The High Countries

(Left to Right) Seth Rogan, James Franco and Danny McBride walk back from a long, crazy night.

One Crazy Night

High as a kite, running for the drugs — a great summer escape.

Remember as a kid when you’d come home, with a reasonable explanation, knowing full well that your parents would never understand what just happened? You could explain all you wanted. Rant until blue in the face. No matter how convincing you were, no matter your sincerity, they would never believe you. Pineapple Express is that story in movie form. I’ll be frank, this could happen to anyone.

Armed with a throwaway job as a Process Server and a mediocre high school girlfriend (the very cute, Amber Heard), Dale Denton (Seth Rogan) has his daily sites set on two things: getting high today and preparation for his high tomorrow. Generally, the only thing deterring him from these goals are the minor obstacles in his path – new costume ideas for the next ‘serve’, scraping together enough cash for tonight’s purchase, calling his girlfriend – and even they rarely seem to keep him from his hazy utopia. In Denton’s eyes, he lives in the pinnacle of life’s glorious drag, sucking down joints like yesterday’s leftovers. Its comic genius, I must admit and no joke is lost among the laborious scenes of everyday puffing.The mellow attitude with which the film opens is only enhanced after we meet Saul Silver (James Franco), Dale’s just-as-lazy drug dealer. If Dale’s a pothead, I’m not sure where that puts Saul — maybe, Dale in a decade?

The movie stays in its smoky saga only long enough to paint the scene. After Dale witnesses a cop’s murder by the hands of a crocked dealer (Gary Cole) and leaves a joint of the infamously rare Pineapple Express at the scene of the crime the movie switches gears after he finally begins fearing for his life after realizing the rare weed’s traceability and just like that, we’ve got a full blown mouse hunt on our hands. Between Silver’s lackluster zeal for much of anything and Dale’s predisposition to practicality, the jokes are brilliantly normal and the comedy perfectly understandable. What did we expect, really? Every Apatow movie to date has been about the average man; each time finding himself in an increasingly more improbable, but never impossible, situation. Pride yourself on cleanliness and 1980’s comic books and you could be a 40 Year-Old Virgin. Hook up with a girl out of your league and both of you could very well be unhappy and Knocked Up. Follow around high school boys trying desperately to swipe the V-card and successfully purchase alcohol with a fake ID and I guarantee you the footage will be Superbad. Pineapple Express is no different. Smoke enough weed in a short period of time and this could actually happen to you, there’s not a doubt in my mind.

Don’t read me wrong here, this movie becomes more and more outlandish with each passing turn, but the jokes are never too far – save the fighting ninja warriors, those were a bit much, I suppose. After these modern-day Cheech and Chongs realize their notorious stash of PE can be traced back to them, they decide to sprint for the middle man — tweener-dealer Red (Danny McBride) and easily the funniest character of this film (and maybe the entire last year). Each twist of fortunes finds Red fighting against someone else and by the end of the film the now-famous clip of the neck brace-wearing Red chirping, “thug life…” has never rang truer. With the dealer’s goons (The Office’s Craig Robinson and Superbad’s Kevin Corrigan) hot on their tracks, the three underdogs embark on the save-all-except-themselves mission using the PE to finance the necessities: Slurpees and snacks. After Dale gets arrested for blatantly selling to minors, their plan seems thwarted — all hope lost. Arms behind his back, trying to explain to the driving police officer, Dale glances up to see his counterpart – a Slurpee-holding Saul – standing directly in front of the speeding vehicle, willing to take a hit for his friend. The slushy drinks erupt, mostly on the windshield, giving the appearance of a ghastly hit-and-run homicide and not the lazy comedy it once was thought to be. Misconception…all one big misconception, but hilarious nonetheless.

I wouldn’t want to spoil the rest of the film for you, but it’s worth a watch if you feel like a night off from responsibility. For a couple moments, I felt like I was back in high school, watching two grown men wander the streets of their hometown in search of friends and foe, drugs and dreams. I don’t have to try too hard to see them walk in their front door to standing parents, awaiting their arrival; their disapproving looks say it all. As they lift their sunken heads to begin, minds spinning from the night’s many adventures, they rewind, trying to start from the beginning.

Then, very slowly and seriously, they begin, “You guys…I can explain. This could have happened to anyone.”

Growing up in a Dutch home meant growing up to be strong. Not just physically strong, with beatings from the cousins around every turn, but mentally strong as well. Dinner table discussion rivaled any great sporting event and getting a word in was like stealing a raisin from a speeding blender. If you didn’t respect your elders, there was discipline on the other end of the stick, and don’t even think about speaking the word ‘bored’ — there’s a weekend of chores, no question. When we ate, we ate like strong men. When we worked, we worked like good farmers. And when we laughed, we nearly embarrassed those around us, I’m sure.

