Who's BrAD?!

Those Were the Days of Our Lives

2011-09-05T02:29:00.000-07:00

I will never forget watching Wayne's World when I was eight. Wayne and his posse were riding in Garth's AMC Pacer when Wayne said, "I think we'll go with a little 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' gentlemen?"

"Good call," Garth replied.

Wayne put the cassette in, and nothing has been the same for me since.

"What kind of music is this?" I thought. "Is it opera? No, wait, it's rock. No, wait, it's pop. No, wait, it's classical. No, wait..."

I was absolutely gobsmacked to learn that it was all one song.

"Bohemian Rhapsody" broke all the rules, destroying any preconceived notions I had about how songs should be composed structurally and sound thematically. (Yes, even at eight years of age, I was a pretentious asshole.)

Made up of three main sections, the song wistfully drifts from choir-like a cappella to ballad pop, then confidently marches into opera before carelessly crescendoing into hard rock. At the end, it finally nosedives into complete silence... and a gong. It's a fantastic musical journey, and all without a single chorus. It is the most fun song I've ever heard, and it was the perfect introduction to my favorite band.

People and critics can yap all they want about The Beatles and the Stones, but when it came to music that was remorselessly and relentlessly fun, neither could hold a candle to Queen. Listen to A Night At The Opera, and you'll hear the truth of that very loudly and very clearly with tongue firmly placed in cheek.

Queen could do it all, yet still sound very much their own. They could play something as funky as "Another One Bites The Dust," then go rockabilly on "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," and take you back to the 1920's on "Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon" before getting you stomping to "We Will Rock You." Any compilation of theirs is like a roller coaster ride from heaven to the ninth circle of hell, and back again.

Unlike The Beatles or Stones, each Queen member was as skilled writing songs as he was playing his instrument of choice. Drummer Roger Taylor wrote the clap-along anthem "Radio Ga Ga" and the band's best balled, "These Are The Days Of Our Lives." Bassist John Deacon, the quietest of the group, wrote two of Queen's most popular radio staples, "Another One..." and "You're My Best Friend." Guitarist Brian May, who actually made his guitar from fireplace scraps, wrote "We Will..." and "Tie Your Mother Down." And lead singer Freddie Mercury was the father of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "We Are The Champions."

For my money, Freddie was the greatest frontman ever. His voice was operatic, powerful and dramatic. Every prance, every punch in the air, every twist he did with his broken mic stand exuded electricity. With even the simplest vocal exercises, Freddie made the fan at the very back of the stadium feel just as involved as the fan in the front. His charisma was so overreaching, to this day, you will see the most conservative American sing "We Are The Champions" without realizing that it is the most blatant gay anthem of all time.

As I write this, I am reminded of Queen's show-stealing performance at Live Aid. For 20 minutes, Freddie had Wembley and the world in the palm of his hand. Oh, what I'd give to have been in the audience that day. Alas, I didn't become a true Queen fan until 15 years later.

It'd be fair to say that my high school years were defined by Queen's music.

Every day my friends and I drove back from school, we'd relive Wayne's World, banging our heads to "Bohemian Rhapsody" and other Queen songs as they blared from my Camry's speakers.

Unsurprisingly, I took band class in high school for the trips. While touring Japan for a series of symphonic performances, my roommates blasted "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Bicycle Race" in our hotel rooms repeatedly, happily offending the girls next door. And when we were forced to sleep, I'd plug in my earphones and listen to Freddie's voice achingly deliver "Somebody To Love," which was his favorite song.

It wasn't before long that the entire school knew that my friends and I were Queen fanatics. And boy did they hate us. Nobody wanted to be on our bus. Nobody wanted to converse with us. Seriously, in the late '90s, who the hell still listened to Queen?

To the chagrin of the rest of the band, we were all in the marching band as well as the concert band. There was no escaping us!

---

At the end of every season, all marching bands in Hawaii compete to see who puts on the best show, and who can earn bragging rights to being the biggest group of no-life losers on the island.

What's funnier is that they actually have judges in these events, who naturally take it all too seriously. The three criteria each band is graded on are "technicality, musicality and general effect." Musicality and general effect are self-explanatory. You either sound good or not, and you either make your audience go "wow," or you don't.

Technicality is the most ridiculous criterion, as it requires one judge, who usually wears thick eyeglasses due to his or her nearsightedness, to see that every band member marches on the right foot with perfect posture, each movement crisp without hesitation.

Confidence is key in marching band. If you mess up, you mess up as loudly as you can. If you halt on a yard line, you better snap and be still once you hit it. Otherwise, this old technicality judge is going to mark your entire band down because of your mistake. Did I forget to mention how ridiculous this all was?

To top it all off, at the end of each performance, the judges collectively rate you as a "superior," "excellent" or "good" marching band. Naturally, they'd make being "good" equivalent to being a failure, and in 1999, my marching band was gearing up for failure.

To say we struggled that year would be an understatement. Since the incoming freshmen marchers were, in a word, morons, we had many late night practices, and endured countless lectures from Mr. Murphy (our marching band teacher, who somehow became a vice principal since I graduated).

And so there we were in November, competing in Kamehameha School's competition, the most prestigious showcase of them all. Our goal was to earn the title of a "superior" marching band. The year prior, we were rated "very good," which everyone took as a severe blow, since unquestionably, the seniors we had that season were the most passionate.

But with them graduated and gone this time, how on Earth were we supposed to be "superior"? We lost some damn good seniors, who played and marched to perfection, and replaced them with the most incompetent group of freshmen I've ever seen. No offense to anybody who graduated high school after 2001, but I think our class was the anti-Midas: everything we touched turned to crap after we left. We were last good thing to happen.

So we get to Kamehameha's field and notice that it is soggy and muddy from the bands before us. There had been heavy rainfall that night, and we were the last competing band to perform. Kamehameha would follow, but of course, the band hosting the competition can't compete in it.

After a trademark Mr. Murphy pep talk, we marched onto the field with a snare drum cadence. And through the rain, we plowed through our show. Some woodwinds were out of tune, since reeds tend to get sharper in cold weather. Some brass players slipped their fingers on their valves, since we all had gloves on. One freshman trumpet player in front of me fell in the mud, but got up and continued on.

We had worked on the show since June, and spent hours upon hours in the hot sun to perfect every detail. I swear to you, I will probably get skin cancer because of this particular marching show.

But you see, judges don't care about how you got to the dance. They don't know about the struggle, nor can they judge us based on it. All that matters is the show. As they say, you got one shot, one opportunity. Everything you've done and worked for has led up to this moment.

I don't know what was going through my head as we performed that night. I don't even remember what songs we did. But I do know that after the rain had settled and we finished our show, the audience applauded forgivingly, if not approvingly. I looked around me and saw all these footprints in the mud of different shapes and depths. If only those judges could understand the drama that went into each one.

It felt like Gettysburg, and all of us thought we had lost the war.

Seriously, I saw bandmates with their heads lowered in shame, crying. It was hilarious. All I wanted to do was go home and watch WWF Smackdown!. Mr. Murphy, meanwhile, had this grin on his face, as if he saw something from the sidelines that we on the field did not.

To his credit, that goofy albino of a man never gave up on us. As much as I'd like to laugh about it, he really was one of the better high school teachers I had.

He kept grinning as we recovered from our attention stance and stood ready as the judges announced their final verdicts for each band.

The technicality judge stood to read the results for us. Sure enough, he had thick glasses, which probably hadn't seen any sort of excitement in years. This competition was as good as it got for him.

"Mililani High School..." he read.

And he paused. A drop of rain fell off the tip of my nose.

"Superior."

I don't remember anything after that. I was tackled by somebody as the band completely lost themselves in elation.

To this day, I'm not exactly sure how we were dubbed a "superior" marching band. I do not know what that judge saw, or what Mr. Murphy saw. Sure, maybe the judge could've been wiping his glasses and missed the freshman falling in the mud. But what did Mr. Murphy see? I know he did not blink during our performance.

Perhaps it was passion. Perhaps it was confidence. Perhaps it was pity.

But as we boarded the buses to go home, us Queen fanatics sat and plugged our CD player into these small Radio Shack speakers, which couldn't fill a jail cell with sound. Freddie's voice could barely be heard, but one of my friends, an alto sax player, started singing.

I've paid my dues,

Time after time...

Another friend, a trombone player, harmonized along.

I've done my sentence,
But committed no crime...

I put my trumpet aside and joined in.

And bad mistakes,

I've made a few...

And to my surprise, some our haters, joined us.

I've had my share of sand kicked in my face,

But I've come through.
And we go on and on and on and on...

Before I knew it, the entire bus, including those who hated us, hated Queen, and hated us for loving Queen, sang in complete unison.

We are the champions, my friends.
And we'll keep on fighting to the end.
We are the champions,
We are the champions,
No time for losers,
'Cos we are the champions
Of the world...

And suddenly, in that moment, what should have been one of the most frustrating experiences transformed into a fun memory--one that I still look back on with fondness.

On that bus ride home, we all laughed and cheered like a bunch of drunken regulars at a Kaimuki bar. It was a cinematic moment between band geeks, like a rejected scene from Almost Famous.

I think Freddie would've been rather proud of that moment.

Freddie, like Elton, Michael, and other entertainers who I've admired over the years, was very shy, insecure and private, despite his commanding onstage presence. It came as a shock to many when he died of AIDS in November of 1991. His last official appearance was the music video for "These Are the Days...," which coincidentally was filmed on my eighth birthday. He looked so frail, and in comparison to how vibrant he looked just five years prior, it always makes me sad to see that video.

Fully aware of his mortality, in his final shot, Freddie looks up and whispers, "I still love you," and walks off-camera, as if to say "thank you" and "goodbye" to those who loved Queen through the years.

Today, September 5, 2011, he would have turned 65.

In interviews, Freddie said that all he ever wanted was for Queen to be remembered as a "good band" that made "fun music." But Queen were far more than just "good." They were, in every sense of the word, superior.

Happy birthday, King Mercury.

Randy Savage: More Than Macho

2011-05-25T12:45:00.000-07:00

I am not sure why, but there was a big graduation ceremony when I left preschool in 1988. Everybody had to dress up, and although I don't remember much, I do recall lining up right before we walked to the stage. One of my teachers was fixing the collar on my shirt, when suddenly, a familiar song played: Edward Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance."

Excited, I asked my teacher, "Why are they playing Macho Man's song?!"

It has always been Macho Man's song to me. At both my high school and college graduations, when "Pomp and Circumstance" started, I let out a loud "Oohhh yeeeeeah!" And in reply, somebody would shout, "Dig it!" or "Snap into a Slim Jim!" It always got a good laugh.

I know graduation isn't a big deal, but the memories of Macho Man always made it a fun occasion. That's why it was no surprise that after he passed away, his fans bombarded all the "Pomp and Circumstance" videos on YouTube. To me, that was a greater testament to his popularity and significance than all the video tributes and blogs combined. I've seen and read most of them, and even though it has been 5 days since he died, I am still coming to grips with it.

If I had to rank my Top 10 favorite professional wrestlers of all time, "Macho Man" Randy Savage would definitely be near the #1 spot. During the WWF/WWE's peak in the 1980s, when cartoon characters like Hulk Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior reigned supreme, Savage was the only champion I actually liked. As bombastic as his promos were with his signature gravelly voice and flamboyant gestures, when he hit the ring, he brilliantly used that intensity to enhance his down-to-earth wrestling style. That's why when he delivered his simple elbow drop from the top rope, it was like watching a god dive from the heavens. Look up any video of him dropping the elbow, and you will see nothing but a trillion camera flashes from all over the arena. It's spellbinding, but only because he made it spellbinding for his entire career.

Persona aside, Savage was actually an excellent wrestler. Everybody mentions his classic WrestleMania III match against Ricky Steamboat in front of 93,000 fans. From what I gather, he rehearsed every second of that match with Steamboat again and again and again. Savage was notorious for his perfectionism, and it paid off not only at WrestleMania III, but in just about all his matches. He gave the Ultimate Warrior the best match of Warrior's career at VII, he brought out the best in Hogan at V, and I will never forget jumping for joy when he pinned Ted DiBiase for the world title at the end of IV.

Perhaps the most profound memory I'll have of Savage was his reuniting with Miss Elizabeth (who was his wife in real life) after his then-career-ending match at VII. It was as thoroughly moving as pro wrestling could get. The storyline was so perfectly developed, and judging from how loudly the crowd popped when he lifted her on his shoulder, and again when he opened the ropes for her, Savage added depth to the meaning of "macho."

I never met Savage, but I always believed that he was a good guy. I don't know how to describe it, but there was something genuine about him. The fact that he gracefully left professional wrestling early on, and didn't damage his legacy like other old-timers reinforced my respect for him. He didn't need wrestling to keep afloat in his later years. He appeared to have a wonderful life outside of the ring, and he seemed to have a firm grasp on what mattered beyond the pomp and circumstance. After he passed, I was happy to hear that my assumptions were correct. My friends who had met him told me he was kind and humble. And unsurprisingly, every wrestler who worked with him had nothing but fond and touching things to say.

During many high school car rides, my friends and I played a song Savage recorded for the WWE in 1993. We thought it was hilariously bad, and we had fun imitating him and singing along with the awful chorus:

Somehow, as horrible as that song is, it felt all too poignant on May 20th.

At the end of the day, Randy Savage didn't need the cowboy hats or colorful sunglasses. He didn't need the jackets with the streamers hanging from his arms. He didn't need to be as big as Hogan or the Warrior—his charisma unquestionably dwarfed both of theirs tenfold. For all his "macho madness," Randy Savage always came across as more than just a cartoon character. He defined spirit. He defined intensity. He defined passion. And he will always be a beloved icon because of it.

'Twas a Very Good Year: Best Movies of 2010

2011-05-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

Is it too late to post a "Top Films of 2010" list? I don't think so. Considering that Hollywood has refused to put out any great films so far this year, I figure this list is not so much overdue, but overly necessary.

In my opinion, 2010 was a very good year for film—so much so that I have 16 that I thought were excellent enough to list. Usually, I have a difficult time finding 10. Not all of them are Hollywood-made, but definitely still worth mentioning.

In ranking order, the best movies of 2010 (that I saw) are:

1. Black Swan (Aronofsky's direction and command of tone is perfect here)
2. The King's Speech (Simple, but moving royal bromance; guy meets therapist, guy loses therapist, guy gets therapist at the end)
3. Inception (Christopher Nolan is apparently too bold and brilliant for the Academy—my favorite comment on the 2011 Oscar nominations: "Apparently, Inception directed itself.")
4. Winter's Bone (Jennifer Lawrence had a better performance than Portman)
5. Another Year (Very funny and warm film)
6. The Kids Are All Right (A well-balanced dramedy with not a single weak actor in the ensemble)
7. Exit Through the Gift Shop (Few documentaries make you wonder what the definition of Art really is)
8. Inside Job (This doc will make you facepalm yourself at least 136 times; I'm still pissed off thinking about it)
9. Easy A (Underrated and hilarious)
10. Somewhere (I love films that take their time yet make a point)
11. Last Train Home (Heartbreaking and, at times, overwhelming to comprehend)
12. My Dog Tulip (This is really a 2009 film, but wasn't released in the U.S. until '10... it is the only dog film that I don't find stupid or demeaning to humans)
13. Shutter Island (Scorsese's best film since "Casino")
14. The Illusionist (Dark and fanciful, it ain't no Triplets of Belleville, but the animation is top notch)
15. How to Train Your Dragon (More original and engaging than I expected)
16. Carlos (Strange how a filmmaker can make a terrorist intriguing without glorifying or advocating his actions)

You may be wondering where in the blue hell is The Social Network, 127 Hours, or Toy Story 3. I thought those films were good, but not worthy enough for me to say that you should get up, get dressed, drive to a theater, and pay the $8-$16 for a ticket to see them. (If you go to a matinee or small theater, you pay around $8, but if you like the PTOCs—Pretentious Theatres of Choice—with assigned, comfortable seats like me, you pay around $16.)

Yes, The Social Network had fun dialogue (you can't tell me that Aaron Sorkin wasn't jizzing all over himself while writing it), but if I want to see a film about an ingenious asshole, I'd rather see Citizen Kane, where the protagonist actually has a sense of depth and vulnerability. I never once cared or rooted for Zuckerberg in the movie, and if it weren't for the dialogue, I would have fallen asleep.

And no, Justin Timberlake did not help.

I liked the energy and vibrancy of 127 Hours (typical Danny Boyle flair), and it was most effective at the very end when Ralston cuts his arm off. Still, I couldn't help but think throughout the entire film that if Ralston wasn't so arrogant, he wouldn't have been in his predicament. Yes, he does come to realize this, and I agree that it is a very badass tale of survival, but in the end, I felt that there was more style than substance to the film as a whole.

Toy Story 3 had some fun moments, but the movie got so heavy-handed at the end, I felt that Pixar was trying too hard to squeeze tears out of my eyes. It didn't work. On Wikipedia, it states that an early plot idea was to have Buzz Lightyear dolls recalled, which I thought made for a stronger story than another escape plot. The toys already escaped Sid's house in the first film, and had to survive an airport in the second; escaping a day care center isn't exactly as thrilling.

Last year's films aside, 2011 has not been a total loss. Win Win, starring Paul Giamatti, is a good dramedy. Rango is solid, as is the newly released Bridesmaids, which is as funny as it is formulaic. If you have free time this week, go see any of these movies, and you will not be disappointed.

I still expect more and better from Hollywood. From what I'm seeing with 2011's box office figures, audiences are getting slightly smarter, and more unwilling to spend money on utter crap. Hollywood is capable of better, and 2010 proves it.

The Queen

2011-05-08T14:15:00.000-07:00

I always tell people that I've got my dad's tastes but my mom's mouth. If I had to liken my parents to a coloring book, my mom sets the lines, and my dad provides me the colors to fill them with. I've always had the freedom to color things however I wanted to, but it is only with my mom's good graces that I can color outside the lines.

In the end, it is my mom who reigns supreme. She has always reigned supreme. She is the sole ruler of the house, and even though my sister and I prefer to ask my dad for permission, it is my mom who ultimately gets the final say. My mom is louder than any Michael Bay movie, wiser than Yoda, and stronger and more sensible than any "Tiger Mother."

My mom's shadow weighs more than I do. Even today, whenever I go home, I don't have a first name: I'm known to everybody as "Mrs. Kageno's son." I've grown to accept that—after all, since she was everybody's 8th grade U.S. History teacher (including mine), she has managed to leave an impression on almost all of my hometown friends. Whenever I meet up with them, they always ask how she's doing, and remind me that she was both "cool" and "funny."

I don't need to be reminded. She reminds me enough.

What more can I say about a woman who, when I was in her class, slammed a clipboard on my forehead when I couldn't remember the name of the guy who started the Boston Massacre? (If I remember correctly, Edward Gerrish incited the crowd, but Richard Holmes knocked over the soldier who yelled, "Fire!")

What more can I say about a woman who dances like a fool in front of the TV when I'm watching?

What more can I say about a woman who looks younger now than she did 10 years ago? And when I ask her how she did it, she tells me, "Because you moved out."

What more can I say (we're gonna be doing this for a while, so you better get used to this) about a woman who sings the harmony part to any song she hears on the car radio? It's hard enough ignoring her as it is, yet she's off singing in octaves higher than what's playing!

What more can I say about a woman who sends an empty box to her homesick son in college? She denies she ever did this, but who else would mail me a care package full of bubble wrap?

What more can I say about a woman who makes me massage her feet whenever she has a headache? She says it helps get rid of the pain, but thanks to her caffeine withdrawals, I don't have fingerprints anymore.

What more can I say about a woman who, every Christmas, hangs an photo ornament of me from when I was 6, and tells me, "You looked so cute back then! What happened to you? You peaked!"

What more can I say about a woman who, upon receiving a credit card receipt from a pouty waitress, writes in the Tip section, "Smile next time"?

What more can I say about a woman who reminds you of how much pain you put her through while she was pregnant whenever you ask her for something?

What more can I say about a woman who thinks that saying "'Cause I said so" is the definitive end to every argument even when she's wrong?

What more can I say about a woman who chases me to my room every time I come home, sits on me and pokes my ribs until I declare, "You're the greatest mom in the entire cosmos times infinity, I wish everybody was like my mom, and I love my mom."

It's difficult to say all that when you're gasping for air, but I've had to say it for 15 years now, and as I get older, I'm actually starting to believe it!

I know a lot of people say that their mom is the best or greatest mom ever, but I'm not that stupid. If I say such a thing, my mom will hold it over my head for the rest of her life. She'll print out copies of this blog, frame them, and hang them all over the house so she can reference them at any time. My mom ain't no dummy, and she didn't raise any either.

Instead, she raised my sister and me to abide by 5 main rules:

1. Don't take any shit from anybody
2. Have no sympathy for the stupid
3. Be aware of and respect your surroundings
4. Listen
5. Define your own happiness, and if it doesn't endanger anybody, go for it with everything you got.

Other than that, my mom never told my sister or me how to live our lives. We knew what she expected of us, and as we grew up, we made her proud not because we were forced to, but because it genuinely made us proud to make her proud. Few mothers command that kind of respect without having to command at all.

It's the least I can do, really. My mom has sacrificed so much to spoil me so severely. I've traveled all over the world even though she hasn't. I've dined in some of the finest restaurants even though she hasn't. I've experienced all kinds of fun and spectacle living outside the islands even though she rarely leaves them. But somehow, she is still worldlier and livelier than I'll ever be.

Of course, her being a teacher meant that whenever I was in school, she was in school, and whenever I was home, she was home. There really was no escaping her wrath. But even though I have a bruised forehead, broken ribs, and no fingerprints, I can honestly say that I am a better person because she was always there—even during those times when I wanted her to return to the planet from which she came.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I can say in full certainty that you are the best mom I've ever had. You can quote me on that.

Subway Smackdown

2011-05-07T03:30:00.000-07:00

Restraint has never come easy to me. If I hear or see something stupid, it takes every ounce of strength in me to refrain from reacting in a physical or verbal manner—and by physical, I mean the loudest facepalm you’ve ever heard (I invented the facepalm; I’ve been doing it since I was 5).

However, when I’m tired or fed up, all censors are off. Anything can happen. I know it is not my place to put idiots in their place, but in all the years I’ve been told that ignorance is bliss, it has never, ever been blissful to me.

A few nights ago, I went to Subway (EAT FRESH on lousy bread!) because I always lose track of time when I edit, and at 11pm, it is the only open place within walking distance. I know everybody hates Subway, but for a $5 footlong, there's no reason to expect anything... except maybe a potential act of violence if you’re me.

Upon entering the Way of the Sub, there was a line of women waiting to be helped at the counter. At the other end of the room sat two guys who talked so loudly that the workers could not hear the orders properly. Judging from how the guys were wearing lame tracksuits and the women were in business clothes, I knew neither side was associated with the other.

The women did not look happy at all. One of them kept glaring at the two men like they had open wounds on their faces. The guy in the red tracksuit was going on and on about his girlfriend while the other, in blue, played the yes man. Their conversation begged for a facepalm:

Red: "I don't get it, man. I wake up, go to work, work my ass off, come home tired, and she expects me to talk and shit?"

Blue: "Seriously?"

Red: "Yeah. I'm tired. I don't have time to hear her shit. She works too, but she gets home before me, and has time to make dinner. I don’t have that kind of time. All I wanna do when I get home is eat and veg. Save talking for Saturday or whenever. It can wait."

Blue: "Did you tell her that?"

Red: "Yeah, and she gets all angry like it’s my fault."

As this was going on, I watched as each woman left Subway with a look of disgust. Even the two ladies behind the counter shook their heads as they put soggy tomatoes on the sandwiches. Of course, the tracksuit duo was completely oblivious to this.

Meanwhile, I had no energy to do anything but get my $5 footlong and go home. I had been editing for ten straight hours and almost forgot that I had to eat. The last thing I wanted was to hear the wisdom of two guys sharing one brain. They kept going on and on and on...

Red: "She always expects me to be like her. But I don't like talking like she does. I don't like going out and doing the same stuff like her. I'm me, man. If she wants to be with me, she needs to accept that."

Blue: "Maybe you need to tell that to her, too."

I couldn’t take it anymore.

"Maybe you need to treat her better," I blurted.

The whole Subway hushed like a Western saloon. The lady behind the counter paused right in the middle of putting olives on my cold cut combo. I didn’t even realize the remark was audible until I heard a chair slide back.

