And the winner is...

*Updated*

Well the show had its ups and downs. Chris Rock surprised me by being funny and uncontroversial- Way to crack jokes on Bush without sounding hateful. The awards went to pretty much everyone whom the press (and I) thought they'd go to; there were no surprises, so I did not have any angry outbursts like I did the year "Shakespeare in Love" beat "Saving Private Ryan".

However, I do have to say whoever was in charge of this year's Oscars needs to be FIRED. The management for this year's show sucked. Lemme tell you why for a few reasons. Whose bright idea was it to bring all the nominees for lesser categories like Costume Design and Best Documentary all onstage at the same time? Now, when you lose the Oscar to the person standing beside you, you still have to stand up there onstage, smiling, and pretend that you're happy for the winner. Oh, it's a lot easier when you're in your seat and the cameras are no longer focused on you, but now you have to stand in front of the WHOLE audience and pretend you're not upset. Why was this decision made? To cut out the time it would have taken for the winner to walk from the audience to the stage, supposedly. WEAK.

And what's the point of presenting the awards for Best Animated Short, Best Makeup, and Best Short Film IN the actual audience? The presenters actually went into the aisles and stood beside the group of nominees before the winner was selected. Bad idea. Why? Because when you win, you don't get to walk to the stage like everyone else. Instead, you get to walk another three feet to the microphone, which was set-up conviently for you in the aisle, and then you get to talk to the entire audience's BACKSIDES. That's right, apparently being an Oscar winner for Best Makeup doesn't make you good enough to get to be onstage like the winner for Best Costume Design. Nooo, you have to stand up where you were seated and watch as the roomful of Academy members and other Oscar-hopefuls sit with their backs to you. How's that for respect? When I win my Oscar, I'll be damned if I don't get to walk onstage.

And can I just say that those awards for Best Makeup, Short Film, and Animated Short were the worst of the night? Why? Because they didn't show any damn clips! How the hell are we, the ignorant movie-going public, supposed to appreciate the award if we can't even see what the nominees did? Animation is a visual medium for flark's sake, show us scenes from each animated short so we can see whether they were computer-animated, hand-drawn, claymation, or even animated chalk art! That's a travesty and a disgrace to all who worked hard in these categories. And Best Makeup- SHOW us the artists putting the makeup on the actors, show us a montage beginning with the actor's face and ending with the character's look in the film. That's how they've presented the category in the past. That's how we can appreciate the nominees. It's respectful, and it helps the rest of us, who may have no idea why the film was nominated for that category, see what made those nominees and their work special. Otherwise you're left with what we saw tonight - Five minutes of dead air as we watched the camera pan across people we don't care about and hear the announcer list the names of makeup artists, filmmakers, and animators we could care less about because we don't know anything about their work. Here was our one chance to see clips from animated shorts we may never again get the opportunity to view. Really, how many of us have ever seen an Oscar-winning animated short? And the Producer of tonight's telecast blew it, and I can't figure out ANY good reason for doing so. LAME.

And did the people in charge of the "In Memoriam" section completely forget about actor John Vernon from "Animal House"? UNACCEPTABLE! Still, I had forgotten we lost so many good people last year: Janet Leigh, Christopher Reeves, Rodney Dangerfield... SAD.

However, there were a few good things about tonight's broadcast. Good Things #1-4: Bringing Latina goddesses Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek together to present the awards for Best Sound and Sound Editing. Two beautiful women onstage for two long awards. Kind of funny the presenters for sound were actresses that speak English as a foreign language though...

And did anyone else feel like Oscar-winning screenwriter Charlie Kaufman was really just an older version of Seth Green? It was like looking into his future as an actor. Bizarre resemblance in face and voice, I tell you.

Other good things: Natalie Portman, Cate Blanchett, Emmy Rossum, Ziyi Zhang, Beyonce, and wow, Halle Berry. I hope she keeps the long hair look, cause man was she beautiful.

And finally, I have to talk about Jamie Foxx's heartfelt acceptance speech. It brought tears to me eyes, quite possibly the only time anything in the Oscars has ever done so. To see him almost break down when speaking about his grandmother was heartbreaking. My grandmother told me not to worry - she'll still be alive when I win my first Oscar. And I better use Foxx's speech as an example for mine. Yes, Mamere, whatever you say.

--Cbake


Real quick, here are my predictions for tonight's Oscars, along with who I'd like to see win. Keep in mind the only nominees I DID see this year were "The Aviator", "Million Dollar Baby", "Sideways", "The Incredibles", "Harry Potter...", "Lemony Snicket...", "Colatteral", "Troy", "Eternal Sunshine...", "The Passion...", "Spider-Man 2", and "The Village". Go here for a list of nominees.

Best Picture: I think "The Aviator" will get it, and I'd like to see it win.

Best Director: I think Clint Eastwood will win for "Million Dollar Baby", though I'd love to see Marty finally win the award. The Academy loves to award Actor/directors. If Scorcese wins Best Director, then Best Picture will go to "Baby"

Best Actor: Jamie Foxx for "Ray", though I'd like to see Don Cheadle win. PAUL GIAMATTI WAS ROBBED!

Best Actress: I'm fairly indifferent to this category, though I'm sure the winner will be Hilary Swank for "Baby". I guess I'd like to see Annette Bening win for once, but Kate Winslet was wonderful in "Eternal Sunshine...".

