Wait, Tron is a dude???

No, not The Dude. That’s Kevin Flynn, aka Jeff Bridges, aka this guy:

No, I’m talking about Tron, aka Bruce Boxleitner, aka this guy:

[SPOILERS ahead – be warned!]

I saw the original Tron only very recently for the first time, even though it was a name and property that I’ve known for as long as I can remember. That futuristic name, Tron, conjured images of light-cycles, of course, trailed by glowing colored lines. But I had never had even an abridged viewing of the movie, and when I finally watched it, I remember being shocked at finding out that Tron was a character. I had always thought it signified a place (Tron World) or an idea (computer consciousness?). But what a character he turned out to be!

Despite the title, Tron is not really the story of Tron the character. Tron is told through the perspective of the bumbling sidekick, Kevin Flynn, rather than that of the archetypal hero, Tron. I guess they named the movie Tron because it was the cooler name. I mean, they couldn’t very well have called the movie, Kevin.

Most of the movie had me wondering, “What the hell is this?” Not with an ironic smile, but with an uncomfortable grimace. The electric palette, the unfocused narrative, the way the Recognizer ships looked like pieces of paper floating through a stage from Zaxxon – it honestly made me wonder why this movie gained such a cult following and even mainstream name recognition over the past three decades, when other similarly bad, youth-friendly, video-game-oriented movies from the era, say, Cloak and Dagger or Wargames (both starring Dabney Coleman, by the way, though I only watched the first one . . . many times), languish in obscurity. Was it the signature look? Was it the light cycles? Or was it the fact that Bruce Boxleitner could kick Dabney Coleman’s hindquarters any day of the week, and twice on Sundays, mustache be damned?

To me, the best thing about Tron the property is Tron the character. He’s a brave warrior, a straight shooter with a soft spot for his lady, and a true believer in his cause and the Users. The gravity that Boxleitner brings to the role stands in stark contrast to the corny performances by the rest of the actors and the slapdash feel of the entire production. Tron, who “fights for the Users,” also seems to fight for the dignity of the movie, and very nearly has you believing that the movie walks a fine line between awful and awesome (it doesn’t, falling sadly on the side of the former).

The irony is that this landmark property’s namesake is a relatively uncelebrated actor. Think of any iconic title character, and you’ll usually find a legendary star in the role.

Judah Ben-Hur. Well that’s Charlton Heston, of course.

Citizen Kane. That’s the majestic Orson “Unicron” Welles.

Rocky. Sly Stallone.

Rambo. Ditto.

Tron. . . . Bruce Boxleitner? Who’s Bruce Boxleitner?

If you don’t know Tron, perhaps you know Bruce Boxleitner as the star of Scarecrow and Mrs. King, a mid-80s television series that I never watched, but had at least heard of. To my grade-school, daycare mind, it seemed to inhabit the same grandmotherly china cabinet as Murder, She Wrote and St. Elsewhere (no, I never took those china plates out of the cabinet either). He was a celebrity at just about eye level with Hollywood Squares or, more recently, Dancing with the Stars. Like Morgan Fairchild or Suzanne Pleshette, you’ve probably heard the name, but you wouldn’t know the career.

Having starred in Tron, Scarecrow and Mrs. King, and Babylon 5 (never saw that either), I don’t think anyone could say he hasn’t had a respectable career. But I’m sure it’s been a long time since Mr. Boxleitner’s phone rang with any plum roles. For God’s sake, he starred in 2009’s direct-to-video Transmorphers: Fall of Man. Mercifully, I’ve never seen this “film,” but not only is it of the breed of notoriously cheesy and exploitative mockbusters (of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, itself a disgrace of a movie), but it is also the second Transmorphers movie, following a first movie that had zero recognizable names! For Bruce Boxleitner to fall this far, even considering the modest heights of his career, is disheartening, and there should have been no indication that he would have any future in Hollywood’s limelight ever again.

And so it amuses me to imagine how he would have reacted to the call telling him that they were going to revive Tron, and they wanted him back. “Me? Play Tron again? But I don’t know if I’ll still fit in that suit.” Much hay has been made in the media of the CG used to create the younger Jeff Bridges (clearly the much bigger star and centerpiece of both this and the first movie), but I suspect the same tech was used to portray Tron in flashbacks, making Boxleitner look like a young man again. Whatever the technique, I found it much more convincing, and certainly much more touching to see Tron back again, still young, still heroic, but without the hockey helmet, and sporting a stylish haircut.

I’m glad that Tron creator Stephen Lisberger’s unprecedented vision has finally met the technological muscle to make it look as beautiful as it did in his mind. I don’t know how people, both critics and audience members, thought the movie looked good even in 1982, just as I’m not sure why some people today think that the CG “young Kevin Flynn” looks realistic, rather than what it really is, which is a creepy monstrosity.

I’m exceedingly glad that I saw the original Tron before seeing Tron: Legacy, because I don’t think I could have appreciated the sequel nearly as much without being at least somewhat attached to the first film.

And finally, in token of my admiration for Bruce Boxleitner, despite his dozens upon dozens of roles I’ve never seen and never will see, let’s hear it for Tron himself, perhaps the noblest hero in movie-dom.

Boy Stuff

A female friend of mine was asking for movie recommendations recently, and I suggested Star Trek, director J.J. Abrams’s 2009 reboot of the legendary but flagging franchise. She promptly scoffed, “That’s boy stuff.”

Boy stuff? Now hold the mascara there, sugarlips, and don’t get your panties all in a bunch. I mean, I didn’t know we still lived in a society where science fiction was treated as strictly the domain of the penis-bearing half of our species. Why, then, did women watch Avatar or Back to the Future or Lost? Perhaps, then, it’s the “spaceships and lasers” subgenre of sci-fi that must toil under the perception of offering nothing to the female mind or heart.

