T.E. Lawrence vs. Judy Garland: Battle Royale

When asked, as I was once three years ago, what the best year in the history of cinema was, I gave the safe answer, which is of course 1939. I've been talking about it ever since. Best decade? Probably the 30s or the 70s. But let's compare some of the better vintages:

1939

1. Gone With the Wind
2. Wizard of Oz
3. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
4. Stagecoach
5. Wuthering Heights
6. Alexander Nevsky
7. Young Mr. Lincoln
8. Ninotchka
9. Rules of the Game

1941

1. Maltese Falcon
2. Citizen Kane
3. Suspicion
4. How Green Was My Valley
5. The Lady Eve
6. High Sierra

1962

1. To Kill A Mockingbird
2. Lawrence of Arabia
3. Manchurian Candidate
4. Jules et Jim
5. Vivre Sa Vie
6. Shoot the Piano Player
7. Yojimbo

1969

1. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
2. Easy Rider
3. Midnight Cowboy
4. The Wild Bunch
5. They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

1977

1. Annie Hall
2. Star Wars
3. Close Encounters of the Third Kind
4. Aguirre, The Wrath of God

1999

1. The Insider
2. Being John Malkovich
3. American Movie
4. All About My Mother
5. Fight Club

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

...to believe in baseball again, the Yankees trade for Randy Fucking Johnson. By picking up most of Javier Vasquez's tab and shipping prospects to Arizona, Steinbrenner got his way. And, frankly, that sucks. It doesn't matter that the AAA Columbus Clippers are the most depleted minor league squad in baseball when one team can use the entire league as its farm team. Yes, I know the Yankees did something similar with Kansas City in the '60s, but things are officially out of control. It is disgusting how they buy the AL East pennant year after year. In the '90s, though they had the highest payroll, you could at least respect the class of a team that came up together. Now they're nothing but mercenaries. I had a slight hope that the MLB would get its act together and do something to level the playing field, but on second thought it's better not to. It'll teach the kids a little something about life: no matter how hard you try, some rich white man is going to win.

Won't Be Leaving the House Anytime Soon

Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right A B

Wednesday night at 1:30 a.m., in the guise of a three-story tall ape, I laid waste to the city of LaCrosse, Wisconsin.

As many of you probably figured out from that last sentence, I have figured out how to download NES games onto my computer, thus negating any need to do something with my life. And lo, though we creep ever more steadily toward 2005, I never have to leave 1987. I have outwitted time, not to mention the Hawaiian MLB franchise in "Bases Loaded," and now reign god-like over an 8-bit universe. I have defeated the Red Falcon menace of "Contra," without resorting to the Konami code. As mentioned above, in "Rampage" I have destroyed the better portion of the western United States. And, soon, very soon, I shall defeat Iron Mike.

As I make my way through "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Arcade Game," it becomes clear that I've never really progressed beyond a two-button gaming system. Any of the 128-bit systems today overwhelm me with their 3D worlds and complex functions. The world of early Nintendo is so innocent. I've been playing "Contra" constantly, mostly because it was denied me as a child ("Too violent," said the parents). But oh, dear Father and Mother, you could not envision "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City" lurking in the near future. Where have you gone, Mega Man, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Jerry Orbach 1935-2004

First the ODB, now Jerry Orbach. Is there any disputing that 2004 was one bummer of a year?

Nature Can Kick Your Ass

As an avid fan of National Geographic tornado footage, I feel relatively well-acquainted with the idea that the natural world can make life very crappy for people (even for those not residing in trailer parks). However, every once in a while the earth will do something so drastic that people might even stop caring about who the next Apprentice is (it was Kelly, by the way!!!). Take, for instance, the recent tsunamis (don't call them "tidal waves") down in Asia. The most sobering thing to me was not that 100,000+ people died in the space of a couple hours, although that is certainly horrible. No, what really brought home our own piddling insignificance was that the earthquake that triggered the tsunamis also moved the island of Sumatra 100 feet to the southwest. Let me repeat, the quake moved...the...entire...island. And just how big is Sumatra? The island is only a little bigger than California, but I'm sure most Americans knew that.

