Transformers: Revenge of the Awesome
Transformers 2 is not a good movie. Its idea of humor ranges from dogs humping to parents on pot and people being tased. There are some pretty blatant racial stereotypes, and incredibly contrived ‘collegiate’ situations. Every time Shia LaBeouf shares a romantic scene with Megan Fox, there’s loud corny music in the background, as though the filmmakers didn’t trust the actors to convey the moment on their own (in fact, LaBeouf is actually solid in this movie, much more than I could say about the first installment, or Indiana Jones 4: Death of a Franchise). And, in typical Michael Bay fashion, the movie is way too fucking long.
But I can’t recommend this movie more. You need to see Transformers, and you need to see it in IMAX. It’s comparable to Sky Captain and Beowulf, where the movies are absolutely mediocre (at best), but the visuals are so compelling that it makes the film supremely worthwhile – if only as a technological feat. Transformers is that amplified to the nth degree. Unlike the first movie, there’s plenty of action throughout the duration of Revenge of the Fallen. It is simply everything you imagined when you were 12 years old… and presumably, male. Giant robots beating the shit out of one another. The action sequences are gloriously jaw-dropping, and I have never, in my life, uttered the words “Holy fuck” aloud so many times and meant it. I’ve seen movies on IMAX before. Transformers is different – it is an experience. It’s not a good movie, but it’s absolutely awesome, and easily one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen in my life.
Euphoria
A championship is a championship. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. It doesn’t matter that the series wasn’t a classic, that the opponent wasn’t Boston… or even Cleveland. I wasn’t thinking about rubbing it in the faces of all the haters out there; I just wasn’t thinking about them at all. The Lakers won, 29 other teams didn’t, and that’s all that matters.
A championship is euphoria. I’ve spent the last week humming “We are the champions” – when I wasn’t outright singing it. I keep pumping my fists and raising my arms in triumph, and I’m just giddy. The night of the clincher, we rolled down Hollywood and Downtown Los Angeles, screaming at people on the street, woo-ing, bursting with happiness. Complete, utter happiness. You just can’t contain it.
A championship is a parade. A PARADE! Where tens and hundreds of thousands of people come onto the streets and yell and scream and just bask in the glow of it all. Everyone’s wearing purple and gold, everyone’s thrilled, and it’s the greatest environment in the world. It’s already over – we’re the champs. The champs!
Taste of Syracuse (Part 5)
I spent my last free day in Syracuse at the mall. I also stopped by a small farmer’s market, then dropped by the event of the year: A Taste of Syracuse, a two-day food-sampling extravaganza. I enjoyed the food, but the scene was just kind of sad: two blocks of vendors, tons of obese people, plenty of alcohol. I can’t imagine what it’s like out there when it’s not 70 degrees. The city is beat-down, and there’s just not much to offer. There’s no sense of vibrancy or life at all. I spent my last free night in a bar, unsurprisingly. Due solely to boredom, I hit the gym every other day, and even swam a couple of times (I hate water). It’s just an altogether depressing atmosphere, man. But hey… at least it’s not Utica. Senior ball in a train station. Jesus Christ.
Taste of Syracuse (Part 4)
The institute ran for four days, had a two-day break, ran for four more days, had another two-day break, and finished off with a final two+ days. Having that second break was brutal. Cooperstown was my first weekend. A trip to the Carousel Center was originally to be the highlight of my second. Luckily, a friend (another normal-person oddity!) suggested something slightly more ambitious. So we rented a car and drove up north about 100 miles to Alexandria Bay. It is rather revealing that the stay in Syracuse had become reduced to “let’s get the hell out of Syracuse.”
Another day, another boat trip. This was along the St. Lawrence River (with an outfit happily titled Uncle Sam’s Boat Tours), and there’s the patron saint watching over us. He appears to be holding a paddle with holes. Hmm. Are we sure this isn’t the St. Lawrence Memorial River?
The tour took us past ‘millionaire’s row’ and past a few bridges (American, Canadian, and international). By the way, the only thing I know about international waters is from old movies: anything goes, and everybody needs to reach it to commit crimes. Also, I’ve definitely mentioned this before, but bridges are amazing: they’re so majestic and cool.
The area is known the Thousand Islands Region (actual count: 1800+), and here’s Tom Thumb, the smallest of them all! According to the guide, and the sign on the island, it can hold up to 17 people. I’ll take their word for it.