Best Supporting Actor: I love Morgan Freeman, but his role in "Baby", despite how much I loved the character, just doesn't compare to past roles he's played. This category is all over the place. I'd like to see Clive Owen, Thomas Haden Church, or Alan Alda win. Or Jamie Foxx. Or Morgan Freeman. I think I'll be happy with whoever gets it.

Best Supporting Actress: Cate Blanchett all the way for "Aviator". But if Natalie Portman wins for "Closer", I won't be disappointed to say I have a crush on an Oscar winner. But it works that way if Cate wins too.

Best Screenplay Original: Charlie Kaufman for "Eternal Sunshine" or Brad Bird for "The Incredibles". Anything else and I'll be disappointed. Kaufman needs an Oscar. Pixar rules.

Best Screenplay Adapted: I'm gonna go with Sideways on this one. Both my prediction and wish.

Best Music Score: They haven't rewarded John Williams since "Schinder's List" (this is his 43rd nomination! This is why he's the man), so I doubt they'll give it to him for "Harry Potter", despite this being the BEST Potter score yet, and one of Williams' best in years. I'd love to see Williams win this year, or James Newton Howard for his beautiful string work in "The Village". However, if they don't give it to Howard, I think they'll give it to John Debney for "The Passion".

Best Animated Feature: "THE INCREDIBLES". Anything else, especially "Shrek 2", and I'll be pissed. And no, I never saw "Shrek 2".

Best Cinematography: As is the case EVERY year, every film in this category was absolutely beautiful. They should give it to Robert Richardson for "Aviator", where film stocks, colors, and shooting styles reflected the differing time periods of the movie in a beautifully subtle way. But "House of Flying Daggers" and "A Very Long Engagement" looked like very beautiful movies, and I think "The Passion" will win because so much of it looked like perfect representations of Renaissance paintings and frescoes.

Best Visual Effects: This may be the first time in years I truly didn't care who won this category. Give it to "Potter". Or my boy "Spider-Man". Buckbeak from "Potter" ruled... but so did that fight on the subway train in "Spidey." I can't decide which was better.

Best Foreign Language Film: My boy Alejandro Amenabar for "The Sea Inside".

Best Makeup: Hmmmm, Jesus' flesh wounds from "Passion", or Jim Carrey's crazy faces from "Lemony Snicket"... I'll put my chips on "Passion", even though "Sea Inside" had some very convincing old man's makeup.

Best Art Direction: "LEMONY SNICKET"! The design and look of that movie kicked @$$. Also gets the award for BEST END CREDITS SEQUENCE... Ever.

Best Costume Design: "Troy" I guess.

Best Editing: No one can ever predict this. Will prob go to Best Picture winner.


And voila, there you go. Most of you will read this on monday, and I apologize for not putting this up sooner. But how many of you would have really cared anyway? What's that, all of you? Well darn, I hope you weren't looking to me for good betting odds. Just don't come to break my legs when you lose all your money to some sketchy bookie that answers to the name of Rhino.

--Cbake

"I am your father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate."

--Spaceballs

Well, I'm not one to toot my own horn, despite it being physically impossible and totally disgusting, so another post such as this will be rare. However, I have to hand it to my good friend David, aka Bosephus Jamiroquoi, for making possibly one of The Greatest Blog Postings Ever Made. Why? For the simple fact that it's about me, that's why. Deal with it.

Apparently he thinks I resemble Hollywood actor Eric Bana, from such films as "Troy", "Black Hawk Down", "The Hulk", and "Finding Nemo" (although he's quite unrecognizable under all that CGI shark makeup). He's not the first one to tell me so. Agree or disagree?

Anyway, why don't you go check out his blog to see for yourself? And while you're there, give his postings a readthrough. They can be pretty funny from time to time. And just to add more fuel to the fire, here are two pictures to get you started. Which is which? Whom is whom? "I must be seeing double! Four Krustys!"


--Cbake (perhaps I can break into Hollywood as his stunt double...)


PS: I think I owe David a steak dinner.



Eric Bana on the set of his new movie, "The Exorcist V: The Deadening"


Me at a swanky party with my ex-girlfriend.

40 Days? You won't last one week.

Day 14

Well, my fellow Catholics and non-Catholics, the season of Lent is upon us. This is the time of year where we Catholics (and some others, as I understand it) give up something for 40 days and 40 nights, the same amount of time Jesus spent in the desert being pestered and tempted by that pesky Satan.

"Satan! Stop pestering Jesus!" I can hear Satan's mother saying from the checkout line of the corner grocery store.

"But mom, it' soooo much fun to tease!" he replies, heh heh heh...

Anyway, moving on, it's a time for us Christians to reflect on how hard that must have been for Jesus, and so in our own small way we try and relate by giving up things important to us. Sometimes it's candy and chocolate; other times it's coffee and soda, and we always give up red meat on fridays. Problem is, I've been pretty slack about this for, oh, the past 7 years let's say.

Last month my friend Trent and I caught the film "40 Days and 40 Nights" on television, a movie in which Josh Hartnett attempts to give up all forms of sex, and basically all women in general, for Lent. This prompted me to try and sacrifice something big for Lent as well. I've been out of the game for a few years, so why not jump back into it with a bang.