Cast-igated

There are times when I have to wonder at the lack of imagination of most casting directors these days. Now that Don Cheadle has been cast in Hotel Rwanda, I no longer have to complain about him always playing criminals. But why hasn't Sean Penn been cast in a comedy since Fast Times at Ridgemont High? Hasn't he done enough with emotionally-scarred, clothes-rending wretches? I guess you could count Sweet and Lowdown as a comedy, but will no one but Woody Allen get this man some laughs? I could go on and on about misused and undercast actors in Hollywood, so I'll save my sound and fury for another day.

TV Nation

If you're like me, and I know I am, you often encounter personal catchphrases that you've inadvertantly stolen from television (such as the catchphrase in this sentence, stolen from MST3K). When it occurs subconsciously, it always comes as a bit of a shock. Such was the case when I heard Jeff Spicoli utter the phrase, "I know that dude!" on TBS tonight. I've been using that at parties and sidewalk encounters for years. So, my most sincere apologies to the writers of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, "The Simpsons," "The Ali G Show" and When Harry Met Sally. I steal, because I love.

Your Favorite Band Sucks

In an attempt to reconcile my previous confessions of rock geekdom, I will now deconstruct the three poses of the snob rock critic. Plentiful examples of the following can be found, ad infinitum, on Pitchfork.com or in the Village Voice, among others. Any review by a rock snob will inevitably fall into the following three categories.

1. Your favorite band sucks, especially when compared to my favorite band who never got the recognition they so richly deserved (most likely The Minutemen).
2. [Insert band name here]'s new album sucks, since nothing will ever compare to their earlier release, which only I am cool enough to have known about back in '92.
3. Only I can truly appreciate the hi-gloss, glitch-heavy, dance-ready, booty-tastic stylings of Gwen Stefani, whose true greatness you will never fully comprehend. Gosh, I hope Gwen Stefani talks to me backstage.
   

Such a fine line between geekdom and snobbery.

I, Rock Geek

After asking for and receiving Greg Kot's "Wilco: Learning How to Die" as a gift, I subsequently devoured it over the course of a transcontinental Northwest Airlines red eye. Though I knew some of the details surrounding favorite Wilco and Uncle Tupelo albums, such as March 16 - 20, 1992 and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, never before had I encountered such an in-depth analysis of one band or artist's entire repetoire, especially written while said artist was still in the flush of a recording career. It was only later, in the post-"Acknowledgments" afterglow, that it became abundantly obvious I'd crossed the line between nerd music fan and full-on music geek (the original definition of "geek," after all, being one who bites the heads off live chickens at carnival sideshows).

My nerdiness was formerly confined to music minutiae (such as the identity of "Layla" or the Washington, DC-based biographical parallels of Let Go and Transatlanticism). This was in addition to dweebishly charming statements like, "I used to think that 1966 was the greatest year in music history, but now I'm leaning towards '68. Maybe I'll make an Excel spreadsheet." Many a liner notes were scoured for additional arcana. This attention to detail has definitely saved my bacon during closely contested trivia nights at the local, in addition to filling the awkward spaces after statements like "You know, I really think Green Day was underrated." And sure, I'd read "Invisible Republic" and "Chronicles, Vol. 1" (and "Positively Fourth Street"), but one could argue that this is comparable to reading a biography (or three) on Yeats or Eliot. However, one steps beyond the pale with a 250-page book whose promotional materials describe it as "[t]he intimate story of one of the great American bands of our time."

What will others make of the "New Me?" Is this just a passing fad, or a lifestyle choice? Only future comments on the musical merits (or lack thereof) of the Moody Blues will tell whether I can be saved.