Nothing came so easily as laughter around our house. The entire family was raised on great humor and had strong enough backbones to laugh at themselves, making holidays and birthday’s unfortunate days of target, rather than embrace. I was raised on the classics of my generation, sure, just like any kid: Saved by the Bell, Family Matters, Tailspin, but none of these experiences came close to what it was like sitting and watching a few select shows with my Father.

My father is a strong man. He has massive hands which are generally referred to as ‘mitts’. His legs may look little bigger than a stork’s, but they stand tall on his 6’4 frame and are guaranteed not to be noticed when he’s speaking. I wish I could say that my father is a blatantly caring man – he is, don’t get me wrong — but that’s not nearly the first thing you notice as he walks into a room. Twenty-five-plus years as a Washington State Trooper and you’ll see why he talks with an unabashed boom in his voice. Its true, his hands and frame make him domineering, but his laugh…oh, his laugh… that’s another side of the story.

Only a couple times have I ever heard my father laugh to tears. Once was during an episode of M*A*S*H that, for the life of me, I can’t remember. All I remember is that Hawkeye kept making sarcastic remarks and next thing we knew, we were both on a roll. There we were, I’m looking at dad with tears in my eyes and pain in my side, mom is grabbing the counter because she’s laughing at me and Dad has his head down, hands calmly on a pillow, caught in utter hysteria. It really was a beautiful moment, none of us able to speak, the TV still playing whimsically in the background. Even as I write this, I smile, knowing all along how much literal pain I was in — it was bearably unbearable.

The only other time I saw my father’s tears of painful laughter was during a Victor Borge Sunday-afternoon Special. My dad had seen a similar show as a child and therefore wanted the entire family to partake in the event. And so, like good, strong, responsible children, we gathered around as it began.

The skit was funny, quite funny even, as Victor beautifully played and generously made fun of his own talent. We laughed throughout the entire piece, but the pinnacle, without a doubt was Borge’s story of “Jack and the Twoderful Beans”. Borge figured that since money inflates, so should words and coined his now famous, “Inflationary Language”. ‘To’ would become “Two”. “Foretold” would be “Fivetold” and so on…

My Dad and I talk about this story to this day, both getting thoroughly entertained by both it’s comic genius and the memories it stirs…

Read below, or watch it here.

JACK AND THE TWODERFUL BEANS
Twice upon a time there lived a boy named Jack in the twoderful land of
Califivenia. Two day Jack, a double-minded lad, decided three go fifth three
seek his fivetune.
After making sure that Jack nine a sandwich and drank some Eight-Up, his
mother elevenderly said, “Threedeloo, threedeloo. Try three be back by next
Threesday.” Then she cheered, “Three, five, seven, nine. Who do we
apprecinine? Jack, Jack, yay!”
Jack set fifth and soon met a man wearing a four-piece suit and a threepee.
Fifthrightly Jack asked the man, “I’m a Califivenian. Are you two three?”
“Cerelevenly,” replied the man, offiving the high six. “Anytwo five
elevennis?” “Not threeday,” answered Jack inelevently. “But can you help me
three locnine my fivetune?”
“Sure,” said the man. “Let me sell you these twoderful beans.”
Jack’s inthreeition told him that the man was a three-faced triple-crosser.
Elevensely Jack shouted, “I’m not behind the nine ball. I’m a college
gradunine, and I know what rights our fivefathers crenined in the
Constithreetion. Now let’s get down three baseven about these beans.”
The man tripled over with laughter. “Now hold on a third,” he responded.
“There’s no need three make such a three-do about these beans. If you twot,
I’ll give them three you.”
Well, there’s no need three elabornine on the rest of the tale. Jack oned in
on the giant and two the battle for the golden eggs. His mother and he lived
happily fivever after — and so on, and so on, and so fifth.

National Geographic—Photograph by Carlos Gutierrez/UPI/Landov

Dear journey-men and journey-women of the High Countries.  I come to you with a pen that was generously offered by the colorful mind that paints these pages with insight for you all to consume.  My hand is a bit timid as I have much to live up to, for I do not do this on a regular basis and in fact have only gone so far as commenting on blogs.  I hope my contribution to this place is exactly that — a contribution — and not, well, a subtraction.  So, I dive in…

As a child of the Italian-dominated gene pool of the Luedke family I have grown up with a knack for the artistic, the visual, and in a walnut shell — the creative.  As a kid, I used to draw into the wee hours of the night trying my darnedest to get the ninja’s shadows the right opacity and that Warhammer 40,000 soldier’s left arm the right flipping size (SO frustrating).  Of the three boys, I was the one who would take out the video camera when the potato gun was being launched to make sure that not only was the event documented, but more importantly, that it looked good and sounded great when the music track was added.  I have a knack for taking pictures and had an absolute BLAST in my Black-and-White Photography I and II classes at Brophy Prep High School.  I am as straight-laced as they come, yet find himself eagerly anticipating flushing out the intricacies of the interior design of my first place with my wife — yes, even down to picking wall colors.  I could go on and tell you about my degree in motion-picture production and my job in television development but I think you get the point…I love to create.