"Maybe you should mind your business, bro," Red told me.

I could see Red in the reflection of that counter window you look through to pick your meats and veggies. He stood about 6 feet tall and had no neck. To give you perspective, I am a lanky 5’10" and my body has been declared an unsafe structure by four zoning inspectors. If Red punched me, I’d probably die from the pneumonia generated by the wind of his fist before it came in contact with my face.

But I didn’t care.

"You're right," I said, "But I’m not the one dressed like a tool and hee-hawing like a jackass."

It was at this point that I became quite grateful for Blue, 'cause when Red moved forward, Blue got up and held him back. Despite his diminutive size, Blue held his own against Red’s flailing arms. It was like watching Lefou try to calm Gaston, praises and all. ("Come on, man, you’re smarter than this. You’re too good for jail, man.")

"Listen to your beta, Red," I remarked.

I guess it really pissed them off that I never turned around. I kept my eyes on my sandwich ‘cause I was hungry. The woman behind the counter smirked.

"Can I get more olives please?" I asked her.

A few ladies who already got their order stuck around for the main event, and took out their cell phones just in case 9-1-1 had to be dialed.

"I’m already calling the police," said the woman who stood before me in line. I felt bad for her. She endured more of their painful discussion than I did.

"It won’t be hard for cops to find two douchebags in tracksuits driving around Culver City," I added.

Vincent and Julius left in a puff, shouting four-letter obscenities that they couldn’t spell. I just kept waving goodbye as they pushed through the doors. Clearly, they forgot the First Rule in a Crisis Situation ("Negotiate first, attack last"), and even though I forgot the Second Rule ("If you choose to bluff, you must be prepared to have your bluff called"), I was prepared to implement the Third ("DUCK!").

By all accounts, I could have had my ass whooped at Subway that night. I thanked the ladies for backing me up. One even offered to buy my sandwich for me! But the workers were kind enough to let me have it on the house.

"I thought they would never shut the hell up!" exclaimed one of them.

A woman who stayed behind gave me a hug and said, "Please tell me not all men think like that."

"I hope not," I replied.

For the record, I’m no feminist; Red’s girlfriend deserves just as much criticism for sticking with such a loser. But seriously, how difficult is it to treat a woman—or any human being—properly? If you listen enough and remain respectful, you’re already on the right path. And if you don’t wear tracksuits, you're even better off.

All I wanted was a sandwich without stupidity on the side. In retrospect, I would have paid more than 5 bucks for that.

Ode to an Old, Shitty Job: The Epic List

2011-04-20T01:45:00.000-07:00

There is nothing funny about having a shitty job. Luckily, I left mine a few weeks ago. It wasn't the worst job I ever had, but it was perhaps the most soul-sucking. I now work someplace that treats its employees with respect, and I'm happy to be there. In contrast, when I was at the former job, if someone asked me what I did for a living, I'd tell the person I was unemployed; I felt better about myself for doing so.

Thanks to the recession, by February '09, I was forced to take any work I could find. The result: a part-time Internet researching gig in El Segundo, where I remained until April 8th of this year. During those 2-plus years, I got no raises, no promotions, and no benefits. I think at most, I got two Blow Pops, and was offered a choice of either a sweater or a bag with the company logo on it.

I think it says something when my co-workers actually Sharpied out the logo on their items before using them.

I knew the office was a joke from the beginning. They had no idea how to train us, and whenever we asked a question, they didn't have an answer. They didn't even have specialists or editors who were knowledgeable about the content we were producing! Even when we suggested new ideas or processes to improve things, we were ignored and rejected like fools. By the time 2009 was over, we had complete apathy for the place. If it weren't for the flexibility, I probably would have quit.

Unfortunately, given the awful job climate in '09, I couldn't afford to get up and leave. And as 2010 rolled around, I had my sights set on shooting a fundraising trailer for my feature, and there was no way I could film it while maintaining a full-time schedule. So basically, I needed my shitty job way more than it needed me. It was an awful predicament to be in.

I know that some of you fair-minded people may think that I have no right to grumble when I chose to stay there, and that if I was so miserable, I really could have quit at any time. You could also argue that since I was a part-time worker (34 hours a week), the company had no obligation to offer me a raise, promotion, or benefits--as far as I know, even if you work full-time in California, no company is obligated to give you squat. A few of you may even claim that I should be grateful for the Blow Pops!

All points (sans the Blow Pops) are valid, and as I said before, this wasn't the worst job I ever had. Because the gig was part-time, I had the freedom to clock-in and leave whenever, just as long as I fulfilled my owed hours. I enjoyed that flexibility. Believe me, I took advantage of it to the nth degree.

An even greater perk was that I really didn't have to do anything at the office. There wasn't much supervision or micromanaging, so I admittedly goofed off a lot. I think in the time I was there, I got more personal projects done than company-related ones. I also saw every buzzworthy YouTube video imaginable; I knew what was hot before Buzzfeed or Reddit could pick up on it. It was incredible to get paid to keep up with the latest online trends.

In truth, however, there was always a project to complete and quotas to be met, and when I did work, I produced high-quality results. But I had no faith in the product, no faith in my superiors, and no faith that there was anything to get out of the job except a paycheck. Lazing off seemed to benefit all involved parties most.

As you can imagine, I didn't feel a hint of guilt for doing nothing. I didn't care. What for? The company didn't care about me or what I thought. And that was the problem: the company did not care about anything its employees had to offer. The office was a revolving door of wasted talent. Even now, there are some driven, intelligent minds working there, yet the higher-ups refuse to properly utilize them. Oh well. I don't think the company is capable of stimulating those minds anyway.

As morale dropped every week, I started what became known as The Epic List, which at first highlighted 12 things that an employee could never expect from the company. By the time I left, that number grew to 64:

1) Knowledge
2) Common Sense
3) Simplicity
4) Common Sense
5) Efficiency
6) Consistency
7) Accountability
8) Specificity
9) Communication
10) Tact
11) Thoughts
12) Problem Solving
13) Empathy
14) Camaraderie
15) Individuality
16) Clarity
17) Standards
18) Resourcefulness
19) Initiative
20) Competence
21) Listening
22) Peace
23) Manners
24) Integrity
25) Logic
26) Appreciation
27) Foresight
28) Organization
29) Fulfillment
30) Innovation
31) Incentive
32) Training
33) Pleasure
34) Office Supplies
35) Honesty
36) Dignity
37) Caring
38) Pride
39) Ethics
40) Effective Content
41) Fire Alarms
42) Grammar
43) Internet
44) Windows
45) Opportunity
46) Printing
47) Safety
48) Fun
49) Comfort
50) Leadership
51) Proper Room Temperature
52) Fairness
53) Humor
54) Privacy
55) Electricity
56) Answers
57) Quality
58) Trust
59) Updated Software
60) Contributions
61) Respect
62) Hope
63) Happiness
64) The Bright Side

Common Sense is repeated (#2 and #4) because nothing the company did ever made sense. They would make its developers create tools for things that were completely unnecessary. They would constantly change their minds about procedures that would force many workers to redo projects they already spent weeks on. They even had a sink in the 10th floor kitchen that wouldn't turn off, and for months, nobody bothered to fix it. Employees even left notes asking for somebody in maintenance to do something about it. As far as I know, it is probably still running.

When I think of my shitty job, that faucet will always come to mind first. It is perfectly symbolic of the time, energy, and resources wasted there on a daily basis.

The best example of the office's lack of common sense (and several other things on the Epic List) was when I e-mailed a few supervisors last fall to inform them that Google's search algorithm was going to change in February. (I don't know why I cared; morale was beyond recovery by that point.) The company's websites depended on Google for visitors, so unless they revamped the sites' content, they were in danger of getting lower rankings once the new algorithm took over.

Unsurprisingly, I got no response, and didn't hear anything of it again. So what happened when the algorithm switched in February? The bigwigs panicked and acted like they didn't see it coming. I remember sitting at my desk that day with my head lowered in total disgust. Sure enough, nearly all the company's sites were punished by Google. And thanks to the inaction of my superiors, all the work my co-workers and I had done for the past 2 years became worthless.

Most people would react angrily to that kind of news, but we all laughed non-stop about it at lunchtime. Of course the company blew it. If "blowing it" were a product, that office would be the Microsoft of Blowing It. Nobody blew it better for worse!

To top that off, during my final months, the company took away our flexibility. All part-timers were forced to work a set schedule because of building renovations. The higher-ups said the construction would only be for a couple weeks, but when I left, the contractors were only getting started.

Whoa. Looks like we just came up with #65 on the list! Let's add it:

65) Flexibility

Yay! Now we have 65 things you'll never expect to find at my old company. How pathetic.

Even more pathetic was the CEO of that dump. He had the audacity to hold a Christmas champagne ceremony to celebrate the company being bought out. While giving a toast, he said, "Thank you all for adding another zero to my bank account."

...

Nobody laughed.

Yes, we helped him add another zero to his bank account while the rest of us had accounts nearing zero. Yes, he boasted about his pay while the rest of us remained underpaid. Yes, he bragged about being a millionaire while all of us were still "dollaraires" dreaming to be "hundredaires." Screw the champagne; how about a raise, jackass?

I'm reminded of a blog the jackass wrote about how it took talent and "grit" to work at his company. Quite frankly, given the prices he was (and is still) unwilling to pay, he can't afford grit. And given the 65 things his company doesn't (and never will) offer, he doesn't even deserve grit.

Going back to what I was saying earlier, I can overlook the lack of benefits or raises or promotions--honestly, in the grand scheme of things, those incentives do not matter. I don't need those types of motivation to work hard and devote myself to a job. I never did. I think most people wouldn't mind working without those things as long as they felt their contributions meant something. But this job didn't offer any fulfillment (#29) or opportunity (#45), so the fact that it didn't give any raises or benefits was complete and utter bullshit.

When the jackass talked about his bank account at the ceremony, there was a stunned silence of realization that all our work served only him. It was never about the customers. It was never about the workers. It was all about him.

Again, what a waste.

For those of you who work at a shitty day job, here's what I learned in 2-plus years at mine:

1. If a company does not give you health benefits, don’t ever do ANYTHING that could potentially harm your physical, mental, or emotional health. Save the stress for figuring out what to eat when you return home from work. You’ll get more out of that, believe me.

2. If a company does not give you any possibility of a raise or promotion, don’t EVER go "above and beyond" for them. Don't be afraid to tell supervisors, "Hey, that's above my pay scale" because if they aren't paying you properly, they can't argue. To me, no raise means they have no faith in you, so you shouldn’t be afraid to disappoint them.

3. If a company does not respect you, don’t respect it. Plain and simple. But maintain your self-respect. If you're getting paid a measly $8 an hour, don’t ever let a crappy office make you feel like you’re worth $8 an hour. You're better than that.

4. If you have NOTHING else going on outside of your day job, you better be sure the one you have is fulfilling and everything you want it to be. There is no sense in torturing yourself five days a week when you could be ANYPLACE better.

5. Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies. Never give up trying to find a better job. Even if you don't land interviews on a daily basis, persistence really does pay off in the long run. Remember: you won't be at your shitty job forever unless you allow it.

6. Misery loves company, but if the company you work at is the source of your misery, get the hell out.

As soon as my trailer was shot, I made it a goal to get out. And fortunately, I did.

During my last day, I kept quiet and stayed humble. I was too exhausted to celebrate anyway. I just wanted out as peacefully as possible.

When I exited the building, there was no excessive jubilation, but there was an overwhelming sense of relief. Contrary to #64 on the Epic List, there really were a few "bright sides" to be found at the office (though, to be fair, the company itself did not produce them). Those bright sides, obviously, were the friends I worked with. If there was any proof that adversity brings people together, that office was it. I thought about all of my fellow inmates, past and present, as I walked to my car.

On the drive home, I smiled and laughed. I couldn't believe that the misery was finally over. I literally felt a new bout of clarity overtake my mind. I could breathe and stand straight again. And now, when people ask me what I do for a living, I can tell them what I do with pride.

Don't worry, I made sure to send the Epic List to a few higher-ups who needed to see it. And in case they didn't understand it, I explained EVERY listed item in detail. I know nothing will come of it, and I know they didn't care. Regardless, April 8, 2011, will go down as one of my most glorious days. I finally escaped Shawshank and came out clean on the other side.

---

One more thing I learned at my shitty day job: this RSA video is the damn truth.

If these guys get it, every company should.

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Seven

2011-04-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

With our WrestleMania weekend winding to an end, the first thing I did was return the Lumix camera to Best Buy. They still charged me a 15% "restocking fee" (which everybody knows is bullshit), but I suppose it was worth it for the memories. (For future reference, Canon's picture quality is much sharper and clearer.)

We then headed down Central Avenue to the Heard Museum, home to many Native American artifacts. I think deep down, Andrew has always been a history nut. I mean, for a guy who takes pleasure in shaking his head at the world's absurdities, history provides a wide array of idiots and failures to ridicule. On the other hand, history also has its fair share of marvels. In fact, we were impressed that the Heard Museum could exist in a state that was then on the verge of banning ethnic studies in classrooms.

The Heard Museum was perfect evidence that ethnic studies should continue. There was a whole wing dedicated to kids cultural artwork, and I gotta say, from what I saw, there is a lot of artistic talent in Arizona's elementary schools. I don't believe the ban, which was signed into law over a month later, benefits anybody in the long run.

Andrew and I took a guided tour of the museum, which I eventually bailed to stare at the Barry Goldwater Collection of Hopi kachina dolls. I loved them. There was one kachina doll holding a Peanuts comic that I really liked. As I tried to get a picture of it with my cell, a worker walked by and said, "that's one of the contemporary dolls," and walked away. I guess since Phoenix is run by idiots, they expect their tourists to be just as dumb.

Actually, most of the Arizonans we met were very pleasant and kind. It's actually hard for me to believe that they'd be the type to restrict their kids from learning cultural studies or pass such controversial immigration laws. I prefer to think that it's all just a result of political nonsense that reflects Arizona's politicians more than its people.

The East Gallery of the museum was the most sobering. On display were photos, paintings, writings and various items from Arizona's Native American boarding schools. It was awful reading about how children were taken from their families and forced to become Americanized. They were punished for speaking their native tongue and for craving foods they grew up on. And for what? To become handymen and secretaries? What a waste. An even bigger waste would be if the kids of Arizona didn't learn about it.

Andrew and I ate lunch at the museum cafe before heading to the U.S. Airways Center for a broadcast of WWE Monday Night Raw. Yes, there's always more wrestling after wrestling. That's how they keep the fans happy.

As we waited in yet another line, I gave in and bought a Bret Hart T-shirt for the road. I thought the design was really cool: a screaming skull with gray ornamented wings in front of a pink blaze. Andrew must have thought it was cool too 'cause he bought one for himself and wore it to work when he returned to Hawaii. Given that he works for the state prosecutor, I can only imagine what his co-workers thought.

Our seats for Raw were up in the rafters, but we saw everything just fine. Since Raw is a live cable show and not a pay-per-view, we had to sit through commercial breaks as anyone watching at home would. We sat next to a very polite family from Yuma, who weren't able to attend WrestleMania the day before. The father kept grumbling to us how a few beers at the arena cost him $20. He was pretty funny.

His wife, to my surprise, was a real WWE fanatic. I remember her apologizing in advance to Andrew if she started "going nuts" for Randy Orton if he wrestled.

"I'm a big fan," she told Andrew with a smile. Her son, sitting next to her, rolled his eyes.

When Bret Hart came out to address his victory over Vince McMahon, Andrew and I gave him another standing ovation. It was always good seeing the "Hit Man." But since Shawn Michaels was forced to retire after losing his match at 'Mania, the whole show was a tribute to him. During commercial breaks, the WWE played clips commemorating his career. Shawn eventually came out and gave a farewell address, which neither Andrew nor I cared about until Shawn thanked Bret for forgiving him. It didn't necessarily change how Andrew and I felt about Shawn, but it was a good gesture.

The show was good overall. The Hart Dynasty (a trio comprised of Bret's family members and proteges) and Jack Swagger got fair pushes, and in a "dark match" (non-televised match), Edge beat Chris Jericho by disqualification in a World Heavyweight Championship rematch. Triple H, Shawn's best friend, came out after the match to help Edge, delivering "Sweet Chin Music" (Shawn's super-kick finisher) to Jericho in tribute.

A funny moment happened as Jericho recovered. Edge charged him to deliver a spear (a shoulder tackle to the stomach), but Jericho mistimed the impact and fell on his own before Edge made contact. It was hilarious! They tried again, and the second time around, Edge nailed the spear perfectly.

And just like that, our weekend in Phoenix was over.

As Andrew and I walked across downtown on Van Buren Street, we looked at the skyscrapers and took in the clean Arizona night air once more.

"Central may be the most important street in Phoenix," Andrew said, "but Van Buren is where it's at!" I think we both made the most of the city, and hurried up the I-17 to catch the Raw broadcast on USA Network.

We quickly ate dinner at a Waffle House right by the hotel. Andrew had a plate of chili topped with hash browns that was delicious. I had a breakfast sandwich that was neatly put together and tasted very fresh. For a chain restaurant, we were both stunned at the care they put into their unhealthy dishes.

We made it back to the room just in time to watch Raw on TV. We were never on-camera since we sat too high up, but it was fun to see what we couldn't in the live audience.

I packed my WWE merchandise neatly in my luggage, and the next morning, Andrew dropped me off at the airport. The poor guy spent an extra day in Phoenix after I left. I have no idea what he did, but I'd like to think that he bought a sombrero somewhere and drove around in the hopes of getting racially profiled by an ignorant cop. It wouldn't have been the most surreal thing he experienced that weekend.

As I get older, I am often reminded of how much harder it is to get together with friends, be they from high school, college, or even work. We're all busy people, and we're all growing up doing grownup things. Finding time to go to WrestleMania or even hang out for a cup of coffee is now equivalent to moving mountains. That's why I'm always grateful to spend time with Andrew or any of my old friends--especially if it involves traveling halfway across the Pacific to a city known for taking boredom to new levels.

It was a fun time, so thank you, Andrew, for not completely losing your mind throughout the trip. I wonder if we have another WrestleMania in us...

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Six

2011-04-17T16:00:00.000-07:00

The crowd roared as the countdown to WrestleMania went to :00. The screens around the ring showed us what was being broadcast on pay-per-view, so we first saw an FBI warning. Then, to kick off the show, Fantasia Barrino came out of obscurity to sing "America the Beautiful" as three fighter jets flew across the sky to polite applause. In my notes, I wrote, "Fantasia was the low point of the WrestleMania experience." Seriously, everybody around us asked either, "who is that?" or "what the hell is that frog doing here?" The armrest-stealing kid to my left asked his mom who Fantasia was. The mom had no idea.

The screens lit up again, this time with a video package highlighting the WrestleMania's history and the night's scheduled matches. Whoever edits these packages is, in my opinion, the backbone of the WWE experience. I'm convinced he/she can make grocery shopping look like the most exciting thing in the universe. The video was dramatic and riveting, and then... BOOM!

A massive pyro display went off on the entrance stage as Kevin Rudolf's "I Made It" blared throughout the stadium. Andrew and I heard the song on the radio earlier that day, and we both thought it was bland. But being there amongst 70,000, we agreed that it was the perfect tune. The pyros were just as I like 'em: loud, colorful, and all over the place. While fans in TV land watched the fireworks in the ambiance of their homes, we in the stadium FELT it.

Even though Andrew and I saw exactly what everybody else saw on TV, fans in the audience do not hear commentary. All we have are the wrestlers telling the story in the ring. (Given how awful WWE commentary has been since Jim Ross stopped announcing in 2009, we didn't mind that one bit.) It was an excellent WrestleMania, the best I'd seen since #22. In fact, I can probably still recite the results (excuse me while I test my memory):

ShowMiz beat John Morrison and R-Truth in the opener (Big Show's "knockout punch" looks pretty mean in person).

Randy Orton defeated Cody Rhodes and Ted Dibiase (Orton's Double-DDT on Rhodes and DiBiase got a big crowd reaction).

Jack Swagger won the Money in the Bank ladder match (Swagger's win totally caught Andrew and me by surprise).

Triple H pinned Shaemus (Andrew and I never cared much for Triple H, but liked that he wasn't in the main event as he usually is).

Rey Mysterio splashed CM Punk for the 1-2-3 (I don't care for acrobatics in a wrestling match, but live, they're pretty exciting to watch).

Bret Hart made Vince McMahon tap out to the Sharpshooter (more on that later).

Chris Jericho pinned Edge in an excellent Canadian-vs-Canadian match for the World Heavyweight Title (another shocking end; Edge's post-match spear on Jericho off the announce tables through a barricade was awesome).

There was a women's match, which gave everyone an opportunity to take a bathroom break. I have no idea what happened, but thankfully, the match was quick.

John Cena defeated Batista for the WWE Championship (the fans were totally divided during the match; Andrew and I were forced to cheer Cena on since we hated Batista more).

The Undertaker Tombstoned and retired Shawn Michaels in the final match (an epic from bell to bell).

I think it is fair to say that the main reason Andrew and I were hyped about WrestleMania was Bret "Hit Man" Hart. We grew up watching him carry the WWE, and with his technical ability, he made us believe it was real. We didn't care that Bret wasn't the biggest or most extroverted wrestler; in fact, we respected him more because of it. He let his talent speak for itself, and in the words of WWE owner Vince McMahon, Bret was "one of greatest storytellers of all time" in the ring.

Simply put, Bret was our hero. When he was screwed over by McMahon in November '97, Andrew and I were stunned. To keep explanations to a minimum here, in late '97, McMahon convinced Bret to join then-rival wrestling organization WCW since McMahon couldn't afford Bret's contract. In his final match, McMahon agreed to let Bret (who was the WWE Champion at the time) retain the title. Instead, McMahon rang the bell early on Bret, screwing him out of the belt and the graceful exit Bret wanted after 13 years of service. People still debate over who was right in the "Montreal Screwjob."

In the years that followed, Owen, Bret's younger brother who was still under contract with the WWE, died during a pay-per-view stunt. His death nearly destroyed the Hart Family. Helen and Stu Hart, Bret's parents, died not long after, and Bret himself suffered a concussion in WCW that forced him to retire. Later, in 2002, Bret had a stroke that forced him to go though extensive rehab.

Andrew and I never thought in a billion years that we'd see him at a WrestleMania again, much less participate in a WWE event at all. To hear the opening screech of his theme music, to see that entrance pyramid lit up in pink (Bret's signature color), and to see Bret in the ring making McMahon tap out to the Sharpshooter was such a glorious moment. Was it a good match? No, but given Bret's stroke recovery and Vince's age, we weren't expecting anything but a brutal beatdown. And that's what we got.

When Bret's hand was raised, Andrew and I stood and cheered. It felt as though our love for the WWE and our love for Bret came full circle that day. To top that all off, later that night, Shawn Michaels, the guy who helped McMahon screw Bret over, was forced to retire after losing to The Undertaker.

If you watched WrestleMania XXVI on TV, the crowd came off as rather quiet throughout the event (an open-air venue will do that). In person, however, they were alive as ever, especially during the Michaels-Taker match. It reminded me of when Andrew and I saw Michaels face Kurt Angle at WrestleMania 21 (the crowd was really into that match as well).

The Michaels-Taker match was a rematch from WrestleMania 25, only this time, if Michaels lost, he'd have to retire. If Taker lost, he'd lose his WrestleMania streak, which was 17-0 at the time. That's right, the Undertaker has never lost at a WrestleMania. The Streak may seem silly considering that pro-wrestling is purely entertainment, but to fans and wrestlers alike, it is a sacred record that nobody believes should be broken.

Because of that, neither Andrew nor I expected Taker to lose, but there were still moments where we found ourselves doubting his chances. The match was a classic in its own right: lots of back-and-forth momentum swings, lots of twists and near-falls, and given the wrestlers' rich WWE history and the stakes involved, the fans were HOT for all 24 minutes of it.

When Michaels lost, the entire stadium gave him a standing ovation as he went up the ramp for the final time. Some people around us cried. I reluctantly gave him his owed applause. After all, it was a great match. Still, I hadn't forgiven him for what he did to Bret, and neither did Andrew, who stayed seated with his arms folded.

More pyros went off on the stage and off the stadium roof to celebrate Undertaker's 18-0 victory. Since the sun had set by then, it looked spectacular--a brilliant end to a fun and fulfilling WrestleMania.

