Maybe Gerrard's Will Sell It?

Those crafty Germans have come up with a beer I think will be a big hit:

Click on the blog entry headline, or paste this into your web browser:

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/frontpage/2010/0401/1224267477657.html

Time's Up, Jenny.

To: Jennifer Dobbs, Editor, Redlands Daily Facts

From: Dave, official thorn-in-your-side

Re: Subscription

YES! My one-year subscription to the Facts is up, and I'm not renewing. You can begin celebrating any time you like. No more will you receive Nasty-grams from yours truly complaining about the layout, composition, and most of all, writing in our once-revered daily newspaper.

I'm done. Finished. Stick-a-fork-in-it Over. Even if your circulation department offered me another ten-buck a year deal, it's just not worth the stress every evening. No more will I groan as I watch you and your band of idiots pretend to be journalists. No more will I read yet another Sunday column about your freakin' grand baby. No more will I feel my stomach churn as you give yards of free advertising to local hairdressers. No more vomit-inspiring "Questions of the Week", nor the printing of every single press release that crosses your collective desks. No more buried leads. No more moire-patterned photographs.

Free at last, free at last -- thank God almighty, I'm free at last.

Carpe Latin, Anyone?

Latin, which used to be taught in our schools back when Americans spoke English and not Ebonics, still has a place in our society. It's used extensively in law and scholarly work, and shows up nightly on cop shows -- as in, "I've got an alibi..."

Have some fun with Wikipedia's list of Latin phrases:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Latin_phrases:_A

Maybe you can come up with a motto to go with that family coat of arms you've been doodling on restaurant napkins. Here are a few of my favorites:

Barba tenus sapientes, directly translated as "Wise as far as the beard" meaning "In appearance wise, but not necessarily so." I kinda resemble that remark.

Cacoethes scribendi, an insatiable urge to write,

caveat lector, or let the reader beware!

o tempora, o mores! -- Oh, the times! Oh, the morals!

Here's one for all us bloggers out there who think highly of our own work:

Quae non prosunt singula multa iuvant , or, "what alone is not useful helps when accumulated..."

Hey, we can even work Buzz Lightyear into this: Ad infinitum ad extra! - which roughly means "To infinity and beyond!"

and a final comment on our present government:

corruptissima re publica plurimae leges,

which means "When the government is at its most corrupt, the laws are the most numerous."

Best Picture? The Hurt Locker? WTF.

OK, so I waited until after the Academy Awards to see The Hurt Locker. I was ambivalent about seeing this film, or any film about Iraq for some reason, and judging by the box office of every movie made about the conflict, I guess I'm not alone.

But -- Damn! Best Picture, huh? OK, I'll plop down a couple of bucks at the video store and see what the fuss is all about.

What I got was a pretty average war movie. Pretty average war movies rarely depict war accurately, sacrificing veracity for drama, and Hurt Locker is no exception. This is too bad, because the basic premise that war can be a drug is valid, though nothing new to either books or cinema. (Find a copy of The War Lover, either in print or on film with Steve McQueen to see what I mean.)

But the continual inaccuracies detract so much from the film that it knocks what otherwise could be a pretty suspenseful movie into the "WTF" category over and over and over again.

Much has been made of the central trio of protagonists going it alone -- modern warfare just doesn't work that way. What, no radios? Statements like "Hey, let's split up" -- ??? Come on.

Where they really lost me is when the team is somehow are out in the middle of the desert in their Humvee (alone) and come across what turn out to be either coalition special forces for some sort of rent-a-warrior team herding a group of captured bag guys. They all get in a firefight with a bunch of militants 850 meters away in a concrete block building. One of the good guys hops up on the Humvee and starts plastering the building with .50 caliber machine gun fire. You have any idea what a .50 caliber bullet does to a concrete block? A sledge hammer has nothing on a .50 hitting a block -- it will shatter in a dozen pieces. The inside of that building would be a serious cluster fuck of flying concrete and steel.

But, no, apparently our good guy can't hit squat, because he's promptly taken down by a single round from an AK-47 from the building. Nice shot, dude -- how did you manage to zero your crap rifle and calmly squeeze off a round, and hit a target 850 meters away while that block building is exploding all around you?

One of the team gets all squeamish about getting ammo out of a dead man's pouch. He retrieves just one magazine. You'd think that A) he'd grab everything he could find, and B) he wouldn't be all upset by the blood, having been tripping over blown up people for the past ten months. Guess it's just more artistic license.