The airing of that movie was fortuitous at best, because before I knew it, Ash Wednesday had appeared within a few days, and I hadn't a thought-out plan of what to sacrifice for 40 days. Hmmm, I hadn't had an alcoholic drink in the four days previous, I thought, so why not try and give that up? It would save me money and stand to be a test of the wills for sure.

Ash Wednesday coincided with the very first day of babysitting my 6 cousins, and as much as I might have wanted a drink during those hectic 9 days, luckily I was in an area unsuitable for such activities. But then the week ends, the weekend begins, and friends call and wish to go out. And that's when temptation rears it's ugly head.

Friday night: I have dinner with my stepmom at Kabuto's. Desperately want some sake to go with the hibachi steak. It's even harder to refuse free alcohol. A few hours later I meet some friends uptown at Grand Central and watch people dance. I sip on water. Can't dance without a drink. Or excuse me, can't dance WELL enough in my mind without a drink. So I relegate myself to standing on the wings with the guys, watching the girls get groped by creepy, drunk men. On one occasion I do have to go out and save my friend Cristina from some moron who won't stop touching her inappropriately. At this point I think "who needs liquid courage" and deduce that without alcohol in my system to hinder my reaction times, I just might be able to get a few good licks in on this guy if he tries to start trouble with me. Lucky for him, he doesn't. The Hulk is contained.

Saturday night: I meet the same friends from friday, with a few new ones from Chapel Hill, at a bar near my house. They do karaoke on saturday nights, and the past few times I've been there, I've sang. But I won't sing without the liquid courage to prompt it. So again, tonight I drink water, hoping that the strange combination of fatigue from the week before, along with copious amounts of H2O, will produce a feeling of delirium on par with drunkeness within me. It doesn't. I'm the designated driver again this evening and take Cristina and Laura for a late-night meal before getting home around 3 AM.


But I made it though without a drink (please don't count the tiny sip I had of Cristina's drink to ensure there was alcohol in it), and now we come to Day 14 without indulging. I'm almost half-way through, and I haven't gone crazy yet.

However, I also made the insane decision to give up women for Lent too. It's not like I'm overindulging in either alcohol or women. Far from it. It's not like I've had a girlfriend lately either. I just thought it'd be an interesting experiment to see if I could survive. So no dates, no hanging out, no Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. My friend Bobby likes to think that deep down I might really be masochistic. I starve myself, stay up for days upon days on end to do work, give up alcohol, give up women- I must like wallowing in my own misery. Maybe he's onto something. In any case I have a request for all of you foul temptresses: Stay away from me for the next 26 days while I barricade myself in the house!

--Cbake

"28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes... 12 seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

--Donnie Darko

I'm not a numerologist or an astrologist, I don't practice alchemy or any of the dark arts, and I'm seriously lacking in Jedi-Force powers, and mutant telekinesis. Yeah sure, that's all phooey, right? But in that vein of supernatural studies and interests, I've noticed strange, repeating occurences of the number 28 in the past ten months or so. What does it all mean? What's the significance of this figure, and why do I see it so often? Here's what I've discovered so far:

Average number of days in the Lunar Cycle: 28

Average number of days for the menstrual cycle of a human woman: 28

Number of days for an average human's skin to renew itself: 28

Number of days in February on non leap-years: 28

Number of days in a Solar Neutrino cycle (journey from sun to earth): 28

Number of days after moving in that the Lutz family moved out of the Amityville house because it was haunted: 28

Number of days before the world ends in the movie "Donnie Darko": 28

Number of days Sandra Bullock has to stay in rehab in the movie "28 Days": 28 days, maybe?

Number of days it takes for England to go off the deep end in "28 Days Later": Take a wild guess

28-Step Programs found on Google: "Write a book in 28 days", "28 Steps to Fearless Speaking", "28 Steps to Maximize Your Firm's Cash Flow"

I've also found websites advocating 28 Hour days as opposed to the standard 24.


And then, a few hours after I wrote this blog and saved it as a draft, I have this conversation with my cousin Alison:

Stupid Cupid092: if caroline told me what "28 if" means
Stupid Cupid092: i would HAVE 2 sit on guys side @ chrch
Stupid Cupid092: just 2 be near josh
Cbake1369: Wait what?
Cbake1369: 28 if?
Stupid Cupid092: it is a liscense plate on the abbey road pic of the beatles

Beatles huh. Another weird coincidence. I'm probably seeing far more than is actually there, but it all struck me as pretty interesting, especially when filmmakers place such importance on the number 28.

And between 300-800 years ago, the Plains Indians of Wyoming constructed the "Bighorn Medicine Wheel" (here) at the top of the Bighorn Mountain range 9, 642 feet up, used to discern allignments of stars related to the summer solstice. Made of piled stones, this wheel is 87 feet long in diameter and has- that's right- 28 spokes. The number 28 was very special to some Indian tribes, apparently because of its relation to the Lunar cycle.

And according to that website, the star Rigel would rise 28 days after the summer solstice, and then the star Sirius would rise 28 days after that. Interesting, no? NO? It's not? Oh, so I AM just a damn geek then, is that it?

Fine. Then a geek I shall be.


--Cbake


PS: If there are any other Star Wars geeks out there, I suggest you click the link. Looks like there may be a star out there that was an inspiration for George Lucas's naming of the planet Alderaan.

PPS: If anyone else knows of any other important 28's, please post them. I had a list of some a few months ago but have since lost it.

