February 15, 2010 - February 8, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
3rd World Olympics
having a beer in Vancouver.
. I had no idea -- no
-- there would be so much to say about the Vancouver
Olympics. So this post is just getting started. Call it the Opening
Ceremonies. Speaking of which, I actually watched a lot of them with
Mrs. CP, and after a lot of thought I've determined that the best way
to limit my scorn is to fisk one of the more succinct reviews
Olympics Opening Ceremony: Best and Worst
Before we offer our usual playful take
on the televised spectacular, we need to acknowledge the serious side
of last night’s Olympics Opening Ceremony. It was dedicated to
21-year-old Nodar Kumaritashvili, the luger from Georgia who died
Friday after a 90 mph crash at the end of his final training run. When
his seven teammates entered BC Place, and the crowd stood to applaud
their decision to honor him by competing, it was by far the most moving
moment of the evening. For many athletes who have no hope of medaling,
walking in the Parade of Nations is their podium, which made the
absence of Kumaritashvili, who was ranked 44th in the world, all the
more poignant. The Olympics are about nations coming together to
celebrate the human spirit; watching 82 of them pay tribute to
Kumaritashvili’s and his countrymen’s was reaffirming. We'll have a lot more to say about this
unfortunate eventuality later. Maybe today, maybe not.
Now, the show must go on…
Ceremony mastermind David Atkins spent somewhere between $30 million
and $40 million on the production, roughly a tenth of Beijing’s budget.
He wanted it to feel intimate and personal as the story of Canada
unfolded before our eyes, starting with a welcome from the Four Host
First Nations. He succeeded. Eh? No.
He didn't. There was no "story of Canada." There was a story of
political correctness, beginning with the pretense that Canada's
history is a function of a bunch of IndianAboriginal tribes nobody anywhere has ever
heard of. Which was so weird that it almost made us forget the bizarre
performance of the Canadian National Piano
Bar Background Music Anthem by the girl in the red dress who
knew all 42 verses (and five minutes) of a song most of us think of as
the drab 38 second beer jingle sung before NHL games. Color us surprised red-faced embarrassed for our northernmost 3rd
world neighbor. But we forgot all about her when we saw the endlessprotracted,
made up dance rituals of the Tribes of the Colors of Benetton (although
some of the feathers were clearly by Armani), who are apparently solely
responsible for the cultural nonentity of a nation that has no head of
state (a governor-general from Haiti?), no common language, and no
national emblem more enduring than a 50-year-old placematflag
named after a suburban Detroit hockey team.
Johnny Lyall, who jumped through the Olympic rings after a stunning
video-taped mountain run. Wrong.
Other candidates? Nellie Furtado, widest-hipped pornstar with the most
mediocre vocal cords in the Americas. Those strappy stiletto heels
almost but not quite distracted attention from a pelvis so expansive it
could have birthed a keg of Molsen without breaking stride. But it
didn't, so no Best Entrance Stanley Cup for her. Bryan Adams,
stupefyingly weird in his little black suit. Who was he trying to be?
The blanding of the pop vampirism fad, Canadian style? The U.S. North American rocker voice of the New
World and the aboriginal drums that gave us the Inuit backbeat of
Gordon Lightfoot and Neil Young? Too confusing. No prize. The tattooed
acidhead version of Michael Flatley
whose supporting cast of sloppy Irish step dancers were somehow
supposed to suggest, in their kilts and Harley conchos, the merging of French [stet] French (?!) and British cultures
in Quebec? Eh? Sorry. Donald Sutherland, who intoned forgettable
Canadian poetry that had nothing whatever to do with what was occurring
onstage? But "no entrance" can't qualify for Best Entrance, can it? The
half-man (face and waist to neck), half-woman (face and hips to thighs)
androgyne who twirled in mid-air to the lyrics of the famed Canadian
Lesbian has-been Joni Mitchell? No. If he'd been the only androgyne of
the evening, maybe. But we're reliably informed k d lang showed up,
too, (still in suitable lower case attire) long after Morpheus blessed
us with healing sleep... Was it the fat YouTube star who plagiarized a beer commercial
into what now passes for a Canadian Pledge of Allegiance -- unless it's
really the confession of a nation-wide Inferiority Complex so deep and
disturbing that none of its 33 million sufferers realize what a jackass
they are to admit preferring "zed" to "zee" and claiming to have
invented "please," "thank you," and "you're welcome." Bi-lingually no
less (except for the "please," "thank you," and "you're welcome" part,
which are definitely not French.) Can't be sure. Can a semi-literate
viral fluke make a Best Entrance on a world stage? Don't think so. Who
then? Gandalf. When he showed up and stomped his staff on the stage and
lit up the whole floor with his light effect.