Now, I am aware that boys and girls are different and have different sensibilities. I am aware that you give pink blankets to newborn girls and blue blankets to newborn boys. I am aware that said newborn boys are heralded by the sharing of cigars, whereas you greet the birth of a girl by distributing Virginia Slims. And I am aware that if you give your son Barbies to play with when he’s a toddler, then you should be locked up in Gitmo, and he will most assuredly grow up to become a headline to be ripped for a “very special episode” of Law and Order: SVU (preferably guest starring Henry Ian Cusick as the pedo). But even acknowledging all this, shouldn’t a good movie be accessible to both (all?) sexes, regardless of genre or content?

Granted, this “boy stuff” statement was uttered by one person, but I’ve known many women in my day (“known” in the normal sense of the word*), and by and large, they share a similarly dim view of space operas. You love Captain Jack Sparrow, but you don’t love Ferengi scoundrels or organ harvesters in space. What gives?

Frankly, my dears, you make me sad. Put me on the flip side of this scenario, and I would be more just. In fact, as much as space-blazing is calculated to appeal to young men, there is a genre that just as narrowly caters to young (and old?) women: the romantic comedy. And I can honestly say that I’ve seen good rom-coms and I’ve seen dreadful ones. But I don’t dismiss the genre outright, and, unless the example in question stars Jennifer Aniston, I’ve never said, “Oh, it’s a romantic comedy? I don’t want to watch that. That’s GIRL STUFF.” (Cue armpit farting and, I don’t know, real farting?)

Maybe the problem with much space sci-fi is that it’s too testosteronerous (and the romantic subplots that often get shoehorned into those movies seem too much like a pandering, calculated attempt to draw in a desirable but hardly necessary female audience). But by this reasoning, would women not enjoy Moby-Dick either, a book almost devoid of the fairer sex, and obscenely preoccupied by an epically, nay, Biblically(!) phallic whale?

But perhaps the problem with lesser romantic comedies is that they’re too lady-centric. They view the world through a heroine’s eyes, to pull exclusively on distaff heartstrings. I think any work of art that eschews general humanism in favor of baiting one sex or another with lazy bromides will find itself disagreeable to those of us, men and women, who are looking for something genuinely moving.

As for me, I prefer both science fiction and romantic comedies that represent the human face of hope, struggle, longing, joy. Maybe a dash of angst.

Oh, who am I kidding? Let’s get back to the grand old tradition of male charm, female coquetry, and romance from a man’s point of view.
______

*Drum roll, cymbal crash, and joke credit go to Professor Peter Dembowski of the University of Chicago.

Star Trek: The Underappreciated Motion Picture

I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but it being Thanksgiving and all, I wanted to give thanks for Star Trek: The Motion Picture, truly an underappreciated masterpiece. It is a far better film than the laughably overrated 2001: A Space Odyssey, with which it shares the esteemed “special photographic effects director,” Douglas Trumbull. It is better even than Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, the proverbial “best” Star Trek film.

But let’s set aside for the moment questions of what is better than what (as these can only be addressed here by morbid opinions). Having recently watched this now 30-year-old film for the first time, I’m far more interested in talking about what I think the filmmakers were intending, and why this film stands in such stark contrast to the rest of the Star Trek oeuvre (and consequently, why it tends to suffer in comparison).

Having been told by various sources that the first Star Trek movie was utter codswallop and not worthy of its successors, I could only think it’s no wonder the movie has been forgotten by most, and summarily dismissed by those unlucky few who remember it. But as a lifelong Star Trek fan, I figured I owed it to myself to watch the one Star Trek film I had missed entirely.

What I saw charmed me with its familiarity, but even more so, it shocked me with a vision of Star Trek that differed from almost every other rendition I had seen – in tone, in pacing, in aesthetics, Star Trek: TMP paints with an entirely different palette, a different set of brushes. Star Trek, in its various incarnations, is sometimes as exquisitely detailed as a Fabergé egg, sometimes as imposing as Picasso’s Guernica. TMP is like a fresco or a tapestry; that is to say, very old-looking, but also vast and ambitious.

This is a movie made in the old Hollywood style, but just at the moment that the new style, ushered in by Star Wars and the 70s auteurs, was becoming dominant, and in fact, making the old style look “old.” I imagine there were intense labor pains as this picture struggled to get born, as it simultaneously tried to look as technologically advanced as Star Wars, but was consciously harkening back to a filmmaking vocabulary more reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia. (Star Wars itself was in some ways a throwback, but with far more action and whimsy than the brooding TMP).

How old-school is this movie? When I popped in the DVD and hit “Play,” I and my fellow viewers were greeted with a star field and the ambient strains of a wistful version of the Star Trek theme. As this near-blank screen dragged on for about a minute, I wondered if the DVD had glitched, since nothing was happening. I finally hit the forward button and the DVD seemed to reach an actual scene, and from that point, all seemed well. Only later on, after I had watched the entire film and gone back to review various scenes for this article did I realize that the star field was the “Overture” to the movie, a three-minute overture, to boot. Following this was a “Main Title” sequence, which I had also unwittingly skipped, consisting of a more amped-up version of the title theme accompanying the opening credits. I had managed to skip the first two segments of the movie without even realizing it (and in so doing, shaved about five minutes off the run time). I can’t imagine this sort of opening playing well to today’s impatient audiences, and even in 1980, this must have seemed old-fashioned. The only surprise now was that there was no intermission.

Of course, this was a calculated blast from the past; just look at the director they chose. Robert Wise had proven his sci-fi chops with The Day the Earth Stood Still, a well-known though poorly remembered film from 1951 (tragically remade in 2008 with Keanu Reeves in a suit borrowed from Men in Black and a personality borrowed from, well, any of his other characters . . . sorry, was that too easy?). At the height of his career, Wise helmed such epic entertainments as The Sound of Music and West Side Story. His first directorial efforts were cheesy horror flicks. And before any of this, he was the editor of a little movie called Citizen Kane, and worked with Orson Welles again on The Magnificent Ambersons.

Star Trek: TMP shows a little bit of all these influences – the message-based science fiction, the ominous tone of the horror milieu, the grand panoramas and centrality of music in telling the story. It does, perhaps, show its distance from the economical Wellesian style, but Wise learned his craft well, and there is nothing sloppy about the way TMP is put together.