"It's a madhouse! A MAAAADHOOOUSE!"

--Planet of the Apes

*Dedicated to Nick G and David Sloan (Bosephus Jamiroquoi) for practically begging me for a new blog post*

Oh has it been over a week already since my last blog post? I'm sorry, I must have slipped into some sort of alcohol-induced coma, brought on by some terribly traumatic experience occuring sometime around last wednesday night... Since then I've had strange hallucinations that I was trapped in a house run by six super-intelligent monkeys that forced me to feed them, clean them, in some cases wipe up after them, and drive them back and forth to zoos, bannana stores, and other places known for their multi-monkeyed populations.

And I'm exhausted. So exhausted and busy, in fact, that I have not had the appropriate time needed to document my journeys in blog form. Forget the monkeys. I've actually been babysitting since last wednesday night for my aunt and uncle while they went to Aruba. And my aunt and uncle practically run an orphanage. Full of six children.

That's right. Poor, hungry, and unemployed Cbake has been hired as a responsible adult in charge of feeding, clothing, and educating six rambunctious young people for over a week. It's only the best form of birth control EV-ER! *be sure to say that in a Valley girl voice*

Needless to say, this will be a long series covering the basics of my week as a crazed "parent" of six, so you will need to acquaint yourself with The Players:

Cbake: age 23, unemployed. Hungy, penniless, and a great family man, Cbake answered the call and heeded the charge, coming to the rescue of his aunt and uncle, allowing them to flee this madhouse in search of the sunnier shores of Aruba. He is also slightly insane for doing so.

Alison Huddleston: age 12, the Comic Relief. A 7th grader at that awkward age where she wonders why boys don't like her, her goofy sense of humor, balanced by her tenderness, helps keep the mood light when things get rough for Cbake.

Jacob Huddleston: age 11, The Basket Case. Suffering from Azberger's Syndrome, Jake has proved a tough nut to crack. Under delusions that everyone and everything must be done to his specifications and desires, he butts heads with Cbake everyday as neither party will back down, allowing stubborness (generated by both sides) to create conflicts between the two over matters as simple and trivial as "I don't WANT pizza! Make me a BAGEL SANDWICH!" Most quoted line of the week: "I HATE you!"

Rhett Huddleston: age 8, the Jolly Teddy Bear. A rough and tumble, football playing, rolley polly kid, already bigger than his older brother, Rhett has a winning smile and warm personality. When he's not arguing with his brother over who asked permission to play who's video game, he's throwing footballs in the house, watching college basketball, spouting off stats Cbake doesn't know about or doesn't care about, but generally makes Cbake smile everyday.

Bryce Davis: age 15, the Assistant. A sophomore at South Meck high, Bryce proves himself invaluable to Cbake by waking up the kids at 5:40 AM before school and preparing their lunches. Without Bryce, Cbake would have had to, well... wake up earlier each day.

Erik Davis: age 17, the Baller. Erik likes to think he's a baller, and he embraces his half-black heritage, slinging the bling-bling and talking the ebonics all over the house. Doesn't do much. Plays basketball for South Meck. Cracks jokes. You know the type. He and his bro Bryce are my uncle's nephews. Their mother died a few years back and have recently moved into the Huddleston residence.

Caroline Kelley: age 12, the Drifter. Caroline is the third child in the Huddleston residence that isn't a Huddleston. Her older sister lives in Maryland with her mother. Her older brother lives here in Charlotte with her father (my uncle). But Caroline has chosen to live with her cousin Alison because they are so close in age. She loves Lord of the Rings and the tv show LOST, giving Cbake and her much to talk about. But Caroline was in Maryland from thursday-monday night and thus MIA for much of Cbake's week.

Peaches: age 2? The Princess Pup. A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, this pampered pooch is as dumb as they get, and is such a lapdog. Literally. This thing's entire existence is based around making people happy. And that involves lots of cuddling, snuggling, and smothering (her version of a hug, in which her entire body sits on your face until you can no longer breathe).

Lego: age ?? The Phantom Kitty. Bryce's cat from Wilmington, he has been relegated to living in the garage as he likes to pee in the house and Peaches, as dumb as she is, just might eat the droppings left in the litter box if it was located inside. Always manages to somehow sneak inside and surprise you by sleeping on your bed when you walk into your room.



And now for the Theme Song courtesy of Jerome...

"New boy in the neighborhood
Lives downstairs and it is understood.
He’s there just to take good care of me,
Like he’s one of the family.

Cbake in Charge
Of our days and our nights
Cbake in Charge
Of our wrongs and our rights

And I sing, I waaaant,
I waaant Cbake in Charge of ME!"

--Cbake

In Honor of the UNC/DOOK Game Wednesday Night...

So the matchup of the season is here; The Clash of the Titans, the Battle between Good and Evil, The War to end all-- oh wait, to continue on in this line of metaphors would be to give this year's Dook basketball team MUCH more credit than is due. In any case, the game is on tomorrow night. And in honor of this event, I give you the following.

I found this article on a friend's away message and thought it was worth sharing with the world. And keep in mind, this comes from The Chronicle, a newspaper deep within the darkest depths of Mooordor-- I mean, Dookdom. Note my comments in Carolina blue.

Who disagrees with the almighty Fark and Me?

