The basement must live!

As Grish said, we can't let this blog die. Unfortunately, all I do these days is work, go to the gym, and try not to spend money. This makes it really difficult to write anything of substance. Plus, DC is a city that is difficult not to spend money in.

For some entertainment I pose this question:

What movies have you seen this past month and what'd you think?

I did drop $10 and go see Surrogates cause it seemed somewhat interesting. It was in fact somewhat interesting, but they took the action movie route way too soon instead of letting the ethical debate flow. Killed pretty much any emotional connection to characters or potential connection. That was a bit of a bummer, but not bad if you go to rent it.

Not dead yet

[I refuse to let this blog die. Not on my watch. Possible spoilers, definite formatting laziness ahead]

As far as pop culture is concerned, I think I owe the horror genre a lot of credit in sculpting my personality. I have a dark sense of humor, the seeds of which were cultivated by Freddy Kreuger one-liners. I find violence and gore more entertaining than disgusting, in no small part due to Evil Dead’s Ash and the elaborate kills of one Jason Vorhees. My teenage brain was fostered on games like Doom and Halo – blessed amalgamations of the horror, sci-fi, and action genres.

Thus, it’s broken my heart that there has been this dearth of quality horror films in the mainstream over the last decade or so. I am young enough to have no moment I can point to when I was actually frightened seeing a film in theatres. I’ve had to traverse the world for films like Audition, Man Bites Dog, and Oldboy to find my thrills. In US theatres, The Descent and (don’t laugh) Cabin Fever were probably the closest I’ve come to thinking “damn, that was scary.”

That streak has now ended. It’s unbelievable that if you are reading this you have not at least heard of Paranormal Activity. The hype surrounding it has reached Blair Witchian (or, for a non-genre comparison, Snakes on a Planeian) proportions, becoming drive-a-few-hours appointment viewing for anyone with even the slightest bit of pop culture curiosity.

If you are the one among your group of friends who has no idea what I am talking about, the set-up is simple. Guy sets up camera in bedroom to catch what his girlfriend claims is a haunting. Activities of the paranormal variety ensue. That’s it. Just like Blair Witch’s “people run around in woods, horror ensues” tagline, there isn’t a whole lot of complication here. But it’s this “it could happen to you” feeling that makes both films effective.

And is Activity ever effective. As the day/night cycle continues (camera timestamp and all), the audience’s feeling of dread grows. What starts off as doors creaking and objects moving inexplicably, turns into disturbing sleepwalking and, later, let’s call them “physical actions.” By the sixth or seventh night you are really on edge, expecting anything and everything, or possibly nothing. By the last clip of footage you’re really just ready for it to be over, unable to handle much more escalation.

It’s really this slow build that makes Activity shine. Much like Audition (and really, all good horror), it lulls you to sleep somewhat, leaving you to question whether anything will ever happen. But you know it will. Just when and what becomes the tension.

The film is far from perfect though. There are shifts in tone that take away from the terror on screen. Boyfriend Micah jokes far too much (his lines, far too clever to be unscripted), eliciting too many laughs from the audience. The very end of the film also falls into one of the worst trappings of the real-but-not-real horror films – the “they were never found” cop-out. By now most people know Activity is the work of some very enterprising filmmakers, not some unearthed documentary footage of a real haunting, so save the Unsolved Mysteries ending. No one’s buying.

But really, one cannot put a price on what Activity delivers on – genuine scares. I would label what happens more disturbing, unsettling, tense than terrifying, but for a modern horror movie, one cannot ask for much more.

I am not going to tell you to believe the hype. I am telling you to discard it. Forget the “scariest movie ever” or “the new Exorcist” talk. Just know that if you see Paranormal Activity you will not forget it. You will talk about it with those you saw it with. You will be compelled to pick the box up when it comes out on DVD, just to see what the film is like in your darkened apartment, as opposed to a crowded theatre.

And yes, there are a handful of moments you will be genuinely scared. You may even jump once or twice. And you will definitely get goose bumps with some regularity. Yes, Paranormal Activity has reached this jaded, desensitized horror fan’s heart.

I can’t imagine what it was like for normal people.

Interesting Promotion

Can't believe the candy companies didn't think of this.

New Yankee Stadium

I finally set foot in New Yankee Stadium this past Saturday. Upon arrival, the first thing you will realize is that The House That Jeter Built is gigantic. Walking into the the entrance hall took my breath away. In the hall towering banners line the wall showcasing the teams history. It is hard to go anywhere without seeing a picture of Ruth, Mantle, Gehrig, etc. staring at you. It seems that beyond updating the amenities, preserving history was the most important thing to the orginization. One of the new additions is the Yankee Musuem. Though small, the museum packs a hefty punch. Lining the room are display cases documenting the history of the team Ruth to Jeter. Not only is Thurman Munson's locker on display, but there is a recreation of the current Yankee lockers that can be customized with your name for a photo. The middle of the room has a giant case of autographed balls bookended by Yogi Berra and Don Larsen statues. The autographs range from people who barely touched a Yankee uniform (Mike Lowell) to the most famous Yankee of them all Babe Ruth. If you don't get excited to see an autographed Ruth baseball you aren't a fan of the game.

