It's Always Sunny in Killadelphia

If you watched the news in Philadelphia this afternoon, you might have noticed that the two lead stories both had to do with violence related to the University of Pennsylvania, where I am a student (Go Quakers!).

The first story concerned a shooting that happened last night at 12:30 inside Wizzard's, the strip club that I live across the street from. Allegedly, as Penn campus police were entering the club on a public disturbance call, a gunman shot a DJ with whom he had been fighting. When the guy refused to put his weapon away, one of the officers opened fire, killing him. The club has since been shut down for, I believe, fire code violations.

This, of course, is not the first instance of gun violence in the immediate area -- about a month ago, there was another incident outside of Club Koko Bongo, a glorified bar located in the same building complex as Wizzard's, where "10 officers and one sergeant were conducting crowd control [...] when one man pulled a gun and fired toward the crowd." One police officer was shot in the leg (she was not critically injured) in the ensuing battle, and the gunman was killed.

The second story had to do with former Penn Economics professor Raphael Robb, who today pleaded guilty to "voluntary manslaughter for killing his wife as she wrapped Christmas presents last year." Apparently, Robb and his estranged wife, Ellen, were arguing "about a trip she was taking with their daughter and whether they would be returning in time for the daughter to return to school." The discussion grew heated, Robb's wife pushed him, and he -- fearing that she planned to leave him and "keep him away from his daughter" -- just "lost it," beating her to death with a chin-up bar, which was apparently the first blunt object that he could find. Robb then rearranged the scene to make it look as if a burglary had taken place. According to the Associated Press, he "faces a likely prison sentence of 4 1/2 to seven years."

I'm not really sure where to start unraveling all of this, except to say that dealing with violence increasingly goes with the territory around here. I remember seeing the flashing lights of police cars outside my window as I went to bed last night and thinking little more of it than "I'll have to check out the news tomorrow." Of course, you kind of expect the occasional burst of violence in the part of the city -- West Philadelphia -- in which the school is situated. While I've never personally had a problem, we all recognize that it isn't the best neighborhood. What you really don't expect, though, is for your professors to beat their spouses to death with a steel bar. Besides being really bizarre, the story is also pretty terrifying, if only because Professor Robb seemed like such a nice guy (I never had him, but my roommate did and enjoyed his class).

Ultimately, though, Philadelphia -- which has recently been battling a rash of crime throughout the city -- is not the only place where there is violence. In fact, it's damn near everywhere these days -- not only in the newspaper but in music, on the screen and, of course, all over the Internet. As a culture, we are awash with carnage, whether it is being glorified, or criticized, or just plain reported.

In some way, then, maybe it's a good thing that these latest incidents have brought the problem so close to home for us Penn students, as a reminder that, even though we live in the collegiate bubble, there's a whole world out there that's falling apart. I'm not sure how we're going to fix it but we better start soon, because I have a feeling that the violence isn't going to stay outside of our windows forever.

Sources:
Koko Bongo
Robb
Wizzard's

MTV is keeping you down

I had a whole list of things that I was going to do tonight -- I was going to write a folk song (a la Bob Dylan -- I guess that damn movie got to me after all), I was going to read Love in the Time of Cholera (I've been stuck on page 123 for a few days now). I was going to publish a sweet blog post about Al Gore and do my laundry because I'm out of underwear. Instead, I fell asleep on the couch during the Patriots-Eagles game, and spent an hour when I woke up watching the latest episode of MTV's A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Suddenly, it was 12:30 and I'd wasted yet another night.

For the uninitiated, A Shot at Love is MTV's latest entry into the already overcrowded world of reality dating shows. Its star, Tila Tequila, is famous primarily for having been one of the first celebrity-hopefuls to take advantage of social networking (she was the most popular woman on MySpace, once upon a time) and not much else. Though she originally fancied herself a "musical artist," she doesn't seem to have many discernible talents beyond taking her clothes off (which she's admittedly pretty good at). The show's hook is that Tila is bisexual, a fact that she "revealed" in the first episode, to the "shock" and "dismay" of all involved, namely the 16 straight guys and 16 gay ladies that had signed up to vie for her love. They all live in a single house and sleep (not very well, I would imagine) in a single, giant bed and compete in challenges to win private dates with Tila (this week, they had to transfer as much chocolate as they could from a kiddie pool to a bucket using only their swimwear -- classy.) Hilarity ensues.