"10 Questions Not to Ask Coach K"

"The Duke-UNC Men’s basketball game only two days away, and TOMMY SEABASS could not be more excited. He and the other members of Tent 40 have had about all the low temperatures, tent checks and malt liquor they can handle. Now, they anxiously await Coach K’s annual speech to the Cameron Crazies.

"Having attended several of Coach K’s speeches during his time at Duke, TOMMY SEABASS knows that he must bring his “A” Game when the question-and-answer session comes around. Students should avoid critical questions at all costs, for Coach K can be quite sensitive.
Three years ago, at an “Ask Coach K” event at the Marketplace, a student had the gall to ask what the team was doing to work on breaking the full-court press. An irate Coach K responded with a 10-minute, exceedingly graphic filibuster involving several of the student’s close relatives in addition to disparaging remarks about Dean Smith. (what a bastard)

"Besides, such criticism is ineffective on Coach K, as he deflects any personal or professional challenges by pointing out that he: 1) wins championships and 2) gives money to charity (what arrogance). TOMMY SEABASS desperately wants to avoid any awkward exchanges with the famed motivator and best-selling author, and so he has spent a great deal of time drafting a list of acceptable questions. Here are those that DID NOT make the cut. (Just to be clear, TOMMY SEABASS strongly urges everyone to avoid these questions and others like them):

"1. Coach K, with all due respect, couldn’t a well-trained chimp have coached the players you’ve had over the past three years to just two Sweet Sixteens and one Final Four?

"2. Coach K, a columnist for the Raleigh News and Observer was recently criticized for describing forward Shavlik Randolph as a “dud.” Which of the following words do you believe serves as a better description of Randolph, given his career at Duke:

A. disappointment
B. letdown
C. lemon
D. bust

"3. Throughout your career, you have been accused of burning out your players and leaving them unable to perform at a competitive level once in the NBA. And while Blue Devil players are now starting to play better in the pros, they also tend to be leaving Duke early. Have you observed a reverse correlation between the quality of your players’ performance in the NBA and the amount of time they’ve spent under your iron fist?

"4. Does Reggie Love’s return to the team foretell an increased enrollment for the exclusive basketball “fraternity” ‘Phi-Drinka-Forty,’ the group Love and Chris Duhon started for the apparent purposes of binge drinking and squandering NBA and NFL talent? (anyone else see Reggie Love's passed-out-at-a-UNC-frat-party-and-shamed-by-students pictures on the net or in Maxim a few years ago? Here is one)

"5. Coach Krzyzewski, you often respond to criticism about your inflated ego, hostile treatment of referees, and foul language by citing the amount of money you have given to charity. Are we to conclude from this that you consider writing checks a proper substitute for common human decency? (a good one)

"6. Coach K, TOMMY SEABASS does not have a father that is co-owner of an NBA franchise, but he did have better high school stats than walk-on Joe Pagliuca. Is it still possible for TOMMY SEABASS to become a “favor player” and take up space on your bench?

"7. Coach Krzyzewski, which is more artificial: your left hip or your respect for the Cameron Crazies? Along those lines, which is more artificial: your right hip or your friendship with Bob Knight?

"8. Coach Krzyzewski, the 1992 men’s basketball Olympic team featured 11 of the greatest NBA players ever and Christian Laettner. And while NBA coaches Chuck Daly and Lenny Wilkins obviously had authority when it came to on-the-court decisions, you allegedly used your clout to secure the Dream Team’s 12th spot for Laettner instead of Shaquille O’Neal. Do you believe that the respective NBA careers of the two have justified the arguments you used, or should you have yielded to your superiors on the matter?

"9. Coach, you often speak about doing things the right way and holding yourself to a higher standard than other programs. Which action by a former player of yours better exemplifies this: Carlos Boozer tricking a blind man for a $68 million contract, or Quinn Snyder giving gifts to prospective Missouri players? And as a follow up, will either of these individuals be speaking at your ethics forum this year?

"10. Coach K, would you say that your decision to add Reggie Love to this year’s roster came more from his abilities as an off-the-court role model for Duke University, or the 5 more fouls he adds to your gameplan?"

Nice, to see an intelligent Dook student who hasn't been brain-washed, eh?

--Cbake

PS: For the record, Reggie Love was a good friend of mine in middle school. But once he went to Dook and started playing for them, he left himself ripe for the picking.

PPS: The comments and opinions above do not reflect those of this blog author.

PPSS: Just kidding, I'm lying. Obviously.

"That team sure sucked last night. They just plain sucked. I've seen teams suck before but they were the suckiest bunch of sucks who ever sucked."

-Homer Simpson

Well that was the most craptacular Super Bowl in years. And the commercials, for once, couldn't even make up for it. Where were the big budget, epic ads like Ridley Scott's "1984" for Apple Computers back in the day? Where were the funny commercials like the Budweiser frogs, the "Wassssup" guys, linebacker Terry Tate knocking out office workers?Where were the movies? Back in 1997 we were given our first glimpses of the "Jurassic Park" sequel, "The Fifth Element", and "Men in Black". The Super Bowl is a perfect opportunity to show cool teasers for upcoming summer films. "War of the Worlds" and "Batman Begins" (one of the best ads of the night) had the right idea. But where was "Star Wars"? "Fantastic Four"? "Kingdom of Heaven"? Are companies realizing that shelling out buttloads of cash for airtime isn't worth the money anymore?