As we left the stadium, we could hear Paul McCartney jamming away in the Jobing.com Arena. We had dinner at a Yard House in the Westgate mall, where I called my auntie to wish her a happy birthday. The Yard House was filled with fellow WWE fans, who often talked to us and asked what we thought of the Michaels-Taker match. I think many were stunned to hear how much we disliked Shawn Michaels, but again, we gave him credit for stealing the show at both WrestleManias we've attended.

Emotionally exhausted, Andrew and I returned to the Kia, and after a brief struggle with getting the GPS to stick to the windshield, we left for the hotel. Once again, "Temporary Home" played. And once again, Andrew sang along with it.

NEXT: Monday Night RAW

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Five

2011-04-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

It has been roughly 10 months since I last blogged, but in those 10 months, a lot has changed in my life—all for the better. (Don't worry, I didn’t get married or impregnate an unsuspecting woman or anything stupid like that.) As much as I would like to elaborate, I do not like leaving stories unfinished, so even though WrestleMania XXVII in Atlanta has already passed, here’s the continuation of my WrestleMania XXVI trip with Andrew.

For those wondering, I kept rather detailed notes of our trip. At the end of every night, I'd spend a good half-hour scribbling the day’s events on a notepad. It’s been over a year since the trip, and going back through the scribbles, I'm reminded of how much the trip reminded me of Das Boot. Because there was nothing to do in Phoenix, there were long periods of, "So what do we do now?" And then, out of nowhere, there’d be moments of sheer excitement and joy (mostly at the WWE events).

One year later, I still have no desire to go back to Arizona for any reason. And why should I? I’m sure the 4 days we visited are about as good as the state can get.

Now… WrestleMania XXVI. Sunday, March 28, 2010.

Excited for the day's festivities, I woke up at 8 while Andrew slept. I couldn’t believe that we were going to another WrestleMania. Hell, I still couldn't believe we were in Phoenix.

The Bell Hotel had the most modest breakfast setup ever: a few cereal dispensers, a toaster, Danish in a see-through container, a waffle-maker, a coffee maker, and a few pitchers of orange juice and milk. For our entire stay there, I ate several bowls of Chex and milk. Andrew always had a coffee with toast and/or Danish. For WrestleMania, we figured we wouldn't be eating until after the show, so we ate up as much as we could before hitting the road.

We left for the University of Arizona Stadium around 10, even though the event didn't start until 3:30. We didn't want to risk traffic or face any hassles with parking.

On the way, Carrie Underwood's "Temporary Home" started playing, and I made the mistake of telling Andrew how much I hated the song. Rule of thumb with Andrew (at least with me) is that if you don't like something, don't tell him, because chances are, he will love whatever you hate. And it's not just to spite you; Andrew has very specific tastes, so if he loves something, it's genuine. And he will spare no expense to make sure you know he supports something.

In this case, he showed his support for Carrie Underwood by singing "Temporary Home" down the I-17. I think I wept in pain for the first time in years.

Shortly after we left Arizona, the state's controversial immigration laws made headlines. I don't want to brag, but Andrew and I knew the state was losing its marbles beforehand when we parked for WrestleMania. We followed the signs and ended up at a nearby Westgate mall, which charged $30 for event parking at any nearby venue. The mall is next-door to the Jobing.com Arena, where Paul McCartney was performing that night. I thought it was rather funny he was there since I was going to see him days later at the Hollywood Bowl.

Anyway, when we parked, we got a voucher that stated if we spent $20 at the mall, we'd get $20 back from parking. Since we had hours to kill, Andrew and I thought it was a good deal, and we spent $10 each on movie tickets at the AMC. We saw "Repo Men" starring Jude Law and Forest Whitaker. It was a good popcorn movie about humans renting mechanical vital organ replacements, and what happens if they fail to make payments on them. We couldn’t help but make fun of the title, which reminded us of a ridiculous wrestling gimmick from the early 90s.

We took our AMC receipt to the parking redemption office, which was really an empty storefront with one lady sitting inside with a pouch full of cash. She gave us $30 back instead of $20, and although we questioned the amount, she insisted that she was supposed to give 30 back. We shrugged and ran off to the stadium before she realized that she let us park for free.

"Those are the kinds of people running Arizona," I said to Andrew. We basked in the glory of our free parking victory until we saw the long line heading into the stadium. Normally, I'd fume at the idea of lining up for any event when there's assigned seating, but we knew that standing in a line was the most exciting thing to do in Arizona at that time.

As soon as we got in, we got caught in a huge cluster of bodies going in all directions. The geniuses running the stadium thought it'd be brilliant to put a merchandise stand, a concession stand, and the bathrooms right in front of the main entrance. One lady started having a panic attack, and rudely pushed through everybody. Andrew tapped me on the shoulder and said, "let's follow this wreck." And we did all the way to our seats.

I've said before that WrestleMania is the Super Bowl of wrestling, and the least you can ask for is a seat on the 50-yard line. Well, we got 'em. They weren’t ringside, but excellent enough, considering we didn't buy the tickets until several months after they were released. I'd never been in a crowd that large before (72,219), so it was fun to take in all the energy and anticipation before the event started.

I was extra curious to see how the entrance stage would be set up in a venue as large as the UoP Stadium. The WWE went with an Aztec theme this time, with a huge pyramid of video screens going up one whole end of the stadium. The entrance ramp went all the way to the 50-yard line, where the ring was built under 4 steel grids that formed another pyramid of lights and speakers. I was impressed, and couldn’t wait to see everything up and running.

Before the pay-per-view started to broadcast, we got a pre-show match in the form of a 26-man battle royal. Santino Marella, who we met at Axxess two days before, was the fan favorite of the bunch. The crowd booed loudly when he was eliminated by Finlay. Andrew and I were most pleased when a Japanese wrestler, Yoshi Tatsu, won the match. Nobody knew who he was, but that didn’t stop us from giving him a rousing ovation.

It was during the battle royal that I realized who I was sitting by: an armrest stealer. Some fat kid wearing an orange John Cena T-shirt kept stealing my armrest. Being the ass that I was (and still am), I had no compunction elbowing him off. Hey, the kid has to learn manners somehow. Andrew and I had to wait 21 years to attend our first WrestleMania. That kid had to wait what? Nine, ten years? Please.

During the battle royal, I also noticed that the stadium had a retractable roof, which was the bane of many fans on the opposite end of us; they got lots of sun in their faces whenever the roof was open. I felt sorry for them. The sun was so bright, I could only see a splash of white on the other end. Of course, Andrew laughed at them. Who cares? We were at WrestleMania! Again!

On the large video screens, a countdown started, and before we knew it, :05… :04… :03… :02… :01…

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NEXT: The wait is OVER!

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Four

2010-06-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the delay in blogging. I am currently in pre-production for the trailer of my first feature, and as that develops, I will keep you updated.

It has been three months since WrestleMania weekend, and I still cannot believe that Andrew and I actually traveled for it. It still feels very surreal, but looking over my notes of each day's festivities, it was all so much fun.

Here are my recollections of the WWE Hall of Fame ceremony on March 27th.

---

As a line formed outside Dodge Theatre, Andrew and I sat at a bus stop along Washington Street for some shade. We figured, we had assigned seats anyway, so why stand in line?

There was barely any traffic passing by. The only people walking the streets were wrestling fans, some dressed to the nines, others not so dressed up. Andrew and I looked about as casual formal as we could get. We didn't want to look nerdy nor disrespectful.

A guy in a suit sat next to us with his mildly attractive girlfriend. We talked about next year's WrestleMania in Atlanta, and how the WWE supposedly plans to induct WCW stars into the Hall of Fame. (WCW was WWE's rival in the 1990s, owned by Ted Turner and based in Atlanta.)

At some point in the conversation, Andrew stopped talking and watched me out-nerd the other guy, referencing dates and venues like nobody's business. It didn't dawn on me until the guy left that Andrew enjoyed seeing his friend make an nerd of himself at a Phoenix bus stop. The real loser, however, was that guy's girlfriend. Andrew and I couldn't figure out what a girl like that would be doing with a WWE fan-boyfriend.

As the start time approached, we got in line just as five luxury tour buses approached the theatre. Most of the WWE superstars and their families were in tow, and as we headed near the front entrance, the buses hydraulically lowered, allowing various wrestlers to make their way to the building's side entrance.

Andrew and I sat center on the highest balcony. A projector that displayed a timer for the speeches hummed loudly behind us. To keep the projector from overheating, a fan was set next to it, which hummed even louder than the projector. We hoped someone would turn the damn thing off before the show started, but that wasn't to be.

Right when the announcement was made that the show would start in a few minutes, Andrew turned to me and asked, "Don't you think it's absurd that there's even a pro wrestling hall of fame?" I thought about it for a second. Wrestling results are all predetermined, and clearly, you don't need wrestling skill to be a well-regarded professional wrestler (*cough*Hulk Hogan*cough*). It's really up to the paying fans (and the bookers) to determine who is a true success, so in that regard, it is totally absurd to have a pro wrestling hall of fame.

"But," I argued, "if wrestlers are chosen by the fans, then the hall of fame is more or less a gift back to the fans."

"I guess so," Andrew said. "But this is still absurd."

WWE announcer Todd Grisham walked onstage and told us all in advance that there was "no heckling" allowed, and to remain quiet during the speeches. Fair enough.

The show started to warm applause, and host Jerry "The King" Lawler introduced Pat Patterson as our first presenter. One of the worst-kept secrets in the WWE is Patterson's homosexuality, so the second he opened his mouth, Andrew couldn't stop laughing. It didn't help that Patterson's onscreen demeanor is so goofy.

He lost track of his introduction speech, and he lapsed into telling a series of off-color Alzheimer's jokes. The crowd downstairs laughed uncomfortably, but Andrew and I had a ball. (Keep in mind, Patterson does not have Alzheimer's.)

"It's great having Alzheimer's," Patterson quipped. "You'll never see a rerun."

"I went to my doctor about my memory loss; he said, 'go home and forget about it.'"

"Best part about having Alzheimer's? You can hide your own Easter eggs."

I think by the time Patterson found his place, Andrew and I were the only ones still laughing.

Patterson inducted "Mad Dog" Vachon into the WWE Hall of Fame. At 80 years of age, Vachon wasn't as sharp as he used to be, so Patterson had to guide him through his acceptance speech with a series of questions. It was actually tough to watch. I doubted the WWE would even broadcast it on TV. Even the best speeches seem to go on and on forever.

As I mentioned earlier, the screen in front of us had a timer that counted down each presenter and inductee for their speeches. Nobody followed it. Andrew, me, and everybody else in my section had to sit through the humming projector and fan for no reason whatsoever. Oh well.

At the very least, Wendi Richter, the next inductee, was a joy to see. "Rowdy" Roddy Piper came out to loud cheers, and humorously inducted Richter into the hall. For a girl who was screwed over in her last WWE bout, Richter was surprisingly very gracious. She even thanked WWE owner Vince McMahon in addition to Cyndi Lauper, who helped her become one of the icons of the Rock 'N' Wrestling era.

Stu Hart, father of Bret and Owen, was inducted by several members of the Hart clan, including Bret. Andrew and I gave them a standing ovation. It was the first time we saw Bret at a WWE-related event in over a decade.

Everybody onstage and in the audience was moved by Bret's induction speech. Stu Hart was clearly loved and respected by everybody who knew him, including a punk kid who tried to steal his car one night. Before the kid could get the car started, Stu got a hold of him, took him down to the Hart Family basement (aka "The Dungeon," where Stu trained many wrestlers), and stretched the kid until he screamed. Instead of pressing charges, Stu ended up hiring the kid to work at his wrestling promotion. Unbelievable.

Other inductees included Japanese wrestling legend Antonio Inoki, who encouraged the audience to throw a first into the air upon chanting, "1... 2... 3... DAH!"

Gorgeous George's 97-year-old former wife, Betty Wagner, accepted his induction with another guided questionnaire similar to Vachon's. When asked, "what should people know about Gorgeous George?" Betty answered, "He was gorgeous."

My favorite moment of the ceremony came when inductee "Mr. Baseball" Bob Uecker made a quip about having to change his underwear after being choked by Andre the Giant at WrestleMania IV. I will never forget that infamous interview he had with Andre, not only because I saw it as a kid (and believed Andre was really choking Uecker), but because my former co-worker Ken regularly sends me a YouTube clip of it. It's a running gag between us that never escaped my mind as Uecker spoke.

The headlining inductee this year was the "Million Dollar Man" Ted DiBiase, one of the few guys who I feel should have won the WWE Championship, but never did. I remember hating him so much when I was younger, especially that hyena laugh of his. Now, it makes me smile. It reminds me of happier times when I didn't have to worry about health insurance and words like "quota."

DiBiase told a story about how Virgil (his storyline "bodyguard" in the 1980s) almost lost the diamond-encrusted Million Dollar Championship Belt at Carousel 6 in Atlantic City. Luckily, the honest Samaritans at the airport kept the suitcase until they returned. What I would give to have been at the airport that day!

More importantly, DiBiase talked about passion, and how it is essential to succeed at anything in life. It sounds cliche on the surface, but I never get tired of hearing people talk about how much their work means to them. DiBiase was a technically gifted wrestler, and played one of the greatest heels in pro wrestling history. He obviously enjoyed every second of it, flying first class, riding limos and eating in fine dining restaurants to hype up his character--all on the WWE's dime. Who could ask for more?

DiBiase closed the ceremony by making it rain real money from the Dodge Theatre ceiling. Andrew and I saw that coming, since we could see four guys standing along the lighting grid with their hands stuffed in bags. Unfortunately, none of the cash reached the upper balcony, but it was a fun way to end the show.

As we left the venue, we saw many of the WWE superstars waiting for their buses to pick them up. Jim Ross, Maryse, The Miz, Shaemus, Dusty Rhodes, and others stood there stranded while Andrew and I walked to the nearby parking structure. We ate dinner at a sports bar downtown. I ate a turkey and cheese croissant that was again neatly put together. By that point, I desperately searched for any sign of messiness from Phoenix, knowing that I'd never find one.

We went back to the hotel, eager to see how the WWE would edit the ceremony together for the USA Network. Before the telecast aired, we watched Independence Day on TBS, taking us back to our days in intermediate school, when our band teacher would make us watch ID4 if he wasn't feeling well. Andrew loves both Jeff Goldblum and Will Smith, so seeing ID4 always brings a tear to his eye.

We yelled random lines of dialogue at the TV. Seriously, who doesn't remember, "I have got to get me one of theeese!"?

It dawned on me as the movie ended that I'd known Andrew for roughly 15 years. That's insane. Just about all my friendships from that period have ended, or dwindled the distant point of being Facebook friends without the occasional Wall posting. And yet here we were in Phoenix, Arizona, set to attend our second WrestleMania. Incredible.

Andrew checked the Internet off his phone, and read a blog that stated the WrestleMania traffic would be a "clusterfuck" the next night. The reason: Paul McCartney was performing a concert at the Jobing.com Arena at the same time. Technically, a person could leave WrestleMania and walk across the street to see McCartney play "Hey Jude" for the five millionth time. Andrew and I made a plan to get to the stadium early to make sure we'd be okay.

Sure enough, the WWE edited down the Hall of Fame broadcast to only Uecker's, Gorgeous George's, and Ted DiBiase's segments--and even those speeches were heavily shortened. Unfortunately, we didn't see ourselves on TV, since that screen blocked us from camera view. But none of that mattered. The next day was WrestleMania XXVI. After five years, Andrew and I were going to once again attend the "Super Bowl of professional wrestling."

I don't know about Andrew, but I couldn't wait!

NEXT: WrestleMania XXVI at last!

Lewis Black > Hitler > Cow Dung > Glenn Beck

2010-05-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

One of a million reasons why I love Lewis.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Back in Black - Glenn Beck's Nazi Tourette's

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Three

2010-05-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of some lady’s voice outside our door. I checked my cell phone, which read “Sat, March 27.” 24 more hours till WrestleMania Sunday.

“Hear that?” Andrew said. “That’s the sound of people enjoying Phoenix.”

Andrew wanted to buy something for his friends and family back home, so instead of sticking around Phoenix, we took a scenic drive to Scottsdale. Two huge rock mounds on both sides of the freeway signaled our entrance into the town. Immediately, we realized that it was nicer and even cleaner than Phoenix. That’s probably why there was a Ferrari and Maserati dealership right at the city limits. There was also a Zorba’s Adult Store further in, but overall, we liked the area.

Our first stop was the local farmer’s market in the center of Old Town. There were horse sculptures and dangling dreamcatchers surrounding the place, indicating the heavy Native American influence. Every store we went into had various tribal or cowboy artifacts. One store had the hugest mishmash of Scottsdale paraphernalia possible, complete with salsa samples and CDs of local and international artists. There, Andrew bought soup mix and a keychain for his co-workers.

At the farmer’s market, I spent $7 on a package of traditional “Crunchy-Cozy” toffee from GoodyTwos. It was fantastic. The Arizona heat melted the chocolate a little, but that only made it finger-licking good.

Everything else was pretty much your standard farmer’s market fare--breads, fruits, veggies, pesto, etc. I tried as many samples as I could before eating a $9 salmon and black bean burrito from the La Vida Locavo truck. I’m not sure if it was the homemade cucumber salsa or the goat cheese/basil topping, but it was one of the most flavorful burritos I’ve ever had.

Andrew got a breakfast burrito (also good), and we sat and listened to some guy cover Bob Dylan and Cat Steven songs while we ate. The guy was mediocre at best, but we gave him some pity applause to give him hope. As Tim Robbins once said, “Hope is a good thing.”

Across the way was the Scottsdale Historical Museum, a small but very quaint building with a sign in front that said, “FREE.” Andrew jumped at the opportunity, and we stared at various artifacts and photos of Old Town Scottsdale for a half-hour. A nice curator went through a number of landscape images with me to show the urban growth of the town. He was born and raised in Scottsdale, and was very proud of it. I was proud for him.

As we headed towards City Hall, there was a large gathering on the lawn by the Center of the Arts. Onstage stood a Native American guy who was in the process of introducing the next performer. He piqued our interest when he explained that during World War II, Native Americans sympathized with interned Japanese-Americans. He said his people offered them food and helped a few escape. How awesome is that?

Andrew and I studied Japanese internment over a decade earlier in Mr. Topolinski’s honors history class. We sat next to each other right in front of his desk. Sardonic as hell, he never let an act of absurdity or stupidity go without remark, and Andrew and I enjoyed many of his blunt, sometimes un-PC comments. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Tops would've had anything to say about the relationship between the Native Americans and interned Japanese in Arizona.

The host’s history lesson segued into the introduction of the first performer, Ken Koshio, who took to the stage looking as Japanese as ever. He was probably the first Asian person Andrew and I saw in Arizona that weekend.

Koshio banged a rhythm on a taiko drum while the host played a flute. The musical styles blended very effectively, especially when the guys accompanied a Native American girl who danced with five hoops. Her consistent steps were graceful, and the way she’d craft designs with those hoops was just as intriguing to watch as the designs themselves. She finished by creating a globe, which drew applause from the crowd.

Koshio, probably in his 40s, took the mic and described how he moved from Japan to LA to become a rock star. Things didn’t exactly pan out, so he moved to Arizona, where he continues to perform. Andrew laughed at how Koshio strummed a tonkori, a typically plucked Japanese string instrument.

“He’s playing it like a rockstar,” he said.

After Koshio left the stage, we continued our trek to City Hall, just beyond the Civic Center Library. There were many fountains and reproductions of sculptures along the way, most notably Robert Indiana’s “LOVE.”

City Hall looked as official as any city hall would, but we were entranced by these ducks that swam in the manmade pond nearby. Most of them took shade under some nearby shrubs, which made it clear to us that we should take some cover ourselves. It was pretty damn hot that day.

We reunited with our green Kia, and headed back to Phoenix for the WWE Hall of Fame ceremony. We still had a lot of waiting time, so we parked by the infamous Phoenix Police Museum, only to find out that it was closed. Seriously, I don’t think any museum has hours as odd as the PPM. 9am to 3pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. No weekends? Who has time to visit such a niche museum in the middle of their workdays?

Foiled, Andrew and I resorted to our standard Walk Across Downtown Phoenix routine, past Citi Field, past the convention center, and around the Arizona Science Center. We eventually stumbled upon a fair ASU was holding. There were lines of tents with various international-themed children’s activities. Andrew went off and did the first thing any adult should do at a children’s fair: get a beer and hot dog.

We looked around and found nothing of interest, except for a group of drunk guys playing a game of sandbag throw. Wrestling aside, that was probably the most exciting thing we saw in Arizona.

I also recall a band playing what I guess Arizonians consider music: loud screaming to a drumbeat. The noise made me miss Ken Koshio.

With that, it was time for the WWE Hall of Fame.

NEXT: Attending the WWE HOF

WrestleMania XXVI, Part Two

2010-04-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

Because the Bell Hotel was a few miles outside of downtown Phoenix, Andrew and I left for WWE Axxess at around 3, just in case we ran into any traffic. There wasn’t any. We reached 5th Street in about twenty minutes, and parked in a public pay lot that didn’t have a collector on site.

We thought it was rather odd, but in the center was this big box with about 20 numbered slots for each parking space. For $3, we could park for up to 12 hours. We thought it was a fantastic deal, and slipped in the cash before walking over to the Phoenix Convention Center, where Axxess was held.

As it turned out, we parked on 5th Avenue, not 5th Street, which was on the opposite end of downtown. Eh. We had lots of time, so for the next 45 minutes, we walked past several tall skyscrapers, elaborate churches, and eventually reached Chase Field on the other side. The ballpark was impressive to say the least. Neither Andrew nor I could believe that such a humongous, well-kept ballpark could be home to such a lackluster team.

Across the street from Chase Field was the south wing of the convention center. We made our way toward the west wing, which was draped in banners featuring various WWE wrestlers. There was one of John Cena, Batista, The Undertaker, and our favorite wrestler, Bret Hart, who shocked everyone when he returned to the WWE in January.

I have to give credit to both Phoenix and the WWE advertising team, because WrestleMania promotional material was everywhere. As if the airport wasn’t enough, there were pictures of wrestlers hanging from the streetlights, and local bars and restaurants had signs welcoming Mania fans. The event clearly boosted tourism for the city, ‘cause as I’ve said before, I have no idea why anybody would go to Phoenix otherwise. The bottom one percent of society kept Phoenix’s economy booming that weekend.

Speaking of which, right after I had a guy take a photo of Andrew and me in front of Bret’s banner, a fan approached and asked, “do you guys know where Axxess will be?” Andrew took a second to figure out whether he should give a sarcastic answer or a straight one.

“Um, it’s probably in the building with all the WWE signs all over it. Like the sign there that says, ‘Axxess Downstairs.’”

“Oh, oh yeah, thanks,” the fan said.

Andrew turned to me and repeated, “bottom one percent, Brad.” I nodded in sad agreement.

We headed inside and went down the escalator to a giant gray room that led to the Axxess entrance. A sizable line had formed, but even though the event was general admission (like a museum), we joined the crowd, since we sincerely had nothing better to do. Like on my flight over, there were plenty of children and women around us, who stood out immensely from the obligatory fat guys with ugly facial hair wearing championship belts. One kid dressed up like The Undertaker, and a fanboy walked in wearing an Edge-style trench coat that drew some praise.

Andrew and I were still tired, so we sat and took in the bizarreness of our surroundings. One guy tried to start a Ric Flair “whooo” chant, but thankfully, everybody ignored him. Meanwhile, a boy behind me kept nagging his mom for an orange John Cena “Cenation” T-shirt. Many kids in the line had that shirt. It’s an ugly shirt, to be sure, but didn’t we all want to look like our heroes when we were kids? Or even as adults?

I knew for sure that I was going to buy a few WWE shirts once I got inside, but I vowed not to wear any wrestling merchandise during the weekend. (I preferred to remain on the upper crust of that bottom percent, thank you very much.)

At 5:40, they let everybody in. There were even more banners hanging along the walls, with flashing lights and prerecorded sound bites. The WrestleMania XXVI theme song, Kevin Rudolf’s “I Made It,” blared from all speakers. On the radio, it sounds like generic crap, but for some reason, walking briskly into Axxess, the beat made me feel pretty damn excited.

While everyone else started to line up near various autograph/meet-and-greet booths, Andrew and I checked out the entire space to see where we wanted to go.

