all the girls standing in the line for the bathroom

This media blow rolls both classy and street:

The Pacific and Other Stories: I read Mark Helprin’s Memoir from Antproof Case at least a decade ago. At the time it struck me as a clever and entertaining, if somewhat twee, story. The short fiction collected here all hits one of those same three notes. He writes very well - lush descriptions, uniquely chosen metaphors, a certain dry wit - but you could make a Mark Helprin story by selecting any three of the following at random:

• A European seaside town;
  
• Orthodox Judaism;
  
• A mawkish fondness for older things;
  
• A man tentatively entranced by a woman, not necessarily beautiful but fine in poise and character;
  
• Opulent wealth;
  
• The War;
  
• Men older than fifty

That being said, “Monday,” “Perfection” and “A Brilliant Idea and His Own” justify the price tag by themselves. Only one of the stories - “Jacob Bayer and the Telephone” - made me cringe, and it made me laugh a few pages earlier. Elevating beach reading, I’d call it.

Seeing Sounds: Damn! Why did nobody tell me about these guys before? As Melissa mentioned on Sunday, the album sounds a bit overproduced - maybe one less layer on the final recording session would make it perfect. Still, I can’t imagine better background music for a hep party full of socially tight people.

Best New American Voices 2007: Editors Sue Miller, John Kulka and Natalie Danford select their favorites from the nation’s writing workshops. My most common reaction: “hey - I could do this!”

Battlestar Galactica: Oh, man.

First off, my few moments of dissatisfaction:

I hate prophecy as a trope in genre fiction. It infuriates me. Ever since some obscure Jewish sect in a Roman province decided they could misread Isaiah and tout their own bearded hippie as the son of a virgin, it’s been fair game to nit-pick over metaphors and claim they foretold the future. And I have yet to see a piece of fiction made better by some overly literal prediction.

“I am the Witch-King of Angmar! No man can kill me!” I don’t mind a female having a strong role in a Tolkien novel - for once - but the tedious literalism that it takes to give her the spotlight grates my teeth.

“No man of woman born can slay you, Macbeth!” Great. So let’s stretch our imaginations to think of all the ways a person could be alive without being literally born of a woman. Posthumous C-section? Perfect.

Argh! I hate that shit. I hate writers who pass off vagueness as cleverness. I cannot stand it. Everything the idea touches suffers for it.

That being said:

this night is winding down but time means nothing

This media blow has survived the allergy season.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: I caught a few minutes of the movie on TV while eating dinner. Man, did this age poorly. You’ve got wisecracking turtles whose jokes would make Huckleberry Hound roll his eyes. They manage to emote better, even with faces made of literal rubber, than most of their human co-stars. They pit their ninja skills against the Foot Clan, a multi-ethnic gang of high school dropouts and carjackers who live in a subterranean arcade / casino / dojo that’s marginally cleaner than the Good Times Emporium in Somerville, MA. I’m not sure about Shredder’s plan, as the skill sets for “effective martial artist” and “kid too dumb for New York public schools” don’t have a lot of overlap. Were the ninjas the slackers of shogun-era Japan? Did the petulant sons of noble landowners, when asked for the nth time when they’d get off their asses and start bringing home the koku, say, “well, maybe I’ll just become a ninja! d’you ever think of that? I’ve got a lot of projects going on right now.”

As much grief as I give this movie, the full-body Turtle suits hold up remarkably well. They look like they belong in the world they inhabit, as opposed to the glossy slickness of even the grittiest CGI. They’re flexible enough to allow for some mild acrobatics - no Jackie Chan, perhaps, but Leonardo throws a faster punch than David Hasselhoff ever did. And I’ll bet, even adjusting for inflation, it cost less to animate their facial expressions than it would to create a comparable motion-capture in a 2008 film. And yet we still suffer through phony CGI Hulks and Things and Ant-Men and what not.

Also: in one scene, the lieutenant of the Foot Clan actually orders a retreat by yelling “ninja vanish!” Respect.

We Are Scientists: I really, really liked their debut album because of its frenetic garage-punk energy. For whatever reason, they abandoned that sound for their sophomore effort - Brain Thrust Mastery, which sounds dirty if said in any other order - and I’m not sure I like it as much. They go for a bit more of a Killers motif, but with less of the pomp and fanfare. Don’t expect anything to get you out of your seat the way “Callbacks” or “It’s A Hit” or “Cash Cow” did. Still - not bad.