That was the Best Entrance. Now if somebody
could just tell us what the hell Gandalf has to do with the history of
Canada, we'd be all good with it... eh?
: The fourth leg
of the indoor cauldron that failed to rise. Nobody saw it. We were all asleep by then.
More than 100
projectors were used to create the ceremony’s “landscape of dreams”
theme. The orcas spouting across the ocean after the ice broke up = the
night’s first rewind. Honorable mention: The faux precipitation that
made Matt Lauer feel like he was sitting in a 60,000-seat snow globe.
Noteworthy: The rising bear constellation that deserves its own Coke
commercial. OOOOOH. That was the
ice breaking up. WE thought it was the
continents getting devoured by rising sea levels caused by Global
Warming and the greedy planet-killing Americans not euthanizing their
citizens with bad government healthcare. And we thought the bear was an
endangered-- oh, never mind. We understand now. That's not so bad. We
liked the orca effects too. But we've
always liked whales. Never thought whale avatars
swimming under faux snow would be the highlight of anybody's evening...
until we remembered it's Canada we're talking about. Sure. Best Effect.
groan heard throughout living rooms in America when we found out we
were about to hear spoken word. But slam poet Shane Koyczan’s
Canada-defining, stereotype-defying “We are More” was better than
expected. You felt the pride, and suddenly wanted to say “zed.” The
transcript. Honorable mention: The disappointment at seeing the
Mounties not on horseback. It would have sped up their walk with the
Canadian flag, but I suppose they couldn’t risk a horse going potty on
the floor, which was such an integral part of the show. Shane Kyczan?
That was his name? At any rate, there is NO
time when we'll ever want to say "zed." Sorry. You can call it "pride"
if you want. We call it horseshit caribou merde. As for the Mounties, have
to admit we didn't notice the no horses. What we noticed was the
politically correct representation of the sexes. Not that female
Mounties aren't an interesting idea. But they do beg the question of
what sort of mounting is going on. Come to think of it, maybe some
horses would have clarified things a bit. Still, does anyone really
think that half of all mounties are smallish women with aquiline noses?
Hardly the Worst Effect of the evening, regardless.
Best less-is-more performance:
Proving the quality of the song was more important than the presence of
a singer, Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” was the perfect soundtrack
for the prairie tribute, which featured aerialist and Ècole
nationale de cirque student Thomas Saulgrain walking, running, then
soaring through fields of gold. Honorable mention: k.d. lang, who
captivated the arena singing Leonard Cohen’s ”Hallelujah” barefooted,
as the audience lit up the stadium. Noteworthy: Donald Sutherland’s
voiceover. uh, still waiting for
some mention of "best" candidates in this list. That tapping sound you
hear is our foot, tapping. As we wait.
Worst less-is-more performance:
Nelly Furtado and Bryan Adams, who failed to pop, even on a bare white
stage, during their duet of “Bang Your Drum.” (Sarah McLachlan’s
necklace saved her.) Honorable mention: The dancers in all white who
lined the tunnel for the athletes’ entrance. Aside from the guy who
kept doing the Molly Ringwald Breakfast Club move — he was at peak form
during Spain and Tajikistan — their enthusiasm had a certain ebb and
flow. Covered most of this already.
Except for Sarah MacLachlan. Her necklace saved her? Hell. We thought
it was a miracle she could sit upright at the piano wearing that series
of quartz boulders around her neck. Of course, we've probably made it
obvious to sophisticates that we are completely lacking in what
Canadians would call "taste." Grace a Dieu.
Best trivia shared by Bob Costas and
Matt Lauer during the Parade of Nations:
It really is one of our
favorite parts of the ceremony. They’re good when they’re sharing
vaguely relevant information, like the fact that in 1964, a group of
Mongolian cross-country skiers showed up unexpectedly at the Innsbruck
Olympics but were allowed to compete anyway, or that Poland’s flag
bearer has a museum in his hometown where he charges $2 admission to
see his skis and bibs. They’re better when they’re riffing on the fact
that Finland hosts the World Sauna Championships. We agree about the Mongolians. Everything
else mentioned here seemed belittling and, well, trivial.
