Happy What?

The "Santa's Butt" beer controversy in Maine reminded me that it's time to start my annual Holiday Period Of Angst.

Thanksgiving is such an enjoyable time. It's sort of holiday-ish, but mostly Fall's Turkey Day serves as a focus for reflection. I need that sort of focus to avoid becoming self-absorbed. I hate selfishness, particularly when it is me being selfish. Thanksgiving helps keep me on the straight-and-narrow in that regard.

But, not Christmas.

While I enjoy Christmas day (watching the kids opening their gifts, and Mrs. Film Geek putting the drawers together for her new, shiny filing cabinet I got her as "the" gift), the Christmas season, in general, brings out all sorts of angst and frustration.

First, I'm a terrible picker-outer-of-gifts. I buy gifts that are boring, and tend to reason that if I like it, the gift-receiver should too. Secondly, the whole rush of Christmas frightens and confuses me. It's become a feeding frenzy, especially when we get closer to the 25th. And thirdly, I hate the freakin' snow and cold weather. I hate the brown hills, the something-other-than-green grass and the dirty roadways after the snow melts.




I know. I'm Scrooge.



One of the most anxiety-producing parts of the yuletide season for me is knowing when to begin--and end--greeting people with the phrase: "Happy holidays." I always thought the phrase is acceptable right after Thanksgiving and through New Year's Eve. But without exception, when I begin using it in early December, I get odd looks from passers-by. Just this morning, while passing an acquaintance on the stairwell to my office, I shot him the greeting.

Me: "Good morning, happy holidays."
Him: "Hi."

No "Happy holidays," or other friendly, seasonal greeting. Just: "Hi."


I feel the angst creeping in...

Deck The Halls

A sign that Xmas is upon us:

I don't care what the Maine Bureau of Liquor Enforcement says "Santa's Butt" beer is funny.

Damn funny!

I hope, though, that the stuff smells like, ...Well, beer.

Strangers With Candy

Strangers With Candy, a prequel to the comedy series of the same name on Comedy Central in the late 1990s, is a riot! Starring Amy Sedaris, the film was co-written by Stephen Colbert and directed by Paul Dinello.

Strangers tells the story of Sedaris' character, Jerri Blank, who is desperate to reconnect with her family after her release from prison. She discovers her father is in a coma, her mother is dead and she has a half-brother who is a twit. Convinced doing "something special" will help bring her Daddy out of a coma, Blank goes back to high school and enters the Science Fair competition. Her path to that competition is incredibly dysfunctional, weirdly warped and constantly entertaining.

Oh, yeah. It's also really, really funny. Like everything Sedaris does, Strangers is clever and smart, even when it looks like it isn't. Compared to other TV shows and skits that have been turned into movies, Strangers With Candy is a gem.

The Sunset's Just My Light Bulb Burning, Now

My thanks to Jackie for getting me listening to Ryan Adams. I'm obsessed with catching up with all his past work now, and especially like this song "Oh My Sweet Carolina."

There's something hypnotic and mournful about the tune, and the way he sings it.

Polishing Up The Resume

Although I recently took on a new job, I'm open to new possibilities. New options, and new challenges. And I'm always open to opportunities that are more exciting than the gig I've been doing for 22 years.

Maybe you know the feeling of wanting a bit more. Getting yourself into a position to grab that brass ring. Maybe even--and I'm reluctant to say this, considering my level of shyness--once in a while, have the chance to be the center of attention. That opportunity revealed itself to me yesterday, and I've considered it obsessively since.

I'm going to apply to replace Greg, the Yellow-Shirt-ed-Wiggle who is leaving the group.

Now, I know you're thinking it's a long shot for me to get an interview, much less become a member of the group. But, I've made a list of the reasons I know I can do it.

Here it is: My Top 10 Reasons I Should Be The Yellow-Shirt-ed Wiggle

10: It's obvious to me that The Wiggles have lost a bit of their edge as they've gained popularity and success. To remain relevant, they have to get back some of what they've lost as they've become mainstream. As the Yellow-Shirt-ed Guy, I'll bringsexyback to The Wiggles.

