "You're very observant: the sacred and the propane."

"I give him his present, this mellifluous box..." - Little Carmine.

"A guy like that is going out with a woman, he could technically not have penissary contact with her Volvo" - Tony

"There's no stigmata connected with going to a shrink" - Little Carmine

"Create a little dysentery in the ranks" -Christopher

"You know, Sung Tizzoo! The Chinese Prince Matchabelli!" -Paulie

"...what with the passing of Vito Sr., and all that entrails." - Tony, psychologizing about Vito Jr.'s adolescent difficulties (Thanks, Glen)

"I was prostate with grief." -Tony

"This alteration with Coco..." -Little Carmine to Tony, after Tony had kicked the teeth out of Coco's head. This is my favorite kind of malaprop, where the second meaning actually makes sense. There was an alteration during the altercation.

"You're at a precipice of an enormous crossroads." -Little Carmine

Let me know if you have any others. I'll be updating the list, and maybe adding a movie clip of my favorite Little Carmine scene. If I recall, he throws out about five malaprops in less than a minute. For now, here's a different treat:

Great Movie Scenes - Taxi Driver

There are three main reasons I started this web log (aka, "blog"):

1. Whenever I bust my friends' chops for not updating their blogs, they come back with, "Well, you don't even have a blog anymore." Now they have no rejoinder, so they can either bow their e-heads in shame or get back on their butts and write another entry.
   
2. I love reading other people's blogs. Ergo, the Golden Rule demands that I try to contribute something entertaining to our little e-community. I'm not limiting myself to a tight format like Top 5 Lists, so the lack of gimmickry will inevitably make this less popular for reasons that I can only guess at. (By the way, here's an interesting stat. While creating a link from my old blog to this one, I discovered that the site I abandoned a year ago still gets 200 hits a week. It'll be a long time before this blog gets even that popular, if it ever does. It'll be our little secret.)
   
3. Third, I want to write an ongoing series of entries called "Great Movie Scenes" by combining the power of YouTube with my acute cinematographic eyeball.

So here we go. Taxi Driver. Travis Bickle. It's hard to call anyone a loveable psychopath, especially in light of the misfit who recently went on a killing spree at Virginia Tech, so let's just call Mr. Bickle likeably unstable. Upset about all the scummy low-lifes he sees on the streets, he's helpless, hapless, and utterly alone. In one great scene, Travis makes a stab at fitting in by taking a Senator's campaign worker on a date. Unfortunately, his idea of charming her – taking her to an X-rated movie – is pathetically unsuccessful. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. This leads to my favorite scene in the movie. Travis is sitting alone in his apartment watching American Bandstand while idly holding the barrel of a handgun near his forehead.

Watch:

The loneliest character in the history of movies is not only watching television alone, but he's also watching young people dancing together to the Jackson Browne's song, "Late for the Sky." The American Bandstand clip is perfect, from the pan & zoom to the empty shoes lying on the floor to the black men dancing with white women during the racially charged 70s to the song's lyrics:

Awake again I can't pretend and I know I'm alone
And close to the end of the feeling we've known
How long have I been running for that morning flight
Through the whispered promises and the changing light
Of the bed where we both lie
Late for the sky

You know, there's just no place for a weirdo who despises weirdos. It's a perfect scene.

Belated Answers to My Parents' Questions

Now that I'm almost 45 years old and I have two sons of my own, I think it's high time to answer some of my parents' questions.

1. If your friends jump off a bridge, would you jump too?

I'm going to need a little more context to answer that question. If my friends were jumping to their deaths as part of a suicide pact, I like to think that I would find a way out of the arrangement. If a herd of rhinoceroses are charging my friends and me, I may very well follow my friends over the bridge railing. How tall is the bridge? Does it span water?

2. Don't you know that children are starving in Africa?

I compartmentalize my willingness to eat lima beans and my desire to contribute money to African food programs. I think you should do the same.

3. Do you want me to pull the car over?

That won't make any difference. I'm still going to pinch my sister when she claims Jimmy Carter would be a better president than Gerald Ford. I can take whatever something you give me to cry about.

4. Isn't it about time you started taking some responsibility around here?

This answer hasn't changed. No.

5. Were you born in a barn?

No, I was born in a hospital, but you already knew that. I think this was a rhetorical question designed to make me feel silly for leaving the door open, so let's address that issue. Frankly, I don't mind leaving the door open. If flies come in the house, we can catch them and convert them into ants. If you're worried about excessive climate control expenses, I don't mind paying the bills with the money that grows on trees.

"24" or "Why Don't You Just . . ."

Many people have been recommending the show 24 to me. I've been curious for years, ever since networks advertised the new show starring Kiefer Sutherland. At first I thought, Wow, Kiefer Sutherland's career must really be in the dumps. What's next? A Lifetime movie? But he's entering his sixth season of a popular, Emmy-award winning show. Go figure.