Not much needs to be said about the actors and their iconic characters. They are and always have been pitch-perfect in their roles. But in this film, you see what a Star Trek movie is like when the characters are put in the service of a story, rather than having the story revolve around their large personalities. The movie seems to acknowledge the legendary quality of these characters – Kirk usurping the captaincy of the Enterprise, to the great pleasure of his adoring crew, Spock arriving on board like a Roman statue – and then carries them almost like passengers along an adventure that ultimately allows them little agency over how things play out.

For me, it was one particular scene, perhaps the most controversial scene in the movie, that made me appreciate the complicated soul of this film – the unveiling of the new starship Enterprise. This enormously important and impossibly lengthy scene, set to Jerry Goldsmith’s glorious music, is the first time that both the viewers and the characters in the movie see the Enterprise in all her beauty and immensity. Standing seemingly at Kirk’s shoulder, we move at a glacial pace across dry dock, gazing languorously at the USS Enterprise, an achingly detailed scale model shot to look as big as the galaxy. Lingering fetish shots of the starship alternate with glances at Kirk and Scotty in their puny shuttle, and after lord knows how many cuts back and forth, the two men look like they don’t know how else to play to the camera. About seven minutes later, we finally complete our zero-gravity pilgrimage, and Kirk and Scotty exchange a priceless look, thoroughly bemused, as if they were watching a Vulcan who couldn’t comprehend “Row, row, row your boat.”

Even for a patient chap like me, this was a bit much, and without Goldsmith’s score to anchor this scene, it would have been unbearable. But I think of it this way. This is the very first time anyone had ever seen the Enterprise on the big screen, with big budget technology to bring it to life. Anyone who has ever seen the original Star Trek TV series, especially from this many decades away, knows how hopelessly lame the special effects were on that show, and especially the plastic toy that was the Enterprise. I have no doubt that Gene Roddenberry and Robert Wise wanted the big reveal of the Enterprise to be a defining moment of this movie, a chance for all those fans who had waited so many years for this movie to get to see the Enterprise exactly the way they always wanted it to look – huge, gorgeous, shiny and glowing, covered with twinkling lights, branded with house-sized letters, a real vessel that real future people could board, a ship worthy of a beloved crew, a monument to the ingenuity of the human race and to Roddenberry’s imagination.

On the audio commentary, Wise says of the scene’s mixed reception, with his typical understated wit: “Some people have very strong feelings about that.” It is too long, it is old-fashioned, and it almost doesn’t even work, thanks to Kirk and Scotty looking like goofballs, but despite it all, it is a Star Trek moment through and through. It was a riskier choice than the later films would tend to make, but the later films also didn’t have the momentousness of this occasion to fulfill. Wise: “Gene really wanted to finally show the Enterprise the way the fans wanted to see it. He wanted it to look big and real.” By that measure, the scene succeeds.

Douglas Trumbull, as the supreme artist of the special effects on TMP, is perhaps even more responsible for this and numerous other extremely long, slow scenes in the film. He’s on record in the commentary expressing his displeasure with the current style of action-oriented filmmaking with its quick cuts and dialogue-heavy explanations.

The later Star Trek films would take us on more jaunty, though I would argue, less poetic journeys through space. The Wrath of Khan, for instance, which I also recently watched, though certainly very engaging, plays almost like a double-length episode of a television show. It’s almost too snappy, and at the risk of inciting many a nerdlinger to an “Amok Time” style fight to the death, I must say that Wrath of Khan simply looks and feels like a smaller, less daring movie than TMP.

Of course, there’s no practical reason to pit the movies against each other when they are all worth watching. What’s remarkable to me is that, given all the grief that avowed Star Trek fans have heaped on TMP, consider that if this movie had failed at the box office or otherwise incurred the wrath of the studio execs, Star Trek as a big screen franchise would likely have died in the womb. Whatever one’s thoughts on its artistic merits, it was the success of this first Star Trek movie that made all the other movies possible. And without that revival of the brand, would we have seen the offshoot Star Trek: The Next Generation television series, and all the subsequent TV Star Treks to follow?

They never made another Star Trek movie as contemplative as the first one, but I see hints of its philosophical style in many of the episodes of the various TV series, especially Next Generation. Most of the Q episodes, Data’s quest to become more human, the existentialism of the Borg, even the groan-worthy “Kes evolves” subplot of Star Trek: Voyager – these are all explorations of purpose and identity, and the terrible and glorious ways in which they intertwine. As Spock says in TMP, “Each of us at some time in our lives turns to someone, a father, a brother, a god, and asks, ‘Why am I here, what was I meant to be?’”

If Star Wars is the apotheosis of the hero myth in science fiction, Star Trek is its counterpart, showing us not heroes, but the men and women within, journeying through a universe they scarcely understand in search of the new, and ultimately coming face to face with themselves.

San Diego in Pictures

Is it redundant to promote oneself within one’s own blog? Please take a look at my photographs of San Diego at the Life Panoramic website.

Note: I am not trying to unduly impress anyone or suggest that I won some kind of competition. As far as I can tell, there was no extensive selection process before my photographs were published. In fact, all I did was submit my photos, and the next day, I noticed they were up on the site. I was never contacted by the site. For what it’s worth, I think my photos are pretty good, and I think this website has an admirable goal, which is to have people document the places they live in.

Found

The journey is over, just in time for the fall TV season to begin. It took about four months – this long summer – for me to watch every episode of Lost from beginning to end (core episodes, not “specials”), all of it except the series finale for the very first time. (Okay, so I caught portions of Season 6 episodes, and I could have sworn that I had seen the pilot when it originally aired, but having watched it at the start of my marathon, I doubt my own memory, because it was nothing like what I thought I had seen six years ago.) SPOILER-laden interview follows:

Was it worth it?

Yes, absolutely.

Did watching the series finale before anything else ruin the show for you?

No. In fact, watching the finale and liking it very much was the only reason I was motivated to watch the whole series.

What advice would you give to newbies to the show, which you yourself once were?