There were only a few ads that stuck in my mind from last night. For instance, the Ameriquest spots where we saw MC Hammer's rise to 15 minutes of fame and subsequent fall into bakruptcy, and the one where it looks like the guy has murdered his cat in the kitchen. The Pepsi ad where numerous good-looking women, including Cindy Crawford, follow a man down the street because he's drinking Pepsi (adding the blonde guy from "Queer Eye" made it memorable). The funniest set of commercials was probably the chimpanzees-in-the-office ads for Career Builder.com. Why? Because monkeys are always funny. That's why. Other than that, it was one piece of crap after another, poorly produced spots that weren't funny and simply didn't belong in the pantheon of Super Bowl commercials.

The worst transgression of the evening? Repeating that Mustang commercial with the iced up convertible in the snow. Three times. The last two times within one minute of each other. Awful.

Maybe advertisers held themselves back this year, for fear of facing the wrath of the FCC after last year's Wardrobe Malfunction debacle. Whatever the case, last night was pretty disappointing. I can remember Super Bowls past where there were only a handful of bad commercials. This year surprised me. There were only a handful of good ones.

--Cbake

P.S. I have updates/corrections for the story on Uncle Joe. Check the comments section under that story.

Elvis: "No offense, Jack, but President Kennedy was a white man."

JFK: "They dyed me this color! That's how clever they are!"
--Bubba Ho-Tep

Today two great character actors have passed away: Ossie Davis and John Vernon. Ossie Davis, along with Morgan Freeman, was one of the first older black actors I could recognize at a young age. I didn't see him in many movies, but he was the kind of actor I just knew about because of who he was. If I were flipping through commercials or casually watching scenes from other movies and he popped up, I'd be like "Hey, that's Ossie Davis," though I couldn't remember where I knew him from. He just had this appearance of being such a nice guy, carrying himself in a warm and friendly manner with an inviting smile. He worked with Spike Lee often; "Do the Right Thing" being the first joint I saw him in, but I also remember him for roles in "The Client", "Grumpy Old Men", "I'm Not Rappaport", and for his most talked about role recently in the horror/comedy "Bubba Ho-Tep", where he played, that's right, a black John F. Kennedy.

He thinks the U. S. government dyed his skin color black and replaced part of his brain with a small bag of sand to protect his identity, and then put him in a retirement home. There, he meets an elderly man who claims to be the real Elvis (he switched places with an imposter who died in his place) played by Bruce Campbell. Together, they fight a soul-stealing Eqyptian mummy that is killing off old people in the home one by one. Trust me, this movie's hilarious and Ossie's role as JFK is wonderful. Rent it sometime, won't you?

He will be missed.

The other character actor who has passed away is John Vernon. Most of you know him as the evil Dean Wormer from "National Lampoon's Animal House". I also knew him as the voice of crime boss Rupert Thorne from the excellent "Batman: The Animated Series" back in the 90's. I never realized he also did the voices of Dr. Strange in "Spider-Man", Dr. Doom in "Fantastic Four", and General Thunderbolt Ross in "The Incredible Hulk" during the 90's, as well other Marvel superheroes in the 60's cartoon incarnations. He had a great voice.

Vernon also worked with Clint Eastwood in the classics "Dirty Harry" and "The Outlaw Josey Wales", but will probably be most remembered for uttering the classic line "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son."

I just realized he was also Mr. Big in "I'm Gonna Git You Sucka". Hi-larious!

--Cbake

"Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger, My face you never will see no more. But there is one promise that is given..."

"... I'll meet you on God's golden shore."
--Man of Constant Sorrow


Okay folks, here is the blog I tried to post yesterday but failed in doing so. I'm a tiny bit disappointed in how this turned out. My first bit of writing felt great, and I was very proud of what I had produced. But then I lost it. And it's very hard to try and recapture all my thoughts and the way I had expressed them. So please, keep that in mind as you read. And I apologize in advance for the length. It's not really the type of story you can shortchange.



Monday, January 31, 2005

My Mamere had surgery today. Mamere is what I call my grandmother, and since I am the first grandchild, every kid born after me has called her the same name. The story I hear is that when I was told at a very young age to say “grandma”, or some other name similar to that, the garbled words that came out of my mouth resembled something more like “Mamere”, and the name stuck.

But today she was having total shoulder replacement surgery. The “ball” part of the ball-and-socket joint is completely devoid of cartilage and must be replaced. The “socket” part suffers from the same affliction and must be replaced as well. It’s just bone rubbing against bone. Add a dangling bone spur an inch or two long to the area, and you can imagine the pain she’s in every time she moves.

I hear the surgery went fine. But thinking about my grandmother in the hospital reminded me of another time Mamere needed my help. So sit back, it’s story time. But this story isn’t funny. It deals with death. So I apologize to those of you that have a problem with that, but I felt it’s time this story was told.

It was late March, 2003. I received a phone call from Mamere and from the tone of her voice I could tell she was fighting back tears. She needed me to drive her down to Myrtle Beach in the middle of the night.

Ever since I was young, our large Italian family has always met at Myrtle Beach, SC one week in June for a large family reunion. As time has gone by, the reunions have lessened. Family members succumb to old age and death. Eventually, lots of people stopped coming down from Pennsylvania. The drive is too long and stressful. The last few years the reunion has only included my mother and brother in one condo, and my aunt, uncle, and their kids in another.

