Innocent Bystander

Sick Monday...

Last Wednesday on Facebook, I typed: "Just about to utter the sexiest three-word sentence in the English language: Four-day weekend."

Well, four-day weekends are no fun when you send three and one-half of those days sick. I caught a small but nonetheless annoying cold on Thanksgiving night which has lingered until today and migrated into my chest. So today if I sit still and do pretty much nothing (like blogging), I'm fine. If I get up and move around, I cough my head off. And for the record, it's a COLD...it's not the flu. I had a damn flu-shot in October and I'll be damned if I'm going to publicly acknowledge the presence of any kind of flu. This isn't Wikileaks. Some info remains top secret.

I don't know about you, but I have this uncanny ability with colds to exactly pinpoint the moment I'm sick. It's like a little switch goes off in my head. Call it my "Spidey sick-sense" if you will. On Thursday night I was sitting here, minding my own business, watching the teevee, when all of a sudden I knew I was sick. There was that tickle in my throat, that slight headachy feeling, that flush of fever (even though my digital thermometer refuses to go higher than 96.4 degrees, I know whan I have a fever). Thursday night was the worst, since it quickly developed into a very painful sore throat, which woke me up each time I swallowed at night. And last night was no fun either, with coughing doing the same and a whole mess of fever-dreams wrapped around a work-related deadline.

Anyway, my "sexy" four-day weekend just got enlarged to five days. Not that I'm bragging...no, more like complaining. Like everyone else in the world, I'm a huge baby when sick. And this baby is staying at home today, to cough in private.

The art of the celebrity interview once again dies a little in Esquire magazine...

I picked up a copy of Esquire magazine the other day, solely for research purposes. I gave up on Esquire a while back, mainly because most of the time it comes off as the most pompous of American magazines. But I'm researching some magazine design stuff, and one thing I can say whole-heartedly about Esquire, it's one of the best designed magazines out there. Except the covers. The cover designs are a gimmick gone wild. A year or two ago, they started doing these type-heavy covers with a celebrity of some sort standing in front of the type, like it was on a wall or something. It was cool the first time I saw it, annoying the second, and now--in about it 25th or so issue--it's just ugly and unimaginative. Having a format is great. Flogging it to death is not.

The current issue of Esquire features an interview with actor Christian Bale (not Kristen Bell--say the two names and be amazed how close they sound) that defines the celebrity interview in the pages of this magazine. I don't think I've ever read one that wasn't more about the interviewer than the subject. This one is a case in point. Admittedly, Bale would be a hard nut to crack. He clearly doesn't like to do press. But this time out the interviewer argues with Bale about the Q&A format the actor insists upon, to avoid being misquoted. After all, it IS an interview, so questions must be asked, answers should be forthcoming, even from somebody as reticent as Bale. The interviewer doesn't agree and spends most of the article sneaking in his own thoughts about Bale.

Bale argues that interviewers tend to be people who want to be novelists and "got stuck interviewing me...so they're writing these novellas..." And the interviewer, who writes almost incessantly about his chafing under this Q&A format bears him out when--late in the article--he writes, "He (Bale) leads the way out to a balcony overlooking the Pacific where there are rich men in blazers with icy cocktails and frosted wives."

Yep. Frustrated novelist for sure.

 

Faster (2010)

I often find myself in the mood for a mindless action flick. Faster, the new movie starring Dwayne Johnson (formerly known as The Rock) certainly fits into that category, but migrates so far into the "mindless...but stupid" box next door that it's a wonder it was ever made.

Johnson plays a man just out of prison who goes on a rampage to murder the the men who killed his brother. He was the victim of a gang who stole the money Johnson and company got from a bank robbery. Johnson--who is called "Driver" early on, but I don't recall any other name popping up--has spent his prison time gathering intel and resources to track down the four or five (who knows or, really, cares?) that are responsible for his bro's death. As he does so, in a four-day orgy of not very violent violence, he's pursued by cops Billy Bob Thornton and Carla Gugino. Add to this melange, a pompous British assassin/software magnate--who is as out of place as his accent in this strictly Hicksville environment--and you have a giant mess of a film.

Let's face it...The Rock has appeared in too many kid-friendly movies to tread back into R-rated action territory. And to be honest, I'm not really sure why this film was R-rated. It's not that violent, there's no nudity (even the one scene in a strip club features chastely-attired dancers) and I don't remember very many cuss-words, either. This should be a straight-forward vengeance story, but instead it gets mired down with the British assassin, a subplot so colossally stupid and out-of-place that it seems like it migrated in from the theater next door in the multiplex. (It doesn't help that the actor playing the assassin--Oliver Jackson-Cohen, known simply as "Killer" in the flick--is a major scenery-chewer either.) And the rest of the plot has so many holes, you can drive The Rock's most-conspicuous car-in-the-world (that no one ever seems to notice) right through them.

I should have gone to see Unstoppable. What could be more mindless than a runaway train?

Friday Foto #156...