You are the lucky ones. Watching the finale, and then seeing the torrent of commentary in the blogosphere, much of it negative, I realized that there is a strong counterargument to those who say that watching the series as it happened was a special experience. I have no doubt that it was special to be there as it happened. But I truly believe that watching as I did, more or less a blank slate, at the rate of an episode a day, but knowing that I could watch it whenever I wanted, never having to wait a week between episodes unless I wanted, never having to wait months between seasons at all – this is the better way to do it. I can well understand how disappointed a die-hard fan would be at not just the finale itself, but numerous other moments and aspects of the show as concluded, if they had to wait six years to see what it all was, and then, to realize that they would never understand what it all was. For me, there was no significant disappointment at any point throughout the series. There were questions, of course, and lingering ones at the end. But at the speed I went, I suppose I didn’t have time to invest myself in mysteries and mythologies that the writers and creators were ultimately unable or unwilling to explain. I think I was most sensitive to the stuff that mattered most – the characters and what they valued – which doesn’t suffer from overanalysis, as the plot obviously does.

Why were you originally skeptical of the show and its rabid fans?

In hindsight, I suppose I was skeptical of one segment of the fanbase – that which considered the show to be a mysterious wonderland where your mind would drink of their magic water and become elevated, then eat of their magic mushrooms and grow bigger than a house, before deflating down into a fuming yet liberated pile of goo. The show is clever, but it wasn’t that clever. Very little about the show was truly shocking. I remember watching part of one random episode because my brother had it on one night, on its original airing, and in the scene, a bearded wanker has just been shot by a cold she-devil of a woman, and in his agony he looks up at her – “I’m your son!” I cried out, two seconds before the wanker said it himself. I had never seen these characters and knew nothing about them. Did I have some kind of psychic moment? No. How could the scenario not be obvious? I must have seen it countless times before, or else, instinct suggested this high-probability scenario. I thought that this kind of hokum was the only reason people liked the show, and I was wrong. But there are some fans who think the tortuous enigma of the island is the chief charm of the show, and I think they’re mistaken, too.

So what is the chief charm of the show?

It mastered the art of delayed gratification. From episode to episode and season to season, I lived with these characters, these people, reveling in their adventures and their flaws, so easily did they become real to me. So it means something when, at long last, Sawyer fulfills his vow and blows away the guy who abducted Walt (and rubs it in). It means something to get to see Alex as a baby, after she’s already died. It means something to find out who Pierre Chang is after seeing all those absurd videos. And in evoking one of my personal favorite relationships on the show, it meant a lot when Locke announced that “Boone was a sacrifice that the island demanded,” the first time with confidence, the second time, a season later, with self-disgust.

What’s the one lingering question that matters most to you?

Why weren’t the whys more important? Looking at various lists of unanswered Lost questions online, I can accept that these questions don’t really need to be answered. But that doesn’t mean that both the characters and viewers should not constantly be asking why these things are, why these things happened, why they’re stuck on this island of ordeals. I don’t buy that the characters wouldn’t be curious about the mysteries of the island and why they somehow seem chosen for this peculiar agony. They would be the most curious, because they’re stuck in a place where they can’t take anything for granted. There is no excuse for letting their minds relax. And I don’t buy that we as viewers shouldn’t ask questions or wonder why. “Why” is the central question of humanity and the very essence of philosophy. To say that you shouldn’t bother to keep asking, or that the writers need not have worried themselves about these questions is to deny the philosophical groundwork that the show purports to be built on. It seems like the writers have attempted to nullify the question, “Why am I on this island?” by addressing the admittedly larger question, “Why am I here in this life?” But then, why all those little details about the island itself? It seems like an awful lot of distraction, rather than reinforcement of the importance of a life well-lived.

What bothered you most about the finale?

Why aren’t Michael and Walt in that church? (And I’m not talking about real-world crap like contract disputes or unavailability or whatnot; I’m talking about the reality of the show world. If the writers didn’t think they belonged there, they should have explained why. If they wanted them there but couldn’t get them, they should have found a way, whether it’s showing a photograph or having one of the other characters say something relevant. Yes, it would have seemed stupid. But it’s okay for the writers to have to do something stupid. It’s not okay for them to evade an important issue and hope the viewers won’t notice or care, because then they’re acting as if the viewers are stupid. . . . The only explanation I can think of is that Walt can be assumed to have lived a good long life with experiences that hopefully outshined his time on the island, so what would he have appeared as? An old man played by some completely new actor? That would have thoroughly wrecked the atmosphere of Lost’s final moments, obviously. But throw me a bone here, Vincent. Don’t leave me hanging.)

Any other problems?

Many people have already mentioned this, but Shannon instead of Nadia? Really? Nadia would not have made sense, I acknowledge, because she wasn’t an Oceanic or otherwise connected to the island. Shannon would have made sense, but not when Nadia has been a constant presence all the way up through Season 6. Sayid didn’t just forget about her, though if the writers had known they were going to wrap it up this way, they might have preferred that she had never shown up again. Maybe Sayid and Shannon could have just been good friends in the church, without all the nuzzling.

Favorite season?

Season 1, before all the craziness. Most great shows have some growing pains; not this one. Most of the best characters come from Season 1, and in a strange way, I’ve even become kind of jealously protective of some of them (specifically, the ones who die early in the show), in opposition to latecomers who seem to have eclipsed those early characters, with no real justification in my mind. Michael and Boone are great characters, and every time they appeared on later seasons after long absences (Michael in the flesh, Boone in flashbacks and visions), I wanted to pop open a bottle of champagne. They’re much better than, say, Juliet or Miles or simpering idiots like Daniel and Charlotte. I can’t say that I ever really liked Shannon, but the way Sayid and Boone felt about her endeared her to me. And what can I say, I actually missed Charlie after he was gone (though he went out very badly, as did most of the dead on this show, cough *Rousseau* cough). Even though I didn't necessarily like him, I liked the show better with him on it. To be sure, there was a lot of nonsense in Season 1 as well, such as the Rose character, through and through. But Kate was never as attractive a person as she was in the first season. I guess once you’re hooked, you’re hooked, but the Kate that Jack loved in Season 1 was never really to be seen again.