PS- In a sidenote, I think it's criminal that Northwest Airlines, whose corporate abbreviation is "NWA," has not yet tapped a member of seminal gangsta rap group NWA for a commercial. I can easily see Dr. Dre kicking back with a mimosa in first class and telling the audience: "When I'm flying to Minneapolis, which is more often than you'd think, I make sure to fly Northwest Airlines or their travel partner KLM Royal Dutch. Comfort and class, biyatch." If Dre or Ice Cube are too busy, I'm sure MC Ren is free.

Perish the Ensemble Teenage Paramilitary Genre?

Communists invade: where are teens to battle them?

Having been treated to a late-night viewing of The Rescue (1988) this weekend, one must reflect on the sad fact that our nation's children are no longer born to kill Commies. It would be an injustice to the epic glory of The Rescue to attempt a synopsis, but I'll try it anyway: when their Navy Seal fathers are captured by North Koreans, five army brats cross the DMZ and, with a good measure of pluck, rescue them. Now that I think about it, that was pretty bluntly summed up by the title.

As I watched these clean-cut Army teens machine gun hapless Communists, I realized that an entire sub-genre had gone extinct. The 1980's, birthplace of the rogue paramilitary action film (see Commando, First Blood, etc.), also spawned a teen version: think Rambo meets The Breakfast Club. The premier example is, of course, 1984's Reagan-esque Cold War fantasy, Red Dawn. Other examples of teens banding together to lead anti-communist insurgencies/begin world wars include Toy Soldiers, WarGames, and, for good measure, SpaceCamp and Flight of the Navigator. There must be more. Most of these films seem to have sub-Brat Pack casts, but a remarkable number feature Lea Thompson.

All this leads me to question why kids today cannot band together and emulate our "Greatest Generation," ditching high school to kill the enemies of America. Was the 1980s just a more innocent, idealistic time of vigilantism? Most likely it's the insidious influence of lefty secularists and moral relativists (aka the Democratic Party, ACLU and Sesame Street). Patrick Swayze, why has thou forsaken us?

POTY-mouthed

There has been much gushing and kvetching concerning the selection of George W. Bush as Time's Person of the Year for the second time. I can't get too up in arms about it; I mean, POTY has about as much cultural heft as the People's Choice Awards. Not that G.W. realizes it, but history hasn't always been kind to the POTY--Stalin and Nixon were twice winners, as well.

Still, I object strenuously to Time's lauding phrase "ten-gallon-hat leadership style." Enough of this myth-building already; G.W., a Connecticut Yankee by birth and pedigree, is not a cowboy. He only left the manicured lawns of the Houston suburbs for his beloved, authenticity-ready Crawford ranch in 1999 . He embraces the "Texas" style only because it suits his intellectual sloth and criminal lack of imagination. To avert a rant, I'll just say this: Shane didn't send little Joey out to face Jack Palance.

Good Timing

With obesity now epidemic in our country, especially among America's youth, Bill Cosby picked the perfect time to revive Fat Albert. Fat Albert: a hero for our time, and for all time.

An Open Letter to Shawn Green

Perish the Jew in Dodger blue?

Dear Shawn,

I know you have a big decision to make in the next couple days, regarding the 10-player monstrosity that would send Randy Johnson to Yankees and you to the Diamondbacks. And if you're like me, when a life-altering choice is pending you search the internet for advice. I'm glad you came to me first. I wouldn't steer you wrong.

So here's my advice, Shawn: scotch the deal. What's the point of a no-trade clause if you're not going to use it? Are you willing to swap the glory and tradition of Dodger blue for whatever color it is they wear in Arizona? I think it's a sort of purply-green combo--supposed to look like the desert or something.

Secondly, if you leave the Dodgers, it might kill Sandy Koufax. It might not, but are you willing to take that chance?

And last, but most certainly not least, can't you just see the look on Steinbrenner's face? So think over what I've told you, Shawn. Sleep on it, have a nosh, take a drive out to the ocean. I know you'll make the right choice.