Worst trivia shared by Bob Costas and
Matt Lauer during the Parade of Nations:
New Zealand was largely
responsible for the visual effects in Avatar. Reaching! You want "reaching"? How aboot this: That
anything Bob COstas and Matt Lauer might choose to
observe about anything is worth subjecting us to their self-satisfied
Italy. Sleek and
stylish jackets, but the athletes still looked comfortable and sporty.
Honorable mention: Bermuda, which opted for Bermuda shorts. uh, the Italians looked like they were
tuning up for the return of Mussolini. The Bermuda shorts won in a walk.
loud pants, which caused Costas to joke that as president of the
country’s figure skating federation, their flag bearer was allowed to
make whatever sartorial decision he wanted. Honorable mention: The
pants on the Czech Republic. Full
agreement on the Azerbaijan excrecence. Don't remember the Czech
Republic duds. Which suggests: see Italy above.
Newfoundland’s punk tap dancing fiddlers or this rum they call Screech?
uh, no. We liked it better (a LOT better) when the
elf of Celtic
Woman did it years ago -- without the poisonous Canadian moonshine.
not send a bobsled team. Agreed.
Best reaction shot:
any one of Shaun White, but we’ll go with him and Louie Vito enjoying
the aerial snowboarders during the tribute to the Rockies. Please. Just quit it with the Shaun White
crap. He needs a haircut. Women who think a man with a Rita Hayworth
hairdo is sexy are wrong. Period.
Worst reaction shot:
Gretzky couldn’t hide the worry on his face during the mechanical
malfunction. Fortunately, we’ll remember a different image of him:
Riding on the bed of a truck through the streets of Vancouver to light
the outdoor cauldron with people spontaneously running behind him. It
was like a scene from Rocky. Didn't
see it. As we said, we were compelled to give up when the Molsen beer
commercial took center stage. If Gretsky was worried, he was almost
certainly right to be. He's the only Canadian we like
Your turn! How nice of you. In our humble opinion,
the whole thing was a laughable, ludicrous bore, except where it was
positively offensive in terms of its oafish political correctness
("aborigines," Lesbians, etc) and even more oafish Canadian
resentfulousness of Big Brother U.S.A. We're sorry they have so little
to boast of -- no female singers who like sleeping with men, no poets
anyone's ever heard of, no history that doesn't require a mile of
half-apologetic explanations there's no time for in a $30 million
Day, the Queen who's too busy with her Corgis to show up, the
flag(s), etc), no visible proof, even theatrically, that the
French-British schism which will eventually destroy the nation has ever
produced a blend capable of creating a distinct cultural identity that
hockey, and forgettable TV stars. But there are things we were
thankful for. Celine
Dion didn't perform. (Vegas commitments? Or Branson?) Helen Reddy
didn't either. Or Neil Young or Gordon Lightfoot. Don't ever accuse us of
being ungrateful for small favors. Here's the best one of all. The
Canadians who make their money down here in the U.S. go back to Canada
when they have the opportunity to boast to the world how much better
Canada is than we are. This was such an opportunity. Now -- if they
would only stay there...
We'll get to the sports part later. And the NBC part. Count on it.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
. Our whole staff has been snowed in, besieged by illness and
computer failures, and generally downed by winter in this wintriest of
global warming stepping stones to disaster. But the queue builds
nonetheless, things we have to say and will.
This post is a placeholder only. However. At the moment I write it,
there are 22 comments on the first post CP wrote about Guilty
Pleasures. And 22 comments on his second post about Guilty Pleasures.
I'd just like to point out that if there is one magic number in The Boomer Bible
, it is 22. The Number of Harry. Which,
to my biased mind, means that everything you have all had to say
adds up to an indispensable part of the sum, including Helen Reddy and
Think about that.
Then we'll be back. Sorry for the silence. Much to say about the
Olympics, and what's really going on with the Obama administration,
guest posts, and, uh, the nature of life itself.
See you soon.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Guilty Pleasures 2
. Freezing rain has just turned to snow
and we're battened down
for our second great blizzard within the week. As usual, serendicity
has just played another card from its enormous deck, reminding me that
I've always had a silly crush on Esther Williams, who (as my mother
used to say) couldn't act her way out of a paper bag. But at this very
moment TCM is showing a celluloid souffle called "Neptune's Daughter,"
Esther in some of the most gorgeous duds any woman ever had the
privilege of wearing. (Mrs. CP is exclaiming over her wardrobe in each
unfolding scene as I write this. Edith Head, she muses? Has to be.)
