Mark L. Van Name's Blog, page 255
February 12, 2011
I'm constantly amazed
at how hard it is for so many people to say, "I was wrong." Many of us would have enough spare time to take up a new hobby if accepting personal responsibility wasn't so hard for most folks. The energy that businesses expend dancing around errors and the sources of the responsibility for them could power a small country's economy. Relationships would be healthier, or at least move faster to wherever they're going, if accepting blame wasn't more difficult for most people than beating Michael Jordan in a slam-dunk contest while wearing concrete boots. We certainly could help ourselves and the U.S. economy if we could learn to say or write those three words when appropriate, then move on.
End of mini rant.
And, for those who will inevitably ask, no one recent event led to this entry; it comes from a build-up over time.
End of mini rant.
And, for those who will inevitably ask, no one recent event led to this entry; it comes from a build-up over time.
February 11, 2011
Sarah sent it to me
and once I played it, I knew I needed to share it with you.
He is, after all, The Boss.
Speaking of Sarah, if you're not reading her short pieces over at A Year In Prose, you're missing out on some lovely writing. Yeah, I'm her dad, so I'm biased, but I'm also right.
He is, after all, The Boss.
Speaking of Sarah, if you're not reading her short pieces over at A Year In Prose, you're missing out on some lovely writing. Yeah, I'm her dad, so I'm biased, but I'm also right.
February 10, 2011
The first comic book I ever ordered by mail
and for which I paid more than the cover price was X-Men #2. It's probably no surprise, therefore, that I am way past excited at the prospect of seeing this movie.
Oh, hell, yeah.
Oh, hell, yeah.
February 9, 2011
You lookin' at me?
Earlier today, for business reasons I had to wear to an off-site engagement the suit I purchased recently. I then returned to the office so the folks there could see that I could in fact dress like a banker if need be. To be more accurate, I can dress like one of those movie bad-guy Swiss bankers who's keeping stolen Nazi money and about to have his burly henchmen kill you.
Don't believe me?
See for yourself.
If Travis Bickel gained a bunch of weight and put on a suit for his crazy shouting-at-himself-in-the-mirror scenes, you know he'd look just like that.
Don't believe me?
See for yourself.
If Travis Bickel gained a bunch of weight and put on a suit for his crazy shouting-at-himself-in-the-mirror scenes, you know he'd look just like that.
February 8, 2011
I don't know why
but this song from Monsters of Folk has been running around in my head for a little while now. Go figure.
Of course, that song led my mind to this completely different and yet related tune.
What can I say? It's not always a reasonable brain.
Of course, that song led my mind to this completely different and yet related tune.
What can I say? It's not always a reasonable brain.
February 7, 2011
Yes, we went there
In
So we did.
The recipe was a bit light on details, but we decided that didn't matter; we were after the spirit of the corntastic porndog, not any particular implementation of it.
We began, of course, by warming up ten hot dogs, frying a pound of bacon, and wrapping the dogs in the bacon. Rather than going with the recipe's single piece of bacon per dog, however, we turned up the amp and wrapped two pieces of bacon around each tube steak. We didn't have toothpicks, but no such simple deficiency was going to derail this gourmet train, so we cut thin wooden skewers into irregular pseudo-picks. They were big and ugly, but they worked.
As you can see from these two photos, the result was two plates of bacon-and-dog goodness. Never mind the pieces of wood protruding everywhere at odd angles; we were confident those would somehow turn from merely weird to oddly endearing.
In parallel, we prepared cornmeal batter. Rather than keep the diced peppers (we went for mild jalapenos) separate, however, we mixed them right into the batter. We were nothing if not efficient!
I'm still not sure if the resulting batter looks good or like something the cat left, but appearance alone was not going to deter us! It was time for the dredging!
Watch the little meaty beasty enter the batter bath.
It looks even better emerging from its soak.
Oh, yeah, that's appetizing.
