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Less Is More

Tue, 8 May 2012 02:51:03 -0500

May 7, 2012

Less Is More: A Flannel Shirt, Rosy Cheeks and Asses

If you give a man a fish he’ll eat for a day. If you give a man a high-speed Internet connection he’ll spend the day watching old music videos and asking his dog to share the pretzels.

The video for Eric Prydz’ song “Call on Me” is a recent discovery for me and I now know another reason for my unhappiness since 2007. The video is brilliant, simple, sexy and lasts two minutes and 52 glorious, life-affirming seconds. The song, which is actually a re-recorded sample of the Steve Winwood song “Valerie,” is a thumpa-thumpa little number and is the type of tune you’d like to hear with the top down or at a bar where everyone is much younger and prettier than yourself. Which brings us back to the video, which is also a ripoff.

The video is an aerobics class where one lucky guy is getting his groove on in a room full of women hotter than the pickles at Howard Johnson’s and is a direct (ahem) homage to the 1985 film Perfect starring John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis. The “Call on Me” video is easy to love because the song is fun, the women are pulchritudinous and it’s the definition of that very annoying phrase “it is what it is.” And what it is is a video with a fun song and sexy, gyrating women.

Brilliant. Daring. Seriously.

What was the pre-production meeting before the filming of this video? Did someone want a bunch of flashing lights and cool effects? Did someone else think it would behoove the mood to have an antagonist or a shiny car? Was there a rejected objective to portray the pathos of an artist or the pain of a broken heart?

If so, those ideas lost to the person who said, “let’s turn up the volume and tell the hot people to shake it.”

Certainly the primary reason the “Call on Me” video has nearly 35,000,000 views (617,411 by me) and counting is it features gorgeous girls living life the way Barry Goldwater would have wanted: with as little clothing as possible. But there has to be something else that contributes to its attraction, doesn’t it? Besides the little man who reaches out from the screen at the end and hands you an M&M, that is.

The video is good because it’s simple. Because it lets the thumpa-thumpa and rumpa-rumpa thump and rump for itself. There is nothing wrong with getting complex, deep or using dry ice but why would you when you have beauty, muscle, music, two minutes and 52 seconds and probably a limited budget?

“Call on Me” is reminiscent of other videos that are light on spectacle and heavy on impact. The Babys didn’t produce a ton of hits in the 1970s but one song that did break through was “Isn’t it Time” from 1977. Thirty-five years ago music videos were primitive, especially compared to what they would become just a few years later. But while the MTV revolution of the 1980s produced bigger, longer, more complicated, probing and more leather and hair-intensive videos, few were better than the visual account of “Isn’t It Time.”

The video is the band on stage playing the song. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing missing. The camera work and direction are to be studied and emulated as the director does something most directors of endeavors big and small often fail at: putting the shot on the right person at the right time. The camera doesn’t jump but rather glides easily from the lead singer, to the musicians, to the backup singers. Every transition is smooth, easy, and natural and helps convey the story. And the story is the song. We don’t see anything of the performers’ previous lives nor are we privy to any present drama or dynamic.

We see joyous, professional, talented people singing a really nice song. I’ve watched that video dozens of times and it has nearly a half-million hits in all. Maybe they should have shown a little bit of ass.

If modesty can trump pageantry then the gold standard, at least for music videos, goes to Bruce Springsteen’s “Brilliant Disguise.” Springsteen is so beloved, cool and rich he can do anything he wants or nothing at all which is about what he did for the video for this 1987 song.

Mr. Springsteen spends the video sitting in a kitchen chair, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans while pounding on the guitar and glaring into the camera which creeps closer and closer to him until, by the song’s haunting conclusion, we’re face-to-face with a man who wears the pain and anguish that the song’s lyrics convey.

It’s sparse, yet vivid. It’s lonely and unifying.

Big, crazy, loud and lavish can be great. Just think of our old friend, Avery Schreiber. But less can be more. Sometimes it’s better to ease off the gas and let the busy people fly by. There are moments when what isn’t shown makes what we do see even better.

Or maybe, when the music is good enough, we can just close our eyes. -- TK

Remembering An Angel

Fri, 4 May 2012 03:23:26 -0500

This post also appears on Seamheads

May 2, 2012

Remembering An Angel

Fifty years ago a skinny left-hander with a sneaky smile made history. And started a party.