Interestingly, her love interest in the pic is
Ricardo Montalban, a man whom most people still confuse with her real
husband, Fernando Lamas. Sigh. I guess that means she'd never have
fallen for a charmless Scot who's about as far from "tall, dark, and
handsome" as it's possible to get without being formally listed as an
exemplary antonym in Roget's Thesaurus.
It's easy and acceptable to have a crush on Rita Hayworth (which I do).
So why is it faintly ridiculous to have a crush on Esther Williams?
Don't know. But it is. And I don't care. Which reminds me of two other
female movie stars I'm embarrassed to love. One is virtually forgotten,
and the other is, well, I'll get to that in good time...
You know. Jimmy Stewart's on-screen wife. No neck, awful
hair, and a collection of shirtdresses that would have made June
Lockhart expire of envy in Lassie's paws. This
the credits, she makes her first appearance 6:30 in.
What about her then? Her voice. That husky murmur. Her voice and her
eyes. Demure but absolutely resolute. She's the "good woman" of the
adage about what a great man always has behind him. For many years I
wondered, "Why was this plain Jane a movie star?" As I've grown older
I've learned why. The world has grown full to bursting with Megan
Foxes. But the June Allysons are a vanishing breed. Faithful, loving,
invincible, and beautiful from the soul out. And how about this
completely accidental YouTube find?
Yup. I'm also carrying a torch for Judy Garland. And, no, I'm not even
gay. As with June Allyson, it took me a long long time to appreciate Judy
Garland -- at least the Judy who matured away from the adolescent
prodigy who sang so heartbreakingly in the Wizard of Oz
. A lot like June.
No neck, perpetually bad hair, and weirdly frumpy clothes the whole
time. I always thought her adult voice was harsh. And whatever anyone
says, she was never a good-looking woman. But looks matter less and
less as you get older. I began to understand that she wasn't really the
victim her biographers seek to make her. She had a gift and she knew
it. She kept on going, no matter how, to keep sharing that gift. A
different kind of love but one I admire without even the slightest
trace of pity. Like June. Vulnerability as
strength. Who do we have today?
I rest my case.
Another writer I've repeatedly slammed. Because he so completely
disdained meaning. But lawdy lawdy, what
a writer. One of the very few I can always enjoy reading out loud
(along with Cynewulf, Swinburne, Verlaine, and some of Poe's poetry).
single piece in City
I've declaimed to my private ceiling, just wishing I had that
touch with words. He systematically, immorally even, uncouples words
from their meanings and finds new meanings inside the empty space he
creates thereby. At his best he's just plain gorgeous under a mask of
plain. My objections
are all philosophical, which can and probably should be translated as
"second rate." On the other hand, like Eliot, Joyce, and Hemingway
before him, he's flung the door wide open for talentless imitators. I'm
content to be the stolid sentinel at the door, saying, "No. You haven't
earned the right to rewrite the scripture of genius."
From the sublime to the ridiculous? Yes. That's what self-revelation
consists of. There's no excuse whatever for liking Tijuana Brass. But
hearing their songs make me happy. I don't care that Herb Alpert had
no more talent as a trumpet player than the average high school band
member. I. Just. Don't. Care.
You got a problem with that?
You're flying over the world in all your omniscient
super-sophistication. Then you spy an Aborigine village where the
natives, or their shaman, seem to know as much somehow about the
universe as you do. But without your hubris. That's Patsy Kline. Even
Johnny Cash put on some airs from time to time. Patsy never did. She
lived in the dreamtime for sure, but she did the earthbound thing
better than all her dimwit contemporaries. Why she had to die young.
Some people know everything
I do. That's how I can recognize the others.
Don Johnson couldn't act and the fellow who played Tubbs was even
worse. But the best series television episode in history was the pilot
of Miami Vice
. I'll listen
politely to your rebuttals, but you're wrong. This was the absolute
apogee of dramatic TV in America.
Jeez. Still not done with this confessional torrent. uh, did somebody
mention Glenn Miller?
I'll end with the self-immolating admission that
I loved the big band my own father dismissed as the closest thing to
Lawrence Welk his generation ever produced (apart from Kay Kyser, that
is). But I can't help it. I like Glenn Miller. I like the sound.