Your good buddy,

eli

Kicking It With George and Brad

One of the major pleasures of 2001's Ocean's Eleven was that it looked like it was just a heck of a lotta fun to make. Ocean's Eleven was not a great movie, but it knew what it was, and that's harder than it sounds. The sequel departs from its source in many Soderberghian ways, not least the jump cuts, hand helds, freeze frames and underlighting. The heist, so meticulously planned and executed in many a film of this genre, is decidedly secondary. And again, the actors look like their having a great ol' time.

The thing that makes it an absolutely successful sequel is that it unabashedly embraces its own weirdness. Lines are tossed off like the actors will dub in something less tangential later. Example: midway through the film, for little discernable reason, there is a brief discussion of the forest execution scene from Miller's Crossing. The exact exchange didn't stick in my mind--it came out of nowhere and was gone before I knew what was happening. "I cry every time," is how Eliot Gould, whose main responsibility on the heist appears to be lounging around in an open robe, ends the discussion. Why is this in the movie? I couldn't tell you. But purely as a riff of dialogue between George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Gould, it works. It's no big thing. I assume one must work hard to make it look so easy, but it's hard to tell.

Thrown to the Lions

It's possible that you may have heard some people use the term "conservative values" on television lately. "Conservative values," you say, "what does that mean?" I'm glad you asked. Conservative values harken back to a time when people were untroubled by racial and sexual minorities, social inequality, and impure thoughts. Life was much like 1950s television. And just like "Father Knows Best" and "Leave It to Beaver," the time when conservative values reigned supreme in our fair land is completely fictional.

The mere fact that something is fictional does not mean that people will not feel unjustly deprived of it. So it is with the floggers of "values"; they rile up ignorant people by shrieking that shady types (probably hippies) are going to "take" their values from them. I'm not sure that this act is physically possible, but if anyone is dastardly enough to pull it off, it's hippies.

This brings me, roundaboutly, to Frank Rich's astute editorial about how, it's rumored, the Jews and the secularists are out to "steal" Christmas. This could be the plot of a wacky holiday comedy starring Randy Quaid and Tia Carrere, but according to the TBN set, it's cause for major alarm. Now, unlike "values," Christmas is real. I've seen it myself, even taken days off for it. But by using isolated, trumped-up incidents of taking the Christ out of Christmas, these so-called religious conservatives argue that soon the holiday will be swiped from our unsuspecting, god-fearing homes (just like their daddy took away their favorite stuffed animal, Mr. Wuffles, when they were high-school juniors and called them a "sissy boy").

The Christians who worry about such things have clearly not advanced past the persecutions by Rome in the Second Century. They don't need to hide in caves anymore. If they haven't noticed, they have been the undisputed asskickers of the world for the past 100 years. They live in a country that's majority Christian, and not by a small margin. Don't they remember the conquest of the New World? They won when God smited all the pagan Indians with smallpox and TB, and now Christians run the place. They're everywhere, and in no danger of disappearing. So guys, relax, don't be afraid. Have some eggnog, or whatever it is religious nutjobs like Jerry Falwell drink when they're not gay-bashing (my personal guess is their own urine).

How to Spend $114,000,000 in Two Days

This is all tenative, you realize, but various sources are reporting that Adrian Beltre has signed with ... your Seattle Mariners. For $64 million. (That's $3.2 mil for superagent Scott Boras. Of course, he pays 15% of his commission to the Devil, so some comes off the top) This follows reports from yesterday that Richie Sexson has inked a $50 million contract and will be bringing his doofy smile to the Jet City next season.

Is Sexson's labrum tear totally healed? Will Beltre's numbers drop off now that taking steroids is considered a bad thing by baseball? All questions aside though, this drops the average age of a Seattle infielder to 27. So, let me get this straight: the Mariners are getting younger AND signing big name free agents? Is this April 1st? I can tell you one thing: 76 days until pitchers and catchers report. How you like the AL West now?

Do They Know Something I Don't?