From my recent trip to San Francisco: shadows on a side street. To see more of my photos, Friday or otherwise, click here!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone...

I've felt it for the last few days, almost a week now. Everyone is winding down into holiday mode, getting ready for a big meal, possibly followed by a day of horrendous shopping and crowd dodging. Friends are leaving town (one to Las Vegas, one to Palm Springs, another to the wilds of Missouri).

I have really fond memories of Thanksgiving as a kid. I especially remember coming home from school (or, for a few years, work) on the day before Thanksgiving, to a warm home, heated up to protect us from the late November chill outside. On that day, my mom would make stuffing for our turkey dinner the next day, and the house would be filled with this warm, baked bread smell. At night, I would steal a taste of it, removing the glass Pyrex top off one of the two containers filled with stuffing and stealing a few forkfuls. My mom would yell at me, secretly pleased that I liked it that much to sneak some of it, and go back to worrying about the turkey. How long will it take to cook? When should it go in the oven? Is it too big? Will the neighbors burn down the house, since they used the "let's cook the bird overnight" slow cook method, going to bed with the oven on a low heat. The minute our bird came out of the oven was her moment of truth. If it was too dry, the day was ruined. If not, well...it still wasn't her favorite day.

We would eat around 3:00pm, for a reason I could never figure out (was it PST...Pilgrim Standard Time?). We'd be chastised for wanting breakfast and lunch, told it would ruin our appetite for this too-late-for-lunch, too-early-for-dinner major meal that would weigh us down for the rest of the day. Later in life, it was just the four of us--mom, dad, my brother, and me--but when I was really little, all my cousins got together at my grandparents' house and we had these huge meals. They were the nexus of our holiday celebrations, from New Years all the way through the year until Christmas, and when they died, part of the holidays went with them.

These are the things I remember most about Thanksgiving and will always carry with me. That warm smell enveloping the house. The clanging dishes after the meal and my mom's quiet muttering about "All this work and now it's over." The turkey leftovers the next day. Everyone--except mom, stuck in the kitchen--falling asleep in front of the big color TV with football blasting in the background. I hope wherever you are today, you have these feelings, too...dysfunctional, argumentative, but still wonderful though they may be. And I hope someone slaps your hand when you try to steal that forkful of stuffing.

 

It's (almost) that most wonderful time of the year...

This is the yearly post that almost always pisses off a friend or two. Perhaps I should call this one "Today's Lesson in Self-Aggrandizement: the Amazon Wishlist."

As you prepare to go off to grandma's house (or maybe you're grandma these days), remember that Christmas is right around the corner and Black Friday is right outside your front door. If you're wondering what to get your favorite blogger for Christmas, look no farther than this wonderful wishlist which we here at Innocent Bystander have prepared just for YOU. You will find gift selections on there that just might fit your every blogger gift-giving needs. Yes, we're shilling for presents. We're not too proud. But whether you are a loved one or a dear reader--or both--this is one-time-per-year reminder to tip the blogger--not with cold, hard, dirty cash--but with a much-appreciated book. If you're a fan of this blog and want to show your appreciation, here's your chance. And yes, I know...I should be asking for donations for some humble charity...so don't get all Mr. Pissy-Pants about it. I've long ago made peace with my evil ways.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Today's lesson in self-aggrandizement, airport security edition...

I'm not traveling anywhere this holiday season that won't involve a car, but I can't help but think that all of these people suggesting boycotts of full-body scans and opting for pat-downs to slow down the airport security process are doing it for one reason and one reason only: To get on TV.

Yes, I'm not pleased with anyone looking at "my junk" without my permission. But I don't want a pat-down either, that's even more invasive. And the idiot (let's call him by name--John Tyner--from Oceanside), who started this all here in San Diego at Lindbergh Field, did it purely for self-aggrandizing reasons (he showed up filming the confrontation and posted it on the Internet himself, so you'll have a hard time convincing me he didn't plan the whole thing), and opened the floodgates for everyone else to get on the air, too. Watching the CBS Evening News just now there was a guy urging people to refuse the body scan and get a pat-down just to slow up the system. And guess what? He's DRIVING to grandma's house for Thanksgiving, so what does he care? You people back there with the two toddlers and the baby in the car seat? You can wait, along with the 300 other people behind you. I'm sending the government a message AND getting myself on TV. That's far more important. I'm talking about you Brian Sodergren. Hope your online "National Opt-Out Day" gets you tons of publicity, you self-aggrandizing jackass. CBS bought it.

They do this for a reason and if you want to sit next to the next "underwear bomber" (a phrase that sounds like a Victoria's Secret marketing bonanza), feel free. Here, take my seat. You can give him or her a solid pat-down when they try and stick a match down their pants.

I don't like to fly for a lot of reasons, but I do it because I have to at times. Jerks like these people--add wingnut George Donnelly to the list--who are insisting we make a stand and slow down the system by making them touch us, are doing this purely for their own selfish reasons. Don't let them convince you any differently. And shame on the media in this country for buying into this absolute load of crap. You fell for the Florida "minister" who was going to burn the Koran...you fell for this, too.

