
Blatant corporate sponsorship is the least of Puppy Bowl’s worries.
At least, it was.

Blatant corporate sponsorship is the least of Puppy Bowl’s worries.
At least, it was.

If an entire crowd is engaging their Bluetooths and ignoring their surroundings, are they still a crowd?

Humanity’s lived for fifteen years without electric guitars, CD players, or iTunes, and yet hair metal refuses to die.
Alexander Payne’s new film Nebraska perfectly replicates that forlorn Midwest sensation of being trapped in rooms with hordes of impressionable, elderly relatives all living on the same slow-motion wavelength, visiting and reminiscing and comparing their amnesia levels and enjoying life’s remaining minutes at the speed of molasses, except when they’re jumping to conclusions at hyperspeed. When that happens to me, I put on a brave front while suppressing the desperate urge to crawl out of my skin. With SNL’s Will Forte acting as my proxy and reenacting my childhood family vacations so vividly, I’m surprised I didn’t convulse in my seat with flashbacks.
Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover: on Day Eight we woke up in Cleveland on purpose. Not many vacationers will lead a story off with that confession. This wasn’t like our last time in Cleveland, an ill-fated day in 2004 when we ended up trapped there for several hours, having been clobbered by a sneaky one-two punch of alternator failure and overturned semi. No, this time I wanted to be in Cleveland all day long. We had a to-do list of geek stops and I meant to assay every last one of them.
Our second stop of the day has a high-ranking item on my modest bucket list for years: the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum, ruling majestically from the coast of Lake Erie. I’ll be honest: its six-hour distance from home wasn’t the only reason I’d procrastinated a visit. I was afraid the whole place will be one massive, nostalgic, retrograde tribute to old acts from thirty or forty years ago, just like the average Grammys ceremony. I was honestly surprised at the breadth of musical acts honored inside these randomly shaped walls.
Older fans of Matthew McConaughey’s spate of ’90s romantic comedies may be in for a shock when they walk into Dallas Buyers Club and see him playing Christian Bale’s character from The Machinist. He and costar Jared Leto (both radically transformed and up for Oscars this year) underwent severe weight loss for their roles in this based-on-a-true-story underdog drama that’s one part can’t-we-all-just-get-along and four parts sticking-it-to-The-MAN.
Movies are fun to look at, even when they’re boxed up and stacked on shelves. I enjoy writing down my thoughts about them — whether inspired or incredulous, amazed or aggravated — before too much time passes and the details vanish (if not the entire movie, in some cases). But I’ve grown to despise my self-imposed assignments of constructing an English-class essay every time I come home from the theater.
When something that’s supposed to be fun isn’t, then something needs to be done differently to rediscover the fun in it.

Fun trivia: Googling “Joe Don Baker Mitchell remake” yields negative-3,000 results.
I can think of numerous examples off the top of my head for most steps of the filmmaking process and marketing campaign. To illustrate my apathy, let me walk you through the vantage point of internet news outlets — not official sources such as The Hollywood Reporter, Variety, or Nikki Finke, but the other guys. Pretty much all the other guys.
For the sake of argument, let’s pretend the following examples revolve around a remake of the 1975 police drama Mitchell, which starred Joe Don Baker as Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple, plus a gun, minus friends. Let’s pretend we’re in a near-future dystopia in which Hollywood used up its first 5,000 ideas and the only things standing between us and the bottom of the barrel are Mitchell and The Snorks. And James Cameron already has plans for the Snorks.

One of the tense researching scenes from tonight’s CSI: Willoughby.
I’d much rather rattle on about that etymology chain than cover tonight’s main story about the town of Willoughby suffering from the heartbreak of widespread typhus. As I previously complained when it was Sleepy Hollow‘s turn to use the epidemic plot device back in October, “Diseases can be a really dull antagonist.”

For Andrew Boldt and family. Our prayers and thoughts are with them tonight.
Today during the course of one of our usual workday back-‘n’-forth email volleys, I thought it odd when my wife sent me another, separate email with a new title: “Purdue Shooting”. She knew she’d have my full attention.
Within the same minute that I opened her email, my son the Purdue freshman texted me. In case I heard about a shooting at Purdue, he wrote, he wanted me to know he was fine, even though he’d been in the same building where and when the shooting occurred.
That disrupted my concentration for a while.

As soon as the finale was over, rest assured Jenny Mills was on the internet within minutes, registering her incredulity throughout the world.
Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover:
We spent the late afternoon some 220 miles westward in Jamestown, birthplace of a certain funny redhead that brightened your grandparents’ lives. She used to be in all the papers.
The centerpiece of Lucy tourism is kept downtown in a dual storefront. One half recalls the production company Lucy created with her first husband, actor/musician/bandleader Desi Arnaz..
…and the other half of that storefront is the Lucy Desi Museum, devoted to souvenirs from the lives of TV’s original wacky couple, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. Inside these walls lies a veritable cavalcade of whimsy and wonder and all the Lucy gift-shop merchandise you can carry home in your long, long trailer.