Favorite character?

I don’t have a single favorite, though I can say that as much as I grew to relish in the hammy bit players (Pierre Chang, Richard Alpert) and the linchpins of the expanding island (Linus, Desmond), I always feel warmest toward the Season 1 castaways.

Least favorite character?

Old Eloise Hawking, simply because I can’t stand that smarmy Fionnula Flanagan (yes, I hate her more than Michelle Rodriguez, though miraculously, I didn’t mind Ana Lucia so much after she died and appeared briefly in fan-service flashes.)

Fond memories of Mr. Eko and Yemi?

No, people, no. These aren’t the Nigerians you’re looking for.

Best Sawyer nickname?

Frogurt. (That was just a nickname, right?)

Care to offer any fun trivia?

I knew I recognized Jeff Fahey’s name, but I didn’t realize that crusty Frank Lapidus was once the Lawnmower Man!

Final thoughts?

I kind of want to watch the whole thing over again.

Sometimes a patriot

This is my 51st blog post, and but for an eleventh-hour substitution, it would have been the 50th. If that had come to pass, here is how it would have gone:

This is my 50th blog post. I thought this day would have come quite a bit sooner, but it comes now, and I want to post something special. Something classy and respectable, and that best represents the magnanimous spirit of Czardoz Contra World.

Behold, a goat peeing:

As Paul Harvey would say, now let’s hear “the rest of the story.” I spotted this enchanting tableau at Comic-Con this year, on a congested intersection in the heart of the convention’s splash zone (by which I mean, where the Con’s largesse splashes over onto the streets of downtown San Diego). The goat was one of an unholy trinity of protestors calling for the abolition of Anaheim, specifically in reference to our northern neighbor’s attempts to pilfer Comic-Con from us, but perhaps in general terms as well.

I hope all this talk of Comic-Con leaving San Diego for Anaheim or LA or wherever is all smoke and mirrors. The Con is the cultural touchstone of San Diego, and the city needs this event much more than the alleged wooers. Anaheim has Disneyland. LA has Hollywood, among other splendors. Vegas has . . . Vegas versions of Paris, New York, Ancient Rome, the South Seas, and more magicians than you could fit into a clown car.

Lest anyone think this is purely a local issue, one municipality against another, I must remind you that this is a matter of national gravity, nay, of patriotism. This point is driven home by no less than the greatest patriot, Captain America:

Though Cap is looking about as plush as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man these days, his point is well made.

This controversy actually reminds me a lot of the Lebron James debacle in Cleveland. I’ve been to Cleveland. I’ve seen President Garfield’s coffin lying in the crypt of the exquisite Garfield Monument. I’ve admired Tiffany’s denim jacket at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I’ve stood in the footsteps of the concertmaster at Severance Hall and gazed from his perspective at the podium where George Szell once conducted the Cleveland Orchestra.

So yes, I know that Cleveland has its place in the world. But that place is not at the top of a jetsetter’s hitlist. And if I were some young buck (or cavalier, for that matter) with a bright present, I wouldn’t expect a very bright future staying in a town like Cleveland.

Lebron is just a dude, of course. Comic-Con is an institution, and, like the office of President, it’s much bigger than any one man. But even though I can understand the arguments for moving – the bigger convention space, the proximity to Hollywood, the proximity to Disneyland, for Goofy’s sake! – the loss of Comic-Con would leave a cultural void in San Diego far bigger than the bankruptcy of the San Diego Symphony in 1996, bigger than the loss of K-BEST 95 – the only oldies radio station in town and yet to be replaced, bigger even than the death of Dr. Seuss.

Yes, I understand that this is a crum-bum town in which I reside, and when the Namor-reading nerdlinger grows up to be Tobey Maguire or some kind of expensive Hobbit crap, he needs to spread his wings and fly to a bigger toilet. Hell, I did it myself once upon a time.

So no hard feelings on my end. But Comic-Con, if you really do leave, just don’t think for a second that the gasping culture junkies you leave behind in this wasteland will forget that you pulled the plug on their life support.

I belong to myself

He was the grand salami of the Grand Slam, the lothario of Love-40, the debauchee of the double fault. Leave it to others to reflect on Marat Safin’s career. I just liked the man’s farewell.

After his final match, a loss at the Paris Masters tournament on November 11, 2009, he left his adoring crowd with these words:

“Today I will put all my memories, all my wins and losses in a small box. Today a door is closed, hopefully another one will open.”

A bit more poetry than you’ll ever get out of Federer or Nadal. Sure, they have the Slams and the insatiable drive to be the best that eluded Safin, but it seems like that kind of life and career just wasn’t meant for him. In his words:

“It’s a tough sport. It’s very cruel. What I’ll miss least is the injuries and the pressure. The pressure is what you are going through all these years. Because you are defending your points. You need to achieve, you need to improve, you need to count the points to see if you are going to make the Masters, if you’re going to be seeded at a Grand Slam or not. So you’re completely stressed 24/7. That is what I hate about it. It’s just too much. No rest for the brain at all.”

And now?

“Now I have no schedule, no practices, no nothing. I belong to myself.”

* * *

On a much smaller and less visible scale, I can relate to Safin’s sentiments. I spent almost two years competing as an amateur ballroom dancer, just a pond compared to the ocean of a professional sport, but to me, it was worth any ten sports combined and blended into an unholy smoothie of athleticism.

“Competing,” as any athlete knows, is just a tiny part of the commitment. There are the hours and weeks of practice and coaching and lessons, the body aches and alarm clocks clanging far too early, the hustling through rush hour to get to practice on time, and the hustling out to salvage what remained of a normal life – all meant to make you look brilliant for the five to ten minutes you actually spend competing at the competition. And after that comes the self-examination, the questions about how to get better, the questions about what questions to ask, and too often the halfcocked experiments and harebrained schemes to improve one figure or another. No rest.