CANADIANS! Here’s another semi-surreal thing that amuses me: non-American flags. I’m pretty sure I brought this up during the London-Paris recap. I swear, a) I’ve had a blog for way too long, and b) I am exceedingly easy to entertain. And yet… Syracuse…
The final stop of the tour was on Heart Island, at Boldt Castle. Don’t let the name fool you; there’s a tragic story here. The millionaire’s beloved passed away before he could complete the castle (intended as a display of his love for her); he immediately halted all work and never returned again.
Naturally, people being what they are, the proper authorities decided to restore the castle and complete the project. It’s exactly what George Boldt would have wanted, only the complete opposite. Taking a walk around was incredibly weird. I’d haunt the fucking place if I were him.
And then it was off to the Wellesley Island State Park and close encounters with a tiny snake, deer, chipmunks, plus a ton of bugs and spider-webs. Yay nature! It almost makes you yearn for Syracuse. Okay, that’s a total lie. But it makes you yearn for the shower back in the hotel… which happens to be in Syracuse. And that’s about the best I can do.
Taste of Syracuse (Part 3)
There was a very vivid moment about five days in when – faced with the prospect of having to eat in that same goddamn block radius (with half the restaurants closed on the weekend) – I felt very depressed. I missed my car more than I ever had in my life, and even my little ‘rebellious’ campus / city explorations weren’t enough: I knew that I had to get the hell out of Syracuse. And suddenly, a 5:00 am wake-up call and two bus rides to get to Cooperstown seemed like the easiest decision in the world.
I spent 4+ hours at the Baseball Hall of Fame. It’s impossible for me to express how cool it all was. A ticket to Larsen’s perfect game. Baseball cards of Tinkers to Evers to Chance. The championship ring of every team ever (the 2003 Marlins decked out). Chills, man. Chills.
There were things I’ve seen and heard a million times before, but appreciated all over again. The Shot Heard Round the World. Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First routine. And one of my favorite displays… George Brett’s pine tar bat, along with the signature, “This is the pine tar bat.” Donated by the Brett family. That’s the aura of baseball.
I just absolutely loved this quote from Jim Bunning in the no-hitters section of the hall. And there were all sorts of cool things. A Phillie Phanatic. A homer hanky. A rally monkey!
Then there was the actual hall. I’ve got nothing but respect and admiration for Lou Gehrig. Jackie Robinson. Hank Aaron. Man. Plus baseball players have the best nicknames. Stan “The Man” Musial. “Joltin’” Joe DiMaggio. Willard Brown – known as “Ese Hombre.” My all-time underrated guy is Hack Wilson though… 190 RBIs in one season. 190!
I could go on forever, but basically, when you get to knock an item off your bucket list, it’s a pretty fucking great day. Even if I was operating on three hours of sleep and drained like no time in my life I could recall by the time I returned to my hotel close to 11 pm.
I also took some time to walk around the city and check out Otsego Lake. Cooperstown is just an absolutely quaint little place. Soon, however, it was on a bus (literally BY MYSELF!) to Utica, NY, awaiting for the Amtrak that would take me back ‘home’ to Syracuse.
And that’s where I encountered one of the truly most saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life. A high school senior ball taking place at the train station in Utica. Yeah. There’s really nothing more to add here. A senior ball at a train station. It will be my lasting image of upstate New York.
Taste of Syracuse (Part 2)
I can’t fake it. And when my first lunch conversation with a fellow attendee involves him talking about his research for 10 minutes nonstop, when I see people bringing readings down to the hotel bar at 11:45 pm, and when everyone uses our 30-minute breaks to… gather and chat some more about the sessions (8:30 am – 5:30 pm) and their own research, well, I can’t play that game. The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the way everyone trudged back towards the hotel every. single. lunch. All together, back to the same one-block radius. I cannot overstate how fucking deflating that was. So I went exploring.
And there was NOTHING THERE. On this map, I have marked where all the food options were (rectangles). Where the classroom was (arrow in the middle). The (A) is the hotel, and the highlights trace the path of my off-campus forays. It was the weirdest ‘university town’ I could have ever imagined.
The closest movie theater was in a mall five miles away, which is undergoing construction to become the fourth biggest mall in America. By the way, when that happens, I will have visited #2 (Mall of America), #3 (South Coast Plaza), and the aforementioned (Carousel Center). Truly a supreme accomplishment.
