My Take on the 87th Annual Academy Awards

[Disclaimer: I haven’t seen any Best Picture nominees.  In fact, the only movie I’ve seen that was nominated for anything was Unbroken.  I’ll be DVRing Citizenfour tonight on HBO, but who knows when I’ll get to it.]

I don’t know that it was the worst Oscars broadcast ever, but it’s the one I have least enjoyed watching, and that includes when James Franco and Anne Hathaway co-hosted.

I really like Neil Patrick Harris, but watching him last night was like watching a penguin run the 50-yard dash.

That said, the opening number was spectacular.

I’m glad that I no longer have to worry about getting The Theory of Everything and The Imitation Game mixed up.

Jonathan Kimble (J.K.) Simmons: I’ve enjoyed him in everything he’s been in that I’ve seen and am glad he finally got his recognition.  However, if you own a Farmers Policy, don’t be surprised if your premium jumps significantly next month.

Eddie Redmayne: Probably could have won his award just from the preview of Theory alone.  That said, with Birdman getting the love that it did, I’m sure Michael Keaton felt a lot like Bill Murray did when he didn’t win for Lost in Translation.  I wouldn’t blame him. And by the way…

…When did Birdman or: (How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb) get the additional parenthetical title?  I guess Birdman (The Desolation of Smaug) was too confusing.

John Travolta: Thanks for being a good sport, but leave the awkward touching to Biden.

Do you think Richard Linklater got any sleep last night?

Could they have used a more unflattering picture of Robin Williams during the “In Memoriam” segment?

Breaking news: Meryl Streep was just nominated again for rolling out of bed this morning.

Cheryl Boone Isaacs: Great speech, but you will forever be known as “The Dick Poop Lady.”

I’m glad Lonnie “Common” Lynn and John “Legend” Stephens won for “Glory” (Seriously, did “Everything is Awesome” even stand a chance?).  However, I still think Adele should have won again for Skyfall.

The correct pronuciation of “Oyelowo” is kwuh-ven-zhuh-nay.

Although I can get annoyed with awards shows, I still love movies and look forward to watching both the winners and non-winners that were nominated this year.

Attention, NCAA!

Only in the NCAA can something go from “Sweet” to “Elite” to “Final.” I think it’s time we look into changing up some of those labels.  Here are my proposals:

Sweet Sixteen is OK because that works on different levels.

Elite Eight seems…well…elite. I don’t want to think of the players sitting around and drinking tea with their pinkies pointed up.  Suggested alternatives: The Enlightened Eight; Eight ISN’T Enough; The E-mazing Eight; Super 8;

Final Four is misleading because there is technically another round played after that, so there really isn’t anything final about it.  Suggested Alternatives: The Four Musketeers; The Fantastic Four (or The Fantastic Mr. Four for Wes Anderson fans); Four for Fighting; Four on the Floor;

Have you noticed that the Championship Game mentions nothing about only 2 teams being left in the competition? Why stop the naming thing at 4? Suggested Alternatives: Tantalizing Two; Turrible Two (a shout-out to Sir Charles); Two Enter, One Leaves;

The winner will be referred to as The One and Only; that is, until the following March.

The Queen of the Antilles

I recently got back after spending a memorable week in Cuba. No, not Cuba, Missouri. The actual Cuba. The fact that Cuba is so close to the US yet “just out of reach” has always given it a mysterious appeal to me. I studied it in 9th grade history, read The Old Man and The Sea for a book report (because it was so short), and learned the legend of its homegrown—albeit fictitious—son, Tony Montana (a.k.a. “Scarface”). But other than what history and pop culture tell you, there’s really no way to know what Cuba is like unless you go there yourself or speak to someone who’s been there. My parents gave it a glowing review after they visited with an organized tour several years ago, so I decided if I ever got the opportunity to go there, I would. Fortunately, the opportunity came before I got too old.

I went as a member of a church mission team—perhaps one of the easiest ways for an American to get to Cuba, although the application process is far from easy. You need to apply for a special license through an organization called OFAC (Office of Foreign Assets Control, which falls under the Department of the Treasury). Licenses cover family visits, official government travel, journalistic activities, religious activities (how I got there), humanitarian projects, and so on. Even though there were extra steps needed, the turnaround went relatively quickly. We applied for our visas and licenses maybe a month before our scheduled departure date and had everything ready to go.