Then, our hero, firing a big, heavy, Barrett .50 caliber rifle, can't seem to hit a motionless target, until he pulls off a one-in-a-million shot, hitting a running insurgent at 850 meters. Uh-huh.

Oh, there's lots more to make people groan, like when our hero goes rogue and searches for a bad guy alone, at night, in the city, (!?!) and then nearly gets shot as he tries to reenter his base.

Oh, and in another scene, why would Mr. Bad Guy put the wires to hook up his bomb only about ten feet from the bomb itself, when he could have run the wires to a safe location? It must be so he can let our hero watch him drop his 9-volt battery in defeat. Please...

I suppose director Kathryn Bigelow figured that if filmmakers got away with such nonsense in all the Vietnam movies we were raised on (think Apocalypse Now) well, why not? Well, Vietnam, being a fucked up mess from every one's perspective, and it being the 1960's (say no more) lended itself to such broad-brush film making. America has changed; the face of war has changed; cinema has changed, but apparently neither Bigelow or the Academy notices or cares.

Why I hated Fess Parker.

Fess Parker has passed away. Nobody, ever, hated Fess Parker, the TV actor who brought us Daniel Boone, and earlier, a certain character that "killed a bar when he was only three" and whose last name was Crockett. And I don't mean the one from Miami Vice.

But, thanks to Parker's role as Crockett, everybody in America learned to sing the opening strains of the theme from his TV show, which was a mammoth hit only months after I was born.

As a result, for about the first 15 years of my life, anybody who learned my name was David spontaneously burst into song...

"DAVEEEEE, DAVY CROCKETT! KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER," they would blurt, usually with a big shit-eating grin on their face.

I got sick of that really fast.

Every time I think that damn song has at last been forgotten, someone will pipe up on hearing my name and start singing. Even now, fifty years after it was on the air.

My reaction hasn't changed much. I groan and growl something to the effect that "boy, that was certainly original". Then I flee as soon as possible.

I never slugged anyone for singing, but there's always a first time. You've been warned.

The Greatest Bond Film, Period.

Today's beautiful weather was largely ignored as the best of the 22 James Bond films showed up on the tube -- the one, the only, the singularly wonderful "Goldfinger".

Of course, I have a predisposition to liking this film, as it was the first Bond flick I saw as a young lad of ten, and it's impact was enormous. Like the rest of the world, I was captivated by the scope of the movie, the terrific music, and of course, the greatest movie car of all time, Bond's Aston-Martin DB-5.

None of the later movies with the exception of Thunderball seemed to have any possible connection with the real world. Somehow, the ten year old in me then, as well as the 55 year old in me now, feels that, yes, there could be a nutcase like Oric Goldfinger mad enough to attempt the destruction of America's gold depository. A guy like Goldfinger could have a Korean bodyguard with a steel hat, or a flying circus composed of beautiful women. And, a guy like Goldfinger could get an A-bomb from the Chinese (at least in 1965), and the money for the whole scheme from The Mob.

Sure, why not?

It seems all the later films are just to preposterous for me. Pick any of the Roger Moore Bond films, and tell me just, for example, how James Bond is going to find himself floating around in space with Barbara Bach? Gimme Pussy Galore flying a Piper Cherokee (one of only two Bond girls older than Bond himself!) any day.

What later film has anything to compare to my beloved DB-5? That Aston that supposedly turns into a submarine? Yeah, right. (OK, so they really did build an Aston Martin submarine, but they had to wear SCUBA gear to run it. Not Bond enough in my book.) We won't even discuss Bond's BMW era.

Watching the end of the film, I'm reminded that, thanks to the Mythbusters, I now know that shooting out the window of an airplane won't cause you to be sucked out, nor cause the plane to go into a death spiral. Bummer. Some things you just shouldn't know about. I will continue to fight disbelief so to think that yes, someday, I might unzip my wetsuit, and reveal my white dinner jacket. (Not that I own either.) Now that would be cool. Seriously Cool. Bond, James Bond Cool.

Dave's list of the Greatest Bond Films Ever.

1) Goldfinger

2) From Russia With Love

3) Thunderball

4) Dr. No

5) On Her Majesty's Secret Service

6) Casino Royale (the remake.)

7 through 22 -- who cares?

After doing my list, I once again consulted the web for similar lists. Apparently, I'm not alone in liking the Connery films best, but happily there are many who enjoyed the much-maligned On Her Majesty's Secret Service, the film that featured the only appearance of George Lazenby as Bond. Remember this -- the lovely Diana Rigg (now 71 years old!) was in that film.

More Great Female Rock Singers.

I got to thinking -- just who did I leave out of my list of golden-era rock singers?

Google to the rescue. It seems lots of other people have tried to list the best of the best, though most do not try to limit the time period. Here are a couple that deserve mention, though I think I'll stay with my original "top 5".

Cher. Yeah, Cher, as in "Sonny-And...". Think about this for a minute. A very distinctive voice that improved with age; a style all her own; great stage presence. Probably should be classified as more of a pop singer than rock, but.... what the hell.

Stevie Nicks. Great, unique vocalist, even though I can't make out her lyrics half the time. A great contributor to one of rock's greatest bands.

Pat Benatar. Pat could probably sing anything well, but she chose rock. Clear voice; lots of inflection, terrific power. Frequently dismissed as a flash in the pan, Pat can, to this day, kick most female singer's butts. Lady Gaga should be happy Pat Benatar isn't 21 years old.

Joan Jett. A pioneer with her band, the Runaways. Strong cult following? Get this, they're making a movie about this group.

Tina Turner. Surprisingly, she is missing from most rock lists, perhaps because she's more commonly classified as a blues/pop singer, which I think is wrong.

Anybody else I missed? Please don't suggest Blondie; I attribute all that band's success to its producer and engineer. Patti Smith? Probably, but amazingly, I don't know her stuff... she didn't get airplay on the stations I listened to in my misspent youth.

Burn, Baby, Burn.

In a previous post, I bemoaned the fate of my old DVD player. Now, the laser works just great, and I was thinking to myself, "self, what could I do with that laser?". Turns out there's lots of laser projects clogging up the tubes on the Internet...

But: did you know that DVD laser is 50 times more powerful than a laser pointer? There's a site that will teach you how to convert your little Mini-Mag flashlight into a laser pointer hot enough to light a match or pop a balloon. Needless to say, a laser this powerful will damage your eyesight... so unless you want to try DIY Lasic on your corneas, you might want to stay away from projects like this one.

The Greatest Female Rock Singers.

I spend a great deal of time in my car listening to classic rock on the radio. Who was the best female rock singer of the "golden age" (roughly 1965 to 1985)? Here's my take on the subject; I'm sure to have left out some obviously brilliant people that have slipped my mind, but then, you're free to write your own list.

First, here's who I left out, and why.

Folk singers are not rock singers, even if they occasionally sang a rock song. Same goes for "country-rock" pop, "contemporary" and all the Mo-Town greats. Sorry, I'm only interested in rock singers for the purposes of this list. That cuts out a lot of people who are, or were, immensely talented, and some of my favorite all-round singers as well -- people like Linda Ronstadt, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, and Carly Simon.

So, here's my list:

Number 5: Grace Slick. Here's a woman who's vocals could send a shiver down your spine in the first bar of a song. She could sing low, sing high, and sing hard.

Number 4: Chrissie Hynde. Nobody better exemplifies the rock spirit in my book. For years and years, and right up until today, Hynde leads her band in the making of great rock and roll. The fact that she leads is a big plus, too -- rock is all about strength and power, and she's got both. Maybe she doesn't have the vocal range of others, her attitude makes up for it and then some.

Number 3: I stretched my time period for the golden age of rock into the 1980's just so I could cheat and include Melissa Etheridge. Listen to her early work feel the passion, the lust behind her songs. Talk about range -- low and deep, or screaming at the person in the last seat in the last row of an arena, Melissa can do it. She'd be number 2 if she hadn't followed...

Number 2, Janis Joplin. What can I say? Maybe better people have come after her, but nobody sang like Janis, with that tortured, blues-inspired voice. You felt she put every ounce of herself into every song, with nothing held back.

Number 1: I know I'm going to catch flack for this, but the best female rock singer ever is Ann Wilson of Heart. Song after song after song, her crystal-clear, highly musical vocals define great singing. She's not as edgy as Chrissie Hynde, nor as tortured as Janis, nor a scary as Grace Slick, but she does everything well -- she writes, she leads, she plays, she has great vocal range. If this were baseball, she'd be voted MVP.

Leftover Laser Beams.

It's an amazing, reoccurring story of American life: the unique and novel becomes commonplace, and then waste for the landfill. Good examples of this include the automobile, the television, the transistor radio, VCRs, and now, the DVD player.

Who would have thunk that someday we'd all be trying to find out where to throw away a machine that, at its heart, generates laser beams? I mean, really: laser beams, the stuff of science fiction and of James Bond movies.

But, there it sits on my back porch, dumped in a box along with the remains of last night's pizza.

Amazing...