With that said, about two weeks ago I was humbly reminded once again of something that has proven to dismantle any pride built upon these lofty attempts of this thing I call “creativity”.  It fully enraptures my puny mind and will continue to do so until the day a daisy grows on my belly.  I had received an e-mail from my dear older brother Troyton and, as I opened it’s contents, never did I think my jaw could be so deadly heavy.  I stared in awestruck silence at the string of images glowing before my eyes and only one thought pierced the silence, “I’ve been left behind.”  Thankfully, as I began to put together words and read about the wonder I was observing, I learned that I had, in fact, not been left behind.  What I was seeing was just a 9,000-years-due volcano in Chile, exploding with an incomprehensible display of power, destruction, and beauty all in one single performance…no big deal.

After reading on, I learned that this was a volcano colliding with an electrical storm in Chile on May 3rd, 2008.  A National Geographic photographer — Ronald J. Thomas — conveniently captured this show and now, will never work another day in his life.  Mr. Thomas, an atmospheric physicist at New Mexico Tech, who also co-authored the study of this storm said, “…we saw a lot of electrical activity during the eruption and even some small flashes going from the top of the volcano up into the cloud. That hasn’t been noticed before.”  Martin Uman, co-director of the University of Florida Lightning Research program pointed out that, “It’s the first real look at the details of at least one kind of volcano lightning—though of course every volcano might not be the same.”  Oh good.  Uman also noted in regards to the lightning increasing in frequency and girth as the ash and lava carried further from the mouth that, “the implication is that it has produced more charge than it started with. Otherwise [the plume] couldn’t continue to make lightning.”  In layman’s terms: We have no shaboygan’ clue what just happened.

National Geographic—Photograph by Carlos Gutierrez/UPI/Landov

You see, this is what gets me — here is a “simple” volcanic eruption, something that has occurred millions upon millions of times on this earth and the minds that have dedicated their lives to these things are virtually back at square one.  Well, they DID mention that not one volcanic eruption might be the same (have fun studying the rest of your life Dr. Eruption) and in fact, it would prove more fruitful of your time to go steal a tank and destroy an all-glass building.  Don’t even ask, just do it.

I will forever long to witness one of these eruptions in the flesh.  Watching a most impressive display of creativity and wonder on a still screen sweeps my mind away to the place it belongs — nestled on the ash-covered crust.  Oh, what it will do to me when I see it live — sound, trembling earth and all.  Don’t worry, I will bring my camera.

By Todd Stevenson

As time unfolds, the Reverend's words may prove more telling than his legacy.

Distinguished quests,

I realize that understanding, mercy and tolerance are flourishing ideals of this postmodern world. I am keen to the fact that most ill-spoken quip can be extinguished with a simple apology, half-witted explanation or conniving, cover-up lie.  By now, I am sure you have all heard that Jesse Jackson did some quipping of his own this week. In our by-the-second news world, this email is legions of seconds too late and reads like yesterday’s classic novel, I’m sure. All tardiness aside, hear me out.

After reading Bill O’Reilly’s book, The O’Reilly Factor, I can say that its main point was the emphasis of dialogue. By whatever means necessary, Bill always tried to have dialogue with most guests. And even in some of his most heated moments — like with Heraldo Rivera — cooler heads usually prevailed. When guest would choose not to come on the show, nearly each time, with enough persistence, they’d make ammends. Hillary and Bill Clinton, Eminem, Reverend Al Sharpton – all finally succumbed, whether to pressure or realization and appeared on the show in one way or another, save one: Reverend Jesse Jackson.

At the time of print, the Reverend had yet to appear on the show. He had not given rhyme or reason for his impartiality towards Mr. Reilly and never once returned a call personally. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be anywhere near him, maybe for good reason. Each time the Reverend came up in news, Bill was there – ready to give objective view — sometimes on polarizing and seemingly fallacious topics (such as the death of Stanley “Tookie” Williams). With each new news day came more criticizing, grandstanding and stake-driving from the Reverend in response to any and all of The Factor’s coverage. “There’s always a place at the table for dialogue”, Bill would say, adding, “…but it seems the Reverend can’t find the time.  Maybe next week.”

