Yeah, Kinda Like That

 

It seems that the ex's have finally caught up with each other and I'm in the sh*t.

That makes it the perfect moment for you to avert your eyes to this blog. Yeah, klicken-sie on the linkin-see?

Is That All There Is?

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It's Ain't Easy

This was written in response to something typically vile from the mother of my child after I made sure to ask her whether I could have the kid stay over a Monday since I was being robbed of Easter with her yet again, probably the last one, too, an important and traditional holiday for my now-dead mother and a point of rememberance for a time where we would go to my mother's tiny apartment in Brooklyn, where she lived with my saintly Polish cousin, gather around the table and eat good Polish food, and just enjoy, herein redacted to protect the innocent:

(She's) not under my control now. I can only encourage her, help her and try to motivate her.  I let her know that I follow the rules and that that she should follow the rules. I also let her know that people that don't follow the rules are potentially dangerous to themselves, certainly not trustworthy, and, if possible, should be avoided as immediately as she is able, with as much distance as is possible.

I will be telling her what to do as long as she listens and as long as I have an opinion from which I think she can benefit. I'm only afraid that she won't keep her own sound counsel and thereafter make good choices. I fear her good nature will fool her into trusting those who should not be trusted and who will waste her time, energy and emotion for their own nefarious purposes. The world can be a very nasty place, even for the well-initiated and the price to be paid by the meek is great. What's worse is that for every person who lacks unreasonable circumspection because, after all, why should they come to harm, especially from someone they should ostensibly trust, there is a skilled hunter waiting to make them their own. These denizens are efficient because they are absent remorse - there's no hesitation in subsuming the victim, no pause, no mercy. Yet, I believe it's better to be the meal rather than suffer without a soul.

So am I worried about losing "control" over (her)? Let's see - I don't hunt her down by phone or text except when I am concerned about her and when I do get her, I'm mindful of the fact that she may be involved in something else and I don't utterly demand her attention at that moment - I let her be. I don't pry into her private conversations with others or try to deconstruct her relationships. I protect her privacy and I encourage her to be self-aware. I also encourage her to be active with people on a one-to-one basis and to make choices. If these actions were inverted, THEN my motives would be suspect.

I miss (her) every day. But, it's part of life. Parents are only a launching pad. But as such, I intend to keep trying to be the best at it I can be, because that's my kid and my responsibility is to help her hopes materialize, no matter what. And that's one way I can stay just a little bit closer, but not too close, behind her, but further and further back, ready to catch her if she starts to fall and needs a hand. Even if that's my only job, that'll be enough for me.

Slobidarity, Yes

During a time where the middle class is just about at the midpoint of its disappearing act, one would think that there should be a grass-roots revolt by the oppressed merchant and proletariat classes, but no. The Tea Party, or Tea Baggers, as Bill Maher likes to call them, inexplicably employ sufficient leverage to scare the centre even out of John Boehner. And that rightward momentum of the movement itself flies in the face of logic: middle-class, middle-aged  people facing effectively stagnant income, reduced benefits they either need now or will need at retirement or when they get sick busily campaigning against their own interests.

One would think it's the perfect time for unions to step in and up the ante and not just with the occasional display of a giant inflatable rat. And if the unions are worried about small-shop viability, there's no shortage of bedraggled, disenfranchised workers out there. Wal-Mart alone employees 2.1 million people across the globe.

So, say you want to start a union at your place of work. The logical first step would be to find out a bit of general information about unions and how they can help in the process. Of course, you'd want to limit your exposure in getting "caught," and what better way than making semi-anonymous contact by e-mail?

I tried it. The result in the the screen capture above. And this was through the national AFL-CIO / Teamsters site. I followed up with a call, which referred me to someone else, who gave me the number of a local organizer, who's number was disconnected. So, in the solemn quest to find out whether I could organize my imaginary workplace, I exposed my theoretically soon-to-be unemployed underbelly to quite a few people, something a real and frightened worker would probably not do.

My mother was a union worker only because she couldn't work without it. The story of the growth of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union has its roots in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire which recently celebrated its 100th anniversary. Into the mid-50's and into the very early 70's, the unions saw the great arc of their cumulative success begin a long march into the sea until today, where they seem less than relevant, since the shift of American business has been to non-smokestack industries and so many "traditional" jobs have simply gone away, either overseas or as victim of technology or forced efficiency.