If you can explain this, you'll forever have my gratitude...

Just about every day--in fact, usually multiple times a day--I visit Photobomb. Photobomb is a web site from the fine folks who bring you I Can Has Cheezburger, that Internet-changing sensation which gave us the wonderful, warm, wacky universe of LOL cats. The act of photobombing is when someone else appears in a photo, basically hijacking the whole thing by something they're doing in the background. Sometimes the site is funny, sometimes it's just gross (there's a bit too much puking for my taste, no pun intended), but there's almost always something on there each and every day which makes me laugh. And let's face it...we all need a laugh these days.

But for some reason, this photo, made me laugh out loud (yes...LOL!). It's just the absurdity of it all. It looks like a nice simple, photo, these two girls posing outside of a store or restaurant they just visited...and then in roams grandma wearing the mustache of a '70s pornstar. What is the story here? Does that woman actually have that mustache? Is it a fake and she's deliberately photo-bombing the proceedings? Or is the circus in town?

Ok...what do you think, IB readers? Who is she and what's her story?

Terriers: Somebody nominate Donal Logue for an Emmy!

Terriers is probably the best show on TV that you're not watching right now. Buried in the late slot on FX on Wednesday nights, it's been on since early September, so it's ending it's first season run in just a couple weeks. When I first wrote about it, back on Sept. 9, I said: "The show itself was enjoyable, and I'll definitely continue watching, but it didn't immediately jump on my must-see list like both Mad Men and Justified did when they first came on."

I originally started watching out of curiosity, since the show is filmed here in San Diego, and I wanted to see how they used the area. But over the course of the first season Terriers has become one of my favorite shows. It's built steadily week after week, with a progressive storyline that keeps getting more intricate and fascinating. Donal Logue plays Hank Dolworth, an ex-cop here in Ocean Beach (an area of San Diego). He's now working as a private detective, teamed with his partner Britt Pollack (Michael Raymond-James). Hank is a bit of a lost soul, an alcoholic, now sober for many months, but confronted with temptation every day. His casework saves him, as does his friendship with Britt. But there are constant things

( This show has pretty much the worst title ever (there's a dog in it, but he's a bulldog named Winston), even though both the leads are like a terrier with a rat, never letting go until every last breath is squeezed out. But it also has some of the best continuing subplots on TV. Both Hank and Britt's relationships with the women in their lives is one of the best things. I love Laura Allen as Katie, Britt's girlfriend, who made an error in judgment and now the two of them are paying the price. Hank has wrestled this season with his ex-wife, Gretchen (Kimberly Quinn) remarrying, and his mentally-ill sister secretly moving in with him. Hank's crazy but brilliant sister is played by Logue's real-life sister, Karina Logue, and was sadly only in about four of the episodes.

But my original point of this post--and I do have one, trust me--is Donal Logue's acting. The latest episode, from last Wednesday, showed not only how Hank and Britt met but how Hank lost his police detective job. It was the best episode of the season, and showcased just how good an actor Logue is, as it went backwards and forwards through time to show how he became the man he is today. Raymond-James was great too, dealing with his own emotional breakdown and the ramifications of his break-up with Katie. They both deserve Emmy nominations, but I'm afraid the jackasses in Hollywood will ignore this quiet, little--but nonetheless wonderful--show, or just plain forget about it.

The show is winding down, with only two episodes left on the next two Wednesdays (Nov. 24 and Dec. 1). I really hope it's renewed for next year. It's another of those shows that proves TV is better than movies when it comes to these deep, nuanced, engrossing character arcs. What Terriers is doing in its 13-hour first season could never be done in a movie in 2 hours. Not even in 3D.

The great Brazilian meat and yogurt experiment comes to an end...

I knew it couldn't last. Over the past few years, the Gaslamp in San Diego had become overrun with yogurt places. Call it the "Pinkberry Promise," the lure of high profits based on the success of one frozen yogurt chain. Like the slew of Indian restaurants that popped up in my neighborhood, you just knew that only the strongest would survive.

One of them, which was located at the corner of G Street and Fourth Ave., started to tank early. They closed for a little while and when they reopened they had teamed with a Brazilian meat restaurant. There's a very popular one up the street on Fourth, near the backside of Horton Plaza, so I guess someone figured if one was popular, two could work. But I don't think they realized the automatic revulsion that went with the pairing of meat and yogurt, and that maybe--just maybe--your average yogurt customer wasn't a Brazilian meat kind of customer, too. I know they weren't serving their two specialities together, but that link was forged nonetheless.

So now the storefront is all covered up in brown wrapping paper, closed down. Maybe they'll reinvent themselves again, maybe this time as the Gaslamp's only yogurt and steamed cauliflower establishment. Or maybe chocolate-covered corn on the cob. Only time will tell.