I was lucky. I had a dance partner who made practice seem like play, who trusted me to make the right decisions on and off the dance floor, and who believed that everything we were doing was worth it. I can’t imagine Safin had anywhere near the same kind of support.

It’s been six months since I’ve danced seriously, and every day that goes by, I can feel it slipping away, the skill, the fluidity, the determination to become better. I know I could slip back into it just as easily as slip away. Unlike Safin, I haven’t run out of gas yet. But at the same time, I haven’t found the peace he’s found. I hope one day to be able to say the words he says so well: “I belong to myself.”

* * *

This is my 50th blog post, and for a while, as I considered how to commemorate the occasion, I was straddling the line between reverence and irreverence, and realizing that it can be difficult to have it both ways. I chose to lean on the former. Tune in soon for the other contender for the Big 50.

Long live the Con!

Who says you have to get inside Comic-Con to have a good time? Here’s what I saw on the outside looking out, walking around in front of the Convention Center and strolling the Gaslamp.

The Milieu

For a few blissful days every summer, Comic-Con turns the Gaslamp District into a veritable tent city of Amazons, Voltrons, Superfriends, orcs, wizards (both pinball and Hogwartian), spiky-haired Japanophiles, Sailor Scouts (yes, they still exist), keyblade-slingers, Pokemon trainers, X-Maniacs, Jedi Knights and other sad devotees of ancient religions – all wearing matching lanyards and packing grossly oversized swag bags.

* * *

The San Diego Convention Center, home of Comic-Con, has fitful dreams, talks in its sleep: “Must . . . grow . . . bigger! Accommodate . . . more . . . vendors! Keep . . . the Con . . . local!”

* * *

Comic-Con is the one event that makes downtown San Diego feel like the hub of a city that is more than a zoo and some beaches. And somehow, it does this by transforming skyscrapers into gargantuan video game posters.

* * *

Yes, more posters!

* * *

Trolley signs in Klingon = a brilliancy! True or False: Klingons hail from the planet Klingonigon!

* * *

It turns out that Skyline is a movie about people floating up into the sky, hence the little white bubble-men in this frame.

* * *

Yeah! Bubble-Man!

* * *

The Denizens

Don’t bears already have enough of an advantage without toting machine-guns as well?

* * *

Now hold the phone there, Michael Eisner. Something’s not quite right about these Disney princesses. I mean, come on, where’s Tiana???

* * *

Mob scene: a crowd hoping to catch Dragon Age 2 blow-up spears tossed from a balcony. Seriously.

* * *

Now isn’t that adorable? It’s a Wonder . . . boy . . . bun . . .?

* * *

Girl with platinum hair and rabbit ears. Now that’s what I’m talking about!

* * *

Before all those bad dreams started, Freddy Krueger was just another carefree kid reading Dick Tracy and kicking it with a Milhouse.

* * *

Ah, the classic “girl being ogled by sleazy dudes” photo. A timeless set piece.

* * *

Hahaha, some of you will get this joke. You perverts know who you are.

* * *

Will someone please give her a cookie, a tiara, and a box full of gold stars?

* * *

Walking among this elbow-to-elbow mess of exuberant humanity, and having cosplayed once myself, I was happy to see how many people had donned costumes (both homemade and store-bought), painted themselves, built accessories, stretched their imaginations to come up with something unfamiliar, and posed proudly for photos.

And then I became convinced of something. These wizards’ robes, metal brassieres, horns, lightsabers, princess gowns, all manner of animal furs – these were not the costumes. These represent something real about what these people care about. No, the costume is that fashion-challenged, mother-approved school attire that these chaperoned kids go back to when Comic-Con ends. The costume is that ill-fitting work shirt and suffocating necktie that the guy in the head-to-toe Vader outfit returns to after he takes his bag of newly bought action figures home.

The costume is that attitude we put on that says we’re okay with the life of workaday monotony, where we have to act like we don’t really know all that much about the things we value most, where we pretend that, yes, those are just little hobbies that we have, those comics, those games, those movie trailers that we wait hungrily for, or maybe it’s music or dancing or poetry or even Latin grammar, mirabile dictu! This is the stuff that makes people distinctive, and it’s the stuff they do when they are being who they want to be.

All about the Bertos

I’ve heard it said that San Diego is a one-horse town. But then the Clippers left, so what are we now?

Now there’s this insidious talk that Comic-Con might be fleeing town for Anaheim or LA or even Vegas. If that happens, well, what is there to do but cry "havoc" and let slip the dogs of war?

At least we’ll always have the taco shops. You’ve probably heard of Roberto’s, the flagship and, apparently, the progenitor of what are known as “the Bertos.” There’s also a longstanding chain called Alberto’s that reportedly was started by the same empire that Roberto’s wrought.

If the saga had ended with these two siblings, this latter day Romulus and Remus, I’m sure the late night enchilada and weekend menudo scene would have still thrived, to the consternation of many a local aorta. However, like Sherman marching through the South, they had scorched a path for many an ambitious imitator to follow, and pretty soon, every Tom, Dick, and Hidalgo was opening a taco shack in the Bertos mold.

And so, in honor of my no-horse hometown and also my beloved Fred (played by Amy Acker) from the TV show Angel, whose love of taco shops is well-documented (albeit Los Angeles joints), I present a family portrait of local Bertos, bastards front and center.

Roberto’s

Kearny Mesa

Here it is, the grandpappy of them all. Rubio’s, eat your heart out! (Seriously, though, this food is not good for you.)

Ramberto’s

Spring Valley

This particularly violent contender has been ramming burritos down your throat since 1989.

Filiberto’s

Encinitas

It is said that Filiberto’s is far inferior to the taco shop next door, known by the sexy name of Raul’s. To which I say, “No duh. One is a Berto’s, and the other is a Raul’s.”

Eriberto’s

Oceanside

This place is pretty depressing to look at, even by Bertos standards.

Rigoberto’s

North Park

The sign says it all: “The best Mexican food in town.” Rigo, I hoped you’re a damned liar, because if 5 rolled tacos with guac constitutes the best Mex this city has to offer, then we’re in worse shape than I thought.