Basically, A Shot at Love is television at its absolute worst -- entertainment so mindless that the producers don't even bother to write scripts because the stars probably wouldn't be able to read them anyway. It is everything that is wrong with America rolled up into a neat little package, complete with giant breasts and plenty of girl-on-girl action. And, oh yeah, it is painfully watchable. Like its forebears, The Real World, Next and VH1's Flavor of Love, it is the kind of show that you can just sit and stare at without being bothered by pesky "thoughts" or "ideas." And, in all fairness, sometimes -- in moderation -- that isn't such a bad thing.

But, when the show ended tonight and its tractor-beam grasp on my mind was broken, I couldn't help wondering if these shows will someday be the artifacts that define our generation. Unlike the Baby Boomers, who took to the streets when they saw the injustices of segregation and the Vietnam War, we have been eminently complacent with a world that grows less and less livable everyday. Between global warming, the War in Iraq and the covert theft of our civil rights, we have plenty to protest. So why don't we? I can't help thinking that it might have something to do with shows like A Shot at Love.

MTV, of course, is owned by Viacom, which is a big, faceless corporation. Does it bother anyone else that these shows are aimed directly at the demographic that, in the past, has often been the most vocal advocate for change? I'm not saying it's a conspiracy, necessarily -- our parents watch their own mindless crap, like Survivor and Big Brother -- I'm just saying that we should be wary. Intentional or not, it's fairly obvious to me that shows like A Shot at Love are a major distraction for a generation that should be up in arms and isn't.

I would be a hypocrite if I ran around telling people to kill their TVs, and I'm not looking to start any marches. I enjoy Tila and her antics, and I'll probably waste the same hour next week that I've wasted every week since the show premiered. But, with the world in the sorry state that it is, and a golden opportunity to affect change in next year's presidential election, it's time that we start weening ourselves off of reality shows and start getting in touch with reality. Those folk songs aren't going to write themselves.

"I'm Not There": Pretension, Thy Name is Todd Haynes

Todd Haynes' I'm Not There, inspired by the music and life of Bob Dylan, is the kind of movie that makes me the angriest -- the kind that fools people into thinking that it's good, even those who should know better. I could probably work up a stroke trying to figure out how this self-love fest earned an "81% Fresh" rating on rottentomatoes.com, which compiles reviews from media (mostly print) outlets across the country, but I think the answer probably goes something like this: Anytime an American studio produces something remotely artistic or innovative, movie critics jump all over it like it's manna from Heaven. It's a sad state of affairs for American cinema -- we've come to expect so little from Hollywood that even the most pretentious bullshit passes for gold.

And that's what I'm Not There is, more than anything -- pretentious with a capital "P". In fact, this movie is so self-important that it deserves its own adjective: It is Haynesian, in its needlessly indecipherable structure (the movie is split into six different sections that intertwine, often for no apparent reason), in its self-consciously esoteric symbolism, and in its maddening length, which is somewhere around two and a half hours but feels more like seven or eight years (the film ends on two of the most painfully drawn out shots in the history of popular cinema, first of of a mysteriously smiling Cate Blanchett -- in full Dylan garb -- staring directly at the camera for a good twenty minutes, and then an excerpt of concert footage that fades to black over the course of an hour or so). I almost gave the credits a standing ovation.

The thing that bothers me the most about this film, though, is that there were actually quite a few moments that I really liked. For instance, one of the strongest scenes in the film is a surrealist interpretation of Dylan's "Ballad of a Thin Man" that involves a snotty British music critic, circus freaks and the Black Panthers. Not only is it visually captivating, but I found myself wanting to learn more about the song and its context so that I might better understand the allusions. Sadly, though, moments like this one are too rare in the film, buried under the excesses of a talented filmmaker who seems to be so in love with his own ideas that he can't imagine omitting even a single one. Ultimately, filmmaking -- like just about any other artistic endeavor -- is about making choices, and that's where I'm Not There falls horrendously flat.

Look, I don't mind films that are artistic -- in fact, more often than not, I love films that are artistic. And I don't mind if a filmmaker strives to make something really meaningful and comes up short -- the effort is admirable. But when a film spends the better part of two and a half hours touting its "difference" for the sake of vanity, it gets on my nerves, especially when critics use phrases like "an uncompromising, beautifully wrought essay on identity" (The Denver Post) to describe it. In fact, I can't help but imagine that the Bob Dylan portrayed by I'm Not There -- forever battling appropriation -- might be a little perturbed to know that the film he inspired devolved into such a circle-jerk of the cinematic establishment. Me, I'm just disappointed all around.

Terror Level: Gouda

The world is a scary place when cheese attacks.