A few minutes in the fryer, though, and you get this lovely snack.
Admit it: you want one.
Not convinced? Stare upon the pan of all ten and fill the food lust flood your heart!
Sure, they look more like biowaste than food, but that proved to be no problem for the brave eaters at the party; we consumed them all.
In case you're wondering, they tasted pretty good.
So we did.
The recipe was a bit light on details, but we decided that didn't matter; we were after the spirit of the corntastic porndog, not any particular implementation of it.
We began, of course, by warming up ten hot dogs, frying a pound of bacon, and wrapping the dogs in the bacon. Rather than going with the recipe's single piece of bacon per dog, however, we turned up the amp and wrapped two pieces of bacon around each tube steak. We didn't have toothpicks, but no such simple deficiency was going to derail this gourmet train, so we cut thin wooden skewers into irregular pseudo-picks. They were big and ugly, but they worked.
As you can see from these two photos, the result was two plates of bacon-and-dog goodness. Never mind the pieces of wood protruding everywhere at odd angles; we were confident those would somehow turn from merely weird to oddly endearing.
In parallel, we prepared cornmeal batter. Rather than keep the diced peppers (we went for mild jalapenos) separate, however, we mixed them right into the batter. We were nothing if not efficient!
I'm still not sure if the resulting batter looks good or like something the cat left, but appearance alone was not going to deter us! It was time for the dredging!
Watch the little meaty beasty enter the batter bath.
It looks even better emerging from its soak.
Oh, yeah, that's appetizing.
A few minutes in the fryer, though, and you get this lovely snack.
Admit it: you want one.
Not convinced? Stare upon the pan of all ten and fill the food lust flood your heart!
Sure, they look more like biowaste than food, but that proved to be no problem for the brave eaters at the party; we consumed them all.
In case you're wondering, they tasted pretty good.
February 6, 2011
The Mechanic
If you like watching Jason Statham alternately kicking ass and skulking about, making the most of his three expressions (pissed off, smirking, and the rare laughing), and if you bring to each Statham film the requisite dump-truck-sized load of suspension of disbelief, then you will enjoy this movie. I did. It wasn't up to the best of the Statham films, which for my money would be the first Transporter, but it was fun.
I do have to warn you that Ben Foster, who plays his appearance, is a walking heap of annoying suck. With each passing moment that he was on the screen, I found myself wishing ever more fervently that Statham would kill him.
As you can tell, The Mechanic is not a good movie, but it is a decent bad movie. If you enter it with the right expectations, you can have a very good time watching it.
The movie does beg a comparison with the original, of course, and to do that, I have to discuss their endings. If you don't want a spoiler, stop reading now.
This film is, as you'd expect, far slicker and more loaded with special effects than the original. Statham is far, far more athletic and well-built than Bronson. Foster is grimier and more annoying than Jan Michael Vincent. All of that is pretty much what you'd expect. What I found interesting was how the modern cult of celebrity and desire for sequels affected this newer version.
The original is a morality play in which all the players are bad, and all suffer. In the end, they all die, even Bronson, the hero. Given that we're discussing hit men, that seems morally appropriate.
In the new one, all the players are bad, and all suffer--but Statham survives. Sure, he's been duped into killing both his friend and his protege's father, and he also kills his protege, but at the last second we learn (as if we hadn't already figured it out) that he rolled to safety. Of course he did. How else could there be a sequel? Perhaps more importantly, we as a culture seem to have made peace with very bad people as protagonists for whom we will cheer. We don't mind Statham surviving as long as he looks good and continues to kill only bad folks. I don't have a problem with that per se; in fact, my own Jon & Lobo series features a very bad man and an even more dangerous machine sidekick.
In this case, though, I preferred the original film's ending.
I do have to warn you that Ben Foster, who plays his appearance, is a walking heap of annoying suck. With each passing moment that he was on the screen, I found myself wishing ever more fervently that Statham would kill him.