On May 5, 1962 Robert “Bo” Belinsky threw a no-hitter for the Los Angeles Angels in a 2-0 victory over the Baltimore Orioles and became Hollywood’s star attraction for a summer and one of baseball’s most picaresque, memorable characters for all-time.

I learned of that personality, and the existence of Belinsky himself, in a Sports Illustrated article in 1994 that was actually a re-print from 1972. Pat Jordan’s piece, “Once He Was An Angel,” is a masterful bit of writing…or maybe Bo Belinsky really was just that cool.

With his slick black hair, good looks, athletic prowess, a hedonistic thirst and devil-may-care attitude, Belinsky was the guy who all guys want to be and all girls want to be with. Belinsky’s conquests included Ann-Margaret, Connie Stevens, Tina Louise, Mamie Van Doren, Juliet Prowse and, among countless others, Playboy playmate Jo Collins whom he later married.

Belinsky was admired by the famed columnist, Walter Winchell, who was in the stands in L.A. that night in 1962, and Bo partied with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Hugh Hefner, Henry Fonda, Dean Martin and Eddie Fisher. J. Edgar Hoover took a liking to Belinsky and once let him and Dean Chance shoot machine guns at an FBI firing range.

Belinsky seemed as destined for trouble as he was for the spotlight. Born in New York City to a Catholic father and Jewish mother, his family moved to Trenton, New Jersey and he was nicknamed “Bo” because he was a notorious street fighter in the vein of middleweight boxer Bobo Olson. In his youth, baseball was Belinsky’s third favorite pastime (at best) after fisticuffs and pool hustling. He was originally drafted by the Pirates and ended up in the Orioles’ system before going to the Angels who tolerated his waywardness until he punched a sports writer.

Belinsky’s sybaritic ways eventually led to his downfall, as there are countless stories of him partying until all hours, even the night before a game. He was sent back down to the minors many times and, other than his no-hitter in ’62, his most notable achievement on the field may have been giving up Hank Aaron’s 400th home run in 1966. After being traded from the Angels to the Phillies he went to the Astros, Pirates and Reds in a career that ended in 1970 with a lifetime record of 28-51.

Belinsky eventually went broke and suffered from alcoholism. He reached rock bottom in 1976 when, according to the New York Times, he says he woke up under a bridge in Ohio “clutching an empty wine bottle.” He later got sober and became a counselor for others with addiction and, while living in Nevada, became a born-again Christian. Said Belinsky: "Can you imagine? I had to come to Las Vegas to discover Jesus Christ."

By the time he died of an apparent heart attack in November, 2001 at the age of 64, Belinsky seemed to have found peace in his life but the pain created in his earlier days left many scars. The Times wrote that Belinsky remained estranged from his twin daughters (from his marriage to Jane Weyerhaeuser) and was also out of touch with his sister.

Just a few months before his death Belinsky was quoted by a reporter with a line that sums up the journey for many of us: ''We spend the first 40, 50 years satisfying our egos and the next 20 or 10 trying to wipe the slate clean…'I'm at that second stage.'' Sadly, that second stage didn’t last long for the man who was a devilish Angel.

It’s not surprising that Belinsky would find such fitting words, as he was a quote machine. After his magical night in 1962 he told reporters "If I'd known I was gonna pitch a no-hitter today, I would have gotten a haircut." Another gem: ”I've gotten more mileage out of winning 28 games than most guys do winning 200.” And how about: "If music be the food of love, by all means let the band play on." And of baseball itself he told Jordan: “…Man, you can't stash baseball. If you're lucky, you capture it awhile, you go through it at some point in your life, and then it goes away and you go on to something else. Some guys try to live off it forever. It's a sin to live off sport."

The ’72 Sports Illustrated article also includes this one from Belinsky when his playing days were over and real life was taking hold.

“Follow the sun, babe, that’s it, I follow the sun. I hate it, this way I am. But who chooses to be what he is, huh? It’s in the stars, babe, in the stars. I would like to be devoted to some one or thing…I just never found anything I could lend myself to. The age of chivalry is dead, babe. There are no more heroes…nothing left worthy of devotion, you know what I mean? That’s why my way is best. Don’t forget, ‘He who plays and runs away, lives to play some other day.’”