My brother-in-law and nephew are obsessed with the series. In fact, Michael went out and bought the DVDs. That's something I admire. If I'm interested in a TV series on DVD, I'll work my way down a list: A) the library B) cable reruns C) Netflix D) the video store. Notice that "E) purchase at Best Buy" doesn't even make my list. I'm genuinely unable to spend $75 a pop for a single season of a TV show that I only want to see once, but I admire anyone who can. Instead of fussing around, Michael wants something and gets it with little fuss.

Anyway, I watched a few episodes of season 5 over the weekend, and I can see why people are riveted. The show moves quickly from intense scene to intense scene. And even if the scene isn't really intense, the drum beats in the background or the fact that Kiefer Sutherland (Jack Bauer) is always either whispering or yelling makes it intense. It seems like good mindless television for late-night viewing. OK, we're in. Michael agreed to loan us his DVD collection.

But then I saw a couple of episodes last night that may have turned me off forever. Jack Bauer hijacks a plane so that he can obtain a confiscated tape that records the current President of the United States admitting that he assassinated the previous President of the United States. So far, so good. Jack knocks out the flight marshall with one punch (no one notices), knocks out another guy and drags him down to the baggage hold (no one notices). Again, fine with me. I was drinking beer and scratching nuts, willingly suspending the big D. Then, after a flurry of exciting scenes that force Jack to break into the cockpit, he obtains the tape.

This is when it all fell apart for me.

The President is desperate to get that tape, so he agrees to shoot down the plane. Jack has the tape in his hand and he's talking to various people on his cell phone to work out a way to evade the F-16s. Here's what I said aloud: Why doesn't Jack just call someone and play the key part of the tape over the phone? More excitement, more drumbeats, more whispering/yelling. Emergency landing on an L.A. freeway. Daring escape. Why don't you just save everyone trouble and play the tape on an answering machine? So Jack gets back to safety and announces a big press conference, but . . . some bad guy sneaks in and erases the tape before he could play it in front of everyone! No one made a backup copy! This causes Jack to alternate between whispering and yelling.

I can take that kind of frustration in a bad horror movie, where people are disappearing and the last woman in the house hears a strange noise in the basement. The why don't you just get in your car and drive like a bat out of hell aspect adds to the horror as you watch the woman light a birthday candle and descend the stairs. But Jack Bauer saves the world regularly. He should know better. Of course, that's not how I process it. When I'm frustrated by the why don't you just... angle, I move away from the characters and think about the writer. That's no good. I think I'll play online Boggle while Wendy watches 24.

Preliminary thoughts on the Leadville 100

I signed up to do the 100-mile mountain bike race in Leadville, Colorado this August. The race starts at 10,000 feet and tops out around 13,000 feet. Have no fear -- this will not become a training journal for the next, gulp, five months. No, dear fans, this is Bob's Web Log, and I am committed to writing an entry on practically any topic at least once a month.

Leadville is my favorite race for three reasons:

1. The belt buckles. If you finish in under 12 hours, you get a belt buckle and a sweatshirt with your name and time on it. Personally, I'd prefer the sweatshirt without my name and time on it, because the name and time are dorky in a Hey, look at me, I'm kind of a mediocre jock way. Still, it's a trophy that you can earn. In most races where you finish in 352nd place out of 630 riders, there's no reward. You lose. And for the fast, fast guys who train year-round wearing heart monitors but aren't quite fast enough to vie for overall victory, they can win a bigger belt buckle by finishing in under 9 hours. My friend Elden even hired a personal trainer so that he can break the 9-hour barrier. It's a simple strategy, but as far as I know Leadville is the only race that offers goal-oriented rewards for the masses. I don't even know where my belt buckles are from previous races, and no one really cares whether I finish, but when I'm training for the race, I need that buckle. I don't even wear belts, let alone big ugly buckles. They don't go well with my stretch pants.


2. It's a big event. Leadville is about 20 miles from Vail, but it's basically an abandoned mining town (they used to mine lead there). It struggles to make it as a resort town. Riders have to be there the morning before the race, so the town fills up with giddy cyclists wanting to eat pasta and drink beer and chit-chat. And this year, Lance Armstrong signed up for the race but had to drop out, probably because Floyd Landis also signed up for the race. The three of us account for the last 8 Tour de France victories.


3. The unrivaled support. When you're struggling like a little camper, volunteers try to buck you up. There's an odd sense that you'll let people down if you don't finish.

Back when I was in my 30s, I did the race a couple of times. I was never in any danger of not making it in under 12 hours, but I was thinner, younger, and in way better shape back then. I weigh 184 pounds now (down from 189), I rarely ride my mountain bike, and I've been on exactly two rides this year longer than 20 miles. And here's the worst part. When I push it to get in better shape, my body breaks down. I can't just do a few hard 50-mile rides anymore to top off my training. I'm not sure if this point has ever been brought up, but getting old sucks.

So here are my goals. I want to weigh no more than 170 pounds by race time. I want to be in good enough shape so that if I ride well under good conditions, I can finish in under 12 hours.