Rather than stay in hotels, our group divided up and stayed in casas particulares. A casa is essentially the equivalent to a bed & breakfast. There are two main advantages to staying in a casa: 1) you’ll pay a lot less than you would in most hotels; 2) you get to interact with locals or other travelers who may happen to be staying in the same casa. I developed a strong relationship with my casa’s owners: a middle-aged couple with 3-year old boy. The casa was basically a four-story walkup with a couple of units on each floor. The room I shared with another member of my team had two bedrooms, one bath, a living area with a fridge, and a balcony offering a very nice view of Obispo Street (one of the main drags in Havana; Think “Bourbon Street” or “Duval Street”). Breakfast was not provided, but we were within walking distance of the Hotel Inglaterra, which offered a very nice buffet breakfast for about USD $6.

Some other randomly assorted thoughts on my experience in Cuba:

The first rule of Cuba is: You do not talk politics in Cuba. The second rule of Cuba is: You do not talk politics in Cuba. Luckily for me, I don’t like talking about politics while I’m in the US, so that was pretty easy for me to follow. Still, there were some Cubans I spoke to who brought up the difficulties they are facing under the current regime. I had to very cautiously sidestep while making sure they understood that I was sympathetic. You know the expression, “The walls have ears?” Well, the walls in Cuba literally do have ears, and I didn’t want to test how sharp they were.

I was struck (though not necessarily surprised) by how kind and approachable the people were. Some even went out of their way to mention that, despite the friction between our governments, Cuban people are very supportive of Americans. A couple of them even asked me what Americans think of Cuba. My response was that we think of Cuba as a mysterious, unknown place, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t want to understand it. Many Cubans have relatives living in the United States, and this provides a stronger link between the two countries than any geopolitical force could.

Che Guevara’s image is known to many. It has appeared on t-shirts, coffee mugs, and even on my room keychain at the place where I stayed in Havana. In Cuba, you can’t go very far without seeing his likeness painted on a wall or elsewhere. After being exposed so many times, you might be happy to know that I never caught “Che Fever” and had absolutely no desire to purchase anything bearing his likeness.

As I mentioned above, I read one of Ernest Hemingway’s classics back in the day. Even though I’ve only read two or three of his books, I’ve become a fan of his through my life experiences. I lived in Tanzania for two years (and climbed Kilimanjaro), I visited his home in Key West, and now, I also have Cuba. My casa was only a block away from a famous bar called El Floridita. This bar is famous for two things: 1) being the birthplace of the Daiquiri; 2) being a place where Hemingway hung out whenever he was in Havana (Ezra Pound and Graham Greene also hung out there). There is even a statue of “Papa” Hemingway at the end of the bar, where he used to sit. I went there and had a daiquiri just because. Nothing too memorable, but I’m also not a daiquiri fan. I did not get a chance to visit La Bodeguita del Medio, which is the birthplace of the mojito. Maybe on the next trip.

I was warned about how bland the food is in Cuba. Granted, it doesn’t have the zippy flavor that Mexican food does, but it’s still good in its own right. I was even pleasantly surprised to find a Cuban Sandwich on the menu of a restaurant we visited (in case you’re wondering, it’s known there as a “Port Sandwich”).

And while we’re talking food…

Going out for Chinese food in Havana seemed intriguing on the surface, but it was anything but. Stick with what the Cubans do best and wait for everything else until you get back home. That said, I’m sure Cubans who’ve never tried Chinese food elsewhere may not feel as strongly on the issue.

Though I may disagree with the US government on many issues, I will always be glad that I can complain about it openly and not get arrested for doing so.

One of the inside jokes I had with another travel companion was, “Why do they call [the drink] a Cuba Libre when Cuba isn’t libre (free)? I don’t know what the future holds for Cuba, but the fact that tourists are allowed in and that a form of religious freedom is now being allowed has the makings of better things to come. Of course, there is always the possibility that too much too soon could be detrimental (see Russia), but I’m hoping that the changes are gradual enough to prevent that from happening. Of course, there is a chance that nothing more will occur within my lifetime or even at all. Whatever happens, I’m glad I had the rare opportunity to visit and experience a country that not many people get to experience firsthand.