This is something I discovered while skimming through the Fox News blog today (I also discovered that they've abandoned the "Fair and Balanced" slogan in favor of "We Report. You Decide.", which basically has the same message but appropriately eschews "fair" and "balanced"). It would seem that a company in Tennessee is "recalling cheese sold in seven states and distributed nationwide in gift baskets that could be contaminated with dangerous bacteria." While there have been no reported illnesses, the threat is very real.

On some level, I know that this qualifies as news and deserves to be reported. I'm sure that all the people who discard their Sweetwater Valley Farms gift baskets will be grateful to the AP and Fox News, especially those with small children and elderly relatives, who are the most susceptible to the bacteria (although I feel like the people who bought the cheese in 5 and 10 pound blocks deserve what they get. Not death, of course, but certainly diarrhea...)

On another level, though, there is something patently ridiculous about killer cheese. Honestly, between this, E. Coli-laced spinach and Aqua Dots, is there anything that won't kill us? Next they're going to tell us that drinking water gives you AIDS and breathing oxygen may put you at risk for scurvy.

Ultimately, it doesn't really matter because we're all going to die from cell phone radiation, anyway. That's why I keep mine in my back pocket -- better cancer in my butt than someplace more sensitive. But, in the mean time, with the threats of terrorism, gun violence, and Martin Lawrence movies constantly hanging over our heads, the world might be a much better place if we could at least get our cheese under control.

Source: http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,312729,00.html

"Enchanted": Disney + Manhattan = Warm and Tingly. Who knew?

I'm going to be honest here. Normally, Enchanted is not the kind of movie that I would admit to having seen, much less enjoyed (namely, the kind with princesses). But you know what? This movie charmed the bejesus out of me, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Despite the fact that most of what I watch these days involves some combination of death and existential crisis, there was once a time when I wore out my tape of The Little Mermaid and believed in living happily ever after (it probably has something to do with my being such a nutcase about relationships today) and damn it if Enchanted didn't make me miss the little bastard that I used to be.

What's really great about this movie, though, is that it neatly toes the line between fairy-tale and reality, both technically and thematically. A masterful blend of live action, animation, and CGI, Enchanted is very much a Disney movie at the end of the day, which means that it's basically formulaic -- you know from the very beginning how it's going to end, and you feel good about that. At the same time, though, the film is a lot more mature than you would expect, and not in the ostentatious, pop-culture-referencing way that Shrek was "mature," but in a real, down-to-earth, "love isn't always what you first make of it" kind of way. Not to give too much away, but the film actually touches on the very grown-up idea that falling in love with one person sometimes means leaving someone else out in the cold and, while it only skims the surface, it's an impressive leap for a fairy tale.

And if that's not enough, there's the (strangely perverse) appeal of seeing the Disney archetypes that you fell in love with realized in corporeal form. Even if we didn't know it at the time, I don't think there's a warm-blooded male born in the last half-century who didn't look back from the vantage point of puberty and wonder what Ariel looked like under her shells or, if you're into that kind of thing, what the Evil Stepmother looked like under that weird hat/cloak ensemble that she wore. Well, now I have an idea and, even though I feel like a bad person for saying it, I'm just going to put this out there: Amy Adams (who also gives an amazing performance as Gisele, the displaced princess) and Susan Sarandon (who is by far the hottest 60 year old I have ever seen) bring the goods. The weird thing about it is that Enchanted doesn't make a lot of effort to hide their sexuality. In fact, one of the film's most poignant moments involves Gisele discovering Patrick Dempsey's chest-hair as he walks around the apartment in a bath-robe (he plays the divorce lawyer who picks her up off of the streets of New York) and finding herself suddenly attracted to him. Last Tango in Paris it ain't, but it's still virgin territory for Disney.

And that's precisely what I loved about Enchanted. Because even if it playfully knocks around the old Disney conceits a bit, the film ultimately suggests that, despite all the concerns of the real world, we can find true happiness. Corny as it may be, it still made me smile.

For another good review of Enchanted, go here

Huck and Chuck

Let me begin by saying that, actual political content notwithstanding (I don't understand how Conservatives can make such a fuss about protecting their 2nd Amendment rights when they are constantly trying to revoke a woman's right to choose), this is one of the best political ads I've ever seen -- honestly, the only word that can adequately describe it is "awesome." I love a good Chuck Norris joke (although I find them less funny now that he's in on it), and it's always nice to find a presidential candidate with a sense of humor. You know what else is nice to find in a presidential candidate, though? A basic understanding of essential scientific principles. This, unfortunately, is one qualification that former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee seems to lack, given his repeated assertion that "if anybody wants to believe that they're the descendants of a primate, they're welcome to do it." Thanks for your approval, Mike, but I'm going to go on believing that I , in fact, am a primate, as are all human beings. Duh, that's, like, so sixth grade...