I mean, what the hell was this? Sunday afternoon, and no semblance of life or anything else in the area. I went to a giant park where I was practically alone. I walked past a farmer’s market at a church parking lot that had three booths. And why were Subway’s and Dunkin’ Donuts the only fast food franchises around?
There was at least one redeeming feature of the city, though. The Triple-A Syracuse Chiefs! In true Syracuse form, in order to get to the ballpark, we had to maneuver around a neighborhood that featured three strip clubs in a one-block radius, as well as a police station slash community center. It was like being in a bad 70s movie.
And rather tellingly, my (similarly rare non-intellectual, non-douchebag) roommate and I actually made it to two games. Enough for me to introduce you to SCOOCH! The ambiguous but decidedly not-an-offensive-Native-American-stereotype mascot of the Chiefs.
Tickets were a cool $10 for the first game (third row, home plate), and free for the second (thanks to some local). Attendance was supposedly a paid 4,300+ for each, but appeared not to crack 500 due to predictions for bad weather that never materialized. At least, I would surmise that’s the reason. Because seriously, what the fuck else are you going to do?
Drink, of course. I spent 16+ days in Syracuse. I have 10 bar tabs on my credit card (prior to this, I probably had not gone to bars 10 times in the past two years). It was so bad that a local Lakers fan spotted me during Game 3 of the Finals, exchanged greetings with me, then proclaimed to his friends, “Yo, this guy’s here every night!” Syracuse!
Taste of Syracuse (Part 1)
I consider myself a pretty simple person. There’s nothing I really need or demand from my environment. I’m not picky about food or entertainment options, or really, anything else. Consider my life. I go to baseball games, I watch movies, and I veg out at home. I’m pretty much as happy as I can be – and thus I think, I’m pretty easy to please. Two weeks at Syracuse University for an academic crash-course on methods, while being put up at the Sheraton? Sure, why the fuck not. It’s gonna be great!*
*Spoiler alert: It was not great.
I arrived around 10 pm on a Monday evening, and was struck by how run-down the city was through the shuttle window. Starving, I wandered the block around the hotel (which itself was a block north of campus), and immediately encountered homeless people and cop cars. And so it began.
Well, that’s not quite accurate. I was a bit taken back, but it is an urban area, so it was not completely unexpected. The first couple of days, I actually noticed the beauty of the campus, the open areas and the cool architecture.
Plus I discovered the Carrier Dome ticket window was open, which allowed some free-range exploration on my part. Domes (and sporting venues) fascinate me in general; I just love the way they juxtapose with other buildings. Look at me pretending to know what I’m talking about.
And then there’s the cool statue of Ernie “The Express” Davis (now available on DVD). The movie’s actually got pretty much the saddest ending to an ‘uplifting sports story’ you’ll ever see, especially if you don’t know the facts. Sort of like Bridge to Terabithia, except uh… not fictional.
So pretty much every day, instead of interacting with the other 150+ attendees of the institute (more on this later), I used the 1 1/2 hours we had for lunch to explore different parts of the campus.
Eventually, I noticed that there was no real coherence to anything. A ton of different architectural styles that were cool on their own but didn’t really mesh, along with a ton of open areas that made the school seem disjointed. Here, the “Haunted Mansion” Hall of Languages.
And then here’s some random modern design with a skylight. The campus itself was just spread out into the “city”; you’d walk around and there’d be an odd school building here and there. It was all just kind of strange, as though the architectural plan had gone through major rewrites.
Mirror, Mirror
“Now the question is: Am I the greatest of all time?”
- Roger Federer
Terminator: Salvation
There was a moment ten minutes into Terminator: Salvation when I became truly terrified. There were signs already. The elaborate title sequence with close-ups of churning machinery that ultimately pulled back to reveal… the title of the movie in block letters (um, okay). The corny death row prologue lifted straight from a made-for-television production. And of course, the simple credit: “A McG Film.” But it wasn’t until Christian Bale delivered some of his initial lines that I really began worrying about the Terminator series. “One! Connor!” sounded hauntingly like Chris Klein’s “Nash! Out!” from Street Fighter, so much so that I couldn’t help but chuckle aloud. That soon gave way to apprehension. What was I in for?