With all of this motivation, history and new opportunity, the unions, like the left in general, cower and shirk, still, apparently, not ready for prime-time. Oh, well. Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Really?

 

Spring arrives but winter carries a grudge.

Hothothothothothot. HOT!

The main thing I learned from my current encounter with Maruchan Roast Chicken Flavour Instant Lunch is that Styrofoam and pseudo-ramen noodles make EXCELLENT insulating material. Flippin' ow. I mean, geez. Damn.

Not Very

It's always a disappointment to see well-respected actors try to fill out a vapid script as they push the edges out only to have their performance diluted by heavy-handed, uneven direction. One might not be sure where to lay the blame when unknowns are involved, but in the case of 2009's It's Complicated, it's certain that none of the leads can be held to fault, so the viewer's excoriation can only be turned to the director and screenwriter who, in this annoying effort, clearly deserves a cinematic bitch-slapping.

It's Complicated stars three veterans, Meryl Streep, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin and is written and directed by Nancy Myers, who also wrote and directed The Holiday, Something's Gotta Give and who directed and wrote the screenplay of 1998's The Parent Trap starring the not-yet-voluptuous and still-sober Lindsay Lohan. Myer's rom-com cred can be traced back through Father of the Bride and Father of the Bride II, both ostensibly starring Steve Martin, all the way back to 1980's ubercute Private Benjamin, which she wrote. So, with her last few movies, she's wrested more complete control over the finished product and in the case of It's Complicated, that's not a good thing.

The movie opens with an establishing aerial shot of the gloriously beautiful California coast near exclusive and well-monied Santa Barbara and as the titles roll, land at an event celebrating the college graduation of one of the character's kids. Surprising is Steve Martin's second billing against Streep, though the viewer will shortly find that his character, that of architect Adam, is more minor in terms of spoken lines or appearances in scenes through the movie than third-billed Alec Baldwin, the putative lead of Jake Adler, successful attorney, versus Streep's pastry-happy Jane Adler. Focus is quickly drawn to Jake and Jane champagne-toasting their long-time friends on their assumed successful thirty years of marriage. The impression is that one married pair is celebrating another and they do make a likely couple, but the appearance of Agness, bitchily played by Lake Bell, and Jane's ha-ha double take of Agness' perfect abs as she waltzes toward the camera in slo-mo, very oddly dressed for the occasion, is the first of many WTF eye-rolls to come. Oh, we get it - Jake and Jane aren't together after all as it turns out that the much younger Agness is barrel-shaped Jake's trophy. Sigh.

Nevertheless, for reasons both boring and inane, Jake and Jane hook up, reigniting a flame that perhaps never quite went out. Why? Insert minor dramatic tension here - okay, moving on. That's right: without even seeing the movie, whatever the reader of this review cares to sketch out in his or her mind is what comes to pass, together with baby-boomer pot smoking, minor health scares of the aged and revelations thereto that are just, plain sad and scrumptiously flabby but fabulous tumbles in the sack.

Perhaps it could be said that Nancy Myers has a brand to offer and is a known quantity at the box office so that, when liberally mixed with indubitably A-list talent, a hit of sorts is in the offing, bankable and guaranteed to be undisturbing to casual, middle-aged holiday moviegoers. It doesn't seem that this demographic is tired of the well-worn hat she's served up, either. With an incredible $85 million budget, this movie, as it really shouldn't be called "film," grossed $112 million domestically by the time is closed in theatres after Easter 2010. Don't worry, though, since foreign ticket sales more than made up for the domestic close-call, topping the take at $219 million. Her prior flick, The Holiday, actually lost money on the home front, possibly disappointing the older set by featuring the not-yet-mid-life ensemble cast of Jude Law, Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet and a surprising turn by Jack Black, grossing only a tad over $63 million against another hard-to-believe budget of $85 million, and again making up the difference worldwide. The guess should be that the top-line box-office Dysons she ropes in are the biggest "above the line" part of her non-CGI budgets and this helps make bank on an otherwise tired-and-true formula, hence, Hollywood, or rather, Tokyo, opens the checkbook. Domo arigato.