As you can tell, The Mechanic is not a good movie, but it is a decent bad movie. If you enter it with the right expectations, you can have a very good time watching it.
The movie does beg a comparison with the original, of course, and to do that, I have to discuss their endings. If you don't want a spoiler, stop reading now.
This film is, as you'd expect, far slicker and more loaded with special effects than the original. Statham is far, far more athletic and well-built than Bronson. Foster is grimier and more annoying than Jan Michael Vincent. All of that is pretty much what you'd expect. What I found interesting was how the modern cult of celebrity and desire for sequels affected this newer version.
The original is a morality play in which all the players are bad, and all suffer. In the end, they all die, even Bronson, the hero. Given that we're discussing hit men, that seems morally appropriate.
In the new one, all the players are bad, and all suffer--but Statham survives. Sure, he's been duped into killing both his friend and his protege's father, and he also kills his protege, but at the last second we learn (as if we hadn't already figured it out) that he rolled to safety. Of course he did. How else could there be a sequel? Perhaps more importantly, we as a culture seem to have made peace with very bad people as protagonists for whom we will cheer. We don't mind Statham surviving as long as he looks good and continues to kill only bad folks. I don't have a problem with that per se; in fact, my own Jon & Lobo series features a very bad man and an even more dangerous machine sidekick.
In this case, though, I preferred the original film's ending.
February 5, 2011
The Green Hornet
I wanted to embrace this movie completely. I really did. I wanted to love every second of its campiness, report that Seth Rogen had finally found the perfect role for him, and gush with love and appreciation for the first excellent superhero film of the year.
I can't.
The Green Hornet has its moments, and on balance I'm still glad I went to see it, but it is so clearly all about Seth Rogen--star and writer and executive producer--that it never lets us simply vanish into the story. Britt Reid, Rogen's character, begins the film as a young man with a cruel, inattentive father. The scene that establishes this point is so over the top that it might as well be a billboard reading "His childhood made him a dick, okay?" For the rest of the film, Reid is indeed a dick. What few improvements he makes are shallow and unbelievable, thanks to both Rogen's weak script and Rogen's weak acting.
Okay, okay, I know: why am I talking about characterization when I should be focusing on all the cool shit that goes boom?
Because Rogen makes sure to give himself plenty of time to emote and show personal growth. Those times are painful.
That said, the shit that goes boom is big fun, and Jay Chou as Kato is even more fun. Riding through the streets in a big 'ol piece of heavily armored and even more heavily armed American heavy metal is inherently fun, and the movie's good times all come when you're watching our heros shoot stuff and fight people.
If you're tempted by this one, wait for the bargain theaters or get a group to split the cost of a DVD.
I can't.
The Green Hornet has its moments, and on balance I'm still glad I went to see it, but it is so clearly all about Seth Rogen--star and writer and executive producer--that it never lets us simply vanish into the story. Britt Reid, Rogen's character, begins the film as a young man with a cruel, inattentive father. The scene that establishes this point is so over the top that it might as well be a billboard reading "His childhood made him a dick, okay?" For the rest of the film, Reid is indeed a dick. What few improvements he makes are shallow and unbelievable, thanks to both Rogen's weak script and Rogen's weak acting.
Okay, okay, I know: why am I talking about characterization when I should be focusing on all the cool shit that goes boom?
Because Rogen makes sure to give himself plenty of time to emote and show personal growth. Those times are painful.
That said, the shit that goes boom is big fun, and Jay Chou as Kato is even more fun. Riding through the streets in a big 'ol piece of heavily armored and even more heavily armed American heavy metal is inherently fun, and the movie's good times all come when you're watching our heros shoot stuff and fight people.
If you're tempted by this one, wait for the bargain theaters or get a group to split the cost of a DVD.
February 4, 2011
On the road again: Austin, day 5
When you wake up in Boston, look out your hotel window, and see an inch of snow and ice coating the cars in the parking lot, you think nothing of it.