Despite the extensive training I've received in jazz from people who
know, I still feel a bump of optimism when I hear the unmistakeable
timbre of the band whose leader perished without a trace in the second
war to end all wars. And isn't that an irony even Alanis Morissette
Worse, it looks like there'll be a Part 3 before this blizzard
concludes. My most obsequious apologies. How much confession can any
audience be expected to endure?
By popular demand -- who'd a thunk it? -- Instapunk commenters
love ABBA. A movie I'd never have put on my list without this nudge is
. A chick flick
even a guy could like. Anyway, here you go:
Hey! Here we all are. Naked as jaybirds, just like that ABBA album cover. Is it great? Not here it isn't. The blizzard is
ubiquitous and cold
Just for those who haven't heard of him, here is Roger
And one of his gigantic hits
get on one of his reasonably priced CDs.
There. Duty done. He has many fans. You could be one too.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Things have reached a fairly apocalyptic pitch here in South
Jersey. There's been flu, a blizzard, a lengthy power outage that may
have cost me all first drafts and image files of my entire contribution
to InstaPunk (plus my antique versions of PhotoShop and AnimationShop),
and another blizzard on the way tonight. Perhaps that's why I was moved
by the act of courage represented by BigHollywood's John Nolte and his piece
revealing his "Uncool" favorites. He lists a bunch of movies
he loves and watches that conventional wisdom would laugh at him for
loving and watching.
It amounts to a kind of defiant confession. Well, confession goes with
apocalypse, does it not? And by serendicity, Mrs. CP and I had also had
a confessional moment just a couple of days ago, when in response to a
TV promo for The Bodyguard
both admitted -- me more reluctantly than she -- that we secretly loved
Whitney Houston's recording of "I Will Always Love You."
A saccharine, sentimental, monotonal mess of a
written and first performed by Dolly Parton
who also happens to be one of my other Guilty Pleasures, a sweet and
beguiling woman who cheerfully compares her own singing to the
vocalizations of a nanny goat. She's right but I admire her anyway.
She's an incorporated powerhouse with her own theme park, but she's
still sweet. That buys her a pass on her ridiculous hair and chest
balloons in my book. And I will "always" listen to the Whitney Houston
version of Dolly's song when it plays on the radio or in the movie
because there is something pure and wistful and stirring about it. It's
an anthem of women's capacity for love that if you've ever been on the
receiving end of it can bring you to your knees.
So. Without image-editing capability and staring into the teeth of
another two feet of snow, I'm determined to confess my own bunch of
Guilty Pleasures. They're not all critically scorned things, though
most are. They're songs and movies and TV shows and books and authors
and performers I've either jeered at in the past or never admitted
liking because it was, yes, not cool to like them. In other words,
they're things I like but find embarrassing to admit I like. Some of
them are very
fuel for future commenter cheap shots for, well, ever
. You're all welcome to share
your own Guilty Pleasures, as well as heap scorn upon me for mine.
My only defense here is that I'm not going to organize the entries.
You'll have to do some work of your own to synthesize and summarize the
weaknesses of my poorest taste in various media. Other than that, have
at it and do your worst.
As a writer, I think first of my guiltiest pleasure of all, two works
by Paul Gallico, the most gushingly sentimental writer in all my
reading who, for me at least, gets away with it by the brazen nakedness
of his technique. Tops on the list is a story called "Thicker than
Water," which when I still owned the book it appeared in (can't find it
for you) I couldn't stop rereading. An awful story. Execrable in every
critical regard, except that I just loved reading it. Got me every
time. More like a song than a story. Now I find that it's included in a
book of the 36 greatest boxing stories
ever written. I'll never buy
that book. I don't want to find out just how diseased my powers of
discrimination are when the subject is boxing.
To prove how bad it is I can tell you the gist in about a hundred
words. In World War II, Joey, the younger brother of a champion boxer
who died in the war is prizefighting to keep his family afloat, but
despite great technique, he consistently loses because he's yellow. The
first time he gets hit a real shot, he folds and gets knocked out.
Because of this he finds it harder and harder to get fights until he
gets a chance to be a stepping stone (designated victim) in the surging
career of a slugger who's working his way to a title shot. Oh. The
thing that we, and Joey, never knew before the climactic round of the
fight? Joey once got a blood transfusion from his now departed brother.