What is the common thread of the television shows I watch? They tend to be heavily patronized by erectile dysfunction advertising. I know far too much about Cialis, Viagra and Levitra than is reasonable for someone my age. However, if a relaxing moment turns into the right moment for mischief and quality, I'll know what to do.

Say It Ain't So

Apparently, I've been mispronouncing the word "akin" my entire life. I've been saying it "achin'," like how George W. Bush would have described an especially vicious headache after a long night in 1978. How horrifying. It's like when I found out Jason Giambi's glorious body (as seen in Arm & Hammer deodorant commercials) was chemically enhanced. All my illusions now flushed down a backward flushing Australian toilet.

Lookout, Tiger

A major achievement at work today! Shot a three-under par on Orbitz miniature golf pop-up game. That deserves an early lunch.

Decline and Fall of American Civilization

No, I'm not talking about "The Swan." This example comes courtesy of RottenTomatoes.com. Christmas With the Kranks, which Stephen Holden describes as "lockstep suburban conformism enforced with fascist severity," and which merited 4% positive reviews, has earned $54.8 million in box office as of December 12, 2004. Sideways, with 97% positive reviews, has pulled in a paltry $14.3 million, especially considering it's 7 Golden Globe nominations (not that the Golden Globes are really a judgement of merit; I mean, Madonna won one for godsakes). It shouldn't be shocking that Hollywood has succeeded in critic proofing the movies, and that a worthy movie should get snubbed by audiences...in fact, I don't know why I even brought it up. Enjoy the holidays, ho ho ho.

John Madden Senility Watch

John Madden, to Al Michaels on Monday Night Football, while looking at shot of Cumberland River bridge:

"Seems like every city we go to, they have a bridge."

To which Al Michaels responds:

"Well, they do tend to build cities on navigable waterways."

Thoughts on the Holiday Season

I was playing dreidel when it struck me that the Catholics and the Jews really are the OGs of organized religion (sorry, pagans, but a tree ain't going to be smiting nobody). Still, the pagans could make a power-behind-the-throne argument. I mean, is it really just coincidence that Jesus was "born" within spitting distance of the winter solstice and died right around the beginning of April, the old pagan new year? And there is the question of that pine tree in the living room. So, in the spirit of the season, eggnog and goat's blood for all.

Not Ad-dicted

I've been watching too much television lately and, for some ungodly reason, paying attention to advertising. Time for some props and some venting about...

• The song "Lady": Did you know this is an actual song from Lenny Kravitz's album, Baptism? When I first heard it on that insipid Sarah Jessica Parker Gap commercial, I thought they just came up with thirty-seconds of guitar riff and nonsense to sell jeans. But then I heard it again in a Target commercial. I can't believe anybody went into a studio to record that dreck.
• On a related note, why have car commercials suddenly begun using decent music? Somewhere deep in the bowels of these ad agencies, there's one guy with a sweater and Rivers Cuomo glasses programming Modest Mouse, Richard Buckner and Nick Drake for minivan and SUV spots. This is a welcome respite from that Alan Jackson song about Ford trucks. I also appreciate TCM's use of Wilco and the Postal Service turning up in the in trailers for Garden State, among others
• I just don't get the Old Navy ad campaign. How does irritation equal purchasing fleeces? This self-consciously dorky series of commercials has been going on since the mid-90's, outliving Magic the Dog and the old woman. Please, somebody, stop them before they kill again (although perhaps not before Morgan Fairchild's demise).
• I can't say I'm displeased by the emergence of the two most Monty Python influenced ads in history: the free associative surrealism of the Emerald Nuts ads and the swarming crowds talking in unison from Sony's recent HDTV spots. These ideas may come from the rotund individual in the Black Adder t-shirt who is cube-mates with the indie rock fan mentioned above.
• Erectile dysfunction commercials should have quit when they were ahead: with the Levitra ad where they guy can't throw the football through the tire swing. Visual metaphors just don't get more perfect than that. Now it's just getting creepy.
• Just one more thing: why is ad quality inversely correlated with the benevolence of the product? Netflix, Eggland's Best and the DNC just can't seem to get it together.