Rolberto’s

Spring Valley

This I don’t get. There’s already a Roberto’s (about a million of them, actually). What on earth is Rolberto’s? To their credit, they offer breakfast and lunchs.

Adalberto’s

Sherman Heights

Again, I’m confused. The name "Adalbert" has Germanic origins, and apparently, there was a St. Adalbert of Prague, but what German person evens wants this obscure name? So how is it that a completely separate culture would want it?

Gualberto’s

Kearny Mesa

Huh? Robert is a name. Albert is a name. Even Adalbert is a name. But what’s Gualbert?

Humberto’s

Golden Hill

Nabokov, a noted chimichanga fan, would be proud. Nymphets, coquettes, and assorted pre-adolescents, stay far away!

Robertaco’s

San Ysidro

One last entry. This is not an official Berto’s, but I’ve included it for sentimental reasons.

Notes

1. This is not a comprehensive list; for something like that, see here.

2. Though I took all of the accompanying photos, I did not make any special trips to get them. Such is the ubiquity of the Bertos name that I was able to get all of these pictures while in the course of other pursuits.

3. In case anyone is wondering, no, heavens no, I haven’t eaten at any of these establishments. I should note, however, that once, after having a glass of wine with a young lady, she informed me that we had strolled over to Humberto’s, and I had behaved boorishly toward some hipster lad. I immediately declared that I had no memory of any such interaction, and to this day, I deny everything.

Nine Years Later

I don’t know if it’s a long time or a short time, but nine years later, someone has finally done to Roger Federer what he once did to Pete Sampras, and the parallels are notable, if not shocking (though I have yet to see any mainstream press comment on the similarities, so I may be the first!).

It’s the end of an era. The tennis world turns upside-down. The King is dethroned. The King is dead. Those are the kinds of headlines that try to capture the magnitude of Federer losing to Tomas Berdych in the quarterfinals of Wimbledon. I’d prefer to capture history as it repeats itself, so I’ll give it a shot: The dragonslayer is now the slain dragon. Not much of a ring to it, but it’ll do.

In 2001, I was on vacation in China, of all places, when the news came in, probably from some British announcer chaps named Alan and Vijay on television coverage of Wimbledon: Pete Sampras, grass-court king, 7-time and defending Wimbledon champ, had been beaten by a Swiss upstart – and a teenager at that – named Roger Federer.

I was stunned. It was one of the few constants in the universe, unbreakable like the laws of physics – Sampras always prevails at Wimbledon. How could he lose, and to a relative unknown (by which I mean someone who had never won a Slam, and was not projected to win one soon)? I guess I thought he would never grow old. I thought his body would never tire, his will would never break. And then it did.

What I took for granted at the time was that Sampras lost because he hadn’t played well, not because he was beaten by a great (or soon-to-be-great) player. But how could I have known?

No, I don’t think Tomas Berdych has the potential that Federer had nine years ago, nor do I expect him to accede to the throne as the next King of Wimbledon, but still, there are strong echoes between this match and the one from nine years ago:

• Both Pete and Roger lost to a relative unknown who had never won a Slam.
• Roger was seeded 15th when he beat Sampras. Berdych is seeded 12th.
• Roger lost in the quarterfinals. Pete went home in the fourth round.
• Pete was 29 when he lost to Federer. Roger is 28.
• Both matches were played on Centre Court.
• Both Sampras and Federer, at the time of their defeats, were considered by most to be the best player who had ever lived.

Even the comparison of the losers’ post-match walkoffs is strikingly similar. I quote from CNN Sports Illustrated in 2001:

With no trophy to collect, Sampras picked up three sweaty towels, stuffed them into his tennis bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then, head down [my italics], he slowly followed Roger Federer toward the exit, reluctantly departing Wimbledon.

And here, Yahoo’s take on Federer’s exit yesterday:

When it was over at Wimbledon on Wednesday afternoon, Federer slowly walked toward the net, shook Berdych’s hand, packed his bag and began the slow walk off Centre Court. The English crowd gave him a standing ovation. Federer kept his head down [my italics] for most of the walk to the locker room, blindly waving his hand in acknowledgment. When he was a few feet from the door he stopped and looked up at the crowd, a king surveying his subjects for the final time.

“Head down” – a king hardly knows how to leave his kingdom. History repeats itself.

Asked if there would be any more Wimbledon crowns in their future, what did you expect them to say?

Pete: “Let’s not get carried away. I plan on being back for many years. There’s no reason to panic and think that I can’t come back here and win here again. I feel like I can always win here.”

Roger: [Asked if he thinks he can return to dominance at Wimbledon] “Yeah, I do think that. That’s why I’m here.”

Pete never won another Wimbledon. I can’t say for sure that I think Roger will, but I think he stands higher up among his peers than Pete did in 2001.

If anything, this series of events has made me appreciate all the more Pete Sampras’s accomplishments, and by accomplishments, I mean, of course, the only ones that matter – the 14 Grand Slam titles. Consider how great Federer was from 2004 until 2007 – in every year except 2005, he won three out of four Slams, and in 2005, he won two. That’s 11 Slams in four years. Tack on his first Wimbledon crown in 2003 and his single Grand Slam victory from 2008, the US Open, and that’s 13 Slams. And yet after his loss to Rafael Nadal in the 2009 Australian Open finals, there was widespread doubt about Federer’s chances of overtaking Sampras’s record. It boggles the mind to think that as dominant as Federer was, and for so seemingly long a stretch, he was still behind Sampras, and what had seemed a foregone conclusion back in the glory years of 2004 to 2007 was now a real debate once more.

Well, Federer did come back, and he did surpass Sampras, and if he never wins another tournament, not to mention a Grand Slam, he’s still the king, the greatest tennis player of all time. At least until Tomas Berdych stakes his claim.

Men of Destiny

One of the well-burnished moments of my college life in Chicago was going to my first baseball game, a Cubs-Cards clash at Wrigley Field in that magical year of whatever it was when baseball was de-Marised (and Maris was de-pantsed). My companions and I had paid a pittance for upper level seats, but being young and cagey, we managed to sneak down to field level.