You see? I cringe just telling you about it. Maybe Paul Gallico could
write. That's all I can hope for. People who remember such things still
remember his novella, The Snow Goose
. Which I can
also reread at a moment's notice. I'm pretty sure it's a character
defect of mine.
Yeah. The yodeller.
I could make excuses. He essentially began the country music industry
by recording his songs at Victor records in Camden, NJ. He also had a compelling
, a railroad man who became a singing star only to die
young of tuberculosis, about which he sang honestly and humorously.
Thing is, I actually like his music. Something simple and vital and
affecting about it. Sorry.
Independence Day, the Fourth of July
I could write a whole essay about everything that's wrong with this
movie. The fighter pilot president who refuses to use nukes even
against alien invaders. The mysterious compatibility between Apple
computers and alien technology. The increasingly annoying Yiddish
affect of Judd Hirsch in his post-Taxi
roles. And the inclusion of every possible clichee of both soap opera
and Irwin Allen disaster movies in a single monstrously absurd
blockbuster. The first time I saw it was in the company of wits who
would make the Mystery Science Theater crowd look lame, and we laughed
ourselves sick late into the night. It was a veritable tsunami of scorn.
Only problem -- I like
watching this movie. It's fun. The clichees are well played. The climax
and the denouement are satisfying. It's Hollywood doing what Hollywood
does best when it's not posturing but entertaining.
I've tired people out making a case for Eminem. Along the way I've
dissed most hip hop recording artists. And I particularly dislike Kanye
West for his loony-toon narcissism and his politics. But I like this
I've written a bunch about this guy over the years. I've called him the
end of fiction, the ego-bloated pied piper who led even his fiercest
critics off the cliff of transforming imagination into personal
reportage. I've ridiculed his concepts of "the one true sentence" and
the "one thing" that lies at the heart of any true experience.
What I keep leaving out is that despite the fact that he was a poseur
and a prick, he was also a spectacularly gifted writer. "The Sun Also
Rises," amputated of its initial anti-semitic chapters, is still one of
the ten best novels of the twentieth century.
And, worse for me personally, this isn't simply an intellectual
assessment. The Truth: my pick for a book to read on an airplane, when
you're above the clouds in the clear blue miles above the earth, is
Hemingway. Anything Hemingway. That's his domain. That's where it all
clicks. Clean and clear and blue. The meaning streams.
I just wish he'd kept his mouth shut about what writing "is." Like
Picasso learned to keep quiet about what painting "is." I love them
both for what they did. Hate them both for what they said.
Love it. No apologies. Iconic. Fun, funny, and sexy. If you can survive
parody, you're the real thing. Everybody starts dancing when this
starts playing. That's the real joke behind the parodies. It's so good
it can't be reduced even by ridicule.
Franco Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet
So he cut 30 or 40 percent of the play out of his script. And junked it
all up with syrupy music. I was an
English major. These things matter. But I'm still in love with Olivia
Hussey in this movie. All these years later. Embarrassingly.
I wouldn't tell this to most English majors, but I'm thinking
Shakespeare would have regarded this as the best of a very long line of
pretentious movies made of his plays. That's just me, though. Most
other Shakespeare critics wouldn't put much credence in a movie's power
to give an adolescent a hard-on. Much better to wax lyrical about
Olivier's Hamlet. (Yawn.)
This is one I'd never have admitted without Mrs. CP, who is always
unabashed about what she likes and doesn't. She makes total strangers
watch "M" and "Alexander Nevsky" because it's good for them, and she's
equally forthright about wanting, when she discovered I had a zillion
inherited LPs and a turntable, to hear this guy. She likes him. So do
I. Only I have to peel away all my dismissive knowledge first -- his
virtual illiteracy, his mountainous hair, his lack of genre identity (country? pop? Vegas
pimp?) Sometimes you just have to let go and respond. He's dramatic,
sincere, unique, lyrical, and operatic without knowing what opera even
is. I'm persuaded
uuuh. Have to break off here. Deals to be made about plowing in
anticipation of future plowing. So let me know if you like this post
and want more humiliating confessions. Of which there are many to come.
Another checks in. A critically hated film someone likes. I
dimly remember it. But it's someone's Guilty Pleasure. Admire his
Maybe it's better than I thought. Read his comment. I'm impressed.
[You, too, can be enshrined here, for your courage and vision.]