The first attraction we checked out was the “Hart Family Dungeon,” a small exhibit showcasing various artifacts from the Hart wrestlers. It was practically a shrine since so many of them had tragically died in the past decade or so. As stated earlier, Andrew and I are huge fans of Bret Hart and the dynasty he’s a part of, so it was a real treat to see this. My favorite exhibited item was Bret’s leather jacket that he wore in 1993. As a kid, I really wanted a jacket with the zippers and epaulettes like his. It was much cooler than some John Cena T-shirt. Come to think of it, I still want a jacket like that!

Front and center was Bret’s “1993 Superstar of the Year” trophy, which I vividly remember him accepting on Monday Night Raw. By that point, he was already my all-time favorite wrestler, and I really looked up to him for simply being so damn gifted in the ring. Nobody told a story in a match like he did. I couldn’t help but feel a bit lucky that of all the WrestleManias he’d decide to return at, it was this one with both Andrew and me in attendance. That alone was reason enough to come to Phoenix.

Towards the back of the room was a full-size wrestling ring, where longtime WWE announcer Howard Finkel talked on and on with his co-host, Christian. Incidentally, there was another wrestler named Christian on the roster, who Andrew and I really enjoyed watching, so we called this other guy “Fake Christian.” Half the time, Fake Christian didn’t sound like he knew what he was talking about, but I guess that was part of the fun of watching him banter on with Finkel.

The hosts invited some attendees into the ring to do impressions of their favorite wrestlers. A six-year-old boy posed like Shawn Michaels, and a girl around the same age tried to act like the Big Show (but failed). One of the fat fanboys gave “Stone Cold” Steve Austin a go, but since he wasn’t allowed to climb the turnbuckles, he looked like an idiot the whole time. And then there was a guy called “The Chump” from Nice, France, who did a spot-on promo as The Rock. He even started with the trademark, “whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa” as The Rock often said to shut Michael Cole up. It was hilarious, and everybody voted him the winner.

The impersonation took Andrew and me back to high school and the “Attitude Era” of the WWE, which was 10 years ago. It was the biggest thing going on TV at the time. Every Tuesday and Friday, we’d show up in class and talk about what happened the previous night on Raw is War and SmackDown! Those really were the days. Heck, in elementary school, my classmates and I would gather every recess to talk about Hulk Hogan, the Ultimate Warrior, and Randy Savage. Of all people, The Chump reminded me once again that I’ve literally grown up with the WWE; WrestleMania was 26, and I was 26. ‘Nuff said!

After the contest, Andrew and I went off to stand in a line. Lines were everywhere at Axxess, since everyone wanted to get Melina’s autograph, or take a photo with Mickie James, or shake Vladimir Kozlov’s hand. The shortest and fastest line, oddly enough, was the one for the Bella Twins, who weren’t so much wrestlers as they were backstage valets. (They weren’t even in the WrestleMania program, which goes to show how important they were!)

Regardless, we figured we might as well get somebody’s autograph, so we met them and got a photo with them, much to the chagrin of the security guy who tried desperately to keep the line going. Judging from the amount of WWE “Divas” around the event, it seemed to us that the real purpose of Axxess was to give all the nerds and fanboys a chance to get close to women wrestlers they’d have no chance with otherwise.

Andrew and I then stood in another line to meet the real Christian, who was very cordial, but clearly antsy to get the hell out of the booth. I don’t blame him. If I had to sign autographs for two and a half hours, meeting rowdy weirdos and getting flash photos taken of me every minute, I’d be pretty antsy too. Then again, that is part of the job, ain’t it?

As we got to the front of the line, we were informed by one of the workers that they’d be rotating wrestlers soon, and that someone would take Christian’s place in a few minutes. Andrew and I chose to let a few others bypass us, and waited patiently until the replacement arrived. We hoped it’d be someone cool. Even the worker said that we “wouldn’t be disappointed” with the next wrestler.

In the meantime, a girl yapped my ear off about how good Axxess was the previous night, since John Cena and Bret Hart showed up for in-ring interviews with Finkel. To Andrew’s disappointment, Jimmy Wang Yang, whose wrestling gimmick is parading around as an Asian cowboy, wouldn’t be meeting fans that night. Still, we hoped to see him around.

The doors opened, and out walked Natalya, David Smith Hart, and Tyson Kidd, the Hart Dynasty. It was kind of a letdown, since they are not nearly as popular as Christian, but they were Harts. Natalya and David Smith are Bret’s niece and nephew, and Kidd is Bret’s protégé. We got their autographs, and I made it a point to shake hands with them. Smith’s handshake was the second hardest I ever received. I literally felt bones snapping. But they were all very nice, and as Andrew put it, "it's always an honor to meet Harts."

Natalya almost missed my hand (since nobody shakes hands at these signings, apparently), but she apologized profusely and smiled with her handshake. Even though they too were not in the WrestleMania program, I hoped I’d see them during the show.

The main event for Andrew and me was meeting Santino Marella, who is arguably the funniest and best reason to watch the WWE these days. When I shook his hand, I told him, “you are, without any doubt, the most entertaining person in the WWE.”

“Thank you, it really means a lot,” he said in his fake, but hilarious Italian accent.

When Andrew met him, Santino noticed Natalya’s signature on the autograph sheet. He pointed to it and said, “she’s crazy.” Andrew laughed.

“When you hear her talk, can't you get the sense that she’s crazy?” Santino continued. Because of his persona, we couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Either way, it was definitely the highlight of the Axxess experience for us.

After that, the event was winding down. We took photos with Katie Lea Burchill, another WWE Diva, and sat at this U.S. Army Reserve setup, where a photographer caught us posing in front of a huge WrestleMania XXVI sign. We went back to the ring, where Finkel and Fake Christian announced a tournament for the video game WWE Smackdown VS Raw 2010. (For the record, it’s a decent game at best, but not worth a purchase.)

The ring filled with WWE stars like Maryse, Beth Phoenix, Kofi Kingston, Hornswoggle, Sgt. Slaughter, Cryme Tyme (a tag team), and none other than Jimmy Wang Yang. Andrew couldn’t stop smiling as Yang made his entrance. Even better, Yang had to face Ricky Steamboat, perhaps the greatest Asian American wrestler of all time.

When asked if he could beat Steamboat in the game, Yang declared that Steamboat was an "old dragon" and that he was a "young dragon." The crowd got really hot for that, prompting Steamboat to slap Yang on the chest really hard. Andrew loved every second of it.

As the wrestlers grabbed their controllers and faced each other in the game, I stood back and turned to Andrew.

“Dude, we’re watching WWE wrestlers challenge each other in a wrestling video game, playing as themselves while standing in an actual wrestling ring. What the hell?”

“It doesn’t get more surreal than this,” Andrew said with a grin. Our friendship had always been predicated by moments like that one.

After about an hour, Shad from Cryme Tyme beat Kofi in the finals to win the tournament, and with that, Axxess was done. Andrew and I walked across downtown Phoenix with the orange city lights to guide us. It was a bit cooler than before, but not by much. It was during this walk that I realized how clean the city was. I couldn’t find a single cigarette butt or wrapper along the streets, which I thought was commendable. The streets were still silent, sans a few wrestling fans shouting “whooo!” to no reaction.

We passed the Wyndham Phoenix Hotel, where I had a gut feeling most of the wrestlers were staying. Andrew argued that they’d probably stay somewhere far outside Phoenix, but I highly doubted that. Given how dead Phoenix was, even I would book the wrestlers to stay in town.

We finally got to the Soul, and headed back to the hotel. We stopped at a Waffle House next door, where Andrew ate a bowl of delicious chili, and I had the cleanest bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich I ever had. It wasn’t oily, it wasn’t dry, it wasn’t messy or crumby. It was simply clean like the city.

I checked the photos taken with my new camera, and was disappointed to see that the Lumix shots did not compare to my broken Canon SD500’s pics. I chose to return the Lumix before I left, but use it during the weekend to review the photos I took from the Canon. I figured, as long as I used the Canon’s viewfinder, I could still snap a few decent shots.

As soon as the lights went out, Andrew passed out completely. All I could think of before I closed my eyes was, “Wow. I can’t believe I’m in Phoenix.”

NEXT: WrestleMania XXVI, Day Two

WrestleMania XXVI, Part One

2010-04-17T22:10:00.000-07:00

Throughout the WrestleMania XXVI trip to Phoenix, I took extensive notes of what Andrew and I experienced. I intended on updating this blog as soon as I returned, but of course, things got busy (my apologies).

Looking back on the journey, I am still smiling. Contrary to what some expected, nothing extraordinary or scandalous happened; the fact we both flew to the country’s most boring big city for professional wrestling was extraordinary enough.

Here’s what went down during the first half of Day One, March 26, 2010.

---

I had a difficult time sleeping the night before my flight. For the most part, I contained my excitement, but as the date drew nearer, I found myself smiling more than usual. I got about three hours of sleep before I rushed out to LAX.

I expected the airport to be busy on a Friday morning, but I did not expect so many people heading to Phoenix. Judging from the conversations I heard during boarding, about half the plane consisting of wrestling fans. To my surprise, most of them were kids and young women, the exact opposite of the crowd Andrew and I saw at Mania five years prior.

I sat next to a college couple from Florida (the flight continued to Fort Lauderdale after Phoenix). They asked me if I was “returning home” to Arizona. I laughed and told them I was going to WrestleMania. They didn’t talk to me after that.

US Airways is awful. I had to check in my carry-on because they ran out of overhead space. Even during Christmas travel, I’ve never had to do that on other airlines. And the captains were so talkative, I don’t think anybody got a wink of sleep on the 53-minute flight over. I can’t sleep on planes, so it didn’t matter much to me. But I’d rather have 53 minutes of miserable silence than of miserable jibberish.

I may have been able to understand what the captains were saying, but everybody was coughing, sneezing, and every other symptom listed on a NyQuil bottle. One middle-aged man in particular kept walking up and down the aisle, grabbing everyone’s seat-backs on the way. It was probably the most aggravating flight ever.

To top it off, after landing at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, we taxied for about 15 minutes before reaching our terminal. The only things keeping me from going postal were the WrestleMania tickets I kept in my pocket the entire way. (Sometimes, in order to maintain sanity, you have to keep things in perspective.)

As soon as I got off the plane, there were huge signs everywhere that said, “Phoenix Welcomes WrestleMania XXVI.” All the sliding doors had WrestleMania decals stuck on them, and vertical banners hung over the baggage claim escalators with the Mania logo. There was no escaping the fact that this was the biggest thing in Phoenix at the time.

Ideally, I was supposed to get off the plane and meet Andrew immediately. Instead, I had to wait at the Terminal 4 baggage claim for 30 minutes before my carry-on came out. I checked it through, and was thrilled to find my Canon SD500 broken in its case. I couldn’t figure out how it broke, considering it was in a padded case, and packed between two layers of latched clothing. I didn’t mind much, since the camera was five years old, and already died out fast no matter how charged the battery was.

The screen was cracked, but as far as I could tell, it could still take a photo if I used the old-school viewfinder (most point-and-shoots don’t even have viewfinders anymore). Still, I promised people that I’d take at least ONE photo of Andrew and me at Mania, so I made it a point to get a new camera at some point.

Andrew met me at my baggage claim carousel, looking as tired and bewildered as I was. It was great seeing him again. I repeat that I do not keep contact with most high school folk, but I’m grateful and proud that we're still good friends. I last saw Andrew during Christmas break, and as always, we spent hours laughing at people, and shaking our heads at the life’s many absurdities. Naturally, he was quick to point out the biggest absurdity we were experiencing right then and there.

“You gotta figure, the bottom one percent of society travels to watch pro wrestling,” he said. “We are now part of that percentage.” And just like that, all that was once surreal was real: he and I traveled to Phoenix, Arizona, for WrestleMania. There was even a Mania scoreboard at the carousel with an active countdown to the event. We couldn’t believe it!

Reality hit us hard as we took a bus to the car rental hub, which was an oddly long ride from the terminal. We looked out the windows and saw lots of... nothing. Generally, when conversations hit a lull in a moving vehicle, one person will typically look out the window and remark about it. On that ride, there was nothing to remark about. The family sitting across us were about as tired as we were, but they entertained us with their pointless arguing about WrestleMania and Spring Training, which was also going on that weekend.

Even more entertaining was when we got to Budget Rent-a-Car, where Andrew had a conversation with a clerk that I may never forget. He gave her his Hawaii driver’s license, and she looked at it closely.

CLERK: “Hawaii? Wow, you came far.”

ANDREW: “Yeah.”

CLERK: “What brings you here?”

ANDREW: “We’re here for WrestleMania.”

CLERK: “What’s that?”

ANDREW: “It’s a pro wrestling event.”

CLERK: “You came here for wrestling?”

ANDREW: “Well, it’s like the Super Bowl of wrestling.”

CLERK: “Oh.”

It surprised both Andrew and me that she had no idea about it, especially with all the WrestleMania banners adorning every square foot of the airport. The clerk just gave us a look, and went about typing.

CLERK: “Do you want a small or a bigger vehicle?”

ANDREW: “How small is ‘small’?”

CLERK: “Like a sedan.”

ANDREW: “A sedan should be fine.”

CLERK: “Are you sure?”

ANDREW: “Yeah, I drive a CRX at home.”

CLERK: “What’s that?”

ANDREW: “Like, a sedan.”

I had to turn away to laugh. Andrew kept going.

ANDREW: “We’re actually wrestlers.”

CLERK: “Really?”

ANDREW: “Yeah, we’re a tag team.”

CLERK: “What are you? The mean ones?”

ANDREW: “The sexy ones.”

The clerk stared blankly at Andrew, then eyed me. I don’t know if it’s because she actually thought Andrew and I were wrestlers, or if they were simply out of sedans and wanted us to pay more, but we got a bigger car: a lime green Kia Soul. We couldn’t stop laughing about it.

Andrew brought a TomTom GPS for the trip, which we immediately lost faith in as we left the airport. It would constantly tell us to “take the third left” when there wasn’t even a road to turn left on. Sometimes, it would say, “keep left” whenever we merged onto a freeway or main street. Andrew would quickly get to the left lane, only to be told by the TomTom moments later, “take the next right.” Maybe we were too tired, but we eventually learned that “keep left” really meant to just stay on whatever road we entered.

We tried using the TomTom to find someplace we could get a decent breakfast at. It first recommended the Road House Restaurant, a mere mile from the Budget hub. We ended up on a desolate stretch of road, and as we came upon the restaurant, it was clearly out of business. FAIL.

We then drove through the city to figure out where our main points of interests were located. To our shock, apart from the University of Phoenix Stadium (the site of Mania), the other venues were all within walking distance of each other. We made a plan to park the Kia at a lot, and just go around on foot to the events to save money and time.

For the record, the Kia wasn’t a bad drive at all. We took pride that there were no other Kia Souls in town, much less any green cars.

Downtown Phoenix was practically deserted, even though it was Friday. It wasn’t what I expected. Downtown LA is usually deserted on weekends, but even on Fridays, it’s as bustling as it is on any weekday. But Phoenix? Nothing. No traffic, no people, and no noise. There was a deafening hush between the skyscrapers that seemed to overwhelm any sort of business that went on inside them. Seriously, if I were making a post-apocalyptic film, I’d just shoot in downtown Phoenix on a weekend.

Outside of downtown, Phoenix has lots of Christian churches, porn shops, and houses that look like they’re being flattened into the earth by their heavy roofs. Andrew and I quickly came to the conclusion that Phoenix is good to visit, but definitely not a place for us to live. It’s one thing to be born and raised there, but coming from Hawaii, Phoenix is a yawn in the middle of the desert.

After spending an hour driving around in the desert heat, we graciously decided to give TomTom another chance. We were hungry, and wanted food from anyplace. It could have taken us to a McDonald’s, and we would have been satisfied. But how did TomTom serve us? By making us go around and around and around in a vicious circle in Glendale. FAIL AGAIN.

Andrew had enough, and turned the GPS off. Thank goodness. We got our breakfast at Denny’s, and upon my receiving a plate of egg whites and a cup of fruit, he was again quick to remind me how much of a “fruit” I was turning into, thanks to LA culture. I'll admit, I was a bit surprised that a Denny's in Phoenix served egg whites. I was probably the first person to ever order them there.

I know a lot of people retire to Phoenix to escape their allergies, but Andrew’s actually got worse there. Come to think of it, up till then, I had never seen Andrew sneeze, cough, or do any of those things on a NyQuil bottle. Thanks to LA smog, the dry weather didn’t affect me at all, but the heat was quite intense. We hurried to a CVS for some meds and water, then went to a Best Buy, where I spent a good hour deciding which camera to get. I settled on a Panasonic Lumix FP2 for $200. By the time we were done with all that, it wasn’t even noon!

Later that night, Andrew and I had tickets to attend WWE Axxess, sort of like a Comic Con for WWE fans. It didn’t start until 6, so we had a ton of time to kill. We drove to the Bell Hotel, just off I-17, and checked in early. I grabbed a bunch of brochures and maps in the lobby for some touristy ideas, but instead of leaving, we stayed in our air-conditioned room watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians. There wasn't really anything better to do in Phoenix that afternoon.

Seriously, there wasn't.

NEXT: Attending WWE Axxess

I’m Going to WrestleMania... Again

2010-03-22T00:45:00.000-07:00

It has happened time and time again.

It happened in 2005. And it’s happening in 2010.

Somebody asks me, “what are you gonna be doing in spring?”

And I tell them, “I’m going to WrestleMania.”

And then, one of four responses usually happens:

(1) “Are you serious?”

(2) “What?!”

(3) “You still watch that ****?”

(4) Laughter. Just laughter.

I can understand the hilarity of it, but only for a moment. I’d give up a seat on the 50-yard line at a Super Bowl for the worst seat at WrestleMania. It means that much to me. Five years ago, the event took place in my backyard at the Staples Center. My friend Andrew and I sat amongst 20,193 fans, cheering on Steve Austin, Kurt Angle, and Hulk Hogan. This time around, Andrew and I will be boarding planes to Phoenix to be part of 70,000 strong.

I cannot even begin to express how excited I am for this. Up until this week, the whole idea of taking off from work and actually flying for WrestleMania XXVI seemed too surreal. Heck, the fact Andrew and I are even going to a second Mania is extraordinary in its own right. There’s just something about being there that makes all the trouble worthwhile. Ten years ago, The Rock used to rant about the “electricity in the air” at Mania. It may sound silly on TV, but the second you enter the venue with the enormous entrance stage and the ring, you immediately realize The Rock was right.

It’s funny. Andrew and I actually went about this whole WrestleMania trip extremely nonchalantly. We didn’t buy our tickets or book flights until weeks after the event went on sale in November. Truth be told, the buildup for Mania wasn’t going so strongly at the time. Then, January 4th happened, and our favorite wrestler, Bret Hart, returned to the company, much to our shock. Despite suffering a severe concussion and a stroke, he will be at Mania to wrestle. Andrew and I do not care if the match is decent or not. The mere fact Hart will be there is reason enough to go.

So in one week’s time, I will be sitting in the University of Phoenix Stadium right along the 50-yard line. I will turn to Andrew and probably say some lame déjà vu joke that will not go over well. I will lose my voice cheering and booing everybody. I will take in the hype and hysterics of it all, and I will watch each match with great appreciation for the performers in the ring.

I will enjoy WrestleMania and have the time of my life. Again.

A Night of Aloha with Keali'i Reichel

2010-03-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, I took my friends Michelle and Donna to see Keali'i Reichel perform at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. It was a joint birthday and wedding present for Donna, who embodies the Aloha spirit more than anyone I know here. It was also a revisitation of our island roots, and for two hours, we all forgot that we were in Los Angeles.

People often dismiss Hawaii as some laid-back, sunny getaway, but it is so much more than that. The islands are enveloped in a warm, loving culture that no words can do justice. It took me 18 years of living there to truly understand it; it took me 18 seconds of living in Los Angeles to truly appreciate and miss it. There is no place on Earth like Hawaii, and I say with both pride and humility that I was born and raised in Paradise.

That pride was evident in every local person even before the concert, as thousands showed up in their Aloha shirts (not the tacky kind that fat haoles wear on the mainland, but the legit, dressy designs that color King Street in downtown Honolulu). I sat in the lobby of the concert hall with Michelle, and we took in the joyous atmosphere around us. We heard dozens of people scream and embrace each other in tearful reunion, and smelled all the fragrant leis adorning the women in attendance.

I think it is embedded in every Hawaiian's genetic makeup to be able to pick out other local Hawaiians in a crowd. That night, it was too easy to tell. Whenever someone spoke in pidgin, the haoles would be the ones going, “huh?” The rest of us were laughing and having the best time.

I don’t like using the word “beautiful” to describe things, but I cannot think of a better adjective to describe the concert. Everything about it put me at peace, and rejuvenated my spirit in so many ways. Keali’i has the most majestic voice in Hawaiian music, and in addition to his regular band and backup singers, he had a small string ensemble accompanying him. Even the most subtle violin or cello embellishments added an emotional punch to his songs.

He also had members of his halau (hula school), Halau Ke'alaokamaile, perform. I was never a fan of hula as a kid. I didn’t understand it. I remember having to do a hula routine for May Day in the fourth grade, and I felt like the biggest dope. Flash forward nearly 20 years, and I now think it is the most elegant form of dance anywhere. Keali’i’s halau moved with such fluidity and grace, I spent a good portion of the concert transfixed on the dancers more than him.

My favorite song of his is “Maunaleo,” in which he compares his mother’s love and solidarity to a Maui mountain. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him perform it everywhere from the Hollywood Bowl to the Blaisdell, sending a shiver up my spine every single time. On Friday, however, the vocals, the guitars, the strings, the dancers, and the ambience were so perfect, I was practically moved to tears. Again, it was all so damn beautiful:

Keali’i left the stage for a moment as the crowd yelled “hana hou!” (encore!) repeatedly. I love that about going to shows in Hawaii. When Michael Jackson performed, everybody in Aloha Stadium yelled “hana hou!” at the top of their lungs. On the flip side, I recall Mariah Carey’s performance there a few years later, when nobody said “hana hou.” Instead, they said, “pilau!” And rightfully so!

Keali’i returned to a standing ovation, much deserved.

Before closing the show with his first hit, “Kawaipunahele,” he pointed out that it had been 16 years since his debut. I couldn’t believe it! I remember my dad bringing home the Kawaipunahele album back in 1994. He would always play it in the living room, and just when I thought I could escape it by going outside, I heard it on every radio station, and in every store. I’ve never seen an album take Hawaii by storm like that, be it a pop/rock or Hawaiian act.

I couldn’t believe it was 16 years ago. Still can’t. But I am grateful Keali’i is still recording and touring; he really is the only ambassador of Hawaiian language around.

One of my favorite parts of any Keali’i show is the ending, where he and his fellow performers join hands and sing “Hawaii Aloha” without any mics or instruments. You can hear the unity in their voices, and as you look into the crowd, you see thousands of Hawaiians also holding hands and sharing one voice. I never sing at concerts, but “Hawaii Aloha” is not so much a song to me as it is a declaration and a blessing. I sang along on Friday night with a grin, realizing that I could still remember the lyrics from May Day in the fourth grade.

Everybody left the show happy, hungry and homesick. Concert experiences rarely ever get better than that.

...

(On an unrelated note, this may be the first blog where I get to rightfully use two apostrophes in one word, or in this case, a name: “Keali’i’s.”)

Survivor: Harris Apartments 2002

2010-03-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

As I type this, my block in Hollywood just recovered from a 30-minute power outage. It's funny to see how people react. For a second, there's silence, and then you hear moans and gripes in unison. I don't blame them; we pay so much for electricity, the least the DWP can do is keep it running at all hours of the day.

During my sophomore year of college, I spent a good month without electricity or heat in my on-campus apartment. My friends and I joke about it being my Survivor: Harris Apartments period, but in the moment, it was both thrilling and scary.

I'm still not exactly sure why complex was evacuated. Out of nowhere, about 30 of us got notice that there was an "electrical emergency" with the building, and we had to reside in a hotel about four miles away. My university covered the hotel expenses, but there were a few minor problems. For one, I didn't have a car then, and two, the shuttle to transport students to and from the hotel only ran from 7am to 7pm. The kicker: I was a film student; I woke up at 7pm.

I decided to stay in Harris Apartments. Even though there was no power or heat, there was running water, so I could take cold showers at the very least. Yes, cold showers in low 50-degree temperatures with no heat was pretty risky, but I didn't have any convenient alternatives.