Pinewood Derby Blues: Why I Stopped Riding the Elevator

Both elevators in my office building display posters for the upcoming Pinewood Derby contest. That's right, a Pinewood Derby contest for grown-ups. I am being perfectly honest when I tell you that seeing this poster gives me a jolt of anxiety. Imagine opening up your high school yearbook and seeing a picture of yourself picking your nose while staring at the head cheerleader's chest. Your likely physical reaction — tingling hands, churning stomach, mild loss of equilibrium — is what I feel whenever I step in the elevator. I'll explain.

My brother Mark was a golden child. Even though I was two years younger than he was, I still felt inferior. Any adult would have used all the logical reasons to tell me that I shouldn't compare myself to him, but that wouldn't have registered with me. I needed proof. My name might as well have been Notmark. Or maybe Unmark. (See, now that would have been a fun experiment to do with the twins. Name them Max and Notmax or Luke and Unluke. Or name them both Du'qwan, only put the apostrophe in a different place. Duqw'an. Triplets? D'uqwan.)

Anyway, when we were scouts, our troop held a typical pinewood derby contest. You're given the materials — a block of wood, axles, and wheels — and it's your job to carve out a car. In most cases, this consisted of a young boy scout handing over the the kit to his father, who then competed with other fathers to create the fastest, most resplendent car. Unfortunately, my father was dropping bombs in Vietnam, and my mother was busy with the 4.5 kids (Billy was on the way), so I was on my own to convert the block of wood into a car. I used my imitation Swiss Army Knife to whittle off the corners per Mark's vague instructions. Then I used a hammer and screwdriver to chisel out the cockpit for my driver, who happened to be a little green army man with his legs cut off. As you can no doubt imagine, it was an objectively ugly car, yet my pride grew in proportion to its ugliness. The more I worked on it, the more delighted I became. Maybe I had an Ed Wood-like blind spot to my creation, but I loved looking at that fat green car, especially after I tacked on the wheels and spray-painted the better part of it. My brother, who is not 100% evil, found out that my car was a little too light, so he helped me drill a hole in the bottom of the car and pour in molten lead. (A conflicting memory depicts my father in this role, but I could swear he was out of the country. Please just let me continue.)

I don't know how pinewood derby contests work nowadays — I try to avoid the subject — but back then all the boy scouts and cub scouts gathered in the church gymnasium and put their cars on display next to the trophies for "Phase 1: A Contest of Appearance." I thought my chances were good because none of the other cars had a driver. I don't want to get too bogged down in describing my bitter disappointment. Let's just say that I didn't win an award, and I walked around in a daze, trying hard to reconcile the results. Maybe I should have painted it purple like the winning car... Maybe I should have used the flamethrower army man instead of the guy with the grenade... Maybe the judges didn't see my car...

My self-confidence was low, even for Mormon standards. I buoyed my self-worth by playing out a Super Bowl game in my mind's eye. After returning from a serious knee injury, I bravely led my team to a thrilling come-from-behind victory while Mark stood on the sidelines in a leg cast. As I was answering reporters' questions about what it felt like to be the first astronaut to be the Super Bowl MVP, I realized that "Phase 2: A Contest of Speed" was about to begin. A man was using a microphone to announce the competing cars, giving the race a Big Event feel. It seemed like 70,000 people were watching. When the starter put my fat green car in its lane, my butterflies were so intense I thought I was going to soil myself. The starter lifted the gate, my car poured out, and — victory! It wasn't even close.

The racing continued. Whenever my car was involved, the results were always the same, regardless of its lane assignment or competition. I won. People were talking about my car. "That thing is ugly as sin, but it sure can fly." MY car. Little Bobby, the shortest kid in his class. Oh, who did you say won that last race? I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you? Me? Really? I won my fifth race in a row? You don't say! Hey, Mark, your car seems pretty fast, too. You win every time, unless my car is racing, and then you finish second. So we both have fast cars. Isn't this fun?

The race officials tallied the scores to find the three fastest cars. There would be a final race — a mere formality — and then I would humbly accept my trophy and hold it aloft for everyone to see. I had the most points, my brother was next, and there was some other wannabe who was likely honored just to be in the same race as me. Ah. I want to keep writing about this glory, because as soon as I move into the next scene, you'll see how the wheel of fortune spun all too quickly. Here it goes: Before the final race, the starter dropped my car. A wheel came off. In case you're skimming and didn't catch that, I'll say it again in its very own paragraph.

The starter dropped my car. A wheel came off.

Several officials gathered to help fix the car. After a few moments, they agreed that the wheel had been reattached to their satisfaction, so . . . let the final racing begin! In the first of two races, my car rattled down the track like it had a blown tire; my army man wobbled so badly I thought he was going to fly out. Third place. I'm sure my face was so white that even the freckles disappeared. The starter fiddled with the wheel a little more for the finale, and my car did better this time, hanging with the other two cars but still finishing behind them. Mark won.

For years, I had to look across the bedroom at my brother's huge first-place trophy. For third place, I got a cheap little plastic trophy that was identical to the one I got a year later for winning a water-balloon throwing contest at a friend's birthday party. Don't think we didn't argue about who really won the race. And don't think I won any of the arguments. Big brothers never lose.

Now that I've written about this, I feel better. Almost healed.