When the same thing happens in Austin, it's rather a different story.
After a morning phone meeting, we checked out, a process that consumed entirely too much time as the front-desk clerks debated how to process my bill, and then began the skate to the airport. Austin is not equipped to plow roads, not even major ones, so we drove at times on snow, at times on ice, and whenever we could in the ruts worn by earlier travelers.
As you might imagine, it was a very slow and tense drive.
The airport was exactly the sort of calm, quiet place you'd expect from a city besieged by winter and dependent on a major hub, DFW, that was canceling hundreds and hundreds of flights. After rushing wildly to make a flight that our extremely cranky gate agent said was already boarding, we...waited. Two hours.
The brightest spot of the trip was lunch during that time: barbecue from The Salt Lick at the airport. Any day with BBQ in it can't be all bad.
A gate change later, we made the short hop to DFW, survived the disconcertingly uneven landing, and found that my flight home had already departed. Fortunately, the good folks in the Admiral's Club at AUS had reserved a seat for me on a later flight, so I grabbed some bandwidth and went to the gate for that flight--only to find that it had moved. Off to the new gate at a brisk pace because the flight was boarding. Nope. False alarm. Another hour-long wait, and then, finally, we boarded.
That flight was a dream. I had a first-class seat via an upgrade. They brought me Diet Coke and water, the guy in the seat next to me fell asleep, and I dove deeply into work. The trip passed in an instant, and finally I was home.
I am ever so pleased to be here, where I shall remain for the nine days until the next trip.
When the same thing happens in Austin, it's rather a different story.
After a morning phone meeting, we checked out, a process that consumed entirely too much time as the front-desk clerks debated how to process my bill, and then began the skate to the airport. Austin is not equipped to plow roads, not even major ones, so we drove at times on snow, at times on ice, and whenever we could in the ruts worn by earlier travelers.
As you might imagine, it was a very slow and tense drive.
The airport was exactly the sort of calm, quiet place you'd expect from a city besieged by winter and dependent on a major hub, DFW, that was canceling hundreds and hundreds of flights. After rushing wildly to make a flight that our extremely cranky gate agent said was already boarding, we...waited. Two hours.
The brightest spot of the trip was lunch during that time: barbecue from The Salt Lick at the airport. Any day with BBQ in it can't be all bad.
A gate change later, we made the short hop to DFW, survived the disconcertingly uneven landing, and found that my flight home had already departed. Fortunately, the good folks in the Admiral's Club at AUS had reserved a seat for me on a later flight, so I grabbed some bandwidth and went to the gate for that flight--only to find that it had moved. Off to the new gate at a brisk pace because the flight was boarding. Nope. False alarm. Another hour-long wait, and then, finally, we boarded.
That flight was a dream. I had a first-class seat via an upgrade. They brought me Diet Coke and water, the guy in the seat next to me fell asleep, and I dove deeply into work. The trip passed in an instant, and finally I was home.
I am ever so pleased to be here, where I shall remain for the nine days until the next trip.
February 3, 2011
On the road again: Austin, day 4
Wow, has today been crazily busy and even more insanely cold. I expected the first from a trip to Austin, but the second remains an unpleasant aspect I hope not to repeat anytime soon.
About the only activity I can discuss today was the excellent dinner at Uchiko, the new restaurant from the folks behind the equally fine Uchi. Four of us ordered omakase, which is basically a tasting menu the chef creates. I enjoyed every single dish and will definitely go back there, though the experience was not for the budgetarily weak of heart.
Tomorrow, the possible snow and the already present ice permitting, I head home.
About the only activity I can discuss today was the excellent dinner at Uchiko, the new restaurant from the folks behind the equally fine Uchi. Four of us ordered omakase, which is basically a tasting menu the chef creates. I enjoyed every single dish and will definitely go back there, though the experience was not for the budgetarily weak of heart.
Tomorrow, the possible snow and the already present ice permitting, I head home.