My friends were worried for sure. A few of them offered flashlights, and one girl gave me some tap lights to line the my room with. I mastered the art of bouncing light off the white walls (several cinematographers have been impressed with my skills), and despite a few very cold nights, I guess I had fun.

There are far more unnerving predicaments to be in when the power goes out, one of them being in an elevator by yourself. I've been stuck at least five times in multiple blackouts; it isn't pretty, especially if you are claustrophobic. As a writer, it gives you something to write about for sure (as you can see here), but otherwise, it is a frustrating waste of time. Some think being stuck with another person would be less frustrating, but... well, when that other person is panicky and in dire need of a toilet, being alone really isn't so bad. If nothing else, you can snooze comfortably until the firefighters arrive. (In my experience, it has always taken longer for the electricity to turn back on than it did for the firefighters to spring me out.)

During the epic Harris Apartments blackout, I had trouble sleeping at first. It's strange to be in a room full of electrical devices knowing that you cannot use any of them. It's like starving in a room full of canned goods without a can opener. There is no hum of electricity in the air. There are no blinking lights emanating from your clock, cable box or router. There is no fan noise in the background because there is no juice to power it. Nothing but absolute silence.

As depicted in countless horror films, such silence can be dangerous. The smoke detectors were not powered, and since the whole complex was deserted, if anything happened to me, nobody would find out until it was too late. At the very least, I had a cell phone for emergencies, and if it ever got too iffy for me, I could camp out in the film school with the hairy, smelly editors.

From November to mid-December of 2002, I roughed it out. I remember one morning, somebody entered my apartment at about 7 in the morning. I'm not a deep sleeper, so the second I heard the front door open, I was ready to either whoop ass or scream like a girl. I heard talking amongst the intruders, and from what they said, I assumed they were probably workers. They had no idea I was inside.

As the two guys walked near my bed, I sat up like how a vampire would from a casket, and both of them jumped and yelped. A good two minutes of awkward laughter followed. They apologized for barging in, but I told them to go about their business. One of them commended me on sticking it out without electricity, but the other claimed it was so dangerous, even he wouldn't try it. I reassured them that if I had a car, I'd be at the hotel for sure. Oh well.

My favorite memory from that time had little to do with the blackout itself. I was in a philosophy class with the girl who gave me the tap lights, and for the final exam, she asked to study with me. We couldn't work at her place because her roommate was sick, and of course, my place was out of the question. So we met up in the back of the film school where I often lounged about.

The study session started off with Socrates and Aquinas, but it eventually veered into a discussion about our own beliefs in life and love, and everything in between. It was a very insightful, intimate moment for both of us, and to this day, I look back on that simple study session as one of the highlights of my college life. I would have never guessed such an illuminating experience would occur in the midst of my blackout period. Needless to say, she and I did very well on the final exam.

By habit, I often finished all my term papers and final projects during the Thanksgiving break. That way, I could just sit back and relax while everyone else struggled to survive finals week. I will never forget Thanksgiving 2002. Picture me sitting on my bed, eating two cans of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs while working on a term paper lit only by a Maglite flashlight.

I paid $15,000 for that semester of private college education. I felt like a Flintstone.

When I returned for the spring semester, the Harris Apartments were up and running again. The housing department gave each of us 50 measly bucks for our trouble. The money didn't even cover the food my roommate lost in our fridge. He was a pudgy guy, and he had frozen sausages imported from Europe. All gone.

I have been particularly grateful for electricity since. I don't know how people survived without electricity centuries ago, but it's good knowing I can survive somewhat when it all shuts down.

Now where are my damn tap lights?

Jesus Was Gay - So What?

2010-03-03T22:25:00.000-08:00

Wait wait wait... so the world is in outrage over Elton John's comments that Jesus was a "compassionate, super-intelligent gay man who understood human problems"?

But nobody protested when hundreds of hipsters said Batman was a "psychotic, steroid-pumped gay man who dressed as a flying rodent."

All Batman ever did was take three boys under his tutelage. Jesus took 12 men.

If you ask me, Elton isn't the ignorant one here. Only the intolerant (and idiotic) would take offense to such a harmless statement.

I'm With CoCo

2010-03-01T22:05:00.000-08:00

The most disheartening part about watching the Winter Olympics were the commercials for Jay Leno's return to The Tonight Show. Of course, I'm with CoCo, and for reasons beyond the typical late night pissing match.

During the whole Leno-Conan fiasco with NBC, countless idiots started comparing who was right, who was wrong, and (to my surprise) who was funnier between the two comedians. Are you kidding me? They are two guys with two different styles of humor. One is zany and self-deprecating, and the other is sardonic and likes to pick on other people.

I used to watch Jay all the time when I was in high school. For a while, his "Headlines" and "Jaywalking" bits were actually funny to me, but by the time I got to college, they overstayed their welcome. I gradually laughed less and less at Jay's monologues--in fact, Kevin Eubanks, his bandleader, often had funnier lines.

Conan, meanwhile, never lost his luster with me on Late Night. It's safe to say that of all the hosts I could choose from after 11:30pm, he was (and still is) my favorite. Yes, his comedy appealed to fratboys and children, but for some reason, it never felt too lowbrow or ridiculous; Conan is smarter than that--apparently too smart for Leno's regular viewers, who could not comprehend Letterman's ironic humor either.

One could argue that Conan was too smart for his own good. He had better comedic timing than any of his peers, and could take someone as dull as Shia LaBeouf and make him look like the most interesting person in the room. Conan was so good at it, viewers didn't realize the command he had at the Late Night or Tonight Show desk.

Ever wonder why Conan's video segments and wild characters worked so well? It's because despite the absurdity of the Masturbating Bear, or the nonsense of an 1864 Old Time Baseball league, Conan always took his work more seriously than he did himself. He laughs with his audience, never at them:

Wanna know who else made a great career off poking fun at himself? Johnny Carson.

Unlike Jay, Conan never came off as threatening or mean. Watching his show was like relaxing at a party: one way or another, you're guaranteed a fun time, simply because Conan wouldn't have it any other way.

When Conan took over The Tonight Show, he was noticeably more reserved, much to my disappointment. Don't get me wrong, he was still enjoyable to watch, but it was missing that spark I clung on to during the Late Night days. Perhaps if NBC gave the show more time to find its footing, it would have succeeded. Hell, Leno took three years to beat Letterman. Conan wasn't given eight months. Even babies are given more time to develop in the womb (and let's face it, most don't turn out half as good as the worst Conan episode).

The only good to come of the NBC fiasco was that America finally got to see Conan at his best. He let loose and took no prisoners, even spending NBC's money on a Bugatti Veyron dressed as a mouse while the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" played in the background. It was vintage Conan, the Conan I missed since his transition to Jay's time slot:

I dare say that Conan's last week on The Tonight Show was the funniest late night experience I ever had. People actually looked forward to seeing the next episode on a day to day basis. When has that ever happened? Skeptics can say overbloated things like, "late night died when Carson retired," but when Conan is unleashed and free to do whatever he wants, he is just as laugh-out-loud funny as Carson ever was.

Someone mentioned that if half the people who watched Conan in his final shows tuned in before, he'd still have his job. Maybe, but I must ask, how can people remain tuned in to NBC at 11:35 when The Jay Leno Show put them to sleep at 10? I sometimes wish The Jay Leno Show premiered in June because had Michael Jackson watched it nightly, he wouldn't have needed Propofol.

In his final week as The Tonight Show host, Conan reminded everybody of what he is capable of, and now, we are all counting down to his return. Whether it's on Fox, Comedy Central, or some online program, I will be watching and rooting for him.

As for Jay, I don't hate or entirely blame the guy. He was forced out of his spot, so it makes sense for him to come back. But I do believe he could have handled everything a classier manner. He could have stuck to his word and prevented a repeat of what happened with him and Letterman back when Carson retired.

I will never forget Conan's parting words on his last episode. He said that he didn't want anybody's sympathy, and asked everybody to refrain from being cynical. For someone who just had their lifelong dream taken away from them, Conan remained classy, poised, and grateful to the end. That's the kind of host I prefer to watch:

What saddens me most is that neither NBC nor Jay will ever have the amount of love and respect for The Tonight Show the way Conan did.

That being said, I will not be watching Jay's return.

I'm with CoCo, and I always will be.

---

NOTE: After one month of daily blogging, I've decided to limit my posting to one or two or three (or zero) a week. As fun as it is to rant and rave everyday, I am looking at the entries I have in progress, and each will require a few days to complete properly. Let's face it, even for this blog that only two or three people read, I must have some standards. :)

One Right for Two Wrongs

2010-02-28T23:55:00.000-08:00

Right after Team Canada won the gold in one of the most exciting hockey matches I've ever seen, I had to go downtown to run an errand. There, I found myself sharing the world's slowest elevator with two gay Caucasian guys, who grumbled nonstop about everything. I loathe sharing elevators as is, but to hear these two whine for 12 floors made me want to commit murder.

For the sake of anonymity, I'll call them Bill and Andy.

I'll admit, some of the things they bitched about had merit, especially the stench inside the elevator. To me, it smelled like a fermented supreme Pizza Hut pizza. Bill thought differently.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed. "It smells like onions and black people in here."

...

Maybe under normal circumstances, I would have laughed at the sheer absurdity and awkwardness of the line. Bill said it so loudly that the whole building probably heard. Still, I didn't even grin. My disgust for those idiots was at fever pitch by then, so I folded my arms and slightly lowered my head. Bill and Andy, on the other hand, obnoxiously giggled their hearts out.

They didn't even hear the elevator stop at the fourth floor.

DING.

The doors opened, and a muscular African American guy walked in and punched Bill right in the chin with a thunderous right hook. Bill's head snapped back as he fell atop Andy. If it weren't for the railing, they would have fallen hard for sure.

The guy, who I'll call Todd for the sake of anonymity, moved in for Andy with fists clenched. Andy put his arms up defensively and yelled, "No, no, no, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Todd remained expressionless as Andy set Bill on the ground. As the old saying goes, the lights were on, but nobody was home with Bill. He had this glazed look over his face, and his mouth was full of blood.

The next thing I knew, Todd stood next to me, and we both watched the LED count down as we descended to the lobby.

DING.

The doors opened, and Todd and I left the two idiots in the elevator, hopefully with some new sense knocked into them. It dawned on me as I drove home that had I been caught laughing, I probably would have been knocked out myself.

Reginald VelJohnson: A Real Cop's Cop

2010-02-27T23:58:00.000-08:00

Since I am going out tonight to actually hang out with current and former co-workers, I've decided to post a short tribute to the man, the myth, the legend, Reginald VelJohnson.

He helped the Ghostbusters out of jail. (Check the 1:22 mark.)

He helped John McClane out of Nakatomi Plaza. (A spoof scene below.)

He helped Steve Urkel, and even took a stand against racism. (Check the 3:55 mark.)

Reginald VelJohnson. Hollywood never had a better cop on the force.

When I'm Alone, I **** Myself!

2010-02-26T23:10:00.000-08:00

In the midst of the most epic boredom at work, I passed along this "classic" YouTube video to a few fellow sweatshop workers. It always shocks me when I meet people who haven't seen clips that have gotten millions of views. Then again, I can't fault them for having more of a life than me.

In the spirit of keeping Friday simple and fun, here it is for the five millionth time:

Here are a few other popular made-for-YouTube clips that I think everybody should see (or at least know about):

And for good measure, even though these are not exactly made for YouTube:

I've always wanted to post a blog that would take five years to load. :)

The Japanese-less Karate Kid

2010-02-25T23:55:00.000-08:00

I saw the trailer for The Karate Kid remake, and I am so disgusted and angered by it, I cannot even compose a proper blog for it... but you can bet that one is coming. First, I need to stop myself from throwing this computer monitor out the window. Then, I need to drop the explosives I planned on using to demolish Columbia Pictures. Lastly, I need to calm down and recompose myself so I can finish a complete thought without snapping.

That may take all night.

I'll tell you what I saw, though... I saw an African-American kid (Jaden Smith) learn kung fu from a Chinese man (Jackie Chan) in a movie titled The Karate Kid. Karate is a Japanese martial art. Kung fu is a Chinese term that means, "any individual accomplishment or skill cultivated through long and hard work," but is mostly associated with wushu, a Chinese martial art.

The movie does not even take place in Japan.

The kid of course falls in love with a Chinese girl, and has to fight for her honor. The girl is smart (since all Asians know math) and she plays the violin (since all Chinese girls play the violin). Pardon me for the spoiler, but I think the kid will save the day, and years later, he will knock up the girl and abandon her (since African American men like to run away from their responsibilities).

CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

1. Why didn't they cast an Asian or Asian-American kid to play the lead? It's 2010 for crying out loud.

2. Why can't they title this Kung Fu Kid, or Kung Pow Kobe, or Gettin' Jiggy Wit da Chan or something? Must Columbia Pictures further confuse ignorant Americans into thinking that Chinese and Japanese cultures are the same?

3. During the movie, is there going to be a running stereotype counter in the right corner? I think I will need one, 'cause I tend to lose count after reaching 500. I'll be shocked if Jaden Smith's voice isn't autotuned.

This "remake" will amount to embarrassment, not nostalgia. I don't think Asians and Asian-Americans can be set any further back in both American cinema and culture. It sickens me.

...

In brighter news, I saw probably the greatest figure skating performance by South Korean Kim Yu-Na (it should be Yu-Na Kim, shouldn't it?). I bet a friend she'd take the gold, considering all the pressure she was under from her country. She will walk away from the Olympics with millions from her current and future endorsement deals; I will walk away with a good 20 bucks.

But in four years, I am looking forward to see Mirai Nagasu get the gold. No pressure.

The Wedding Speaker

2010-02-24T23:55:00.000-08:00

As of this typing, I have emceed/given speeches at four weddings, and I have no clue why. I am probably the last person on the planet you'd want to speak anywhere. I think weddings are quite stupid, and I cannot stand how seriously people take them (especially you Catholics and Indians). And what's worse is that most couples think that weddings are all about gathering people to celebrate themselves, when it should be the opposite. If you're going to drag my ass out of my normal week to attend your wedding, you better entertain the hell out of me... and have the best food possible with an open bar.

When I emcee or give a speech, entertaining is all I care about, even if it's at the newlyweds' expense. Given that, imagine my shock the other night when I was asked to emcee another reception. I'm inclined to decline the offer. Seriously, there are far better (and less medicated) people to host the festivities than me.

Even though I dislike weddings, speaking at them is actually very fun. It's an easy gig. As long as you aren't too obnoxious, the crowd will laugh at anything you say, and since the bride and groom are obligated to smile all day, they won't beat you down when you say something offensive. Oops, I mean IF you say something offensive.

As the years have gone by, my friends have caught on to my antics, and now give me a list of things not to say when I take to the podium. What they fail to write on that list is the list itself, so naturally, I make it a point to share with everyone what I am not allowed to say. It always goes over well with the crowd, but never the newlyweds. I don't know why.

There are actually many things that no wedding speaker should ever mention. You have your four-letter curse words (nothing makes an emcee look dumber than using expletives). You have your share of stories that could embarrass the groom, the bride, or their parents (childhood stories, however, are okay). And you have those red flag topics and specific names that should remain taboo (exes, to be more specific).

Of course, some rules were meant to be broken. I spent a good ten minutes during a speech making fun of a groom's mother. She was Korean, so I had a long list of "your mom is psychotic" jokes, which she--and the Korean half of the room--found hilarious. (The Caucasian half probably sent the mom sympathy donations or something.) The groom got a little peeved, and he actually stood with eyes that looked like they wanted to cause me bodily harm. Luckily for me, the bride also stood and calmed him down, allowing me to sing this Frank DeLima parody before I changed the subject.

In another speech, I compared the groom to the bride's last ex-boyfriend, whose faults I knew quite well. For fun, I asked her husband a series of questions to see how he'd fare, considering how badly the ex treated her. To my surprise, the groom wanted to be funny and answered in the most offensive way possible. Half the crowd (the bride's half) didn't realize he was joking. The best part was, unknown to me, the ex was sitting about two rows back, and heard everything. Long story short, some guests left doubting the integrity of the marriage, and one in particular left very angry and embarrassed.

What can I say? It's no holds barred when I'm up there. Speaking of which, I may be the first person in history to utter the word "boobage" during a newlyweds speech. The sad thing was, I wasn't talking about the bride.

Yeah, I think I'm gonna decline this offer. It's one that I, along with the bride, groom, and their guests, can definitely afford to refuse.

The Job Hunt Is On

2010-02-23T23:55:00.000-08:00

Sitting at my desk tonight, I physically felt the energy to do work drain out of me. I checked my bank account and saw my credit card debt sink further and further into the red. I checked my calendar and realized that I have virtually nothing worthwhile going on until late March. Creatively, I've been clawing to maintain any sense of motivation to write on a nightly basis. This job is killing my spirit, and after a year, I have had enough.

As I've written previously, the only good thing about crappy jobs are the people you work with. Only good people can put up with such nonsense for an extended period of time. Apart from the guy I sit next to, I like the people I work with. They're simply too genuine and smart to be in such a dump. Unfortunately, the company will never know how much potential it is wasting (and eventually losing) on a daily basis.

So, this is it. The job hunt is on once again for me, and even though it may take months to find something suitable, I am not giving up. I want out of this office. My wallet can't take it anymore. My sanity can't take it anymore.

When videos like this make me smile, it's time for a change of surroundings:

"Folk" Ice Dancing is for Dumb Folk

2010-02-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

You got pasty Americans dancing like Bollywood stars.

You got albino Canadians doing the Flamenco.

<--- You got cooky Russians allegedly performing an aborigine thing dressed like they came from a luau. And you got more translucent Americans dancing to some Moldovan music, despite looking like they fight bulls in Spain.

I'll admit, some of the performances were incredible, but all this nonsense conjures up the big question: Do Caucasians have any culture of their own?

Didn't think so. Oh well, I guess beer and hunting don't make for an Olympic-worthy ice dance... OR DO THEY?!

What Goalie?

2010-02-21T21:45:00.000-08:00

I am stunned that the U.S. beat Canada in hockey. I give Brian Rafalski and Ryan Kesler all the credit in the world, 'cause it was a fantastic game. That last shot by Kesler was like taking a dirty sword and sinking it ever so happily into Canada's heart. And the victory celebration that followed was like peeing on the wound, then eating the raw heart as a side dish to the main course: 23 Canadian hockey players' souls, cooked medium rare.

It was delicious! But seriously, where was the goalie?

The real losers here were not Canada, as you might believe. NBC, in their infinite wisdom, decided to devote their main network programming to ice dancing while this epic hockey game was going on. Ice dancing. They put a match between the U.S. and Canada on MSNBC while the rest of the country watched hokey ice dancing. Think about that. It's like they don't even want us to watch the exciting Olympic sports, much less earn some ratings.

In other news, I'm still with Coco.

Heavy Rain Looks Crazy Awesome

2010-02-20T23:40:00.000-08:00

I do not consider myself a hardcore (or even decent) video gamer, even though I've owned quite a few consoles in my time. In high school, I had ten of them hooked up to random TVs in my house. These days, however, all I have (and all I need) is a PS3.

I don't even use the PS3 for gaming as much as I use it for Blu-rays. But in the past year, I relived a good portion of my childhood thanks to a few titles, including Batman: Arkham Asylum and Ghostbusters: The Video Game.

Infamous, Assassin's Creed 2 and Uncharted 2 are also excellent, and of course, Metal Gear Solid 4 is a must-have for any PS3 owner. (Unlike films, video game sequels are usually superior to the originals.)

Actually, video games and films go hand-in-hand for me. Like movies, a good game gets you caught up in the storyline, and makes you empathize with the characters. Since I am not big on sci-fi or horror movies, I tend to stay away from human-less fantasy games with stupid monsters or robots (LittleBigPlanet is an exception).

I also don't care for war films, so regardless if they take place in WWII or some post-apocalyptic setting, war games generally do not appeal to me (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 is an exception). Speaking of COD, I usually dislike first-person shooters; if I wanted a seizure, I'd go to a club instead.

I do enjoy third-person adventures, just like Quantic Dream's upcoming release Heavy Rain. I just played the demo, and I am actually excited to play this one. It's unlike any other PS3 title I've seen. In fact, I don't even consider Heavy Rain a "video game." It's really a third-person suspense film, and you are the writer-director making decisions that influence the characters' fates. Considering my movie and gaming tastes, this should be right up my alley.

The graphics look impressive, and even though the demo did not reveal much of the story, it was enough to stir up my interest. As a gamer, Heavy Rain seems very innovative. As a filmmaker, I hope it blows my mind.

And get this, in the game, it rains... heavily:

The developers at Quantic Dream were so happy with themselves, they even made a fun "audition tape" for one of the characters. I figure, I should embed that video too. It's better than most of the real auditions I've seen in this town:

Plushenko the Comedian

2010-02-19T14:40:00.000-08:00

Hahahahahahaha, Plushenko, you make me laugh.

After you learned the results of your free skate performance, you said, and I quote, "I was positive that I won [the gold]."

But guess what? You didn't!

You nailed the quad (congratulations), but you totally forgot how the scoring system worked in these games.

Let's face it, Lysacek had a better performance. It had fluidity and--get this--it did not bore me to death like your robotic, graceless program did.

Hahahaha, and after you were given the silver, you said, "I think we need to change the judging system--a quad is a quad. If an Olympic champion doesn't do a quad, well I don't know. Now it's not men's figure skating, it's dancing."

Hahahahahahaha, Plushenko, I'm still laughing.

I must commend you, you funny man, because in just 24 hours, you replaced Jacobellis as my new symbol of Olympic failure! Don't get me wrong, I understand where you're coming from, and I agree that a great Olympic skater should nail a quad. BUT... if your country wasn't accused of cheating back in Salt Lake City, you probably would have the gold right now.

EPIC FAIL, Plushenko! You should have studied the revised judging guidelines before you nailed your quad. It's time for you to take that snot you were disgracefully snorting during our "Star-Spangled Banner," and rub it all over your face.

As a winner, you suck. As a loser, you blow.

Don't Be a Jacobellis

2010-02-18T02:30:00.000-08:00

While I pondered setting the office on fire during my one-year anniversary yesterday, three Americans won gold in Vancouver.

Favoring a bruised shin, Lindsey Vonn won the women's downhill skiing competition, partially due to Mother Nature being on her side (skiing events were delayed due to poor weather conditions in the prior days). The whole iffy scenario of whether or not Vonn would ski was mercilessly built up by NBC in package after package. I swear, if she didn't win a single gold in these games, I would have burned NBC's offices to the ground.

Unsurprisingly, Shani Davis dominated the 1000-meter speedskating event, with extra help from the U.S. Olympic speedskating "assistant sports psychologist" Stephen Colbert. In a later interview with Bob Costas, Colbert proudly took credit for Davis' win, and rightfully so!

The highlight of the evening was snowboarder Shaun White, who won the gold even before his final pass into the halfpipe. With nothing to lose, he nailed all his rotations, and capped it off with his latest move, the DoubleMcTwist1260. Clearly, he was having nothing but fun out there, and to my delight, he was rewarded for it.

Speaking of Olympians who got what they deserved, Lindsey Jacobellis was disqualified Tuesday in the snowboard cross semifinal. It was an even bigger fail than what she did in Torino '06--and what happened there pissed me off to no end.

Four years ago, Jacobellis had her race in the bag. She gained a sizable lead from her three competitors, and she was just an easy jump away from the finish line. Gold was in her grasp, and what did she do? She decided to showboat, attempting an unnecessary method grab midair. Sure enough, she fell upon landing, allowing Switzerland's Tanja Frieden to take first place. Jacobellis was lucky to get the silver, but if I were in her shoes, I'd feel so ashamed with myself.

It bothered me that so many media outlets described her entry into the 2010 games as her opportunity for "revenge" or "redemption." Are you kidding me? She lacked humility in '06, and paid dearly for it. It was solely her fault for what happened four years ago, and although her DQ on Tuesday had nothing to do with cockiness, I don't think she deserved another shot at gold.

I'm sure Jacobellis instantly learned her lesson in Torino, but as an athlete, I'd expect her to know that hubris has no place in the midst of actual competition. It's the stuff fools are made of, and until someone else manages to oust Jacobellis from her cradle of idiocy, she will always be the Olympic symbol of failure to me.