Battlestar Galactica: Man, did this last episode - “Sine Qua Non” - disappoint me. The writers could have excised the Romo Lampkin subplot entirely. Seriously: what function does he fulfill that the Quorum could not have managed themselves? On the other hand, certain scenes - like a long awaited dust-up between the two old men - went over very well in the Coldheart household. I’m not writing the season off yet on the strength of one uneven episode, but I hope the staff has some real kickers in store when we get back to the Cylon base ship.

To close us out, here’s Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal,” set to the Fred Astaire film that inspired it - 1953’s The Band Wagon. If you like either Jacko or Astaire, take seven and a half minutes and watch it:

there’s no one in here but the fighters

This weekend media blow drew the black marble:

Battlestar Galactica: I have been greatly impressed by the depth of writing this season. You can always count on BSG to throw in plot twists and sudden traumatic developments. That doesn’t take much in the way of skill. But the last couple of episodes - particularly “Escape Velocity” and “Faith” - have really floored me. Little details, like the offhand mention of the “Mithras cult” in the former or the understated symbolism with Anders in the latter, show me that the writers know what they’re doing.

The Office: Back up to speed in a strong way. I’m pretty happy with them. “… and then you said, Pam, Pam, Pam, and then you sneezed in my tea, but you said not to worry because it was just allergies.”

30 Rock: I think the shortened season hurt these guys more than anyone else I watch regularly. The last few episodes I saw seemed rushed and heavy on exposition. The penultimate episode - with the mystery sandwich shop, and Floyd’s random visits - felt so weak I worried that I’d recorded the wrong show. But the season finale won me over again. “There’s not actually a leak. We’ve done a study.”

Redbelt: So a David Mamet movie about jiu-jitsu instructors draws me in like black tar heroin, and I fulfilled my obligation this weekend. As with all Mamet movies, you get the impression that the intricately constructed ride would fall apart if it went off-road: one plot twist too many. Also, as usual, the lone women in this script must pay for the sins of their entire race in Mamet’s eyes, leaving only the steadfast men to defend principles, yadda yadda. That being acknowledged, Redbelt still shines better than any other movie you’ll see about martial arts, sports or Hollywood this year.

Mike Terry (Chiwetel Ejiofor) owns a small jiu-jitsu dojo in southern Los Angeles. A chance encounter in a bar results in him saving the life of drunken action movie star Chet Frank (Tim Allen). This earns him an invitation into the world of high-budget movie production. The movie parallels the glamorous world of mixed martial arts tournaments - a world from which Terry deliberately abstains, despite much enticement - and the quiet tradition of self-defense, exemplified in Terry’s instruction of the timid and high-strung Laura (Emily Mortimer).

I may discuss some spoilers for all of the above in the comments, so: proceed with caution.

though you’re dead and gone believe me, your memory will carry on

After work on Friday I met up with Rachel, RJ, Colby, Jason and Jess, Mark and his boy Ben and some other folks in Davis Square. I ate a hot dog while the rest of them slurped down ice cream.

Colby: Have you eaten six hot dogs?
Me: In my lifetime, or …
Colby: For the contest. If you eat six hot dogs in 90 minutes you get your picture on the wall.
Me: I think I’d like the five years that’ll take off my life, so … no.
RJ: You could just wait until winter then go into hibernation.
Jason: We should enter a grizzly bear in the contest. Man, that’d be awesome.
Me: ‘Um, excuse me sir, I hate to be rude but my manager’s making me ask. You’re not, um, a bear, are you?’
Bear: GRROOOOOAAR!
Me: ‘Right, right, okay.’

Eventually, Mark and Ben left to make out, Colby and his friends retreated to his house to prep for Battlestar Galactica, and Jason and Jess went back to eat salad. That left Rachel, RJ and me at a park table in Davis Square.

Rachel: It feels good to be in the majority again.
Me: Do you mean ’straight people’ or ‘white people’?
RJ: Hey!
Rachel: Both?
Me: Or tall people?
Rachel: No, I wouldn’t - hold on, YES, them too.
RJ: Not that I have anything against straight people - some of my best friends are straight - but they can be a little much sometimes, you know?
Me: Oh yeah. A little flamboyant.
Rachel: I just wish they’d keep it to themselves.

We got bored with each other’s company, so we went to Jason and Jess’s house to play Smash Bros on the Wii. I took a while to adapt to the Wii controls - beating RJ twice in a straight-up fight but losing about ten consecutive matches of 4-for-all. N.B.: playing as Solid Snake is not as cool as it sounds.

We then tromped across the street to Colby’s to watch Battlestar Galactica. Despite nearly getting smacked by Colby …

Colby: Don’t shush me in my own house.
Me: Shh!

… we all cowered around his big screen in sugar-induced terror and watched the last human fleet of Caprica continue to deteriorate. Oh, man.