But Mamere’s uncle, my great Uncle Joe, and his wife Aunt Jean still come down every once in awhile. This week in March the two of them were there and enjoying the sun. Well one day Uncle Joe was in a pool playing ball with a little girl who was swimming there. Uncle Joe loved to swim. But something happened that day, and he collapsed in the water. He was submerged for awhile before anyone noticed.

Mamere told me Uncle Joe was on life support, and it didn’t look good, and she wanted to be there to see him. She wanted me to drive down in the middle of the night to take her there.

So I said yes. I had been reading The Return of the King for the third time during this period and would often peruse analyses of Tolkien’s world and his mythical characters in other books at bookstores or websites on the net. One character that generates much discussion is Samwise Gamgee and his status as a true hero. Sam wasn’t particularly brave (he was often terrified of the events around him) and he wasn’t well known for being a hero (like Aragorn he wasn’t). But Sam had moments of true heroism. I think Tolkien said a true hero is forged out of the events around him. A true hero makes hard decisions, sacrifices, and knows the right thing to do must be done, espite the difficulty. A hero doesn’t go out looking to save the world. A hero never wishes for the events around him to occur, but when they do, he does the right thing.

So I said yes. I want to be a good person, and like most people, I think I am. So I picked up Mamere and we drove to the beach. We got into town after midnight.

The hospital, while already being creepy during the day, was spooky at night. It’s so quiet, and empty, and that overly-sanitized smell never gets out of your nose. It’s very eerie. We went up to the critical ward and met Aunt Jean, a small, frail, elderly woman. She was so confused, so sad. When Uncle Joe passed out in the pool, she had been out on the beach, oblivious to what had gone on. She didn’t know of the accident until later when a hotel employee recognized her as Joe’s wife.

Uncle Joe was apparently in a coma and hadn’t been awake since the accident. The doctors came and took us inside his room. It was dark, I remember it being very dark. There on a bed lay Uncle Joe with all manner of cables and tubes coming out of his arms and into his mouth and into life-support machines nearby. A monitor glowed with colored lights showing heartbeats and breathing rates and other things I didn’t understand. The silence of the room was broken by the intermittent beeping from the machines. Mamere held Aunt Jean as she looked at Uncle Joe and cried. Aunt Jean tried to wake him up, but he didn’t move. That breathing accordion thing just moved up and down, over and over.

Aunt Jean touched his feet and remarked at how cold they were. I reached under his blanket and felt for his foot. Ice cold.

The doctor said they would monitor him all night and look for any changes. But if he didn’t wake by morning, taking him off of life support was something we should think about. So we went to our hotels. And we prayed.


Let me tell you a little bit about Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe is my grandmother’s uncle and the only son in an Italian family of four. His sisters include Rosalie, Mamere’s mother, who passed away long ago of Alzheimer’s, and Aunt Edith and Aunt Josephine. Aunt Edith died when I was in middle school, I think, from health problems due to smoking. Aunt Josephine died most recently of cancer I believe. Also brought about from smoking (I think. They both smoked a lot).

Uncle Joe fought in World War II. He was captured and became a Prisoner of War under Rommel, the “Desert Fox” of North Africa. He was put into a cell with other captives, and the Nazis played a strange game with them. As the story goes, they left the cell door or the door to the whole building unlocked. Well, the men began to talk of escape. But an Italian janitor who swept the floors sang a strange song as he cleaned. Uncle Joe, being the only one there who understood Italian, translated the lyrics: “Do not escape. It is a trap. They will kill you.” So he saved his mates from being killed in an attempted breakout. But then my memory gets fuzzy, and I don’t remember the rest. He escaped somehow, and I think he had to swim across a lake to freedom. Someone else knows for sure, but Uncle Joe never liked talking about it and he never did it often. He’s the only (known) relative of mine that fought in the Great War.


That night, when we returned from the hospital, I had a strange dream. I dreamt we went back to the hospital the next day to see Uncle Joe. When we got to his room, the bed was bare. The room was lit up brightly, and everything looked overexposed, and all was fuzzy and blurry in the corners of my peripheral vision. Uncle Joe was gone. Then I heard the sound of children’s laughter coming from outside. So we walked into the hallway and there, dressed in white and sitting on a bench, was Uncle Joe, smiling. He had a little boy on his lap, and standing on the bench behind him and leaning on his shoulder was a young girl. But the kids’ faces were blank, or I don’t remember who they resembled, if anyone. But they were laughing and playing with Uncle Joe, who had woken up and felt better and was in great spirits. He was healed and healthier than before the accident. Everything was better. Everything was great and everyone was happy.


And then I woke up. And things were uncertain, but I remained hopeful because of my dream. Uncle Joe’s daughter, Vicki, had flown down from Pennsylvania, and his son, Joey, and his new wife had come over from California. Together we all went back to the hospital.

Things weren’t better. Uncle Joe’s situation had not changed at all. He lay there, just as he did before, the machines breathing for him, beeping to let us know his heart was beating. Aunt Jean again noted how cold Uncle Joe’s feet were. We all gave it a feel and knew it was a bad tiding. Joey, upon looking at his father began to cry, but he tried to hold it in. We were dumbstruck. What could we do now?

The situation had come. It was time to decide whether or not to take Uncle Joe off of life support. Aunt Jean repeated over and over how Uncle Joe would never like to be laid up like this, but that did not make the decision any easier for her. But the choice was made. And at this sense of finality came an outpouring of emotion.