Years have come and gone and although the Reverend has appeared on The Factor (with topical guidelines overflowing from his team’s notepads), never once has the Reverend been the poster child of what he preaches. If there’s people around, tolerance will be preached, but when the mics go off – the dialogue apparently changes.

The courtesies that Mr. Reilly patriotically offered to Mr. Jackson – listening ears, and open mind and a patient tongue – were once again offered publicly to a man that, by his own teaching, would not deserve such a service. Reverend Jackson’s (and it kills me to say that) words echoed through the halls of the causes he so fervently claims to champion against: hate, anger and envy. Could anger ever be more inopportune?

Outside of the sound bites uncaught by hot mics, the point is this: The Reverend Jackson — a man who so adamantly strives for the public stage by which to boast his own tyrannical and illogical fight against racism — has just become the apple of his own eye. Its the modern-day allusion to David’s conversation with the prophet Nathan.  Jesse Jackson’s entire life has been his crusade to place damnation on the masses and wash his hands of any guilt.  After his comments on Monday, and by his own actions, his legacy takes true form.

Randolph (left) with Manuel (right) discussing life, liberty and the pursuit of some wins in New York.

Five years ago, I walked into my new dorm room at Biola University more scared than savvy. I didn’t know what to expect. And frankly, I was a little embarrassed that my parents waited there with me. Soon, a body walked into the room––Travis. He was on the baseball team, something that I had hoped to achieve in the next coming months, but would opt out for the game of Lacrosse, instead. To say that Travis was quiet would be like calling an air horn loud. He was one of the most unassuming, easy-going guys on the face of the planet and remains that way today. As I looked around the room, I saw various family pictures of the two current tenants and wondered if there were any space for me––a freshman––among the artifacts of these 20-something Juniors. As I surveyed the desk of the other unidentified roommate, I noticed a familiar face. A face that I had partially grown to hate, but in some ways…appreciated. It was the face of a rival. A famous rival, but a rival nonetheless. There on the desk lay a picture of Jerry Manuel, the coach of the Chicago White Sox (at the time) and a rival of my gloriously over-preforming (at the time!) Seattle Mariners. As I heard a voice behind me, I turned around to see Anthony, my second roommate.  He had about as much fat on him as a Pez dispenser and after introducing ourselves, it became apparent that he was simply Jerry, minus 25 years.

In the year that followed, I got to know the in’s and out’s of growing up in Major League Baseball and the more we talked, the more I felt as though I needed to go out and buy a White Sox hat. We had some great discussions––Anthony was anything but normal, with an upbringing that rivaled the Kardashians, but in many ways, he seemed to see his childhood as memories in the same way I did. My quality time in the backyard, his at Dolphin Stadium. I remember watching Griffey round third in 95’, he rushed the field in 97’.

I got a chance to speak with Jerry a number of times, mostly colloquial baseball chatter, but always with a sense of wonder on my end. When I visited their home a couple years back (to pick up my Xbox…), I got the chance to speak to Jerry on a little different platform. We talked baseball, of course; steroids, Bonds, expansion, etc, and I tried to convince him to take the Manager position in Seattle, but he maintained that he was, “…done coaching for a while.” At the time, he was really considering taking the Bench Coach position for the Mets and I told him, “Why the Mets?!” He said that he loved the Mets and that New York was a great city to play in and since his playing days were past tense, it was the atmosphere and the guys that kept it fun. He told us all that if Willie Randolph didn’t last, he wouldn’t be opposed to the Manager’s role, but that Willie would do a terrific job. He signed off by saying, “If ever you’re in New York, and you just need a day of, come on down to the ball park.” Well, Willie-days have come and gone in New York and June 15, 2008 marked the beginning of Jerry’s interim coaching tenure in New York––I couldn’t be happier. Oh, the pains of being a dedicated fan.  Looks like I need to go out and buy a sicky Mets hat.

Tiger Woods, during his playoff round Sunday at the 2008 US Open championship.

2008 US Open: Tiger Would

We’ve reached a new level of insanity here in the High Countries. What once was an unabashed impartiality towards the game of golf has now––upon conclusion of this year’s US Open––become something so much more lethal: full-fledged fun.