For lack of a better word, there is plenty of ’stupid’ in Salvation. The theme of what separates man from machine is treated with all the subtlety of a jackhammer (or in this case, a hybrid anatomy). There is a clunky exposition from Helena Bonham Carter’s character late in the movie that is truly cringe-worthy, an exposition that only underscores the convolution of the master plan. The epilogue that follows the movie’s climax is almost unwatchable in its transparency and its execution. Meanwhile, there are multiple plot points simply devoid of logic. The Skynet HQ, the Resistance groups, the human camps, the final showdown… all lack explanation, basically ushered in as dramatic shortcuts.
Perhaps most surprising, the potential inherent in the John Connor character is largely unexplored. Both he and Kate Connor are severely underwritten, with the former reduced largely to a caricature of who John Connor is supposed to be, alternating between generic orders and motivational speeches. Almost as an afterthought, there is a link that reintroduces the relationship with his late mother Sarah, but those scenes are awkward, essentially pointless (with Linda Hamilton’s line readings sounding like… well, line readings). Bale does no favors by submitting shouting in lieu of acting in some scenes, but the real issue is dialogue and material. Meanwhile, Bryce Dallas Howard is in the film for a grand total of maybe 5 minutes.
Yet, despite the eye-roll-inducing moments, despite the obvious plot holes, I found Terminator: Salvation to be actually kind of awesome. I don’t mean in a Wolverine kind of way, where I had fun while acknowledging that it was a terrible, terrible movie. Yes, Salvation lacks the depth and meaning of previous installments (even Rise of the Machines, which in retrospect was essentially a cover of Judgment Day). But I found the movie actually quite good for a mindless summer blockbuster. The Marcus Wright and Kyle Reese characters were played to perfection. The special effects and action sequences were utterly tremendous. And, distinguishing itself from its predecessors, a well-crafted vision of the post-apocalyptic world came into fruition. For all its faults – and there are quite a few – I enjoyed the hell out of Terminator: Salvation.
Game 7 (Liveblog)
The mantra goes, anything can happen in a Game 7. That’s what makes it so beautiful. It’s sports at its dramatic apex, stripped bare of everything but the game itself. No room for error, no getting them tomorrow night. It’s the ultimate win or go home. As an invested fan, however, it’s absolutely terrifying for those same reasons: every possession, every shot carries the weight of the world. And it’s true – anything goes. The Blazers blow a 15-point lead in the fourth. Stojakovic and Christie miss wide open 3s… badly. The Suns win by 30 and Kobe packs it in for the second half. 2000, 2002, 2006. Add to that the Angels 2002 World Series clincher (as Lackey gets the win, the first time a rookie’s done so since 1909), and those are the four Game 7s I’ve lived through as a fan. 3-1. I would never have expected that this second round Lakers-Rockets series to add to the list. And yet, here we are: Game 7.
12:13 pm. If I could write one of those classic NBC promos for today, it might go something like this.
The Houston Rockets weren’t supposed to be here. Less experience. Less talent. Less health. But adversity is the fire that forges champions, and the Rockets have thus far matched the mighty Lakers blow for blow. If this no-name bunch is to be christened the David in this story, they’ll have to do it one more time, facing the most insurmountable of odds. A Game 7 on the road.
And then you’d cue the NBA on NBC theme song, with the montage of images from playoffs past: “Oh, a spectacular move by Michael Jordan!,” “Bryant… to SHAQ!,” and so forth. In case you can’t tell, I’m pumped for this. I’m plowing through my Panda Express (the usual: half-and-half, orange chicken, beef & broccoli) and my Coke slurpee (special Terminator: Salvation hologram cup and figurine straw). Game 7: let’s do this thing!
12:33 pm. Gasol jumps out to block a Scola field goal, and Kobe drives to the basket for two. It IS a Game 7! By the way, I just remembered that I could have gotten tickets to this game a couple of weeks ago, but dropped them because I didn’t want to pay $15 in Ticketmaster fees even if the game didn’t happen (which I figured it wouldn’t). Good times! I shall title my autobiography, “Misadventures of a Giant Douche.”
12:48 pm. D-Fish hits two shots! Bynum has two blocks! The Rockets have two field goals! 17-6 Lakers! Of course, the thing with this team this year (and last) has been its tendency to give up big leads. So I’m definitely wary. I’m also still trying to finish my lunch.