It’s a quote from a sunny day in 1972. They are words from a joyous night in 1994. They were spoken about a crazy, hopeful time in 1962. They are time-defying sentiments that celebrate folly and decry self-pity and reach back to the streets of Trenton and seep through the cracks of fame. They are the thoughts of someone who’s funny, wary, wistful, sad, disillusioned and honest. They are the thoughts of someone who has seen their own soul and are left cringing not for what has happened but for what didn’t. And never will.

Robert “Bo” Belinsky was a damn good baseball player. He could have been a great one but that fact served as a burden to him, and should not be seen as a disappointment for us. We got the Bo Belinsky we really wanted. He was a man who lived selfishly yet, in some ways, heroically, marching in step with his own conscience and passion instead of expectation and convention. He created a magical night on the baseball diamond in 1962 and was the sole author of his own mirthful, thoughtful tale.

He was an Angel, a scoundrel, and unafraid. He stood tall. He threw hard.

No More Days of Leis

Wed, 2 May 2012 16:01:10 -0500

This article also appears on Leatherheads

May 2, 2012

The Imperiled Pro Bowl

During the NFL draft the greatest accolade heaped upon any young man lucky enough to be selected was that he’s a “Pro Bowl caliber talent.” The second greatest compliment was “Mel Kiper Jr. mows his lawn.”

And, because life can be strange, cruel, incongruous and far short of nougat and cheerleaders, it appears Mel will be around a lot longer than the Pro Bowl.

NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell who, after last weekend, has bear hugged more men than a horny prison guard, says the league is seriously considering eliminating the Pro Bowl and replacing it with a crotch-kicking contest at Sean Payton’s house.

The Pro Bowl has long been the Shemp of All-Star games with no one really liking it but willing to tolerate it because we not only love football in any form but also appreciate anything broadcast from Hawaii that doesn’t include Don Ho or Jack Lord.

Even the players, who get a free trip to Honolulu and all the poi they can eat, don’t like the Pro Bowl. Many of the top players opt out by feigning injury or pregnancy and the result is often a watered-down affair featuring guys who play like David Garrard. Or, even worse, the real David Garrard.

At the most recent Pro Bowl the play was so uninspired that fans actually booed, which is something Hawaiians haven’t done since Pearl Harbor. The AFC won, 59-41, one year after the NFC won 55-41, and the NFL is facing a lawsuit from the Ivy League, which wants its basketball scores back.

If the league cancels the Pro Bowl Dan Marino has already said he can’t make it to whatever will take its place.

The NFL says if the Pro Bowl disappears teams will still honor the contracts of players who are promised bonuses if they make the Pro Bowl. But what would take the Pro Bowl’s place? Trophy night? A clambake? A brew-and-view of “The Longest Yard”? How about instead of the Pro Bowl the league and Jerome Bettis organize a night of pro bowlers? Imagine bowling night with Pete Weber and Rhino Page matched up against Troy Polamalu and Terrell Suggs. It could get ugly as one imagines, about the fifth or sixth frame, Suggs chucking Weber down the lane and into the pins.

There would be cheering, spillage and laughter. The smell of Pabst Blue Ribbon and cigarettes would waft into the night mixed with laughter and bad 70s music from the jukebox. It would feel nothing like Hawaii. It would be a million miles from paradise. But everyone would show up. -- TK

The Death of America

Wed, 2 May 2012 03:37:14 -0500

May 2, 2012

The Death of America

The Chicago City Council is considering an open assault on the American dream by taxing carbonated beverages.

The Windy City’s lawmakers say they want to combat rising obesity. If so, shouldn’t they just outlaw cars and bring in wild animals to chase fat kids to school?

Thirty-three states already have a tax on sugary drinks. Those states include North Korea and Ralph Nader’s house.

Yes, people are fat. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says nearly 34% of Americans over the age of 20 are obese. Teddy Roosevelt urged us to “speak softly and carry a big stick.” Americans today barely speak at all because we’re too busy eating (and tweeting) and the only big stick we carry has something fried or frozen on the end of it.

But please, do you really want to blame our old friends Coke, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper and Hawaiian Punch? Can’t we instead blame laziness, laziness, laziness and, perhaps, Roger Clemens?