As I opened my office door this morning, the only thought I had was the balancing act between productivity and full out, final-round-watching insubordination. I know, I know, its hard for me to admit to myself that I sat there updating a live web blog (courtesy of Jason Sobel over at ESPN), only to write him and express the same thing I am to you now; that as much as I hate to say it, I’m having a great time. I can’t say that the play-by-play was minute-by-minute, but it was…five-minute-by-five-minute, so what’s the big deal? It was like baby-back rib relay race: slow, but genuinely exciting at its finale. As Tiger thought back on his rounds, I thought back on my short-lived journey this this moment…

I’ve only recently began playing consistent golf. A friend and I found an appealing Super Twilight rate at a nearby course that allows us to get in about 15 holes 2-3 times a week for a staggering $8 a round. While I boast a ‘90 something’ as my best score (cough…on 17), I can use all the cheap golf I can get. My golf game wasn’t something I really enjoyed until about three months ago and golf on TV wasn’t appealing until about 3 years ago––when I first saw Tiger induce Phil Knight’s screams of delight as his brand rose and fell with the resounding ‘clinkle-clunk’ only a billion dollars could make. Its true, the genius of the 2005 Masters brought me closer to the actual game than anything else. Tiger Woods brought life into a dusty, old pastime and I found his charisma to be just the medicine I needed.

I can’t say that I saw any of this coming. I can’t say that I had any predictions today other than, “There is a 1-5 chance at the beginning of any given tournament that Tiger will win.” I can’t say that I even watched every round of this years Open. Granted, I am a fair weathered golf fan (I listened to Lakers-Celtics game 5 last night on radio though, gasp!) Lefty’s Pooh Bear-esque moobs are the only reason I recognized him for the first half decade of my fanship. My tenancy in the PGA has been nothing short of short-lived, but one thing is true: I can no longer say I don’t care. No longer am I simply… impartial. I am anything but impartial, in fact, I am only partial. I want only Tiger to win. Even when he’s wearing purple or only half tanned, its always Tiger. Call me crazy, call me anything but unique. I was alive when Tiger Woods was playing.

As it all goes down, fans wait, watch and wilt till next season.

There’s No Place Like Home: Part 2 & 3

By Bryce VanKooten

Well, its all over. At least for now. How do we all feel? Can we describe it all in one word? Legit. Two words: deceptively inspiring? I suppose we need a time machine to get out exactly how we feel.

This year we saw lots and lots of things happen. Wait, no we didn’t. The season started with the ever-fateful ‘the folks on The Freighter are coming to get us’ and ended with the incredible twist: ‘the folks on The Freighter, although tricksy little hobbits’s––did not get us’. Granted, we got to meet Faraday (awesome, eccentric, all good things) and Charlotte (hmmm) and I’ll be the first to admit that I like them, but frankly––when all was said and done, plot wise… It was a simple season.

Remember first season when we saw a Hatch and were entertained just by the thought of it for about 15 episodes? Or when we saw only the feet of The Others walking by––just a glimpse––and we had more Goosebumps than a 6th grade library? Those were the days when nitwit fans were mixed in with the rest of the nuts and left to fight amongst themselves as to who would get the last handful of theory crumbs. Nowadays though, where do we live?  What is it going to take to get us back to that state of wonderment without that nostalgic sense of hate we so often feel? Can it be that we are too smart for our own good?  Always thinking outside the magic box, we can only be duped if hand-fed lies? I say nah, but that’s closer than not.

If ever there was a breaking point for me, it was the end of Season 3. It was the first season where I had to moan along with the rest of the world week by week (or should I say, week off to week on) because I had used up my luxury of DVD seasons (see previous post Lost: The Logic-Free Fee). It was then when I sat back and said, “Lost, I hereby swear I will disown you like a right-wing father to his hippie son if you don’t impress me beyond belief.” And like a true nonconforming child, it did. There I was, watching Jack drink his life away–– popping pills like a MLB All-star thinking to myself, “Well, it looks like this is it. I have to quit. I gotta shut er’ off.” And then it happened. They took me to the future. And like Never, Never, Land, I was hooked again.

When this year’s finale rolled around, I can’t say I was in as angry of a place, but I can say that I wanted some movement. When Desmond did his Marty McFly bit in The Constant, I went wild. When Keamy went from ‘not that tough’ to ‘okay, he could be tough’ by going hard as The Wire and shooting Ben’s daughter, I coincidentally wanted to jump up and scream, “That’s what I’m talking about!” You can’t have anyone to really love if you don’t have anyone to really hate. Throw in a loathsome person like Benjamin Linus (who we all love, lets be honest) and you have a terrific show. Leverage that dynamic with the island’s properties and now we’re talking. The Season 4 finale did just that. It didn’t do everything I had hoped (i.e. reveal to us the/a time machine, show where the island went after it ducked below the surface, give us more insight into where Ben goes after banished, etc, etc), but it did enough. I liked how the island disappeared. I liked how Sun sold out for her final scene with Jin (fyi; that was heart wrenchingly painful to watch and I likely won’t watch it again; I liked Jin, I did…. I did). I liked how Sawyer was the man, again––if only for a little while. He kind of went to that hey-don’t-forget-I’m-still-Sawyer place where he does things, almost subconsciously, just to show how much cooler than Jack he is. I thought his jump was well placed and perfect. And if you didn’t hear what he said to Kate in the whisper, you can hear it here.