The Esquire Files

2010-02-17T11:14:00.000-08:00

When Esquire profiles a person, they usually do a damn good job.

I remember reading their November 1998 issue that profiled Fred Rogers. It was an incredibly fascinating piece that brought me closer to understanding the man than any televised biography.

If it weren't for that article, I wouldn't have written Fred the following year to thank him for my childhood's fondest memories. And if it weren't for that article, I wouldn't have received the kindest letter back from him!

Today, the country is buzzing about Esquire's latest profile on film critic Roger Ebert. I say without any doubt or hyperbole that I would not be in Hollywood pursuing my delusions if Ebert never picked up a pen.

More on that later...

My favorite quote from him comes at the end:

I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn't always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

As I type this, many blogs and articles are writing about Ebert as if he were dead, but the Esquire piece is no obituary. That quote sums up what really defines a "great film" to him, and what a "great film"--and a great life--should accomplish.

It is an incredible read.

Happy Anniversary, Day Job

2010-02-16T22:45:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of being at my office job.

I do not have anything humorous or remotely amusing to say about it. It is a day that will live in infamy.

I, along with my co-worker Anton (who started the same day as me), will be wearing black to commemorate the sad occasion.

I've heard that some people actually have fun at their office jobs. This group looks like they're stuffed in a sweatshop like me, and I give them props for making light of a dismal situation with a dismal song... but at least they were given laptops with cameras! My computer can barely run Kid Pix without crashing.

These workers are smiling, but do you know what they have that I don't have access to? WINDOWS! And if you think I'm talking about the computer program, go lick a llama's anus. These people have sunlight to bounce off their pasty faces. If I'm lucky, a fluorescent bulb will fall on my cranium during the workday; it's the closest I'll ever get to light at my job.

And then there are these guys, who look so happy and hopeful, I bet they have benefits. Seriously, I could die in my chair at the office, and when the coroner discovers it was due to "chronic boredom," he'll say it could have been prevented if I saw a doctor. But who can afford a doctor when you have no benefits?

In the past year, there have been days where I've felt like this guy.

And this guy.

And this guy.

And this guy.

Lately, I've especially felt like this guy.

But as I clock in after 365 days of putting up with more nonsense than most part-timers, I simply feel like this:

John Williams: The REAL Olympics Champion

2010-02-15T23:30:00.000-08:00

After watching Qing Pang and Jian Tong's fantastic long program on the ice (only to be beaten by Chinese compatriots Shen and Zhao for the gold), it dawned on me who the real winner of the Winter Olympics is. In fact, he is the real winner of all Olympic Games: John Williams.

He is 78 years old, too old to compete in any sport, but he is literally sitting back and watching the money roll in every time NBC plays his "Olympic Fanfare and Theme" or "Summon the Heroes." I give that ingenious bastard all the credit in the world.

I've seen Williams conduct the L.A. Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl every summer since '05, and whenever the "Olympic Fanfare" is played, the audience goes nuts. It is a fantastic piece of music:

Let's not forget, Leo Arnaud's "Bugler's Dream" is played just as much during the Olympic broadcast... but he's not alive to enjoy the residuals:

Damn you, John Williams. The only other person I can think of who has such luck is Mike Post, composer of the themes to The Rockford Files, The A-Team, Hill Street Blues, NYPD Blue, and one of my favorites:

The real moneymaker for Post is an actual sound byte not even three seconds long. As the head composer for Law and Order, every time you hear this, Post gets paid:

No, that is not a sound effect. That is a musical composition. And Post composed it. Factor in the many versions of Law and Order currently on air or in syndication, and this guy is also sitting back and watching his residual checks get larger and larger.

It's unbelievable. Maybe I should take up music composing.

The Kearney Redemption

2010-02-14T21:40:00.000-08:00

These Winter Olympics are not good for insomnia. I'm used to getting four to five hours of sleep a night, no thanks to the Internet, my HDTV, my growing Blu-ray collection, my PS3, and my insatiable need to write. I try to work a little of each into my nightly routine, but the Olympics are now my biggest distraction.

Last night was incredible. Two Koreans wiped themselves out at the last second of the short track speedskating race, giving Americans Apolo Ohno and J.R. Celski the silver and bronze respectively. Ohno put speedskating on the map for America before being referred to as "that Dancing with the Stars guy." It was nice to see him back in top form, winning at what he should be known for.

Later, I saw Canadian Jennifer Heil tear down the mountain, placing first in the women's freestyle moguls competition. It was incredible. I thought that I'd finally be witnessing history: a Canadian winning gold on her home turf. Up to that point, the bar had been set high. I saw several skiers falling and failing to catch up to American Shannon Bahrke's score. Heil smashed it by two tenths of a point. I thought she had it in the bag.

Then I heard Hannah Kearney was the last contender.

I'm not a big sports fan, but I remembered Kearney from the 2006 games. I had just started an awful customer service job, and I foolishly said to a friend that "nobody could be having a crappier year than me right now." My friend mentioned Kearney's name, and after hearing that she failed to qualify at the Torino games (despite being the favorite to win), I felt better for myself... and crappier for her.

But could Kearney win? Heil pulled off such an excellent score (as if Kearney needed more pressure), and so many others couldn't step up their game. The suspense was cinematic.

I found myself really cheering for Kearney, and marveled at her speed as she took the bumps down the hill. Usually, I associate that kind of excitement with the Summer Games. Kearney flawlessly flipped through the air, and when she passed the finish line, I was on my feet. She won it, and as much as I wanted Heil to have her moment, Kearney seriously deserved it more. And I didn't need a ten-minute video package to know that.

I am typically against all the melodramatic packages NBC runs before certain Olympians take to their competitions. I don't need to know how many injuries or surgeries they've had. I don't care if they've come from poverty, or lost their entire family in a tricycle accident. I already know they've risked and sacrificed everything to be at the Olympics; let the skiing and skating speak for themselves.

It's like making a movie. In the long run, all that matters is if the film is fantastic in the end. A filmmaker, like an athlete, works hard for the opportunity, and what he or she does with that defines (and hopefully justifies) everything they've done to earn it.

Tonight, the Olympics continue to excite. Despite the earlier tragedy on the luge track, German Felix Loch zoomed through at 91 miles per hour to win the gold. I think he, along with all lugers, are clinically insane. But I guess that's what makes the luge so thrilling to begin with. Speed creates drama; risk creates suspense. The luge combines both.

And at the risk of sounding like a complete sissy, I like watching the figure skating competitions. You can joke with a degree of validity that the luge doesn't take much athleticism; it's just a bunch of guys shifting their weight on a downhill sled. You can even joke that moguls is just going down a bumpy hill in style. But figure skating? Even the best skaters don't make it look easy.

I particularly liked the routine by China's pair skaters Shen and Zhao. It was about as perfect as one could want, and as a Queen fan, it was great to see them perform to "Who Wants To Live Forever." I'd like to say they're going to take home the gold, but if there's anything I've learned from these games thus far, it's that anything can happen up to the very end.

And how about that? Just as I post this, Canadian men's mogul skater Alexandre Bilodeau has finally broken the curse, and won gold for his country, in his country.

We Are The World Again

2010-02-13T11:55:00.000-08:00

I always felt that the original "We Are The World" in 1985 was an epic recording. Never again will you get Bruce, Bob, Stevie, Ray, and Michael in one studio on the same track. Sure, the lyrics may be cheesy, but if you're making a charity single, cheesy is what brings the money in--$60 million for Ethiopia in this case.

Artists from all genres gathered for a good cause, and even some actors like Dan Aykroyd showed up to sing. Some of the vocal blends are amazing, especially Cyndi Lauper's screaming over Huey Lewis and Kim Carnes:

Yesterday, before the Winter Olympics started, a new version of "We Are The World" debuted. Instead of Bruce and the rest, we get Miley, Snoop, Pink, Celine, and Barbra. From the acting world, "Best Actor"-to-be Jeff Bridges joined part of the chorus. Of the original singers, only Michael returned via his original vocal takes in '85. (From what I hear, it was intentional to use an all-new group of artists.)

The result:

There are probably tons of people who will compare the two versions, and openly criticize the latter for random reasons. Personally, I see no point in pissing on charity, even if I preferred a new song be written instead. It's the same melody for a different time and a different cause. If there is still a person on the planet who hasn't donated something to support Haiti, this single provides another opportunity.

Where was Beyonce, or Justin Timberlake, or Mariah? Well... you can find them on "What More Can I Give," written by Michael in 2001 for 9/11 victims. Thanks to Sony, it was never released, but at least Michael understood that a new song was the better way to go, in English and Spanish:

Where's the Fourth Cauldron?

2010-02-12T23:55:00.000-08:00

I love the Olympics. I love the overblown pageantry, the never-ending opening and closing ceremonies, the mumbling speeches by the two old geezers from the IOC. Oh, and I love the sports competitions themselves (how could I forget?). They give me one more reason to be grateful for high definition, and now that the Conan-Leno fiasco is over (for now), there is finally something exciting to watch on network TV.

The Olympics are a constant reminder of how far one can push the human mind, body and spirit. They are a constant reminder of the sacrifices athletes make to be the best at whatever they do. They also remind me of how far I'll always be from attaining such peak performance as I sit around watching them with a bag of potato chips. That's a good thing, though, because it allows me to be wowed every single time an Olympian breaks a world record, or wins a race, or nails an impossible jump. It also allows me to laugh and feel better about myself when an Olympian falls on his or her butt.

I got a huge laugh tonight from the Winter Olympics opening ceremony. It seems that the technicians forgot a tried and true practice every filmmaker learns on their first shoot: if you fail to prepare, prepare to fail. Three cauldrons went up, one cauldron stayed below. Tell me, how did they not have a manual way to get the fourth cauldron up? Poor Catroina Lemay Doan was all fired up with nothing to torch.

The media can call it a "gaffe" all they want; that missing cauldron just made these opening ceremonies memorable--at least until the closing ceremonies, which will hopefully be just as imperfect.

Earlier this afternoon, a Georgian luger was killed in a horrific crash during a practice run. I can only imagine how his family and teammates must feel as these games commence. Here's to hoping that the next two weeks will be safe ones for these athletes. I look forward to a happier, gaffe-less Olympics here on out.

The Most Hated Boy in the Sweatshop

2010-02-11T23:30:00.000-08:00

There are a number of reasons why I hate my day job. It is part-time, I get no benefits, and I spend all day cramped in an office doing meaningless work. I even had to fight to get the "privilege" of parking in the company's 6-story garage. As one of the many people in this town who want to do something more "artsy-fartsy" with their lives, it is absolutely discouraging that we have to do such mind-numbing bullshit just to pay the bills.

It's not even a film-related job! I actually refuse to work a 9-to-5 within the business, because it always results in me doing "assistant work" (a.k.a. slavery) for some idiot I do not respect. My first job out of college was being a producer's assistant. I was yelled and screamed at (there is a difference), I had staplers thrown at me, and I even had to pick up my boss' drugs in some shady part of Los Angeles. I do not know if they were legal or illegal, but the guy I picked them up from was not wearing a white coat.

After a year of relinquishing all my free time to wipe my boss' ass, I quit and took on a series of crap jobs: customer service/call center work, music copyright work at Universal (which wasn't all that bad), Internet research work for a failed search engine, and my current part-time gig, also related to Internet research. In retrospect, it's probably to my benefit that I only work part-time; I'd blow my head off if I had to work in that office an hour longer.

In fact, I think it is fair to say that I don't even work in an office. I, along with 15 other Internet researchers, are packed into a small room within the main office, hidden away to prevent the Department of Labor from seeing the sweatshop within. As you can imagine, we work the hardest, yet do not see a nickel of the profits the company makes off us. Oh well. Money is not the issue here--at least, not in this blog post.

The biggest reason why I hate my job is the moron I have to share a desk with. He is, by far, the most inconsiderate bastard I've ever had to call a "co-worker." No, he does not fling staplers at me, but I would LOVE to take a red Swingline, shine it up real nice, turn it sideways, and stick it straight up his candy-ass. (Yes, I made two very nerdy cultural references in that last sentence, but I couldn't resist.)

This is how an average day goes...

For the sake of anonymity, we'll call my co-worker Brandon.

At about noon everyday, Brandon walks in all smelly and gross because he pedals his bike to work from whatever sewer hole he inhabits. For a more accurate visual, picture Tony Shalhoub (minus the talent and charm) drenched in sweat, wearing a backpack filled with weapons of mass destruction. Those weapons consist of headphones, lunch in Tupperware, and a drinking bottle (the kind bicyclists often carry around to "hydrate" themselves).

Nobody looks at Brandon when he enters. Nobody turns and says hello. Not even a nod to signify his mere presence. The entire sweatshop can't stand him; he just doesn't know it yet.

Brandon sits and plugs in his headphones, starts his Pandora playlist, and treats the entire room to his lacking taste in rock 'n' roll. The deaf dipshit listens to his music so loudly that the headphones are irrelevant. Today, he treated us to Creedence Clearwater Revival, Simon and Garfunkel, AC/DC, Billy Joel, The Beatles, Journey, and EVANESCENCE. Who in the blue hell listens to Evanescence? And who in the name of bloody stool would put The Beatles on the same playlist as Evanescence?

And get this: Sometimes, he will sing along to whatever he’s listening to. That’s right, folks. He pulled a Steve Perry today and tried to sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” top to bottom. And as we all know, there’s that bit in the chorus where Perry hits that high note:

“Hiding, somewhere in the niiiiiiiiiiiight.”

Brandon didn’t hit the note. I did, however, want to journey my way out of a window, and onto the pavement 10 stories down. I guarantee you that the last whimper out of my broken body would have been closer to the correct pitch than what Brandon sang.

Everybody in the room brings their own headphones to work, but we can still hear Brandon’s music over our own. That’s how painful it is. The best is when he listens to his nerdy symphonic music. Sometimes, it’ll be baroque nonsense with a harpsichord and a flute (music to shoot your neighbor by, appropriately enough). Other times, it’ll be the main title to Star Trek or Star Wars or some other bombastic score. Last week, he indulged the entire room with a performance of the Schindler’s List theme, as if we needed whiny violins to further compliment our murderous thoughts in the office.

As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog, I despise inconsiderate people who are oblivious to their surroundings. Today, a co-worker on the other side of the room asked Brandon to lower the volume in his headphones. Brandon had no idea that the entire sweatshop could hear every decibel of aural diarrhea that he listens to. What a dunce.

So he turned down the volume, which then left the room to a wonderful silence. Until… out of nowhere, Brandon starts to laugh. And it’s not one of those quiet chuckles either. It’s a loud, obnoxious “ha ha ha.” If Brandon were anybody else, someone in the sweatshop would probably ask him why he’s laughing, but since it’s Brandon, we don’t care. Personally, I think he laughs just to hear himself laugh.

I take a peek at his monitor and find out that he has closed Pandora, and has moved on to watching clips of Whose Line Is It Anyway? on YouTube. That’s another thing that annoys me about him: he always copies whatever I’m doing. I am a huge Whose Line fan, and in an attempt to prevent myself from slashing my wrists in the sweatshop, I’ll look up a Whose Line clip and laugh for a minute. Sometimes, I’ll watch a Victor Borge routine, or maybe some Lewis Black. I swear, not two seconds after I finish watching, I’ll turn to Brandon’s monitor, and he’ll be watching the same damn thing!

To make matters worse, he’ll be laughing away, much to the annoyance of everybody in the room.

If he isn’t laughing, Brandon will make other random noises throughout the workday for no reason whatsoever. There have been countless occasions where I’ll actually have an ingenious work-related idea, only to be interrupted by one of Brandon’s sissy moans or groans. He doesn’t do a damn thing without irritating the sweatshop. That’s where his Tupperware lunch comes into play.

Brandon does not chew with his mouth closed. In fact, I don’t think he does anything with his mouth closed. When he was a baby, I bet his mom tried to breastfeed him, but his lips could never close, and the milk would just go all over his face. He must be in the Guinness Book of World Records for mastering the act of swallowing with his mouth open.

When Brandon yawns, he never covers his mouth. He just sucks up the oxygen in the room, then lets out a sharp exhale. It gets on my nerves faster than a Tyler Perry movie. If Brandon has a cold, he’ll blow his nose or let out a booming cough. And of course, when he coughs, he doesn’t cover his mouth either! It’s as if he doesn’t give a shit about his co-workers' well-being.

I remember his first day in, he told all of us that he had a fever. We told him to go home, and he said he “saw no point” in leaving early on his first day. He couldn’t process in his tiny brain that we’re all part-timers paid by the hour. If we get sick and can’t work, we don’t get paid. The sweatshop is called a sweatshop for a reason: it’s a lot of people crammed into a very small room. All it takes is one ill dolt to infect us all, and he couldn’t understand that.

What’s worse is that for the eight hours Brandon’s at work, he never leaves the room. Ever. When it’s lunchtime, he kicks back, rubs himself in various places, then stuffs his face while watching Anime on Hulu. How he can hear anything above his deafening chewing is beyond me. No wonder he has the volume turned up in his headphones all the time.

Personally, the image of a Caucasian boy getting off on watching Anime saddens me. I grew up in Hawaii, and I don’t even know of a single Asian person who watches Anime. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few fantastic Anime films, but Brandon does not seem the type to know what they are.

Last week, he brought tuna to work. I know that not because I saw what was in his Tupperware, but because as he was eating it, I could smell it as he chewed. The whole row could smell and hear it. We even glared at him to see if he’d catch on, but I guess Pikachu, or whatever the hell he was watching was more captivating.

As he’s watching Anime, chewing loudly, and pissing off the sweatshop, Brandon then takes his drinking bottle, and for some reason, pours whatever is in it into a cup. I guess when you never close your mouth, a drinking straw is pretty useless. Still, he slurps his drink through and through. I thought I was joking about Brandon's mom failing to breastfeed him, but on second thought, I think she avoided the potentially fatal exercise altogether.

I’ve learned to just leave the room and take a walk around the block while he eats. There’s no reason for an intelligent person like me to put myself through such pain. I don’t clock out, mind you. I blame the company for Brandon just as much as I blame Brandon’s parents.

When I interviewed for my job, I was lectured about “company culture,” and how it took a certain type of personality to “fit in” with the “culture.” Blah blah blah. Brandon’s personality couldn’t win over attendees at an asshole convention, and his face would offend Neanderthals. There is virtually nothing about him that says, “I can fit in with the company culture.” As I wrote earlier, nobody likes to talk to him (or at him, for the matter). But that doesn’t stop good ol’ Brandon!

He sees fit to chime in his two cents whenever a conversation goes on in the sweatshop. His voice alone makes you want to stab your ears with sharp objects, but the fact he has to butt in on everything is just pitiful. He is so dense, even after everybody has turned away from him with their headphones on, he keeps yammering. Nobody cares about what he has to say. His opinions matter about as much as his existence. I dare say that if he lit himself on fire at our desk, everybody would hurry over to make sure I was okay.

Some of you may read this and think I am the biggest hater in the free world. I assure you, that isn’t the case at all. It is never my agenda to hate someone outright, but Brandon gave me no choice. Truth be told, I didn’t like him within five minutes of meeting him.

I worked as a casting director on many film projects, and as a job requirement, I learned how to judge and analyze people quickly and accurately. Just by the way he noisily took out all his belongings on his first day, I could instantly tell that Brandon lacked manners and any sense of self-awareness. The entire sweatshop has paid dearly for his ignorance since.

Also, when you work a string of crappy jobs like I have, more often than not, you find yourself working with really good people. Only good, patient people can put up with the amount of bullshit that crappy jobs offer. Sure, some co-workers may be a bit more sarcastic or blunt than others, but at the core, they’re first-rate. With two or three exceptions, my current co-workers are fantastic, and they make the sweatshop bearable enough on a day-to-day basis.

Brandon is not part of the solution. He’s barely part of the equation.

A rational human being would recommend I talk with Brandon about his many flaws, and try to work toward a peaceful resolution. If it were anybody else, I probably would have confronted him/her by now, but honestly, if I were to tell Brandon my grievances, he’d go home and cry. I’m serious. I barely know the guy, and I can’t even look at him. I figure his friends are the type who only tolerate his presence, but rejoice like the peasants in Monty Python and the Holy Grail once he leaves.

But I dare not mention Monty Python to Brandon. He’ll probably look it up on YouTube, and force the whole sweatshop to hear “Knights of the Round Table” through his headphones while he laughs uncontrollably with tuna spewing out of his mouth.

The sad part is, if he were to ever read this, I’ll bet he’ll think this blog ain’t about him. (That's right, readers! Guess what song he's listening to NOW!)

Please... kill me. Kill me now.

What a Director Should Never Say

2010-02-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

February 14th will mark a number of things: Valentine's Day, the Chinese New Year, and the third year of development for my feature, I Hate You. It will finally be locked on the 14th, and pre-production will kick off. There's no telling what will happen, but if all goes well, I will be back in the director's chair after a six-year absence, and hopefully make a film not as awful as the one I worked on a year ago.

In February 2009, right before I landed my current day job, I worked as an assistant director (AD) on a feature. I wasn’t paid for the gig, but after five months of unemployment, I really had nothing better to do. The script (written by the director) was gutter trash, and not once did I understand what was going on in front of the camera.

The job of an AD is to run the set, making sure everything is on time according to schedule. On this particular shoot, the director treated his script like a “shopping list” (his words, not mine), and randomly picked and chose bits where we’d follow the pages exactly, or improvise. In other words, scheduling was virtually impossible. Even the shot list was optional, so the entire cast and crew flew by the seat of their pants everyday.

My brain is starting to hurt just thinking about it.

There were countless occurrences when the director would give an actor suggestions that were totally contradictory to what the script originally suggested. And considering the director had written about 20 drafts of this thing, he'd often get his drafts mixed up, citing scenes that never made it into the final screenplay! Again, I did not read the script, so I couldn't help when these mix-ups happened. (Believe me, it was for my own good.)

It dawned on me by the end of day two that my AD position was essentially useless—that is, until something strange started to happen: the entire crew started to depend on me for keeping morale high on-set. Can you believe that? They looked to me, the disgruntled, wisecracking, would-rather-be-anyplace-but-here AD, to keep their spirits up! How sad is that?

The experience wasn’t pointless. I learned a lot on how not to direct a movie, and how not to act on a set. The director’s job is very important, especially on a shoot where nobody is getting paid. His or her presence (or lack thereof) directly affects the mood amongst the cast and crew, and should never be taken lightly. I can safely guarantee that nobody who worked on this shoot will work with the director again.

One afternoon, the director was trying to plan out a fight scene in an alley. The location had been locked for months, so I was astounded that he didn’t figure out his ideas beforehand. Then again, when a director treats his script like a shopping list, I should have been grateful that locations were locked at all.

It was raining hard that day, and after hearing, “So what are we gonna do?” a billion times, he took me and the director of photography (DP) aside. The DP and I were cold, pissed off, and hungry (there weren’t even Red Vines available at the craft service table). I think it’s safe to say that he and I were in desperate want of something that would allow us to snap.

“Have you figured out your shots?” I asked the director, shivering.

The director just stood there with his arms folded, posed in thought. I turned to the DP, who looked at me with a gaze that seemed to ask, “Can I punch him? Can I please? Just a right hook to the jaw—nothing that would cause severe damage.”

“You know what?” the director said. I decided to humor him.

“What?” I asked.

“I just don’t like making decisions!”

I started my day job the next day. If I ever see that director again, I will thank him for what he taught me with that single line. Then I will punch him square in the face.

As Real As It Gets

2010-02-09T02:10:00.000-08:00

I’ve been a World Wrestling Entertainment (formerly World Wrestling Federation) fan since the age of one. My uncle made me watch the first WrestleMania, and even though I had no idea what was going on, the image of Andre the Giant bodyslamming Big John Studd is still vivid in my mind. To this day, you will find me in front of my TV on Monday nights watching WWE programming.

For many years, I was ridiculed and chastised for being so invested in pro wrestling. Everybody from my teachers to the Pope would remind me every week that it was “fake” and “stupid.” By the late 1990s, when wrestling became mainstream again, I stopped caring altogether about what others thought.

I love pro wrestling. I enjoy it. And there is no need for me to defend it.

Thanks to my uncle, I have literally grown up with the WWE—or maybe the WWE has grown up with me. When I was a kid, Hulk Hogan was in the ring, waving the American flag, telling me to say my prayers and take my vitamins. When I was a teenager, I raised my middle finger to Hogan and cheered on the “Attitude Era” led by “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and The Rock. I didn’t fully understand why so many fans enjoyed seeing Austin beat up his boss, Mr. McMahon, but a few days into my first day job, I longed to give my supervisor a Stone Cold Stunner.