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‘Twas the Night Before Christmas (as written by a lawyer)

Back in 1997, I received a very entertaining e-mail which was nothing more than the poem “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” rewritten entirely in legalese.  I know it was 1997 because something possessed me to print the e-mail and save it for future enjoyment.  I recently discovered the printout and, what with it being St. Nicholas Day with Christmas three weeks out,  decided to retype the entire thing and share it with all of you.  You’re welcome.  [I have no idea who wrote this version, so I am unable to give credit where it’s due.  Also, everything was copied verbatim from the original message, so I assume no responsibility for any grammar or spelling errors.]

Enjoy.

‘Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place or residence, kinetic activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential (party of the first part), including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus.  Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas (party of the second part).  

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebrums.  My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself – thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a miniscule aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller.  With his ungulate motive power traveling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by his or her respective cognomen – “Now Dasher, now Dancer…” et al. – guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the 32 cloven pedal extremities. 

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location and was performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved – with utmost celerity and via a downward leap – entry by way of the smoke passage.  He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulate on the walls thereof.  His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.  

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability.  The capillaries of his malar regions nasal appurtenance were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the coloration of Albion’s floral emblem, the latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry.  His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared small, tabular, and columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose grey fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a decorative seasonal circlet of holly.  His visage was wider than it was high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container.  He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese, jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being.  By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle.  Upon completion of this task, he executed an abrupt about-face, place a single manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage.  He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed.  But I overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: “Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self same assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period between sunset and dawn.”

Home for the Holidays (Wherever that is now)

A mere six weeks after moving out east, I am now back in the midwest to enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday.  It was a no-brainer for me to come back, but I’m hoping it doesn’t affect my transition from the old home to the new home.  Although I had been out there for six weeks, I had only been living in my new apartment for about two of those.  Those two weeks felt like months based on how much stuff I had to get (and how many trips I had to make) to get the place furnished.  Now, my place is more livable, and IKEA and Target are the richer for it.  Even with all of that was going on, I had to get used to the new digs.  Meeting new neighbors little by little.  Figuring out the new system for things like trash disposal and submitting maintenance requests.  And trying to figure out if those mysterious vibrations in the building are being caused by the myriad HVACs perched atop the roof (i.e. right above me), passing trucks delivering their supplies to the newly-opened Safeway across the street, or both.   

Now, here I am, back in my old bedroom at my parents’ house.  Even though I couldn’t wait to get out of here almost two months ago, it feels really nice to be back.  That said, I’m a little worried that coming back here so soon after moving away may compound my growing pains after I get back there again.  I’ll find out soon enough.

 

2.0

Ladies and gentlemen, Rock and Roll.  Those words began the first ever broadcast of MTV on Saturday, August 1, 1981, back when people tuned in to hear their favorite music, watch their favorite videos, and wonder when the first episode of Catfish would premiere.  In no way am I trying to equate this blog to the opening broadcast of MTV, but on a personal level, this is something that’s both groundbreaking and experimental.  You see, this is my first ever attempt at a blog, or at least one that was put together and moderated only by me.  [By the way, I purposely used the word “attempt” because I really don’t know how quickly this will take off or even how far it will go.  I guess time will tell.]  

Even though I’m late to the blog rodeo, I feel like it’s the perfect time for me to start one.  I just recently moved to Washington, DC (from Wisconsin) to start a new life.  Just the tabula rasa I needed.  Additionally, it’s probably high time for me to transcend a different forum of social media.  I have had Facebook and Twitter accounts for several years.  Twitter seems to get more pointless by the day, and Facebook is becoming more and more superficial.  A blog seems to be the next logical step in the progression.

When you put up a blog, you have to make two assumptions: 1) You will have something important to say; 2) People will give a (darn) about what you say.  Well, I can’t control how many people will show up or what they will think, so, hopefully, I’ll have enough important things to say.  

 As to how I’m going to approach this, I honestly have no idea (Let’s cross that threshold together, shall we?).  It might be a place where I ponder the mysteries of life.  Then again, I may need yet another place to post my travel videos.  I once heard a comedian say that he tells jokes that he thinks are funny, and if the audience happens to agree, it’s a bonus.  I’ll be posting things that I think are funny or interesting.  If you agree, great.  If not, that’s fine, too.  I’m aiming for somewhere between “mediocre” and “Buzzfeed,” so I imagine I’ll hit the mark more often than not.  Who knows? Maybe I’ll even be the inspiration for the next “Julie & Julia.”

And now, without further ado: “Video Killed the Radio Star” by The Buggles.