Joey broke down crying, burying his head in his father’s chest and crying out “Pop”. His wife, who had only met her father-in-law a few times, wept aloud as well. Vicki called out for her "Pappy". Aunt Jean desperately pleaded for Joe to wake up, please wake up. But it was no use. I felt my heart-breaking.

But I also felt outside, like a stranger. Here was Uncle Joe on his deathbed, surrounded by his closest family, and then me. His grandchildren weren’t there. His other nephews and nieces weren’t either. But I was. It was surreal

And I didn’t cry. I wanted to, and I felt like crying, but I didn’t, and I don’t quite know why. I felt like I should be the strong one. It’s hard to be around someone and know that will be your last time with them. It’s hard to stand there in a room with family members and watch them all grieve. Joey cried for his father. And I guess I felt like if he was going to let it all go, I was going to keep it all in. For him, for them, I would try not to cry and try to be strong. So I did.

The doctors came in and took us out into a small waiting room while they took Uncle Joe off life support. The waiting room was small and silent. No one really knew what to say in those moments. It seemed like a long time, but in times like those the whole concept of “time” itself goes awry. Seconds seem like eternity. An hour goes by in a minute.

Eventually the doctor or nurse came in and let us know we could go back and see Uncle Joe. I didn’t know this was going to happen. I thought they were going to let him pass and we would be in another room and that would be it. I was in such a daze.

We went back into the room and there was Uncle Joe, free from the mass of tubes and cables that had overtaken him before. We finally got to see his face clearly. The colored lights were gone and the room was silent. The nurses had turned away all the monitors. This was not like the movies. There would be no declining heart-rate and no flatlining, no long steady drone that announced the end. There was only us and him.

We stood and watched as Uncle Joe’s body fought to stay alive. His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He sucked in air and exhaled in quick loud breaths that flapped his lips. Some of us sobbed. Every so often I would hear Aunt Jean quietly exclaim “Oh Pappy…”

I don’t know how long we stood there. I only know that this moment was special. This was something I should remember. I was witness to the passing of a great man. Here I was with Uncle Joe’s wife, his son, his daughter and daughter-in-law, and his niece. And me. I got to represent my mother and brother and everyone else in the family who was not able to come in his final moments. And I realized this is how death should be, quiet and surrounded by friends and family. Painless. Not some thief in the night.

Soon, Uncle Joe’s breathing slowed and became softer and softer. His chest stopped rising so high. Eventually his lips showed less and less movement. But there were no beeps, no doctors to tell us it was over. Soon, he showed the faintest sign of life. An occasional breath. But that soon stopped too, and we could only assume the end had come.

We gathered close to his bed and said our goodbyes. Joey hugged his father and left with tears in his eyes. His wife did the same, and so did Vicki. Aunt Jean, Mamere, and I were left. What would I say when it was my turn? I reached under the blanket for his hand and held it. I said softly “Good-bye Uncle Joe” and kissed his forehead. And I walked out.

I was sad. But I also felt at peace. I felt privileged to be there. I felt privileged to bear witness to his passing. This was a man who fought in World War II and defended our country and the rest of the world from great evil. This was a man who escaped from his captors to freedom. This was a man who sired a large and wonderful family, a man who peered out from his glasses and exuded warmth, a short, potbellied man who had a recognizable shuffling gait when he walked. This was a man who always said my name with such enthusiasm and made me believe he was happy to see me, a man whose green tattoo on his arm always mystified me when I was young because it was indistinguishable due to wrinkles. This was a man who was loved by everyone. A great man. And I got to be there for his death.

My mother and aunt always said death is as much a miracle as birth. And being there to see death happen, I have to agree. It’s a special moment not many get to witness.

Afterward Vicki and Joey and Aunt Jean all thanked me for bringing Mamere down in the middle of the night. It meant so much to all of them that we could be there too, and I told them I was glad to do it. Mamere and I stayed at the beach another night.

I stayed out late that night, walking up and down the beach, sitting in the long shadows of tall hotels and looking up at the stars, watching the moon rise, casting out its bright reflection into the darkness of the sea. I met other people, teenagers down from Ohio for Grad Week, and was thankful to talk to someone about things other than why I was there and walking the beach alone late at night.

The next day I drove Mamere home. We listened to the score to “The Shawshank Redemption” by Thomas Newman and to Dave Matthews Band. It was a relaxing three hours. I don’t remember if we talked much. A few days later, I drove back down to the beach for that annual trip with my mom and brother (that I mentioned above). It was strange to be there again so soon after what had happened. I didn’t bring a razor with me either time I was at the beach. This is partly the reason I had a beard last year. I just decided to let it grow and see what happens.

--Cbake

"F*** You, f*** you, f*** you, you're cool, and f*** you, I'm out"

I just spent over an hour and a half writing a very long and personal post. And then my Internet Explorer went on the fritz and closed out every window. Including the one I was typing in. I know what you're saying. "Next time why don't you save it as you type?" Well I did, genius.

I had copied most of my text in case such an event occured, but apparently that "copy" memory is gone now too, because only a blank space gets pasted. And I'm tired. And I'm pissed. Really f***king pissed because it's late and all that hard work went for naught.

So F*** you computer. I'm out.

--a very pissed off and tired Cbake