Bottom line, this finale was like a punch in the belly button. A good punch, though. It hurts a bit; torments you for a while, but its good to know that you can still feel. You can still hurt–– and they still care enough to take the time and effort to punch you.

Katie and I -- Life at the 2006 Northwest Washington Fair

The First in a Series

There’s a warning on the side of blank CD’s: “A good mix tape is the perfect flirtation device.”

Oh, such true words. The problem is, I make a mean mix tape. Somewhere between the 8th grade and my first breakup, I lost the meaning of the mix tape. After a series of relationally ambiguous trades, frivolous hand-outs and altogether unassuming exchanges, I found this medium of hipful/hopeful tunes to be incredibly fun––both to send and receive, and lost all hope of ever harvesting its true flirtatious power. Instead, I began sending them to my sisters in hopes of keeping my skills sharp.

1. Falling Slowly –– Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
From the ONCE soundtrack. If you haven’t seen this movie. Watch it. I may have given you this already (as well as some others on here; I hope not), but they are terrific songs.

2. The Shadow Proves The Sunshine –– Switchfoot
This is my life’s song right now. It’s the simple story of a man trying so hard to stand up straight all while realizing how difficult it is.  Finally, he looks down to see his shadow; proof of the sunshine above.

3. Beautiful World [Mix] –– Colin Hay
A wonderful remix of a wonderful song.

4. She is the Sunlight –– David Hodges & Trading Yesterday
A terrifically slow and peaceful campfire song.

5. On Your Way –– Eastmountainsouth
One of the most heart-wrenching songs in recent memory. A man singing to his ex-girlfriend saying that he’ll be truly happy for her when she finds someone. He had his chance, he missed it; she deserves better and he wants it for her. It’s a brother and sister singing together on the piece, so I always picture they’re singing it about their respective, significant others. The brother wrote it and it’s beautiful.

6. Cue the Sun –– Daphne Loves Derby
Another great simple song, I picture it sung in the rain, with an old guitar.

7. Shenandoah –– Chanticleer
The one you wanted with the strikingly high tenor. Through the roof!

8. One Moment More –– Mindy Smith
I love this song. Like a desperate cry for the last moments before a breakup or departure to war, or a death. Has a longing, soothing feel to it.

9. Dragons –– Edwin McCain

One man’s journey through drugs and the desperation of watching others go through the same. Each man has his story and with each comes struggle.  Dragons are the dancing smoke-strings seen during meth or heroine.

Beth lost her sister; they came and they took her away. And there ain’t enough pews in the world and nothing I can say. So I tell her I love her and that she’s a friend, and each time I leave her, I wonder if I’ll see her again. And I’m watching the dragons. As they slither out of sight. And I wonder who’ll be sleeping alone tonight.

10. Glory Road –– Trevor Rabin & Alicia Keyes
My favorite simple soundtrack song at the present time. Listen for the change in mood, it does wonders for the workout and Alicia Keyes nails the simple melody.

11. The Funeral –– Band of Horses
This was on a Ford commercial, and I had to have it. I also love their other stuff, its great if you like whispery voices now and then — fun and mellow.

12. Lies –– Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
Couldn’t help it, had to put this one on there, too. They perform this one in a recording studio (in the movie) and watching Glen is pure genius, singing at the top of his lungs like he’s getting everything off his chest that he always wanted to say. Perfection in poetry of song.

13. Awake –– Secondhand Serenade
This is a little older, but its perfectly simple. I put it in the same boat as some of the other simple ones on this mix. It’s a great one to drive to and everyone needs songs like this now and then.

14. Start Today Tomorrow –– Youth Group
Sort of a fun way of thinking, considering every so once in a while we all just want to stop and start today tomorrow.

15. Closer –– Keb’Mo
One man’s journey toward snuggling…

16. Gravity –– Sara Bareilles
This doesn’t really fit the trend of this CD, but since you are a girl; I never know. It’s a little jazzy and so I don’t know if it’ll be a hit for you. Its slow and…dramatic. Let me know what you think.

17. Girlfriend –– Eve 6
This song is near and dear to my heart. Not only is it the group that Molly [sister] loved growing up (and therefore, I wanted to love too), it’s the song that I literally had never heard until I was cresting the hill going to Las Vegas and it was on my play list! No joke, it was perfect. It’s a true rally song and gets me going to this day. I will fight for this breakup song as an anthem for my generation till the day I die. The melody makes me want to run a marathon…profound echoes of, ‘I will not be broken‘.