Look, I don't have a problem with people not believing in evolution (although I'm still not sure I get how evolution and God are mutually exclusive concepts). The fact is, though, that science is important -- it's what cured the plague, brought us the Internet, and made Pamela Anderson an emergency flotation device -- and it should be supported, not shied away from. Huckabee has said that he believes in science, and I'm not contradicting that, but he also said this: "Science changes with every generation and with new discoveries, and God doesn't, so I'll stick with God if the two are in conflict." Whether or not God and science are in conflict, I find troublesome Huckabee's suggestion that science's tendency to change (you might even say "develop") makes it somehow inferior to just trusting in God. If science didn't change with every generation, we'd still be bathing in leeches every time we got a stuffy nose.

Ultimately, the whole issue is too complicated to reduce to a soundbyte, but I think the kind of close-minded attitude that advocates a fear of the unknown is regressive and dangerous, particularly when we put it in a position of power. If Mike Huckabee doesn't want to believe that he's descended from monkeys, that's fine, but when he suggests that it isn't an appropriate question for a presidential candidate because "I'm not planning on writing the curriculum for an eighth-grade science book," he's missing the point in a big way, "Chuck Norris approved" or not.


Sources:
For more on Huckabee, I recommend Matt Taibbi's piece for Rolling Stone.
http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2007/06/05/huckabee-im-not-writing-a-science-book/

Free Barry

Last week, Barry Bonds, baseball’s all-time home run leader, was indicted by a federal grand jury on four counts of perjury and one count of obstruction of justice for allegedly lying in 2003 about his use of steroids (like anyone believed him, anyway). Whether or not Bonds ends up doing jail time – which is, apparently, a very real possibility – it would seem that his career is likely over, and his shot at being inducted into the Hall of Fame may be as well. While I’m not much of a Barry Bonds fan, something about these charges strikes me as unfair and, frankly, kind of ridiculous. Yes, obtaining and using steroids without a prescription is illegal and, if Bonds committed the crime, he should be punished accordingly, as should every other baseball player who broke the rules. But four counts of perjury? Obstruction of justice? Are we maybe going a little bit overboard here?

Of course, this isn’t just about steroids, or about Barry Bonds – it’s about the “integrity” of one of baseball’s most cherished records and, by extension, of the game itself. It’s about people who think that if our “national pastime” is tarnished, so is our national fabric. But while baseball clearly has a lot of symbolic significance in this country, it’s still just a game. A GAME, PEOPLE! Maybe, instead of crucifying athletes for taking performance enhancers, we should just stop taking professional sports so goddamned seriously. In fact, I found it kind of ironic that Bonds’ indictment was announced on the same day as Alex Rodriguez’s agreement with the New York Yankees on a 10-year, $275 million contract. It seems to me that, at the same time we’re telling athletes not to cheat, we’re giving them more and more incentive to do just that.

The thing is, Barry Bonds isn’t the disease; he’s merely a symptom, and so are steroids. The real problem here is a level of hero worship in this country that leads to $275 million contracts for guys who dress up in costumes and hit a little white ball with a stick. I’m not saying that athletes shouldn’t be well paid, but does it bother anyone else that A-Rod is set to make more than a third of the gross domestic product of Liberia? Same goes for actors – maybe we wouldn’t have a massive writers’ strike in Hollywood right now if we weren’t paying Tom Cruise $20 million a film to prance around the screen and complain about the dangers of psychiatry. I know that entertainment is one of our biggest industries – and, in the interest of full disclosure, the industry that I plan to go into when I graduate from school – but come on. We’ve just had the bloodiest year yet in a war that we can’t seem to extricate ourselves from, the dollar is weak and we’re a year away from what may very well be the most depressing presidential election in history (when I hear the words “Hillary” and “Rudy” together in the same sentence, I can’t help but throw up in my mouth a little). Don’t we have better things to worry about than Barry Bonds?

Sources:
http://sports.yahoo.com/mlb/news;_ylt=AgeXKTO6N7wUQAmV7uBLrYgRvLYF?slug=ti-bondsreaction111507&prov=yhoo&type=lgns

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/17/sports/baseball/17bonds.html?em&ex=1195448400&en=ab901c4b4c6bb85d&ei=5087%0A