9. Red Shirt, Blue Shirt and Purple Shirt are players. You can see it when they work a concert, scanning the crowd for Moms eager to hook up after the show. As the happily married Yellow Shirt-ed Wiggle, I could serve as their Wing Man, helping funnel all the thirty-something Soccer Mom's to the groupie lounge.

8. I ain't scared of no dingos.

7. As a spelling-challenged person with few ingrained spelling rules, I'd have less trouble than the average American changing my writing to include words like: "humour," "colour" and "behaviour."

6. I don't particularly like kids other than my own, so I wouldn't get emotionally attached to the audience. Entertainers have to keep that professional distance to stay creative. Greg, the former Yellow-Shirt-ed Wiggle forgot that, and look where it got him.

5. I like dressing up as a pirate. [Note to self: Get Mrs. Film Geek to write a reference for me on this point.]

4. My dancing style has already been described by many as "the wiggle."

3. Because I have two kids under the age of 6, I already know most lyrics of The Wiggles' songs. I get stuck on the chorus of "Hot Potato, Hot Potato" sometimes, but with practice I can overcome that.

2. I already understand and appreciate Australian-rules football.

1. I'm committed to bringing back the 5th Wiggle, Phillip Wilcher, and healing the wounds that resulted from that initial break-up.

There you have it, my main reasons for believing I can do this. Wonder how much it cost to FedEx to Australia...?

Hot Potato, Hot Potato

" Extra. Extra. Yellow Wiggle to Quit! Read all about it!"

No hint of Yoko in this break-up, but it probably carries the same importance in my household.

You don't give The Wiggles any love? How about this tidbit, from today's story in USA Today: "The Wiggles were Australia's top-earning entertainers last year, ahead of No. 2 AC/DC and No. 3 Nicole Kidman."



C'mon...Really?!? I mean, I've never heard of this "Nicole Kidman" before, but they get paid better than AC/DC?

I'm thunderstruck.

You, Me and Dupree

I threw You, Me and Dupree into the DVD player expecting The Wedding Crashers. You know, a lot of hijinks, slapstick humor and sex jokes.

I didn't have high expectations, actually. Owen Wilson is funny most times, but he typically plays the same guy in every flick. Matt Dillon is a terrific dramatic actor, but I'm always surprised when I like him in a comedy. (Although I shouldn't be. He was kick-ass funny in There's Something About Mary.) And Kate Hudson is still just Goldie's daughter to me. She's adorable, but I'm waiting for that signature role to be delivered.

I was not expecting Dupree to be an existential examination of the maturation process of the American male.

And it was just that.

Wilson plays Dupree, a free-loading free spirit in his mid-thirties who refuses to conform, waiting instead for that moment of inspiration to arrive that will lead him down his life's path. His best friend Carl, played by Dillon, is a buttoned-down architect who got into the business to be creative, but is realizing his business is more about the cash than the artistic merit. Hudson plays Carl's wife, Molly, who fell in love with her husband because of his "Carl-ness," but is growing apart from him as he evolves a more distant, business-focused personality.

The plot moves quickly to get Dupree into the house, where his presence at first is terribly destructive and more than annoying. As Carl evolves to meet the demands of his job, however, Molly is drawn closer to the in-the-moment Dupree, who writes poetry and pines over his long-lost love. She digs his sensitivity, and notices Carl is losing his.

Dupree and Carl are the same person, really, representing two halves of the American male. Dupree represents us as we grow into adulthood, prior to taking on the responsibilities of a family, a job that can suck the life out of a guy and the day-to-day responsibilities of being a husband and a father. Carl represents the stereotypical adult male personality, the one that gave up comic books and skateboarding to assume adult responsibility. Neither Dupree nor Carl have the balance needed to maintain an emotionally healthy lifestyle.

The film, of course, sets in motion the events to change that, so that both Dupree and Carl realize that it doesn't have to be all-or-nothing in life: one can have fun and live in the moment while making a living and caring for a family.

It simply takes balance.

You, Me and Dupree isn't that funny, really, although it was funny enough to keep me interested. The film was relevant, though, to a guy who loves reading some comic books and blogging about movies in between professional meetings and time with the family. Because I identified with it, I liked the movie.

Do I Hear $120?

Oncee has linked to a interesting Dave Peyton column about the bizarro way Marshall University, Warner Brothers and Huntington's theater groups are promoting the premier of We Are Marshall.