The food, oh the food. The New Yankee stadium did food right. Sure two cheesesteaks and sodas will run you $30, but god damn it is good. Basically every food you could want is there. Pizza, cheesesteaks, burgers, fries, shakes, sushi, noodle bowls, nachos, a steakhouse, sweets, everything. I regret not eating the garlic fries, next time they are first on the list. I found the prices comparable to other stadiums and events, $8 beers $5 bottled water. New Yankee Stadium is top notch.

My ass was happy to find an extremely padded seat waiting for me. There are cup holders for every seat and plenty of space (there are actually less seats).

My favorite part of the new stadium is the same as the old stadium, The Bleacher Creatures. The roll call, the Ric Flair woos, and the hilarious heckling of the right fielder were all fantastic. Rocco Baldelli was in right for most of the game, and he heard some good ones. In the funniest voice I have ever heard, somebody screamed "Baldelli, your mother's a drunk!" with such speed and passion. When J.D. Drew came into the game later, there was never a moment of silence. Between the usual "overpayed!" and "you suck!" chants were some real winners. My favorite was "Hey Drew! You should change your name to Baldelli (long pause) BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!", great delivery. Nick Swisher was treated like a god of course. If you go to New Yankee Stadium, sit in right field. The Bleacher Creatures are the heart and soul of Yankee Stadium old and new.

I have nothing bad to say about the stadium. While it isn't cheap to go, I can't say I didn't get my money's worth.

The Sunn O))) also rises

I am fully aware what that the following paragraphs you are about to read sound hyperbolic, foolish, and/or just plain wrong.

But Sunn O))) (from now on, Sunn because I’m lazy) was, by far, the most unique live experience I have ever had. When I am old and grey, my memory fading, there is no chance I will forget even one aspect of what I saw that night.

I am no Faulkner or Hemingway, and even if I were, the English language does not have words to properly describe what transpired 9/19 at AS220 in Providence, RI. I was hypnotized, mesmerized, flabbergasted, horrified, stunned, and amazed all at once. If you don’t feel like reading why, let me summarize: if you, in even the most minor way, love music, go see Sunn. Do it. Pay the $15 and drive an hour and a half. Make a friend go with you. You don’t even have to have heard one song by them. Just go. You will not regret it.

Now, one man’s feeble attempt to encapsulate just what it was like.

As my friend and I turned the corner on Empire Street a good two hours before the scheduled start time, we heard it: a fuzzed out, booming, feedback-filled note that sounded like some sort of primordial creature’s roar. We were at least a half block away from gallery/restaurant/venue AS220 and we heard the sound check. At that very moment I knew much of the rumors about Sunn were true.

Sunn is a doom metal band—a genre they probably didn’t invent, but sure as hell carry the flag for. They can be defined in a few words. Heavy. Loud. Slow. This is not the home of blast beats and face-melting guitar riffs. This is the home of one note stretched to the point of numbness, of bass so heavy you can feel them in your stomach and of songs longer than some films.

The band’s reputation precedes them. Stories of fleeing concertgoers, unprepared for what was unleashed upon them, are not uncommon. Loosened bowels and stomach contents from the sheer sonic weight coming out of dozens of imposing amps, was something I fully expected. And the black cowls, heavy fog, and minimal lighting creating a nightmarish vision.

To my knowledge, no one puked or fled the scene in terror on this Saturday night. But what did happen is nearly as strange. As the plodding, cavernous sounds of Sunn’s Monolith’s and Dimensions filled the small venue, everyone stood motionless. Unlike most shows, earplugs were standard issue. The twenty or so amps, along with the band’s rep, caused everyone to wear protection. The earplugs, along with the bled together nature of Sunn’s music, had a strange isolating effect on everyone present. You were relegated to your own head and whatever sounds Sunn decided to subject you to. No talking (no one could hear you if you tried), no dancing (difficult without a drum beat), nary a fist pump in sight (your arms were too heavy).

This was a wholly unique experience for me. No matter who it was, I had always seen some sort of movement during concerts. Not so here. One well-placed push would have knocked over the entire crowd, that’s how paralyzed we all were. The volume of the music—the waves of sound actually hitting you—made your clothes vibrate. For the vast majority of the show I stood with my arms at my sides just absorbing the wall of sound. There were moments where I had to shake myself in an effort to snap out of this trance Sunn had created.