Photo by my wife, who was nice enough not to call me crazy to my face during our windblown photo shoot.
With the right combination of persistence and timing, your Sisyphean efforts will produce a few shimmering, fragile globes, floating in the narrow space between obstacles. For scant seconds, you can enjoy your tiny, beautiful creation and derive a little joy from it.
If you’re online much, you’re already aware this year’s Academy Awards nominations were announced today. If you follow either The Hollywood Reporter or The Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences on Twitter, you had the opportunity to see the categories live-tweeted one at a time early this morning. If you shared my mistake of following both entities, you were treated to a double-barrel Oscar-nom redundancy blast that turned Twitter to sludge for fifteen minutes. Homework question: how many live-tweeters does any given event really need?
I’ll not waste your bandwidth copying-‘n’-pasting the full list of nominees that’s readily available on a million other news sites. Several thoughts popped into my head throughout the day while mulling over the results:
* As discussed in the past, since 1997 I’ve made a point every year of seeing every Best Picture nominee as soon as possible. This year I’m facing quite the obstacle course, as I’ve only seen one of the nine nominees so far (hint: the one with the spaceship). In my defense, six of the nine only opened here in Indianapolis within the last month, a few of which were packed exclusively into the single art-house theater on the other side of the city. Late December and early January are never the best time of year for leisure travel. Unless they’re each gifted with a wider re-release in the nearer gen-pop theaters, I’m seeing a lot of mileage in my immediate future.

Welcome to “NBC Team-Up” starring Bass and Kid Bass!

This man deserves to be selling zillions more albums. Someone see to it.
The following, then, comprises every CD I acquired in 2013 that was also released in 2013. Back-catalog materials are forbidden from inclusion, though allow me to express in this singular clause that I wish I’d gotten Elvis Costello and the Attractions’ Live at Hollywood High much, much sooner.
On with the countdown, then — from least best to surprising favorite:
7. Childish Gambino, Because the Internet. The only other rap album I bought in the last five years was Donald Glover’s 2011 pseudonymous debut Camp — a killer mix of scathing satire and autobiography, laced with pop-culture references as cutting descriptors rather than random gags. Harsh language isn’t my thing anymore, but the Community-clever snark and wounded candor rose above. His sophomore effort, on the other hand, is a hodgepodge of half-finished tracks, electronic hooks in search of lyrics to stick to, verses that lead nowhere, Bone Thugs speed-rap for listeners who love rhyming words but hate complete sentences, and a general impenetrability that strings a velvet rope in front of us intruders who don’t Get It.
Sample track: The obligatory NSFW single “3005“, in which he sounds defensive about his insecurities and comforts himself with in-jokes. Or something. But it’s more or less a complete song in music-class terms. Points for English class completeness, I suppose.

You think your sister has issues…
For those who missed out, my attempt to streamline the basic events follows after this courtesy spoiler alert for the sake of time-shifted viewers.

Welcome to the newest addition to our family.
Another one of those shifts was implemented this past weekend. I’m never excited when they come to pass, but circumstances warranted it, the money was available, the price was unbeatable, and so far the performance is competent.
…
For those just catching up on the week in headline news: Republican politician Chris Christie, currently governor of New Jersey but intermittently mentioned in hushed tones among optimistic rank-‘n’-file as a possible party savior in the 2016 Presidential race, has been accused of directing his subordinates to pull transportation strings and create a four-day traffic snarl where the George Washington Bridge connects Manhattan to the New Jersey town of Fort Lee, allegedly because its mayor hadn’t fallen in lockstep with his party colleagues and publicly endorsed Christie’s future endeavors.
Or something like that. I’ve missed some finer details. Political stories don’t stick with me for long. (When I first began noticing heated debates in my circles about Benghazi, my only reaction was, “Is that Ian MacKaye’s new band?”) Bridgegate was unusual enough and filled with enough bipartisan hot-button issues — political extortion, abuse of power, petty vengeance — that I finally relented and read an article or two about it. At this point it’s now all about denials, apologies, firings, and now I’m seeing the word “subpoena” creeping onto the battlefield. I imagine this brouhaha is only in its infancy and in no danger of falling off the main page anytime soon.
I am grateful for one noticeable change that’s a direct result of Bridgegate: over the past two days, whenever internet users were overwhelmed with the urge to take potshots at Christie, the jokes were no longer about his weight.
Day Seven of our road trip was divided between two different towns in upstate New York, each boasting a hometown hero who left home to become a classic TV trailblazer. We spent the morning in Binghamton, where Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling spent his formative years learning how to write, narrate, and remain invisible to everyone around him.
We spent the late afternoon some 220 miles westward in Jamestown, birthplace of a certain funny redhead that brightened your grandparents’ lives. She used to be in all the papers.