One of the problems with It's Complicated is that it's insulting. It assumes its audience is interested in the juvenile machinations of its ultra-rich and highly whiny lead characters who, at their ripe old age, haven't yet figured stuff out for themselves though they display great success in the professional and parenting aspects of their lives. It's a falsehood that grates especially because such people in real life have the resources to force a difference, they know it and know full well how to accomplish whatever the heck they want. Let's see - Baldwin's character Jake is a lawyer, apparently wealthy (what lawyer isn't, especially in California, right?), Streep's Jane is the hands-on owner of a tremendously-sized, super upscale Starbucks-style bake shop, doling out hundred of gallons of over-priced lattes per hour to an endless stream of Polo- and Prada-wearing white people, whose lives are already so sweet that she admonishes, in the scene that establishes her massive success as the Lady Barista of the hills or the valley or wherever they are, one of her many bakers  to take a tray of brioche back because there's "too much sugar." Break, please? Using details like this to instantly define a character is most definitely phoning it in on the part of the script. Finally, poor, poor Architect Adam relies on self-help tapes to re-centre his feelings of loss toward his ex-wife who might have, probably, possibly left him because she was a "ho." Or because he was 2% when her coffee called for cream. Whatever, wimp.

In the end, there's no real explanation why Martin's character is such a cuckolded milquetoast or why Baldwin is such a sorry, flabby character or even why Streep is so conflicted. So, Myers thoughtfully inserts a scene in which Streep explains to her three very grown, red-eye-rimmed kids, all huddled together on a bed in their literally palatial house, why she got her Mojo tuned with old, fat, Flomax-suckin' Dad. Who is actually a loser. Who we should pity. But he's you're Dad, so he must be absent from this conversation. And these grown children, who are apparently still getting over a fifteen year-old divorce, where both parents parted amicably with loads of cash left behind and Ivy League educations and Priuses for all, are so hurt and fearful that their parents might again come together that they come apart. It's disturbing to imagine that these could possibly be real people. Let's hope not. Instead, let's be irritated by the notion that the director and script would have us believe that it is so.

Which brings this film to the concept that's critical to the success of a movie - suspension of disbelief. The characters fail to bring us there. For instance, successful lawyers don't have oodles of time to rattle around hotel rooms and fertility clinics. They are billing hours, meeting with clients, running meetings and possibly even litigating, if they're senior partners which, in the absence of anything more concrete about Jake-as-lawyer, we must assume he is. Ultimately, he's dimensionless and unbelievable because of it. Again, Baldwin is only reading what weak lines he's got and cashing the check at the end of it. Adam is an architect, and must be at least somewhat successful at it because he's an old guy and is still doing it. It's a tough business, the building trades, and being an all-around pussy will kill your career there for sure. And Adam is such a complete wimp, even more so than Jake. Clearly, Jane is attracted to wimpy guys, right? Sorry, it's not enough. Why does she choose a weak man with whom once before she's had a catastrophic relationship demise? Loneliness? The need for closure? Boredom? Revenge? Is Jane really the archetypal rich divorcee, shunned by husband of late, very late in this case, for the favours of snap-bottom recent grad student? Unfortunately, it's all explained very  neatly between Jane's coffee klatches with her lady-buds and a session with her therapist, who, I might add, is the only believable character I could find in an eye-roll filled hour and fifty-eight minutes of purely saccharine meanderings.

I'm neither an enemy nor a friend of the proverbial chick-flick. If a movie is good, I'll enjoy it. I might enjoy it even if it's middling if there's some particular appeal on any level, something subjectively particular to my taste or if it manages to disperse the ennui of the moment. But nearly two hours of mildly slapstick, upper-middle-class post-midlife angst in the land of climate so perfect that the hills bloom green all year 'round left me squirming, with sore eyeballs and wishing that these elitist, wishy-washy characters would just "snap out of it," as Loretta says to Ronny in Moonstruck. It's not complicated at all, which is at the core of what makes this film so terrible. It's impossible to feel empathy for people with perfect lives that purposely run off the path and when they do, not much happens. There's no great loss, no change, no real tension and not much learned. It's Complicated? Not very.