Pullman Square's Marquee Cinema location failed Public Relations 101 today, however, by refusing to set a maximum number of $25 tickets that could be purchased per person for it's version of the premier. Those tickets, which include access to a bleacher area on 4th Avenue where one can gawk at the movie's stars waltzing up the green carpet, were purchased by the dozens (and sometimes by the hundreds) by people now selling them on eBay. Most locals who stood in line for the tickets this morning were sent home empty-handed.

The current eBay price for a single ticket? $117.

UPDATE: As of this morning, the ticket I'm tracking is bidding at $177.50.

Adding It To My List

I'm not so good at giving gifts, but I know how to make my own List-Of-Needful- Things.

USA Today reports a 14-disc collection titled "The Superman Ultimate Collector's Edition" is set for holiday release. The collection will include all four Christopher Reeve flicks, and the mega-hit Superman Returns.

It retails for $100.

The box set also includes the documentary: Look, Up In The Sky! The Amazing Story of Superman, a miniature comic book remake of Superman #7, and the 1951 George Reeves flick: Superman and the Mole-Men.

It may not say "I love you" like colorfully wrapped office supplies, but it seems like a pretty cool gift!

The Omen

I skipped the 2006 version of The Omen in the theater and avoided it on DVD for a long while for a couple of reasons.

First, classic films like The Omen should never be re-made. Ever!

You can debate me all you want about how some stories can be better told today with modern movie-making technology, and how a new generation of movie-goers will be exposed to a classic movie with the remake.

Go ahead, debate me. You'll be wrong! I see your lips movin', baby, but I don't hear no noise.

(That line never works when I argue with my wife, either. I gotta get a new line.)

The most significant reason I avoided The Omen, though, is a little more complicated, and a whole lot more personal. I was eleven years old when the Gregory Peck original was released, and although I didn't see the movie at that early age, I saw enough from trailers, movie reviews and the like to know what it was about.

And is scared me.


Not the movie itself; nope, what scared me was the pervasive fear I developed that The Anti-Christ may be, ...Well, me.

I see your lips movin', baby, but I don't hear no noise.



It's true. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen I worried I was The Anti-Christ. My family was devoutly religious, and the church we attended was excessively fundamental. I heard lots of sermons on The Beast, most of which centered on (1) he was probably a young child at that time, simply awaiting adulthood to take over the world, and (2) he would be grow into an adult who would be a false prophet, the kind who typically spread false teachings, and create skepticism.

Well, I was a kid transitioning into adulthood, and I was highly skeptical. Of everything, but particularly religion. At that age I was beginning to question every belief I held regarding Christianity, while feeling tremendous guilt and anxiety over doubting something that was so much a part of my culture, and my life. I didn't know anyone who doubted the existence of God. I presumed I was the only one who struggled with disbelief.

And if I was the only one... I'm not so good at math, but the numbers were starting to add up.

Although the sermons were hot and furious, I didn't get the outrage. I recall thinking the "One World Order" idea and a cashless society I heard preached so loudly against in church actually sounded like a good idea. Efficient. A good social construct. I'd be first in line to sign up, I thought.

Unless, of course, I grow up to be the demon-spawn who invents them.

I didn't want to be The Anti-Christ. The idea of spending an eternity in Hell was disturbing--even when I was doubting it's existence--but mostly my concern was because The Anti-Christ can't win.


I mean, if he knows how Armageddon will turn out from biblical prophesy, he has to know he loses. Why go through the hassle, then? Put your efforts into something more productive, my dear beast-boy.

Like politics.

As it turns out I didn't have any of the supernatural powers that I thought The Anti-Christ should have as part of his other-worldly heritage. I tried, but couldn't levitate objects, change destiny simply by willing it or harm my elementary school enemies with my demonic mojo. (I can, I believe, change the pattern of traffic lights via telepathy, but my wife suggests it's not a good idea to talk publicly about that.)

Most importantly, I don't have a 666 birthmark, anywhere. I looked, all over. A lot. Around the age of fifteen I came to the conclusion that if there is an Anti-Christ, it can't be me. I graduated through my I-may-be-The-Beast phase with minimal emotional or psychological trauma.

Oh yeah, The Omen?

Classic movies should never me re-made. Ever!