I will never forget watching Shawn Michaels and Kurt Angle wrestle a perfect match at WrestleMania 21. The bout was so exciting, my friend Andrew and I stood in suspense, waiting for Michaels to tap out to Angle’s anklelock. When he did, we all cheered, but then started to sing “you suck” to Angle, who won! It was ridiculous, and a defining portrait of why some think wrestling fans are insane. Yet as fans, Andrew and I couldn’t have had a better time.

Moments before that match, I remember leaping out of my seat when Hulk Hogan came out to rescue a wrestler from the hands of evil Muhammad Hassan. Yes, very stereotypical, but to see an old childhood hero save the day was an incredible experience for Andrew and me. After clearing the ring, Hogan spent a good five minutes posing to all four sides of the Staples Center. What a show!

Yes, I know pro wrestling is all a show. Still, it is more entertaining to me than most TV programs or sports. Think of it as a procedural show. Two “rasslers” trash-talk each other, one a “face” (good guy) and another a “heel” (bad guy). The heel may attack the face from behind during an interview, or the heel may have double-crossed the face in a previous bout. Regardless, there is only way to resolve their problems: facing each other in the ring, usually at a monthly pay-per-view event.

The face goes to the ring to upbeat theme music, and the cheers of the crowd. The heel has more brooding theme music, which of course goes well with the booing. They have a brief standoff, then punch, kick and slam each other. They may do some aerial moves off the top turnbuckle, or find themselves crashing through the Spanish announcers’ table (it’s a tradition these days). Finally, somebody wins with a pinfall or submission, and the good-versus-evil soap opera continues on.

It is the same story over and over, but like movies, the characters are what differentiate each journey for the fans—and for the best characters (like Austin and The Rock), the story goes on for months, sometimes years.

After each bout, the wrestlers go back to the dressing room, travel to the next town, and do it all over again. Behind the curtain, they are no longer faces or heels. They are above average working men, busting their backs to earn their money. And like any workplace, there are politics involved, and like any form of entertainment, there is a business side to compliment (or sometimes antagonize) the art form.

Yes, professional wrestling is an art form—one that requires better conditioning than a sport. To routinely have such physical matches without injuring your opponent takes more athleticism than dunking an orange ball into a hoop. When you’re in the ring, you have to take care of yourself and the person you’re tangling with. After all, you will only look as good as your opponent allows you to. And if you don’t have an opponent to face, you won’t have a job.

Unlike movies and TV shows, the “superstars” in the wrestling ring are real people. They bleed, they tire, and in some unfortunate cases, they die for their audience. Those steel chairs aren’t made of fake metal. Falling on that canvas isn’t very forgiving either. Even running into the ropes leaves sores on the body.

Because the WWE is a show, there is no off-season for it. And there are no timeouts in a match. I can only imagine how grueling the constant traveling must be on these wrestlers. And if they have families, I have no clue how they can be away from home 300-plus days a year.

These wrestlers, like all athletes, have a shelf life. Injuries take their toll, and compound that with the traveling and the time away from family, and what you have is a potentially harsh road that never ends as the next arena of fans await you. Regardless, the business does not seem to care. Either you bring in the money and lure paying fans into the arenas, or you’re done for. As I said, the show must always go on, whether or not a wrestler can continue with it.

Some, like Ric Flair, keep performing way past their prime, since wrestling is all they know, and they cannot live without stepping into the ring. Some, like Eddie Guerrero, tragically die due to injuries and/or drug use associated with the job. A few wrestlers, however, know when to quit, and manage to make it through in one piece, sans a few scars.

I get the feeling, however, that if you were to ask Austin, The Rock, Hulk Hogan, John Cena or The Undertaker if they’d trade the exhilaration of wowing a crowd for anything else, they wouldn’t dare. Despite the dark side of the business, these wrestlers choose to risk everything to be in front of those bright lights. All the physical and emotional pain they endure are occupational hazards at the least.

But don’t think I do not understand or appreciate their sacrifices. I have a profound respect for these performers, and I am constantly in awe of what they do in and out of the ring. There is nothing “fake” about it.

The Good Movies of 2009

2010-02-08T21:45:00.000-08:00

Dear John has displaced Avatar as the #1 movie in the United States. I think every intelligent person in America (not to mention every male) should be disappointed. Still, Avatar has made its mark, and it got me thinking of assembling my Top 10 film list for 2009.

I must have seen around a hundred films in the past year, including documentaries, foreign films, and the occasional animated feature. 100 seems like a small number, but that's about 2 films a week. Of those, here are my nominees for the Top 10.

The Good (these films were thoroughly engaging, and had a solid beginning, middle, and end):

(500) Days of Summer
A Serious Man
Amreeka
Anvil! The Story of Anvil
Avatar
The Beaches of Agnes
Black Dynamite
Coraline
Crazy Heart
Everlasting Memories
Goodbye Solo
In The Loop
Invictus
Let the Right One In
Michael Jackson’s This Is It
Ponyo
Seraphine
Sin Nombre
Sita Sings the Blues
Star Trek
Still Walking
The Hangover
Tokyo Sonata
Tulpan
Up
Up in the Air
You, The Living
Zombieland

The Overrated, but Okay (films definitely worth a look, but not as great as people make them out to be):

An Education
District 9
The Hurt Locker
Inglourious Basterds
The White Ribbon

The Overrated and Awful (overpraised films that should be avoided to prevent brain damage):

Moon
Paranormal Activity
Precious
The Blind Side

NOTE: I have not seen every movie released in 2009, and there may be a few films here from '08 that I didn't see until '09. That's just how it goes. Movies are released at different times depending on the season. There will probably be some '09 movies that will make my 2010 list as well.

Betty White: Super Bowl XLIV Champion

2010-02-07T23:00:00.000-08:00

Unlike Peyton Manning, Betty White came out of Super Bowl XLIV a champion. Between the middle-of-the-road Dockers ads and lame Doritos commercials, Betty White getting tackled and snappy stole the show.

Snickers should be proud of themselves. Taking a page out of Conan O'Brien's old playbook, they even used Abe Vigoda, who I'm always happy to see alive.

As for the much-hyped Focus on the Family ad with Tim Tebow, there was nothing controversial or interesting about it. I did visit their website, though. As it turns out, they are against abortion, homosexuality, premarital sex, and gambling.

And just like that, I'm sure all of you have lost interest.

Don't worry. Despite the group's anti-this and that stance on life, you'll be happy to know that they are pro-prayer in schools. They even perform radio theater shows that make A Prairie Home Companion seem raunchy!

I despise them already. These are probably the same people who thought The Who would make for a decent halftime show.

Thank goodness for Betty White. I'm gonna go buy me some Snickers now.

Sarah Palin: Rated "M" for Moron

2010-02-06T23:45:00.000-08:00

I just read an article about Sarah Palin's address to "Tea Party" activists, which was basically an all-out assault on President Obama and the Democrats. I know very little about politics, and truth be told, I couldn't care less about them. Voting for the "Best Picture" Oscar is more important to me than voting for the President of the U.S.

I did vote in the 2008 election, however. I voted because of Sarah Palin. The mere idea of that idiot being anywhere near the Oval Office made me so ill, I got off my unemployed ass and sprinted to the nearest voting booth.

She is not even a politician! At most, she is a political celebrity. Tina Fey's impersonation on SNL did more for politics than anything Palin herself has done. Well... Palin did appear on The Tonight Show to surprise William Shatner. Everything before or since has been irrelevant.

What astounded me about the article was that the Tea Party crowd actually chanted, "run, Sarah, run!" Are you kidding me?

Don't get me wrong, I am not an Obama fan at all. Any campaign that runs on the slogan of "Hope" is pretentious and stupid on all accounts. At the time of the election, I had no job and was in dire need of an income to pay rent. Hope will not pay the bills. I wanted Action. I still do, in fact.

Since his election, Obama has said a lot, but hasn't done squat. The most he has ever done for me was delay my flight into Hawaii for Christmas so he could land and cause traffic on Oahu. Last I checked, I am still paying for health insurance, and there are still troops overseas fighting in a war that makes absolutely no sense to me.

And before anyone starts yapping, "if you don't stand behind the troops, stand in front of them," I do support and appreciate what every soldier is doing. I just don't understand why they are even there. Maybe Obama does, since he sent over 30,000 more just recently.

He should stop talking already. That way, anything he actually does will neither surprise nor disappoint us. At times, I feel like that "Hope" nonsense has clearly gone to his head.

As Lewis Black would say, every election forces the American public to vote for "two bowls of shit." You have the Republicans, "a party of bad ideas," and the Democrats, "a party of no ideas."

If there ever is an Armageddon, the Democrats will be the ones who saw it coming, but lacked the balls to get anything done. The Republicans will be the ones who never believed it at first, and will refuse to take accountability for their ignorance after it happens. Basically, it's the same shit from different assholes.

Thanks to Palin, the Republicans' shit didn't stick as well in the 2008 election.

Forget her glaring inexperience in national level politics (the main reason why every intelligent person voted against her). Between her wolf bounties and disbelief in man-made global warming, the woman clearly hates Earth. Between her opposition to birth control and abortion (even in cases of rape), she clearly hates human beings.

Moreover, the woman actually thinks evolution is a THEORY, and wants creationism taught in schools. Clearly, Palin hates common sense as well--so much so that she refuses to apply it in her daily life. And don't even get me started on the bridge to nowhere.

I cannot believe the Tea Party paid this moron $100,000 to showcase her lack of intelligence. They could have paid me 20 bucks to read this blog and help save them the rest. Then again, they don't seem too bright to begin with. I wouldn't dare egg on someone to run for president if they hated Earth, humans, or common sense. It may have worked for Bush, but to me, Palin is to politics what Carrot Top is to politics.

Even now, she continues to revel in her lack of common sense. If I were her, I'd be the last person criticizing Obama in the White House. After all, she's the biggest reason why he's there in the first place.

Anticipating Emily Wells

2010-02-05T17:35:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, I was probably the biggest concert addict around. The bigger the show, the better. I love the spectacle of it all--the bright lights, the pyro, the excitement. I even love the intimacy of smaller-scale shows, which sometimes prove to be better than the stadium and arena ones.

Regardless of the venue, I still find exhilaration in that moment where the lights go off and the crowd goes absolutely nuts.

The best performers do more than just entertain. Like a great film, they inspire thought and further creativity. They make you think as well as feel, and somehow manage to stay with you long after the final bow. Very few performers have enraptured me to such a degree.

Lately, I have been going to fewer shows. I've seen all the legends, including a few who are no longer with us, and I've seen many impressive up-and-comers who will hopefully grow old with me. At the top of that list is the live-looping Emily Wells, who I am seeing in concert tonight.

I have already written about how much she inspires and thrills me. She lost the wild hair, but her boldness and hunger for pursuing new sounds have only gotten stronger over the years.

She does not need bright lights or pyro. All she requires is a stage just big enough to handle her musical toys... and her dancing shoes... and her mad genius.

I cannot wait to see her.

You're Welcome, Asshole

2010-02-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

A few months after inhaling the awful smell of Mr. Pink Tie, I had the pleasure of running into him again in the office garage. I had just parked, and saw him get out of his Audi. Fantastic. He was dressed in one of the most dreadful get-ups ever: a tan suit with a bright hot pink shirt--no tie this time, but what an awful pairing of colors!

To make matters worse, he was blabbering on his Blackberry about a timeshare, so for the sake of his health, I took the stairs down. I'm assuming he took the elevator.

Mr. Pink Tie was right behind me as I entered the building. I opened the door, and because I was raised to have manners, I held it open for him. He just walked right in, continuing to loudly yap on his phone.

"You're welcome, asshole," I muttered. At least I thought I muttered it.

"Excuse me?" he asked, covering his Blackberry as if the person on the other end didn't already know he was an asshole.

I don't know about Mr. Pink Tie, but I feel both awful and grateful when someone does anything for me, whether it's a huge favor, or something as simple as holding a door open. It is not a matter of ego; I do not mind asking for help when I need it. But I am Japanese, and I am genetically programmed to do everything I possibly can to ensure that nobody inconveniences themselves for me. If I can solve a problem on my own, I prefer to do so alone. If I make a mistake that can be fixed, I prefer to fix it alone. It is basic accountability and responsibility. And manners.

I do not believe all manners are culture-specific, at least when it comes to thanking others for their troubles. People of all ethnic backgrounds have thanked me for holding the door open for them. And I have done the same.

So where was Mr. Pink Tie raised? In a zoo? Or were his parents assholes too?

I am not a confrontational person, at least when I know I'd be wasting my breath. I would never confront my boss about office politics, because my day job does not mean anything to me. I would never argue with a woman or a child about something, because in the end, they will always win (even if I am right). And I would definitely never cause a ruckus with an ignorant, rude peon either, because I cannot teach an old dog common sense.

But on that day, I was in no mood for Mr. Pink Tie's crap.

"I said, 'you're welcome, asshole.'" I made sure I repeated it loud enough so more people could hear, including the person he was yapping to on the phone.

"That's very rude of you, don't you think?" he asked.

And that's when I damn near snapped.

"No, what's rude is that I held the door open for you, and you just kept on walking as if you were entitled to it. I don't care if you were on the phone, you should have at least acknowledged me. And for the record, you talk too loud. Everybody and their mothers can hear your irrelevant conversation. It's obnoxious. I don't know if you are blind, or totally oblivious to your surroundings, but there are other people in this building, and you should be considerate to them."

Mr. Pink Tie looked around the lobby at the many faces staring at him. The most amusing sight were the two ladies working at the concierge desk, who tried hard not to laugh.

I figured enough was enough, so I walked past him to the lobby elevators. In a film, that would have been the end of the scene. In real life, however, pricks are way more persistent.

Mr. Pink Tie briskly approached me and said, "Excuse me, I think you owe me an apology."

I raised an index finger toward him to shut him up. I scanned through the floor indicator LEDs above the five available elevators. None were close to the ground floor just yet. I turned to Mr. Pink Tie, and again, his tan and pink ensemble bothered my eyes.

"I'm sorry that you have no friends," I said.

"Huh?" Apparently, Mr. Pink Tie was going deaf just like Beethoven, minus the talent.

"Because if you had real friends," I went on, "they wouldn't let you wear something that stupid. You look like a colorblind pimp."

One of the concierge ladies turned to the other and mouthed something to the effect of, "oh snap." Some girls nearby also looked down at the ground with smirks on their faces. Yeah, I went there. I work part-time at a company that takes pride in disrespecting its workers. I had absolutely nothing to lose.

BING. An elevator opened, and I stepped inside. Mr. Pink Tie said something, but it sounded to me like how adults squawk in Peanuts cartoons.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," I informed him. "Your shirt's too loud, asshole."

My last image of him was the elevator doors closing on his dopey glare. Despite the crowd waiting, nobody dared to join me in my elevator. FINALLY. That's all I wanted in the first place.

Elevators and Old Spice

2010-02-03T22:55:00.000-08:00

Elevators have always been strange to me. Whenever there's a crowd going up, I am almost always the last person to exit. In my apartment complex and at my workplace, I get off on the second-highest floor. Even so, I rarely share an elevator with people who live or work above me.

In the meantime, I have to deal with the stenches, the sounds, and the scenery of those who live and work below me. It is rarely a pretty picture, especially when I go to work.

Make no mistake about it, I hate my day job. I know I should be grateful to even have a job in California at this juncture, but the mere thought of going to work hurts. Sometimes, I find myself wondering which is more painful: a colon cleansing with a butcher's knife on a Friday night, or going to work any morning of the week. The office elevator ride alone often makes me vote for the latter.

When I enter the lobby of my workplace, there is usually a crowd of people gathered by the elevators. I do not care how many there are, if there's even one other person waiting, I will walk past them to the water fountain across the way--anything to get an elevator alone.

I hate having to stop and go for other people. I hate the smell of cigarettes off co-workers who just lit up moments before. I hate hearing the clicks of cell phone keys as people text away about their unimportant lives. I hate it when people yawn or cough without covering their mouths. I hate hearing constant sniffing, or that subtle whistling noise some people make when they breathe through their noses (which they never hear, so they never fix it).

I hate hearing the smacking of lips, or the incessant chewing of gum. I hate hearing people talk about things they bought, or about how they did nothing with their weekend. I really hate hearing people talk about work (I don't need an auditory reminder of how crappy my job is). Oh, and I hate seeing the yuppies in their suits and tucked-in shirts standing beside me.

Seriously, NO job is worth wearing a damn suit for, much less tucking in a shirt. Yeah, maybe I'd prefer a lawyer or doctor who looked tidy, but there are no law firms or clinics near my building. There is no sensible reason for anybody to be dressing nicely at my workplace. None.

These idiots who wear the pressed suits and tucked shirts often smell as bad as the cigarette smokers, either by drenching themselves in the strongest colognes, or by mixing scents that should never, ever go together.

I remember when I started the job (before I wised up), a guy in a dark gray suit and a vibrant pink tie ran into my elevator just as the doors were closing. He was sweating, and he was wearing Old Spice, which I believe is a deodorant Satan invented to torture those of us with thoughts.

For the record, sweat and Old Spice do not go together. Actually, sweat and most scented deodorants do not go together. That's why an intelligent human being wears unscented deodorant, and maybe some light cologne or perfume to get through the day.

To further my aggravation, the man in my elevator scratched his head, and I saw a puff of dandruff dance in elevator lights. It started to drift my way, but luckily, I was shameless enough to blow it back his way. Still, the puff had a scent, revealing that the man also used Pert Plus shampoo...

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

Pert Plus, Old Spice and his sweat made for one of the worst olfactory experiences of my life. Clearly, this man was an idiot. And of course, he clicked away at his Blackberry until he got a call from someone. Then he loudly talked shop until he left my elevator. He didn't notice, but by then, I had taken two pencils out of my jacket pocket, and jammed them up my nostrils.

Moral of the story: have some manners. Be aware of your surroundings at all times, and for crying out loud, be smart about how you smell. Either that, or stay the hell out of my elevator.

(On a side note, I got some revenge on Mr. Pink Tie a few months later in the lobby... more on that later.)

Oscars 2010: Quantity Over Quality

2010-02-02T23:20:00.000-08:00

I will not be watching the Oscars this year. I refuse to subject myself to that much nonsense. Last year, the Academy decided to expand the “Best Picture” category to 10 choices. Big mistake. What they should have done was open it to a maximum of 10 films, if there are ever more than five worthy of the “Best Picture” title.

Last year was a nightmare. You had The Reader, Milk, Frost/Nixon, Benjamin Button and Slumdog nominated. Frost/Nixon was too safe to be a great film, The Reader was too meandering to be a great film. And I argue that after two hours of nothing happening, Benjamin Button shouldn’t even have been considered for nomination. Worthy replacements? Easy: The Dark Knight, The Wrestler, and Wall-E.

This year, I thought it’d be easier to pick GOOD movies. There weren’t many great American films in 2009, but I could name several very worthy of a “Best Picture” nomination: Up, Crazy Heart, Goodbye Solo, (500) Days of Summer, Invictus, Sita Sings the Blues, and so on.

Of course, the Academy was going to play it safe. It was going to pick films that both critics and the general American public have seen (and supposedly enjoyed). The result: the saddest list of “Best Picture” nominees I have ever seen.

First off, I think the Oscars should not even have nominees for categories where the winners are too obvious. Jeff Bridges, Christoph Waltz, Sandra Bullock, and Mo’Nique will win the actor/actress awards hands down. Christian Berger will win a trophy for “Best Cinematography,” and the film he shot, The White Ribbon, will most likely win for “Best Foreign Language Film.”

And I can’t see anybody but James Cameron winning for “Best Director” once again. Of these obvious winners, do I think any of them are deserving? Sure. Bridges, Waltz, Berger, and Cameron deserve their statues. I would, however, prefer to see Carey Mulligan win for “Best Actress” and either Maggie Gyllenhaal or Vera Farmiga for “Best Supporting Actress.” Bullock and Mo’Nique are just jokes.

Anyway, here are the nominees for “Best Picture.” Prepare to be disappointed and unsurprised:

Avatar – take away the 3-D, and what you have is a poor man’s remake of FernGully and Disney’s Pocahontas. Don’t get me wrong, it is a technical masterpiece, and a benchmark for special effects, but it is not a great movie. Still, I think it is the frontrunner to win, unless The Hurt Locker upstages it.

The Blind Side – a formulaic film that is so bad, I couldn’t sit through it. Yes, Sandra Bullock anchors the movie, but there are no surprises or bold choices here. Really, if this was nominated, why wasn’t The Mighty Ducks nominated?

District 9 – this movie is a smart political satire until the third act, where it loses steam and resorts to being a stupid action film. It is a good movie that is definitely worth a watch, but far from being deemed a “best” anything.

An Education – lead actress Carey Mulligan carries this film with her solid performance. The only problem is, she is supposed to play a teenager and looks nothing like one. The story is simple, but loses steam towards the end. Not “Best Picture” material.

The Hurt Locker – like District 9, the movie starts smart, and follows all the right steps until a series of war movie clichés bogs it down by Act 3. The story takes a very wrong turn in the third act, leaving me wondering only what could have been, had the movie stayed focused on its theme. Regardless, I feel like Avatar is this film’s only “Best Picture” competition among Oscar voters this year.

Inglourious Basterds – I think Tarantino is a very fun director, but this is a “popcorn movie” at best. It is borderline misogynistic at times, and gratuitously gross at other times, but nothing memorable beyond a first viewing.

Precious – one of the worst movies of 2009 or any year. Here’s why.

A Serious Man – this movie caught me off-guard on several levels. For a movie so Jewish and bleak, I didn’t think I’d laugh as much as I did watching it. Is it worthy of a “Best Picture” nom? I think so. It is probably the Coens’ most original film.

Up – for my money, this is probably the best American movie of the year. There is not a single misstep in its 90 minutes, and it has more laughs, more heart, and is more compelling than anything nominated here. It won’t win, but it should.

Up in the Air – Jason Reitman has never let me down, and despite its formulaic nature, this movie is also enjoyable top to bottom. Given its subject, the film is also very timely, which gives it a huge advantage in this race. I’d prefer it to Avatar or The Hurt Locker, but I doubt Academy voters will see it my way.

Well… on the bright side, at least I got to see my two favorite queens duet on the Grammys.

The Hurt Locker: Why it Really Hurts to Watch

2010-02-01T10:05:00.000-08:00

Per the good reviews of both critics and friends, I looked forward to watching The Hurt Locker when it first came out. Even my dad liked it, and he doesn’t like any movies these days. That being said, the movie definitely has its merits, but overall, it is nowhere near the Top 10 films of 2009. Not by a long-shot.

Some say The Hurt Locker is brilliantly directed, but I beg to differ. Yes, there are perfectly executed moments of suspense (with lots and lots of wonderful silence), and the camerawork is stellar. But seriously, how difficult is it to make diffusing bombs suspenseful? You could just put the camera down and tension will inevitably arise.

A great war movie, in my opinion, is never about the war itself, but how it changes the characters involved. What I found most interesting is that The Hurt Locker is not pro- or anti-war, but focuses more on how war becomes “a drug” to some soldiers. Some military friends who have toured Iraq often tell me how the Army “brainwashes” some of its soldiers into becoming addicted to warfare. I wish the film touched up on that concept more.

Instead, I left the theater enraged because The Hurt Locker falters in the third act, and it didn’t have to. If there is one thing that irritates me more than a flat-out awful movie, it’s a film that teeters on excellence, but then fails horribly.

More surprising (and disappointing) is the amount of overdone war movie clichés The Hurt Locker uses.

For the rest of my life, I would like all war films to avoid the following:

1. Opening quotes that state the movie’s theme. Seriously, if we as the audience don’t get what the film is trying to say, then there’s already a problem from the get-go. As much as I enjoy being force-fed a movie’s meaning by the filmmaker, The Hurt Locker did not need to; the themes and the characters were well-developed anyway.

2. Using children for no other reason than to make the protagonist (Sgt. William James) seem more likable or make the antagonist seem more threatening. War is hell, innocent people die in war, innocence itself dies in war; it’s tragic and it’s senseless—we know that already. But the point where the movie falters is hinged upon this underdeveloped (and unbelievable) friendship between James and an Iraqi boy. It simply does not work.