I, myself, have all but quit drinking soda in the past year and I’ve lost a lot of weight. But who the hell wants to be like me? What would western civilization be without bubbly liquid sugar calorie bombs at a cheap price? Probably something like hell or Hal Linden’s basement. Hal Linden’s real name is Harry Lipshitz. If you call him Harry Lipshitz he’ll ask, politely, to fight you. Then he’ll hug you and offer to buy you lunch. Cucumber sandwiches and water, most likely.

One of the greatest characters in all of literature is the Reverend Wicks Cherrycoke from Thomas Pynchon’s 1997 novel Mason & Dixon. If that character’s name had been Wicks Filteredwater the book would have been terrible.

I can barely even drink soda anymore because it tastes like something almost medicinal. Or Wiccan. I miss the days of one-minute burps and bouncing jowls. I remember fondly the feel of a 64-ounce jumbo cola between my legs while driving to an Indian casino.

Americans drink Coke, smoke Tareytons, chew steak and piss on the moon. We also love God, accept credit cards and are jealous of Canada.

If soda pop becomes too expensive to drink won’t we just find some other deadly, tasty vice to blow our money on?

In the upcoming James Bond movie, Skyfall, Daniel Craig orders not a martini but a Heineken. If James Bond were American he’d order a diet Pepsi and then forget to vote. Craig is the first blonde Bond. Who will be the first black Bond? Denzel Washington is probably too old. I’d like to see Craig Robinson star in a movie as “Jimmy Bond” and have him win the Indianapolis 500 and then have sex with Paula Patton while drinking a Seven-Up.

Drinking diet soda is just as bad as drinking full-strength soda because it causes poor digestion, makes you hungry and you over-compensate by eating more thinking you can do so because you’re drinking a diet. Some of what I just typed is certainly true but I can’t prove it. No one can but it really feels accurate. It seems true. Most skinny people drink water, or blood, not any type of beverage containing bubbles or served at Arnold’s Drive-In.

Americans drink about eight billion gallons of bottled water every year.

The U.S. deficit is nearly 16 trillion dollars. The French hate us, the Chinese own us and we no longer have a space shuttle program. We stare at the stars from a parking lot while clutching a cracked Coke bottle. We remember the good times. We’re unabashed. We’re sanguine. We’re silly. We’re thirsty. – TK

It’s Made of Paint

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 02:20:41 -0500

April 26, 2012

Scream

For $80 million you can get a corporation to develop a sophisticated electronic data base for health-care records.

For $80 million you can have a highway built in Hawaii.

$80 million was almost the price tag for “Full Tilt Poker.

Roseanne Barr has a net worth of $80 million.

For $80 million Justin Verlander will pitch for you for five years.

And I’ll charge you far less than $80 million to come to my house and look at a piece of artwork my mother bought for me 15 years ago. It’s a print of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” the original of which is going up for auction and is expected to sell for $80 million.

This is why the world is a bad place and the aliens will soon eat us, spit us out and kick us into the sun.

$80 million would buy, at least, 361 new homes in the U.S. With $80 million you could buy Fidel Castro’s beard. With $80 million and a bottle of Dr. Pepper you could be Fidel Castro.

The “Scream” being auctioned off for more money than the entire GDP of Tuvalu isn’t even unique because, as the Wall Street Journal reports, it’s actually one of four versions of the painting that Munch created nearly 120 years ago. So, shouldn’t the price be $20 million?

As the WSJ details, “The Scream” is known as much for, if not more for, its many pop culture riffs as its artistic greatness as it has been used to sell everything from Pontiac Sunfires to “The Simpsons.” The painting is enigmatic, creepy, funny, beautiful, iconic and can be bought as a print on Ebay for less than $25.

I’ll charge you $3 to come look at mine for an hour and I’ll even hold your hand.

The Norwegians protected “The Scream” from the Germans during World War II and continue to protect valuable things today. In Norway right now, in the more scenic part, there’s a seed vault which, as its name suggests, holds seeds so we, the human race, can continue to grow food in case catastrophe strikes. The cost? About $9 million.

Makes you want to scream, doesn’t it?

Sorry, too easy a shot. Makes me hungry, actually. Makes me want to eat a cookie and look at my painting. Come over. Let’s be friends. --TK