18. The High Countries –– Caedmon’s Call
This may be one of those you already have, but I wanted to put it on here anyway. This song has more meaning for me than I could ever speak, let alone write. It is the song behind the title of my blog, an allusion to the book that holds the greatest chapter of literature I have ever read; The Great Divorce, Chapter 9 and in my humble opinion, musical genius. I’ve written the group themselves, so they know where I stand. I can’t say enough about it, so I decided to include it.

Secret Agent Maxwell Smart (Carell) and Agent 86 (Hathaway) in the Mel Brooks favorite, Get Smart.

Didn’t Miss By Much

I can’t decide if I like Steve Carell (Maxwell Smart) more when he is silent or when he is talking. Either way he’s a master. Up until about a year ago, I was unsure if he could do anything besides scream with a straight face, although I won’t lie, whether it was newscast gibberish or Kelly Clarkson expletives––I laughed every time. It wasn’t until his role in Little Miss Sunshine that I really appreciated his acting skills and thus, more fully understood the broad range of talent. Still, Get Smart is not about acting; it’s about popcorn. Plain and simply––great laughs, solid entertainment, fun for all the cousins.

Carell delivers once again in this altered, but still very friendly adaptation of Mel Brooks and Buck Henry’s classic mid-1960s TV series, which starred the late, great Don Adams as super-spy Maxwell Smart, a.k.a. Agent 86. For many, Adams will forever be the true Agent 86, and if you see the movie and can’t get over that, I understand, but nonetheless Get Smart, the movie, brings Mel Brooks kind of humor to a new generation––families included.

Obviously an Oscar-worthy movie (let alone the performance…geez, nominate the guy), it’s clear that Carell was born to play this role. Very rarely (and before recent missteps, Will Ferrell seemed to be reaching this plateau) is an actor or actress so brilliantly comedic that they can simply stand on a stage, saying nothing, and get laughs. Think back to the days of Carol Burnett. Or even Bob Hope doing the Oscars. Both comic giants, at ease in any situation––the audience overwhelmed with their charm. I would like to think that this aura is simply ‘comedic charm’, but more eloquently, it is probably closer to ‘comedic genius’. Not that this movie solely places Steve Carell in comedic lore, but it definitely doesn’t hinder his rise. Once again, he holds any scene he’s in and has you shifting in your seat, leaning slightly forward as not to miss an off-the-cuff reference or quip. With Anne Hathaway playing the uptight, overbearing feminist and Carell fitting nicely as the blatant nitwit, there’s little time left for the gadgets to get laughs, save one.

The funniest scene of the entire film takes place in an airplane restroom. Hands tied, seeking freedom from his bonds (seen briefly in the trailer) Maxwell Smart attempts to free himself by using his weapon of choice: a miniature crossbow. Hilarity ensues, as aiming the bow with his mouth becomes something of a nightmare and the plane’s metallic surroundings causing unintended physics. Refusing defeat after the first couple misfires; this scene builds as we watch the entire sheath unloaded, one painful shot at a time. This sequence alone is worth the price of admission and combined with an obese waltz during a fancy gala, your cheeks will likely have had enough hilarity.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of robust corny comedy throughout the movie; more specifically––anything that happens in the Control hallway, but outside of faltered gags (which may be eliminated––I saw 6-months early test screening), the movie flows well. Alan Arkin is superb as the Chief and Borat’s own Ken Davitian (Shtarker) brings normalcy to the utterly ridiculous––this guy would have been at home in any Mel Brooks ensemble. The other actors, although working well in the flow of the film, rarely hit homerun jokes. From the ‘Silent Force Field’ to the rooftop fight sequence, one thing is true: no question, Steve Carell is funny. His timing and his flair for Death-Valley-dry under-acting make him a perfect 86, with the entire film serving as testament to his on-screen charisma––not to mention, he fits a suit better than most. Get Smart is a breath of fresh, classic air in a time of raunch-fest comedies like Semi Pro, and the upcoming and completely worthless Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Dare I say, “Best Comedy of the Year”? Ah, missed it by that much.
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*This review is based on a February 2008 test screening

Matthew (Jonah Hill) looks on with Peter Bretter (Jason Segel) in one of the film’s rare clothed moments.

I Can Forget Soon Enough

By Bryce VanKooten

The night was quiet, the bold spring sunset had faded from existence and most of us (the chosen few) were freshly done with our final papers, save one man. In that fanciful moment of slow and steady disregard for anything related to planning, an infamous quote was born. While contemplating whether or not to end his spree of embraced laziness that had plagued his journey thus far, one of my college dorm-mate eloquently revealed, “The key to writing a great paper is hiding poor ideas behind great structure.” It was not until today that I fully realized the truth of those his words. Today I find myself intrigued at that statement and amazed that others, even a team of professionals, have yet to figure it out.