1:00 pm. Lakers by 10 after one quarter, as a graphic notes that the team that has won the first quarter has won every game in the series. We return with the in-game coaching interview. I mute the television: that’s how uncomfortable these things can get. On an unrelated note, the Ducks fell to the Red Wings in Game 7, which means they will not win the Stanley Cup this year, which means that I am now officially 0-16 in lifetime sports bets. One day, I’m just going to bet both sides so I don’t have to be Susan Lucci anymore. That game will then be canceled due to the weather.
1:13 pm. I realize that Lucci has won once. It apparently took her 19 nominations. Considering I have two more sports bets in progress (involving the longterm success of the Angels this year), this might come down to the wire. Anyway, back to the game. Lakers by 16, finally getting to the paint consistently against a team that doesn’t have a player taller than 6′9″. Yet, somehow the Rockets are 2-1 without Yao.
1:16 pm. And Bynum with a little forearm to Aaron Brooks on his way down the court. Pure class. By the way, I’m embarrassed to admit that I think Year One looks hilarious. “I am called Abel,” “No, you are called Suck!” makes me laugh so hard that the last time I saw the trailer, I started giggling in anticipation even before the line came up.
1:34 pm. We’ve reached the half, and the Lakers are up 51-31. It was 51-26 about a minute ago, which is a little frustrating. Kobe takes a 30-foot three pointer, Ariza misses a little layup, Odom throws the inbounds pass away with 2.0 seconds left (opting for a full court pass when Ariza was in the backcourt, and could have taken a couple of dribbles for a reasonable half-courtish shot). I’m a glass-half-empty guy, I guess. Meanwhile, the Angels are about to get swept in Texas. Blargh.
1:45 pm. ABC’s The Goode Family looks as different from King of the Hill as American Dad did from Family Guy when that launched. At least when Matt Groening created a second animated series, he moved it 1,000 years into the future. Also, it was awesome.
1:49 pm. I’ve never had live shrimp. I don’t think it’s a real dish. Then again, I’ve never had dog, and I’m pretty sure that exists in the Far East.
2:12 pm. Rick Adelman has a “Chuck Hayes just tried a ridiculous pass and bounced it straight out of bounds” look on his face. Because Chuck Hayes just did. Play has gotten a little sloppy in the third, but the Lakers retain the lead. I’m amusing myself by doing nothing on Facebook (redundant) and browsing internet forums. Game 7 transcends sports!
2:15 pm. I’m really tired of the whole “Shane Battier is amazing” angle. He’s so smart and knows how to play without fouling and shows up in ways that aren’t in the box score and wills his team to victory and the President is text messaging him and Michael Lewis sucks his dick and so on and so forth. Well, in about 14 minutes, Shane Battier is going fishing.
2:29 pm. Gasol’s playing great today, dominating the boards, posting up Scola, even getting chippy down low… but I wonder if it’ll continue against hardcore gangsters like K-Mart and Nene should we move onto the next round. Europe: Where soft happens.
2:44 pm. A shot of Mutombo (looking terribly depressed, hunched over, slumped way down in his chair) next to Yao on the Houston bench. I think he just has terrible posture, but Patrick Ewing always looked like that too when he was the Rockets’ assistant coach. Maybe they only have one chair equipped for a 7-footer. Regardless, I smell buddy comedy! “One’s from the Congo, the other China! He’s one of the tallest men in the world; the other’s Yao Ming! One can barely speak English; the other’s Dikembe Mutombo! What wacky shenanigans will these two get into? Find out this Fall on ABC. Rush Hour: The Series!” …okay, so the Lakers are up 30 and I’m bored.
2:53 pm. Lakers 89, Rockets 70. A terrible Game 7 from a competitive standpoint; a fantastic Game 7 from this perspective. It’s still hard for me to see this as a championship team in the making though, given that this game even had to take place, given everything I’ve seen over the course of the season and the first two rounds. But you never know. Denver and the Western Conference Finals await. One step at a time.
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About
Hi. My name is Wilfred - yet, we're not in 19th century England. Sucks to be me. Anyway, this blog is full of thoughts and stories and b.s. that I find worthwhile, funny, or plain entertaining. Nothing more, nothing less. ...Story of my life. Not literally or comprehensively. You should be thankful.
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