And then, like something out of a Hitchock movie, Sunn decided to really mess everyone’s night up. As had happened a couple times earlier, guest vocalist of the night Attila Csihar made himself scare while the other members played on. In what seemed like an instant something appeared on stage. It was Csihar, but instead of his cowl, he was adorned in a full-body burlap sack, complete with a crown of sticks and an arm covered in bark. The scream he unleashed as his faceless visage scanned the crowd was unearthly.

For at least thirty seconds I was legitimately scared of what I was seeing. This also marked the only time my friend and I acknowledged each other during the show, as he turned to me, mouth agape and eyes wide open. We were lulled into such a stupor that this costume, this stark change in what we thought we were beginning to understand, was horrible.

Just as the shock of the tree monster had worn off, the show was over, the band finally lifting the veil and accepting applause. There was no encore (there never is), nor did there need to be. We were all spent.

The combination of a cold New England night, it being past midnight, and my body readjusting to not being bombarded with sound, stepping outside was like jumping into a lake in January. “If a car hit me,” I remarked as we crossed the street, “I don’t even think I would feel it.”

As I started the two-hour drive back to Cape Cod at 1 a.m., I knew it was just what I needed. The lonely highway and silence allowed me to process what had just gone on. I probably would have failed a field sobriety test had I been pulled over.

If that doesn’t make you want to see Sunn O))), I don’t know what will.

Pretty Hate Machine

Before his now infamous Hall of Fame speech, if you asked anyone to describe Michael Jordan, they would have used words that amounted to some combination of reverence, awe, and worship. He was the best basketball player ever. It's really not a debate. He was an assassin, ending the championship dreams of many. He remains the most famous player the NBA has ever seen – at least until the internet/ESPN/24-hour news cycle beneficiary, LeBron James. His HOF induction seems like more afterthought than affirmation.

But a funny thing happened during his acceptance speech. The real Jordan showed his face.

Here are some highlights from his speech:

• On being passed over in high school for the taller Leroy Smith: “I wanted to prove to the coach who actually picked Leroy over me, you made a mistake dude.”

• On roommate, Buzz Peterson: “He ain't never played against me yet, how did he become player of the year?”

• On not being picked as a starter at UNC: “From a basketball sense, I deserved to be on that Sports Illustrated. And he understands that.”

• Responding to “organizations win championships”: “I didn't see organization playing with the flu in Utah. I didn't see him playing with a bad ankle.”

• On his kids: “You guys have a heavy burden. I wouldn't want to be you guys if I had to because of all the expectations you have to deal with. I mean look around you, they charge $1000 for this whole event. It used to be $200.”

• On scoring 20 straight points to win a game: “There's no 'I' in team, but there is one in win”

Jordan reminded all of us – not even hoops fans, but anyone aware of pop culture – that Jordan was the most single-minded sportsman ever.

As Al Davis says, just win baby.

Look at that line about his children. He actually feels bad for them, that they have to live in his enormous shadow. He's a minute away from “good fucking luck.” At this point, it's not even an ego. It's a school of thought. No one is safe from Jordan's wrath.

Jordan was the greatest player of all-time because of this. He holds grudges. To this day it appears as though he would play Bryon Russell – a man whom he probably spent the most time talking about, not say, Scottie Pippen – in a pickup game simply because he had the audacity to question his retirement. He says – in all seriousness – that he may play when he's 50 years old. Because “limits, like fears, are often an illusion.” Are you kidding? Jordan comes off like your dad after a few too many Fourth of July beers. “I can take you. Come on, let's wrestle.” The thing is, no one would be really shocked if he tried to comeback.

Unlike a certain #4 we are all sick of, Jordan doesn't simply know and love the game he played for years and years. He needs it. He needs to be slighted. Mocked. Doubted. It comes across in his love of golf and love of (presumably) high stakes gambling. “You don't think I can win this hand? Nail this chip? I'll show you.” It's no stretch to picture Jordan in a high-priced retirement home at age 75, hustling fellow residents at Bingo, shuffleboard, checkers – anything competitive.

Before his Hall of Fame speech, we remembered Jordan in snapshots. The Shot. The Pushoff. The Tongue. Free Throw Line. 63. The Shrug. 6 Fingers. Air. All these moments were what a Hall of Fame speech should have been: a celebration of moments of greatness and being gracious toward those who helped him get there.

Like John Stockton and David Robinson – the pictures of grace and humility in their speeches. There was a small movement when it came time to induct Jordan that thought he should have been inducted alone, that such a mammoth figure would overshadow all other deserving candidates in his class. I was in favor of that sentiment. Now? Without Robinson and Stockton, Jordan's speech would have been so soul-crushing it may have tainted what should be an untaintable career.

As the years passed and the highlights became deeply ingrained in our memories, we seemed to have forgotten the greatest player in NBA history was an asshole.

WANT.