3. Soldiers lamenting about how they either (1) want to die, (2) want to go home, (3) have no idea what they’re fighting for, (4) have nothing special in their lives, (5) hate whatever place they’re stationed at, etc. Nothing needs to be said. We see and sense the fear and pain off their faces. We empathize with them the second we see them on the battlefields, risking their lives for their country. They are our heroes, but we know they are human.

SPOILER ALERT IN THIS PARAGRAPH: In The Hurt Locker, there is a moment where Sgt. James fails to defuse a human bomb, and the soldiers are heading back to base. James’ fellow soldier starts to think about life and verbally laments having no son, even though earlier in the film, his facial reaction to learning about the James’ son was enough. The soldier then asks James the popular, “how do you do it?” that almost always gets an “I dunno” for an answer. What irks me is that the movie already shows these things without the characters having to say it. Why give in to cliché scenes? Was the director just insecure that moviegoers would be so blind and stupid?

4. Crying rookies. This ties in with number three a bit, but Spielberg already used this (to poor effect) in Saving Private Ryan. As I said before, suspense is clearly evident in every scene of The Hurt Locker, and we already get that a soldier’s time in the field is unpredictable and downright scary. Every soldier has his or her “game face,” but that does not matter when you have countless bullets zipping past your body in an open area. Even those who think they know what they’re signing up for don’t realize how scary it is until they’re there.

One of the Sgt. James’ squad members is a rookie, who of course breaks down and puts his fellow soldiers in jeopardy for longer than he should. My friend who was sent to Iraq told me how he went through the same thing, but it was only a “five-second freakout,” as he put it. “I couldn’t put my boys at risk,” he told me, “so I just shook it off and went back to it.”

Maybe it’s just me, but I can empathize with a soldier (rookie or not) breaking down after an operation, but not for very long during one. And for once, I’d like to see a rookie—preferably with heart and insight instead of stubborn arrogance—not turn out to be a sissy. Believe me, they do exist.

5. Losers for soldiers. This also ties in with number three, but I am so bored with soldiers who are only good at war, and fail at having a normal life. Sgt. James has a family, but is an apathetic husband and father. What’s worse is that he has absolutely no arc in the movie, so when we first see him, he’s a loser, and when we see him last, he’s an even bigger loser. He may be a war hero, but I never feel sorry for him throughout The Hurt Locker, which is ultimately how and why the film fails.

I would have loved to see Sgt. James CHANGE throughout the course of the movie. Maybe see him get more and more addicted to his job, have him start his tour with all the hope in the world, only to lose it bit by bit. Or have him start his tour completely brainwashed, but find something more important within himself outside the confines of the battlefield. ANYTHING would have been more intriguing. But instead, we got a bunch of losers who stay losers in the course of two hours. How pathetic!

About 45 minutes into The Hurt Locker, I was primed to say it was going to be one of the best movies of the year. I cannot put to words how frustrating it was to see it stumble and fall into a hole it couldn’t recover from. It was as if the movie made war out to be a playground where losers go to off themselves. I do not believe that is the intention, but I wish The Hurt Locker had more faith in its characters and in its audience. The movie may be action-packed enough for the Academy Awards, but it is not dramatic (or sensible) enough for me.

Ode to the Mighty Midget

2010-01-31T15:20:00.000-08:00

January 31st means two things to me: (1) Rent is due tomorrow, and (2) Today is my favorite midget's birthday.

I've reprinted this passage once before on MySpace, and once again, it is here in its rambling, wandering, slightly edited form. The fact is, most of my favorite blogs are the ones where I write about the people I've grown to admire and care about over the years.

My friend Naomi is someone I've cared about for a long time now. She and I met in college, and have somehow managed to stay close since. What astonishes me is that even after four years, a lot of what's written holds true. Thank goodness.

She is now in New York, while I remain in Hollywood. She is now 26, on her way to becoming a doctor, while I'm on my way to 27, still indulging my delusions.

I'd like to think my writing has gotten less wordy and more focused in the four years since the blog was written. I dare say, however, that it has never been this honest.

-----

January 29, 2006

Naomi is like a sister to me--the kind of sister I've always wanted... and sometimes the kind I've never wanted. It's a little bit funny.

She and I have not been through a lot together, per se. These days, we barely see each other. Instead, we just talk about our own individual experiences and... keep talking... and talking.... and talking. (She's one-third Portugese, one-third Japanese and one-third Oompa Loompa, so in case you can't picture her, she's a short loudmouth with honorable intentions and green hair.)

One of my fondest memories with Nai (as everyone affectionately calls her, even though she prefers to be called "God" or "Mother Ghandi" or something inaccurate like that) took place on July 21, 2005. Up to that point, I hadn't seen her since a Vegas adventure we had almost exactly five months prior. And I'd be lying to you if I said the mere sight of her didn't put a huge smile on my face.

She didnt always make me smile, though.

I met her my freshman year of college. The second she walked in the door, I was weary of her. It hadn't even been two weeks, and already I'd heard just about every guy from Hawaii ramble on about her and gawk at her. The fact she had a boyfriend didn't sway them. Perhaps it made them even more gaga for her, I don't know.

She was such a flirt! She'd sit on guys' laps, talk in voices that registered as "cute" on some people's meters, and just when the gullible male would get closer to her, she'd already be on another guy's lap. It was hilarious.

"So many men, so little time..."

She ticked off so many of my friends, but personally, I found it amusing. There had to be SOME brains behind her "if you got it, flaunt it" attitude.

Needless to say, I didn't think too fondly of her, and I avoided her during freshman year and a little bit of sophomore year. It was around the fall of 2002 that I had an online chat with one of her then-good friends, who, for his privacy, I will name Jack.

Jack was one of the many, many, many guys who were thrown "off-balance" by Naomi, and as he vented his frustrations about her, I nodded my head in approval and called her "shallow." It's funny, 'cause if I heard anybody say that about her now, I'd step up to her defense in no time. Hell, I might even roll a few heads while I'm at it. Naomi may be two feet tall, deprived of common sense, and a tacky dresser, but nobody--and I mean nobody--can call her "shallow."

I didn't know then--but boy do I know now--that whatever is said of Naomi has a 99.9% chance of reaching her own ears eventually. Sure enough, Naomi read the chat off Jack's computer when he wasn't looking.

I don't know what was going through her head at the time, or what possessed her to respond to me about it, but just days after I had the chat, I found a long e-mail from Naomi in my inbox. It was not a rebuttal. It wasn't even malicious. In fact, her e-mail had nothing to do with the chat--though I was 99.9% sure she read it.

Instead, she told me what was going on her life, telling me names and events I knew nothing about. She took her heart and planted it firmly on her sleeve for me. She even erected some work-lights and a nice billboard with flashy neon bulbs to shine down on it, in case I missed the obvious.

And that's when things changed.

I thanked her for her incredible empathy and understanding. I thanked her for sharing so much with me without any inhibitions. Really, what was she thinking?! It couldn't have been anything too intelligent, 'cause the night after, we took a walk around the campus at around midnight or so. I don't really remember what we talked about, or where we went, but our walks would continue for months. And in between those walks, we'd send each other e-mails that were longer than most books I've read.

We shared so much nonsense with each other, but neither one of us ever got tired or bored of it. Of course, the walks stopped and the e-mails got just a bit shorter over the years, but we still talk nonsense everyday. It's the gift that keeps on giving. And that is why I always smile when I see her.

I never smiled any bigger than I did on July 21. On that day, she and I shopped around Ward Warehouse for her wedding dress.

Did I forget to mention that Nai is the Queen of Excess? Imagine walking around a wedding dress shop looking at dresses for a girl who has already been married TWICE before... to the same guy... and there were no divorces of any kind in between. In other words, THREE weddings for THREE different audiences!

As of this typing, her parents have no idea their daughter is already a married woman. I only hope that if they ever read this, they learn how sneaky she really is. But that is exactly why I treasure my time with her. She walks a line I dare not cross... so I live vicariously through her.

Picture a girl who is so Lucy Ricardo loony that she forgot her keys to her California apartment in Hawaii. She even cut her own hair once, messed up majorly, and made me--of all people--drive her to Supercuts to fix it. Picture a girl so stubborn, she refuses to say she's wrong without a rationalization--and she can come up with the most outrageous rationalizations ever. Picture a girl so, um, naughty that she got on her knees and gave HEAD to the sculpture of our university's founder (it's all on tape, people--there's a reason why that sculpture is still smiling today).

By the same token.... Picture a girl so beautiful that, if Heaven exists, I wouldn't mind at all if her face is the first I see once I arrive (granted, I may not be going to Heaven, but at least I know she will die before me). Picture a girl so patient and understanding that even at my very worst, she can somehow manage to calm me down and make me laugh at my own stupidity. Picture a girl so carefree and loving that I foolishly spend more time worrying about her than I do cherishing her.

And I do cherish her so, so much.

Take all that and picture that girl in the classiest wedding dress you've ever seen. And to top it all off, picture a sparkly tiara on her as well, since in the World of Naomi, you can't have a nice dress without a tiara. I was actually surprised she didn't ask for a magic wand.

Nonetheless, when she stepped out of the dressing room, for the first time in my life, my breath was taken away. Even my wallet zipped itself closed in total awe. But not for long.

Soon after, she and I ended up doing what we do best: spend money. This time, we trekked over to the Diamond Head Theater to watch a far, far off-Broadway performance of Disney's Beauty and the Beast. It wasn't the best show she and I have seen together (we've also seen Jason Alexander and Martin Short crack each other up in The Producers, Elton John playing The Red Piano, and Rent twice), but it was the most fitting way to end what was one of the happiest days I've had in the past few years.

By the time the Beast transformed into a regular-looking guy (that actually looked worse than when he was the Beast), I was already missing Nai, even though she was still sitting next to me. How could I not?

I remember one cold night, we walked to the parking structure just south of the law school. She stepped over the wall and onto the ledge, where a 12-inch piece of brick was all that kept her from falling four stories down.

"Come on," she told me.

I didn't make it over the wall. It was very windy, and I, being the idiot that I am, was too full of myself to bring a jacket. Still, it felt so weird and wonderful.

Naomi, meanwhile, was sitting comfortably on the ledge, legs outstretched and dangling over the edge. If I had to define her in one image, that would be it: a girl so innocent looking, yet so mysterious underneath, always on the edge, vulnerable yet sturdy like a candle in the wind--which is, appropriately enough, the title of the song we feel best describes our friendship.

As the wind pierced my body like needles, I turned to the Oompa Loompa and stared at her for a bit.

"Who is this girl?" I thought.

Naomi, as you could probably tell, has been misjudged by many people, myself included. I'm not proud of it, but I was lucky to get one of the best friendships out of my stupidity. But there have been others--some who don't even know Nai at all--who have taken liberties at criticizing her for being who she is. I can't tell you enough how many times I've heard stories about some shmuck who underestimated her sensitivity and smarts.

One day during college, a girl, who I'll name Linda Tripp for her protection, started chatting online with Naomi out of the blue (notice how trouble always brews from chatting) and the next thing I knew, Linda was giving Nai a verbal smackdown for "not being there enough" for Linda's depressed friend.

It's high school drama, I know, but Nai has always claimed that Drama finds her, and NOT the other way around.

Nai took Linda's words hard, and for the first time, I saw my almighty sister, who was strong enough to endure the darkest days of her childhood, crumble to tears because someone had once again wrongly judged her.

I didn't know what to do.

When someone cries, there are only two options: (1) comfort them, or (2) let them be. I didn't know what Nai wanted me to do, so I looked around the room, found a magazine and sat next to her. And then, I proceeded to do what any guy in my shoes would've done: I fanned her to cool her off.

Nai, caught totally off-guard by what I thought was a kind gesture, seemed to forget whether she should be crying or laughing. To my own joy, she chose to laugh. Once again, her eyes started to sparkle again, just the way I prefer them to.

Linda Tripp is stupid. You see, to only the gullible, Naomi was probably a tease or an "incident" to them. Some might have found her naive, or too nice for her own good (I know I have on numerous occasions). But to me, she is living proof that there is more to a person than what meets the eye. I've said it many times already, but I cannot figure out why she's chosen to become such a vital part of my life.

She is, essentially, my sister at heart, and she always will be. And as we like to joke, I will always be the best thing that never happened to her.

A few months after the parking structure adventure, I was at John Wayne Airport waiting for my flight to Italy for a film shoot. I called Naomi on a whim. It was January 2, 2003, another day I won't ever forget.

"Hallo," Naomi said in some accent I've yet to figure out.

"Hey there," I said. "So I'm sitting here at the airport and I just thought of something..."

"Yeah?" she asked.

"I just wanted to tell you..."

And then I hesitated for a brief moment, and thought about it, just to be sure. Then I figured, what the hell, I'm going to Italy anyway!

"I just wanted to tell you, Naomi..." I started.

"... that I love you. Very much."

Seeing that she's on Kauai preparing for the rest of her life, and I'm sitting here in Hollywood trying to figure out what to do with mine, I will say--since I know she's reading this--something I told her shortly before I saw her in July. It applies to me every single day:

I miss our midnight walks.
I miss our talks about nothing and everything all at once.
I miss our crazy-ass Norm's outings.
I miss our shopping (mis)adventures.
I miss hearing your mischievous giggle.
I miss your high-key to low-key singing.
I miss your Corner Bakery manini paninis.
I miss your mouth that never closes.
I miss your eyes, and that sparkle that goes with them.
And I miss those taquitos that they used to serve at Jack In The Box, 'cause dammit, those with guacamole were the best ever!

Simply put, Ricky Ricardo never had it this good.

Nai, I know you're reading this and I get the feeling you might be smiling. So, as you celebrate your 22nd birthday in two days, I just wanted to say once more.....

An Evening at Kate Mantilini

2010-01-30T13:45:00.000-08:00

One of the things I love about having a Blu-ray player is not just the 1080p picture, but the opportunity it gives me to revisit older films I love. Every so often, I’ll get to see things I haven’t seen before, or in rarer cases, feel things I hadn’t felt the first time. The other day, I saw this scene from Heat and got goosebumps:

A moron will look at the clip and make immediate judgments: “Wow, here are two over-the-hill actors resting on their laurels, going through the motions.” “What a poorly written scene—seriously, why are they saying what they think and not showing it?” “This was such a letdown; Mann screwed up big time here.” Blah blah blah.

I am not the biggest Mann, Pacino or De Niro fan, but the scene is in fact well-written, and the performances are subdued enough to warrant a listen. But those aren’t the reasons why I got goosebumps. Instead, I came to a stunning revelation: I know and feel exactly what they are talking about, and I couldn’t possibly be around a human being who doesn’t.

You have two guys who have nothing but their work. Family life for them is an inevitable failure; their work is too time-consuming (and more important). They love and hate what they do. They are haunted by what their work puts them through. For Pacino, he dreams of victims whose deaths he must investigate. For De Niro, he dreams of time catching up and drowning him. These dreams are real nightmares.

They are also trapped. Neither knows nor wants to do anything else. And who could blame them, given all the sacrifices they’ve made for their lines of work? What makes Heat such a solid film is that both characters stand in each other’s way to keep doing the one and only thing they love doing. They are each other’s obsession and antagonist, and this scene defines it best.

It also defines my time in Hollywood. I am haunted by dreams of my parents getting older without me back home in Hawaii, and also haunted by the thought of time catching up and making me irrelevant here. It sounds like a depressing thought, but ultimately, it makes me work harder. I have to. I am no good at doing anything else, and I cannot imagine finding happiness pursuing anything else. All these day-jobs I’ve had are like respirators. They keep me breathing financially, but they don’t inspire or keep me truly alive. I don’t think any day-job can. Still, every time I sit at my desk at work, I know that I did not willingly leave Hawaii so I could stare at Excel spreadsheets all day.

It is selfish to leave home (your family, more specifically) to pursue your dreams. It is. It’s the equivalent of abandoning your wife/husband and children so you can go indulge yourself. Of course, it’s easier when you don’t care about your family (let’s face it, most people raised in nurturing households do not end up in show business), but I guess I’ve always been the anomaly. There are times when I’d like nothing more than to go back home and watch my parents drive each other crazy. But I can’t. These dreams and delusions I have are too powerful.

De Niro says something in the middle of that scene: “Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.” Someone once asked me if I’d give up having a family for my career. I said, “yes” instantly. Then I gave it more thought, and said “yes” again, only louder.

Reasonably speaking, if I am willing to give up time with my family, I must be more than willing to give up having a family of my own. And I am. It sounds absurd, maybe even tragic, but I’ve never seen it that way—if I ever did, I’d go home in a heartbeat. Granted, sacrificing family or relationships (or anything, for the matter) is not necessary to succeed in this town. But to quote an old Elton John song, for me, giving up all of that is no sacrifice at all.

There are people who don’t or can’t understand my perspective on things. They think I’m crazy. I feel bad for them. I feel bad for anybody who does not have a passion for something in his or her life. I feel bad for anybody who does not love something so much that they’d do or give up anything for it.

It’s not about becoming famous or making loads of money; I know people whose passions are their 9-to-5 jobs, or their kids at home. That’s fantastic! By all accounts, that’s how it should be. And again, if those are your passions, you’d give up everything for them, right? Same goes for me and Entertainment, which is more than just fun and games to me.

Other folks may read this with more skepticism and think, “just you wait, Brad, when you get to a certain age, everything will change.” I don’t doubt it. There comes a point in every person’s life where their memories become more important than their dreams. But I haven’t even begun to create amazing memories for myself yet. Until then, this is it. This is all I know. This is all I want.

I don’t know what scares me more: the fact that I don’t mind putting everything on the line for my dreams, or the fact that I can achieve them. Everything will get in my way, but nothing will stop me, except maybe a bolt of lightning or some wrath of nature. Maybe not even that.

Do I feel the heat around the corner? Of course! But don’t worry. Bring it on. I got plenty of marshmallows.

The Top 10 Films of 2008

2009-12-26T21:00:00.000-08:00

No, that title is no typo. Since I still do not have ten films to make a "Top 10 Films of 2009" list just yet (let's face it, '09 has not been a good year for movies), here is my list for the Top 10 of 2008. I know I should have put up this list about twelve months ago, but hey, better late than never.

10. Happy-Go-Lucky

Sally Hawkins' performance is, for my money, the best of 2008 for an actress. To make a character like cheerful, optimistic, playful Poppy believable is a success, and requires far more than just a smile. Happy-Go-Lucky reminds me of a friend I have who exudes energetic positivity to the point where cynics think he is either naive or stupid. Such misjudgment is the core of the movie's conflict, and the misunderstanding Poppy has with her angry, pessimistic driving instructor is a heartbreaking yet brilliant one.

9. I've Loved You So Long

There's a scene in this movie where main character Juliette (played by the amazing Kristin Scott Thomas) is at a dinner party. By her silence and feigned smiles, she is clearly uncomfortable and would prefer to be anyplace else. The guests go around the table talking about themselves, and it eventually gets to Juliette's turn to say something. She hesitantly admits, "I was in prison for 15 years, for murder." They ask her who she murdered. She says, "my son." They all laugh hysterically, thinking it's a joke. Probably the most heartbreaking movie I've seen in 2008, but it is incredibly moving.

8. Revolutionary Road

As I watched this movie, I thought it sought to answer Langston Hughes' eternal question, "What happens to a dream deferred?" Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet co-star as wondrous newlyweds Frank and April Wheeler, who move onto Revolutionary Road with big dreams and adventures at their fingertips. As the years pass, Frank gets caught up in his job and April has more and more children. She watches in horror as she and Frank settle into a humdrum, stable, suburban life. I wish more people saw this movie. It just might inspire them to pursue more and think larger than they're accustomed to. I've always argued that there's more to life than just family and stability. This movie proves it. And for the record, Revolutionary Road is more striking and more resonant than Titanic will ever be.

7. My Winnipeg

2008's funniest movie is the brainchild of Guy Maddin, who I think is one of the boldest filmmakers around. I had no idea what to make of My Winnipeg when I first saw it, but I knew it was unlike anything else I'd seen that year. I imagine some people hated this film, since it has no structure or formula to it. It plays like a self-indulgent stream of consciousness, veering to wherever Maddin's mind wants it to go. But I never stop laughing or feeling sorry for him as he explains his troubled history with his hometown. For eighty minutes, Maddin makes Winnipeg seem like the most aggravatingly fascinating place in the world. I think that alone makes the movie an achievement.

6. Gomorrah

Finally, a mob movie that is neither outlandish nor contrived. Nothing is glorified here. Based on Roberto Saviano's book, the film gives the impression that it is just telling it like it is. The basic description of Gomorrah reads that it's a bleak glimpse at how omnipresent the modern-day Cammora is in Naples and Caserta. What an understatement. There are wannabe gangsters firing guns, family members double-crossing each other, children driving toxic waste trucks, seamstresses smuggling illegal immigrants, drugs being sold in broad daylight--all under a haunting veil of silence. The hush that looms over the movie is what makes it so fascinating. It allows us to absorb and observe the sad truth that all the violence and madness is normal; anything else would be taken out in a bulldozer.

5. Slumdog Millionaire

This feel-good movie of the year that proves that sometimes, a simple story told greatly isn't always a bad thing. There is nothing revolutionary about this film, but it has a ton of heart. I remember reading the script for Slumdog about a year before it was released. I thought it was a surefire winner, and I am thankful neither Spielberg nor Ron Howard got their middle-of-the-road hands on it. Director Danny Boyle gives the movie vibrancy and an inherent, rapid heartbeat that I never stopped feeling throughout the entire ride. Say what you want about its sweetness or basic plot, Slumdog is by large and far one of the best movies of '08.

4. Wall-E

Only an animated movie could get away with having its first 20 minutes comprised of purely visual storytelling without dialogue or voiceover. And it seems only the geniuses at Pixar could keep those 20 minutes completely engaging. Even my most cynical friends fell in love with Wall-E by the time he stares longingly at Hello, Dolly! I'm not a fan of movies that have a blatant "green" message (or any message), but Wall-E--who bears a striking resemblance to E.T.--disarms with his kindness and childlike curiosity. When he saves the Earth, we cheer. And when he "dances" with Eva, we smile. And maybe shed a tear (but not me).

3. 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days

I saw this movie in January of 2008, and it has not escaped my mind since. On the surface, it is a very straightforward film, but it is really one of the most intense dramas I've ever seen. Regardless of your opinion on abortion, the movie will open your eyes to the dangerous sacrifices women in some European countries make because of it. Personally, I thought the film was also a study on friendship and the insane lengths people would go for a friend in urgent times. The ending in particular makes your heart race, and suddenly you realize the tragic reality (and absurdity) of the situation.

2. The Wrestler

Perhaps I am biased since I have been a pro wrestling fan my entire life, but this movie was incredible. Seeing Randy "The Ram" desperately struggle to reconnect with the world and maintain a normal life, I couldn't help but think of all the WWF/E wrestlers who sacrificed their health and their time with family in order to entertain. The film may not explore why one chooses to be a pro wrestler, but it does offer insight as to why they stick with it long past their prime. I'd like to think not all wrestlers have to suffer the way Randy "The Ram" does. Mickey Rourke's performance was the best of '08 for an actor, and it shocked me that Springsteen's title song did not get nominated for an Oscar--there were virtually no other worthy contenders in either category.

1. The Dark Knight

Who cares if this is a "comic book movie"? Who cares that it was a summer blockbuster that shattered box office records? Who cares that it features a dark tone and showcases a hopeless world? This is unquestionably the best movie of 2008. It is unforgiving to its characters, and unrelenting in its approach. The writing managed to put me in a position where I had no idea what was coming next--and as a Batman fan, I couldn't have been prouder for it. Yes, Heath Ledger steals the show, but to steal the show from such a top-notch cast makes it even more of an incredible feat--and an even bigger tragedy now that he's gone. Ultimately, what we have here is beyond a "comic book movie." This is an epic. It is now the standard by which all subsequent comic book movies will be judged, and I worry that they will never top it. No other film in 2008 did.

Runners-up: Synecdoche, New York, Frozen River, Let the Right One In, Iron Man, Milk, Rachel Getting Married, Doubt, Departures, Gran Torino, Waltz With Bashir,

Horribly Overrated: Frost/Nixon, Benjamin Button, The Reader

Did Stephanie and Allen Read My Blog?

2009-12-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

Probably not. But I was so happy to see their video on Funny or Die...

Here's to one of the biggest cinematic failures of 2009: