My mother used to tell me that if you can’ t say something nice, better to not say anything at all. Do they send mothers to mother-school so they will all tell their children these things?
Me in high school, walking out the door in typical teen clothing: Bye, Mom!
Mom, shouting from another part of the house without looking: You are not going out in public looking like that are you?
Me pausing at the door, mumbling a smart-alecky reply that – if heard - will get me grounded for the rest of the semester: Mblxmaofoiajef…
The nice thing, I suppose, about the movie 100,000,000 B.C. is that it is available on Netflix, and so it technically cost me nothing to watch it. I say technically, because if it was the only movie I watch all month, it cost me $14.95. But – if you are like me, and watch movies on DVD on fast-forward just to get them back in the mail and swapped for a new one – you’re watching 75 to 80 movies a month, just like me. Averaged out, they’re practically free.
There was a previous movie starring then-hottie Raquel Welch called One Million Years B.C., but Director Griff Furst (his real name) could not be satisfied with a simple million, what with inflation and all. In 100-Million B.C. (I get tired of all the zeroes), time-travelers go so far back in the past that they cross the believable-barrier.
The premise is (I’m still saying nice things, aren’t I?) that shortly after World War II, a prodigy-science-kid invents a way to travel through time, and sends a group – including his older brother – back in time. Way back. Way, waaaaaaay back.
Oops! Equipment trouble, and they can’t return to the present. So, the prodigy-science-kid spends the next 60 years refining his invention to rescue his time-lost brother. A crack team of Navy Seals enters the machine and shoots back in time to find the previous party – who haven’t aged a bit.
In fact, the only thing about the WWII vets that ages is their clothing, and not in terms of wear. The wartime duds have somehow transformed into spaghetti-strap blouses (on the women) and other non-military wear, that have held up amazingly, despite having been worn every day of every year since the failed experiment sent them back. I won’t even mention the difference in women’s undergarments (visible in the movie) when comparing today with WWII, the stuff YOUR GRANDMOTHER WORE! Think about it. Thongs? That’s what your grandmother wore on her feet. You know, flip-flops. That’s right.
It never ceases to amaze me how much money can be thrown into a movie. I always wonder when watching movies like these, if the people involved believed they were creating high entertainment.
100,000,000 B.C. is fun, even if only for the slow-mo chuckles. It’s a laugh to watch the little computer-generated cave-people perform 30-foot vertical leaps to get to safety. (Did they think we wouldn’t notice?) And when the two women jump out of the hovering helicopter, couldn’t they find some pillows or mattresses and film a real jump? The little computer-characters look so much like Mario Bros. effects, you half expect to see a running game score total in the corner of the screen.
It is nice that there is work for Christopher Atkins (Blue Lagoon 1980) and Michael Gross (television’s dad to Michael J. Fox on Family Ties), and a training ground for special effects creators. The big dinosaurs are actually pretty well articulated. It’s just the little details that seemed to have slipped.
It may be in the year’s Top-10.
(Movies to freeze-frame and slow-motion.)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Record Time for Sleeping
Should I be embarrassed to admit I had to look up the name of the Olympic gold medalist, Michael Phelps? Apparently, he is everywhere but in my memory.
As a general rule, I don’t check the swimming results in the sports pages, and the Olympics – while an event that interested me in the past – for some reason didn’t have that same allure this go-round. In a shameless fit of backslapping during the pre-football programming, the announcer who called the races won by Phelps was given a tribute and highlights of ALL the medal races were shown.
That’s my supposition.
I bailed out after the third race or so. He was in the water, he was swimming fast, but we already knew he won. The announcer sounded excited, as I’m sure he was at the time.
So. Why am I thinking about Michael Phelps, anyway?
It isn’t so much him as it is the timing clocks of swimming events. They measure time in the thousands of a second. That’s .001 – one-thousandth of a SINGLE SECOND.
The original proposition was: What is the correct answer to the question, “Are you asleep?”
Naturally, the question is posed at sporting event decibels. The sleep-state is thereby ended. Officially. As a sleeper not inclined to practice the art at sporting events (the decibel level of the question, you remember…), I naturally wake up (un-naturally) at the very first breath of the very first syllable of the very first utterance.
My waking is in swimming-time.
And awaking in thousands of a SINGLE SECOND, means that the delightful REM moments are completely gone by the time the –A- is sounded in “Are” and long before the question is finished. In fact, it’s a full-eye opener for me by the time the little foot-extension on the letter A is sounded, the one on the left.
Her: Are you awake?
Me: Sure. I’ve just been laying here in the dark since you started that sentence.
Her: I just wanted to remind you that we have to get up early, so you’d better get some rest.
It’s lucky that I don’t have reactive military training, the sort that produces involuntary karate-kicks in a thousand of a SINGLE SECOND. I’d have to have Michael Phelps on stand-by to dive in between us - in gold-medal time - to keep us breaking the blessed silence instead of kneecaps.
Check out the bookstore:
http://mchustonbooks.com
As a general rule, I don’t check the swimming results in the sports pages, and the Olympics – while an event that interested me in the past – for some reason didn’t have that same allure this go-round. In a shameless fit of backslapping during the pre-football programming, the announcer who called the races won by Phelps was given a tribute and highlights of ALL the medal races were shown.
That’s my supposition.
I bailed out after the third race or so. He was in the water, he was swimming fast, but we already knew he won. The announcer sounded excited, as I’m sure he was at the time.
So. Why am I thinking about Michael Phelps, anyway?
It isn’t so much him as it is the timing clocks of swimming events. They measure time in the thousands of a second. That’s .001 – one-thousandth of a SINGLE SECOND.
The original proposition was: What is the correct answer to the question, “Are you asleep?”
Naturally, the question is posed at sporting event decibels. The sleep-state is thereby ended. Officially. As a sleeper not inclined to practice the art at sporting events (the decibel level of the question, you remember…), I naturally wake up (un-naturally) at the very first breath of the very first syllable of the very first utterance.
My waking is in swimming-time.
And awaking in thousands of a SINGLE SECOND, means that the delightful REM moments are completely gone by the time the –A- is sounded in “Are” and long before the question is finished. In fact, it’s a full-eye opener for me by the time the little foot-extension on the letter A is sounded, the one on the left.
Her: Are you awake?
Me: Sure. I’ve just been laying here in the dark since you started that sentence.
Her: I just wanted to remind you that we have to get up early, so you’d better get some rest.
It’s lucky that I don’t have reactive military training, the sort that produces involuntary karate-kicks in a thousand of a SINGLE SECOND. I’d have to have Michael Phelps on stand-by to dive in between us - in gold-medal time - to keep us breaking the blessed silence instead of kneecaps.
Check out the bookstore:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Sportscasters or Sportscastigators?
I'm not sure when or why it happened - but at some point in time, radio sportscasters got VERY angry. And not just angry. Anger is a momentary fit 0f passion. You get over it and move on.
Sportscasters don't move on, except to the next topic or phone call, bringing along the same cutting anger and mean-spiritedness that they laid on the previous subject or caller.
These aren't professional athletes who have taken up the microphone, either - although it can be argued that a good percentage of professional athletes could do just as good a job, without the attitude.
Who are these flame-throwing no-names that have such little patience with their participating audience members?
My stab at profiling: Played some sport at some level (Little League Baseball, High School Football, Collegiate Intramural), started in a small radio market or college station, has no degree or equivalent experience, but considers themselves a journalist. Under 35, most likely under thirty. Single or married more than once. Always correct in a disagreement, the other party is just stupid. Except for getting hired for the on-mike gig, no different than most sports fans in America, the very people being railed against.
Covering sports ought to be fun. Most sports are games, after all. It ought to be fun to listen to people talk about games.
The exception?
Dan Patrick. As far as I can tell, he is the only one on the radio that provides a consistent laugh, and can even laugh at himself. Fun to listen to, and often funny - but not in that ESPN-schtick comedian proving ground that Obermann and others developed.
He even sounds sincere, when answering (seemingly) every caller's first words - "How ya doing?"
"Doin' good," he answers.
He sure is.
Check out the books at:
http://mchustonbooks.com
McHuston's One Famous Name
http://onefamousname.blogspot.com
Sportscasters don't move on, except to the next topic or phone call, bringing along the same cutting anger and mean-spiritedness that they laid on the previous subject or caller.
These aren't professional athletes who have taken up the microphone, either - although it can be argued that a good percentage of professional athletes could do just as good a job, without the attitude.
Who are these flame-throwing no-names that have such little patience with their participating audience members?
My stab at profiling: Played some sport at some level (Little League Baseball, High School Football, Collegiate Intramural), started in a small radio market or college station, has no degree or equivalent experience, but considers themselves a journalist. Under 35, most likely under thirty. Single or married more than once. Always correct in a disagreement, the other party is just stupid. Except for getting hired for the on-mike gig, no different than most sports fans in America, the very people being railed against.
Covering sports ought to be fun. Most sports are games, after all. It ought to be fun to listen to people talk about games.
The exception?
Dan Patrick. As far as I can tell, he is the only one on the radio that provides a consistent laugh, and can even laugh at himself. Fun to listen to, and often funny - but not in that ESPN-schtick comedian proving ground that Obermann and others developed.
He even sounds sincere, when answering (seemingly) every caller's first words - "How ya doing?"
"Doin' good," he answers.
He sure is.
Check out the books at:
http://mchustonbooks.com
McHuston's One Famous Name
http://onefamousname.blogspot.com
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The New Clichés
Can it be cliché if it is new?
Decidedly, yes.
Overuse doesn’t take centuries, just listen to the television or radio, then get your head around this…
Get your head around?
I’m sure you’ve been prodded to manipulate your anatomy in this fashion, or have been asked to wrap your head around it. It’s usually described as being hard to do.
Interviewer: “So, you ate 42 hot dogs in six minutes?”
Contest winner: “Yup. I know that’s hard to get your head around, but I done it.”
Interviewer: “Even harder to get my mouth around…but hey! Whatever works!”
We’ll have more on that story in a moment, but first – to Trisblikistan, where we have a reporter on the ground with a group of insurgents.
WHAT?
Where else would the reporter be? Hovering at shoulder-height? Suddenly, everybody is on the ground – even if they are reporting from atop an aircraft carrier miles from the nearest topsoil.
Don’t get me started on the sports clichés – I’d be too quick to take it to the house.
Check out the books at:
http://mchustonbooks.com
McHuston's One Famous Name
http://onefamousname.blogspot.com
Decidedly, yes.
Overuse doesn’t take centuries, just listen to the television or radio, then get your head around this…
Get your head around?
I’m sure you’ve been prodded to manipulate your anatomy in this fashion, or have been asked to wrap your head around it. It’s usually described as being hard to do.
Interviewer: “So, you ate 42 hot dogs in six minutes?”
Contest winner: “Yup. I know that’s hard to get your head around, but I done it.”
Interviewer: “Even harder to get my mouth around…but hey! Whatever works!”
We’ll have more on that story in a moment, but first – to Trisblikistan, where we have a reporter on the ground with a group of insurgents.
WHAT?
Where else would the reporter be? Hovering at shoulder-height? Suddenly, everybody is on the ground – even if they are reporting from atop an aircraft carrier miles from the nearest topsoil.
Don’t get me started on the sports clichés – I’d be too quick to take it to the house.
Check out the books at:
http://mchustonbooks.com
McHuston's One Famous Name
http://onefamousname.blogspot.com
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