Last night I lost just under two hours of my life. Not to sleep (which I would have traded ten times over), but to a movie entitled, Forgetting Sarah Marshall. As I entered the theater, I was convinced that sitting in the front row would not ruin my experience, that despite my carnal intuition, this movie could not have more needless sex than Jud Apatow’s previous films (40 Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Superbad, etc). I had been invited for free, how super-bad could it get? Regrettably, only worse from there.

For my sanity (I couldn’t be more serious), I’m going to skip over the first half. Not because I didn’t enjoy it, but because after the remainder, I wanted to donkey punch the crew. There are not words to express the angst and pain i felt for the final 4,500 minutes of this nightmare, although ‘angst’ and ‘pain’ seem to work nicely, for now. If the first half of this movie were an intriguing magazine cover, the second half would be the naked guy on page one, and page two, and three and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on, etc.

For pity’s sake, I’ll give you the high points… okay, that’s about it. Now for the the low points.

Peter Bretter (Jason Segel) is busted up pretty bad after his girlfriend and budding TV star Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell) breaks up with him (he’s naked and I can’t emphasize enough how not funny this is… every time). To reboot, he takes a trip to Hawaii where he meets a fresh-and-fun-brunette-hotel-clerk Rachael (Mila Kunis aka; Family Guy’s Meg Griffith), but turns around only moments later to see his newly departed girlfriend has arrived with her new 60’s-inspired, rockstar boyfriend Aldous Snow (Russel Brand). Got it? Shenanigans ensue and much ‘awkwerdity’ is had, all thanks to the seemingly fail-safe-for-a-laugh waiter/hotel helper/Aldous stalker, played by Jonah Hill. The movie consists of jealousy, seduction and a little surfing with the help of a familiar-faced, completely strung out surf instructor, Paul Rudd. After Peter becomes jealous of Sarah and Sarah turning out to be jealous of Peter (what a twist!), the movie ventures into the unknown, never again to let you see the light of day, unless its inside their underwear. You’re forced to sit through a sex scene where one couple tries to outperform, out-scream and out do the other (dare i call it) couple? One, ‘I love you’ is followed by another, ‘let’s get it on’ and the only relational line drawn is the nonexistent one drawn by the rockstar, Aldous to any person he’s with. Coincidentally, Aldous (who doubles as easily the funniest as well) got less time on screen than the blankets they all retreated to. The movie continues with a terrible script, an even worse storyline and (quite factually) one of the most distasteful and incredibly unfunny movies I’ve seen in the past decade.

I’m guessing, by the end of the film, we’re supposed to like Peter Bretter (or at least feel sorry for him––which I didn’t), but in a comedic sense, how can you like, or give any emotion to someone that doesn’t entertain you? I suppose he entertained me when he took the lengthy banana out of his Margarita Smoothie and muttered, “Whoa, look at this guy.” But outside of the few moments when he was perfectly drunk, it was plain torturous. This movie hinged on blatant, insanely awkward (re: not awkward-funny, just really dumb) male nudity. I lost track the 4th or 5th time, but there had to be a good half dozen shots of the same guy on the big screen. Bluntly (pun), there’s lots of mangina. And what’s the most ironic part of all of this? Jason Segel, the man’s who wore his birthday suit once already in Knocked Up, decided to write his own story this time. Yes, I’ll lay it out for you simply: It’s his script. He is the writer of the movie. He wrote the movie. There’s a good chance he was naked when he wrote it.

It’s a pretty simple fact; this movie is horribly disgusting and tragically made. To call this movie ‘amusing’ or ‘entertaining’ without qualification would be like calling an STD necessary. This movie was a complete waste of time and an utter disaster for everyone involved, especially the writer. The movie went nowhere, showed we the viewer nothing and left me saying, ‘I fully realize that I have to take a shower when I get home, but I don’t even want to look in the mirror’. I’m sorry if you’ve seen this movie already. I’m not sorry that you now understand what I’m trying to say, but I do apologize that I couldn’t have stopped you sooner. My apologies for not being able to grab Andy three years ago, given him a Flux Capacitor and a megaphone and told him to scream his line at the top of his lungs all the way to 2008. All horribly raunchy, 40 Year-Old Virgin had a story, Anchorman remains a recent classic and Superbad was, well…funny. Plainly speaking, I hope Forgetting Sarah Marshall will be soon forgotten (oh, that was too easy). And judging by the way The Forbidden Kingdom preformed this weekend, Forgetting Sarah Marshall may not be all it was knocked up to be.