Sweet Victory

I don't usually toot my own horn on this blog (what am I talking about? I've only been doing this for two months. I don't usually do anything, aside from use parantheses), but I can't resist. For two straight weeks, my quiz team, temporarily named "The Spanish Inquisition," has triumphed at Finn Mac Cools' quiz night. I consider this repeat performance a greater achievement than graduating from college. Take that, Marines! There, I have it out of my system now, and I can move on with life (that is, until next quiz night).

Save the Hubble (Seriously)

Pretty cool, huh?

I will be very disappointed if NASA botches the repair effort and allows the Hubble telescope to plunge into Earth's atmosphere. Not just because billions of dollars of equipment would be instantly turned into charred titanium molecules, but because the Hubble is the coolest thing we've ever put into Earth's orbit (at least the coolest thing that doesn't transmit Latvian soccer games into our living rooms). Unlike science experiments involving zero-gravity rats, the telescope gives you science you can use: badass pictures of outer space. So, for what it's worth: Nasa, Save the Hubble.

A Unique Posting

"Unique" has officially supplanted "ironic" as the most misused word in the English language, according to the results of my very scientific eavesdropping (expect a David Eggers-esque semantics rant to follow).

Elevator As Deathtrap

If I am killed by an elevator, it will be the elevators in FTC Headquarters. I'm not sure exactly when the building was constructed, but it was sometime during the term of Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morganthau (1934-1945). The echo-chamber marble hallways and anonymous offices bespeak of some distant, pre-war bureaucratic past, as do the elevators.

The door sensors are not well-calibrated to stop closing when there's an obstruction, which always reminds me of the guy who got decapitated in Houston. The elevators are wood-paneled, and the initial drop is at stomach-jumping, nearly weightless speeds, and I wonder whether if I jumped at the last second if I could avoid crushing in the event of a falling elevator. I'm always a little suspicious that the doors will open into an open shaft, resulting in the embarrasing police report: fell down an open elevator shaft.

At any rate, I'm not expecting to be killed by an elevator, but if it happens, that'll be the one that gets me.

Stoner Uprising

The impending court battle of Wooderson et al. v. Universal Studios Inc. et al. has once again raised that Kaufman-esque dilemma: what creative control do we have over our own lives?

The case can be summed up as such: the real-life inspirations for Dazed and Confused's Wooderson, Slater and "Pink" Floyd are suing Richard Linklater for using their names and pharmacological experiences circa 1976. It should be made clear that they are not denying the accuracy of Linklater's representation, nor are they suing for libel (considering that Floyd admits to "paddling" a young Linklater, there is a plausible motive for directorial revenge). In fact, they seem to think it's a little funny, when they're not getting self-righteous about autograph seekers and unwanted fame.

This case does have significant ramifications for creative self-expression. If Orson Welles had been barred from pillaging the life of William Randolph Hearst, would we have Citizen Kane? If Toulouse-Lautrec's life was not open to looting by Tolkein, would we have Lord of the Rings? This case is especially relevant in the new era of confessional memoir/fiction in which we live.

In a side note, if anyone is thinking of using details from my life in a semi-fictional setting, I'd like my character to be 6'2'' and capable of dunking a basketball.

Hall of Un-Fame

Class of '04

As anybody who has perused the StarTracks section of People or US Weekly magazine could tell you, we have reached a critical mass of celebrity here in America. But this no longer assaults us solely whilst we're in the supermarket checkout line. The twin phenomena of desperate cable television programmers and reality TV has spawned an underclass of "reality" celebrities and recycled former stars padding their fifteen minutes. Thus, with the public's interest in mind, I propose we begin eliminating celebrites. While one's first thoughts on this subject might involve releasing David Hasselhoff, Ashton Kutcher and Gwen Stefani into the north Wisconsin woods to be pursued by hunters and wolves, this is not my proposal (Although it wouldn't be a bad idea for a reality TV show. Get me Mark Burnett on the phone). This would be more of a contraction arrangement, similar to Bud Selig's plans for the Minnesota Twins, only not evil.

I propose to found a Hall of Un-Fame, wherein well-known individuals who have exhausted their cultural usefulness would be retired, thus removing the burden of remembering who they are when they're arrested for drunk driving. The museum could be located in Wahoo, Nebraska (briefly famous as the home office of the David Letterman's Top 10 lists back in 1996).

For the inaugural class of 2004, I nominate Sean Combs (aka Puff Daddy aka P. Diddy), Tracy Gold, James van der Beek and Fred Durst.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's observation that "there are no second acts in American lives" may be the most famous erroneous statement in American letters, but isn't it time that we gave it a shot?

Hey, Asshole

In most American cities, weeks, and even months, can elapse without strangers calling you an asshole (I'm willing to bet it's never happened in Minneapolis). That must be what keeps me coming back to New York. Like the man says: "It's a helluva fuckin' town."

Kwame Brown Explosion!!!

Is there any significance to the fact that Washington, DC now has a power forward and an at-large councilman with the same name? The sheer statistical improbability of this occurance would surely melt the most powerful Cray computer. Could they be, in fact, the same person!?!

Thoughts Upon Finishing "The Quiet American"

I've referred to the Bush-Cheney-Rummy conception of nation-building as "Sea Monkey Democracy" (just add water, then watch the little creatures cavort and caper!). But reading Greene's novel, you can easily see the US agent Pyle aging into Donald Rumsfeld. So the Bush era is not a unique age, simmering with hubris and delusion--Americans have always been that way. And that's just super.

Rolling Stone Top 500

Number 4 with a bullet

Rolling Stone magazine has released its list of the top 500 songs (apparently from the past 50 years). The magazine's top song is, appropriately, "Like a Rolling Stone," while the last song on the list is, appropriately, "More Than A Feeling." I don't mean to be disrespectful to the dead, but there's no way "Imagine" should be higher than any Beatles recording. I'd also sub "Heard It Through The Grapevine" for "What's Going On" and bump up some more R&B (Ronette's anybody?). "Hey Jude" doesn't belong above other Beatles cuts, either, but one could go mad comparing the worthiness of all selections. I'll post the Top 10 and leave it open to discussion.

1. Like A Rolling Stone (Dylan)
2. Satisfaction (Rolling Stones)
3. Imagine (John Lennon)
4. What's Going On (Marvin Gaye)
5. Respect (Aretha Franklin)
6. Good Vibrations (Beach Boys)
7. Johnny B. Goode (Chuck Berry)
8. Hey Jude (The Beatles)
9. Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)
10. What'd I Say (Ray Charles)

Happy Trails...

...Ken Jennings. After 74 shows and $2.5 million in winnings, the Stormin' Mormon blew it in Final Jeopardy ("What is H&R Block, fool!). Still, it was a helluva run. I'd like the record to show that I could've taken him, if given the chance.

Coming Around

I thought that I was coping with the election results, but with nearly a month of distance I've concluded that I was just in shock. Things really aren't going to be OK. I can't seem to finish news articles about Republican chicanery, because I just get angry to the point of incoherence. Crap, crap, crappity crap.

I'll Take My $25 Million In Cash, If You Don't Mind

What if Osama bin Laden got fed up cuddling with goats in the Waziristan mountains and moved to L.A.? With such strikingly similar builds (6'4'' and roughly 160 lbs.), OBL would make an ideal lighting double for Snoop Doggy Dogg. This would save Snoop the trouble of standing around during video and film shoots, when he could better spend the time picking out his 'fro and smoking chronic. Osama would take right to L.A.; did anyone else think that last video of his looked suspiciously like it was produced on a porno set in the Valley? I'd say that pretty well proves my theory. Mr. Ridge, my reward please.