The grown-in ivy shook like verdant waves along the outfield wall in this temple of sport. From where I sat, these two men, McGwire and Sosa, stood like titans. They made the rest of the field look like children playing in a sandbox. Every person with a seat rose in unison each time these Lords of the Diamond stepped up to the plate. Every sloucher in standing-room-only stood on tiptoe. Mind you, this was early in the season, before the chase of Maris became “The Chase.” And yet it was like people knew they were watching history. Every at-bat took on cosmic significance. Every hack was potentially a homer. They were men of destiny. . . .

Except it didn’t happen that way. Oh, it was a Cubs-Cards game, May 3, 1998. Sosa would hit a dinger that day, while McGwire’s juice would let him down. But I didn’t really notice them. The crowd didn’t rise for their at-bats. The cosmos remained unmoved. And the brick walls of Wrigley are always still brown and exposed in May.

What I remember instead is the crisp spring air, the neighbors barbecuing and watching the game from their rooftop decks across Sheffield Avenue, booze-laden vendors crying “Old Style!” up and down the aisles.

I remember seeing the rooftop across Waveland Avenue behind left-center field painted as an enormous Budweiser ad (RIP), and thinking, at last, now I know what it is to be at a ballpark and take in the Americana!

What I remember most is the girl I went with, and thinking that if only her roommate hadn’t come as well, this would have been the perfect day.

In hindsight, it’s easy to say that we would have been better off watching real children playing in a sandbox for free, rather than pay for this shameful and cynical deception. But for me, it wasn’t about records and glory and the purity of sport. It was about missing the perfect day by the width of a roommate, and realizing that this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

* * *

This was Beanie Baby giveaway day at Wrigley, and after the game, I saw people outside the stadium hoisting signs offering a cool hundred bells for your Daisy the Cow commemorative Beanie. The promotion wasn’t commemorating Sosa or any other slugger; it was a tribute to Harry Caray, the charismatic and iconic Cubs announcer who had died earlier that year.

Should we be thankful that Caray never lived to see his beloved pastime dragged through the mire? I don’t think he would have liked it, but I think he would believe that the game must go on, even if it continues to wear the stains of a deception it and the fans refuse to take seriously.

Like Beanie Babies, baseball, too, has fallen somewhat in esteem over the past decade. But I believe that this country will rediscover reality one day, and baseball will be restored to what it was when it began, neither a religion nor a scourge, but just a game.

Why do we play games? For the same reason that kids play with Beanie Babies. Because they’re fun.

* * *

O baseball! Tell me stories of the men of days gone by,

Like laurel on your hoary head, once green, now frail and dry.

I weep for Wally Wabash, the Wizard of Walla Walla,

His bat stood five feet tall, his body two heads talla.

Remember Rum Run Rogers, stealing bases in his sleep,

No choice had he since his hango’ers went seven innings deep.

I sing thee, Little Hands McGee, whose glove was small as a flea,

And yet he played that second base like Moses played the sea.

Here’s to you, Ha’Penny Greerson, the southpaw with aim so good,

They said he could hit the testis of choice - and he would.

O baseball! Half-naked we were cradled in your breast,

Half-naked now you stumble to your long deservèd rest.

Florid thought for the day

I was inspecting a flower shop today (as part of my highly uninteresting job), and the shop lady nonchalantly suggested that I had better get my floral order in soon for Mother's Day, as it was the biggest floral day of the year. I asked, "Bigger than Valentine's Day?" She chuckled conspiratorially at me and said, "Not everybody's got a lover, but everybody's got a mother." Quite.

Watching the wheels

I went to Sonic a few nights ago for a late night milkshake. Why there? Because it’s open till midnight and they have a very large drink selection. Though this restaurant and its menu are not the point of this post, there’s no getting to the point without discussing the scene.

Sonic is distinguished from its fast food brethren by its drive-up stalls, where you order from your car while parked, a stationary variation of the ubiquitous drive-thru (which Sonic also has), but with a lick more personality. Winsome girls on roller skates wheel up to your driver-side window to deliver your tater tots and limeades. This set-up is obviously meant to conjure a nostalgia for the 1950s era of drive-in burger joints, soda jerks, sock hops, girls with bows in their hair – real Back to the Future stuff that may or may not have ever existed.

I order a pineapple shake and a short while later, I hear not the whirring of roller wheels, but the clompety-clomp of a lead-footed pedestrian walking (walking!) up to my window. What gives? Maybe this late at night, they figure there won’t be any photo ops with Governor Schwarzenegger, so they lock up the skates and trot out their second tier Bettys. Indeed, the girl who delivered my shake was not exactly what you’d call a “looker.”

So be it, I thought, at least the edible half of the Sonic experience should be tolerable. And then my delivery girl spoke: “I made it myself, so I hope you enjoy it.” By that, you mean you took a cup of vanilla ice cream, tossed in some canned pineapple chunks, and mixed it all together in a machine, according to a company formula? That’s what the cynic in me was thinking. And yet, she seemed completely sincere, like she had done this just for me, and truly hoped I would be pleased.

It’s been said that minimum wage workers, especially in the fast food industry, tend to be looked down upon by customers, and yet I can’t stay that they treat their customers much better. I know this from personal experience having worked in a miserable minimum wage job at a very large and deplorable retail store. But it wasn’t the fact that this girl was nice to me that astonished me; it was the strange notion that she was actually taking pride in her work, in what was surely a minimum wage job.

I’m sure she didn’t need me feeling sorry for her, not for her late shift or her “not-asked-to-dance” appearance or her attendant social status, and none of that is the point of this post. I think somewhere in the writing of this post, I lost track of what my point was.

I came away from that exchange thinking that dumping on people like her is essentially dumping on those who are in some sense helpless. But at the same time, it seems patronizing to try to protect or defend them. Ultimately, the most worthwhile thing to do may be to try to understand, and let understanding guide my feelings. My experience at Sonic made me think about the fact that the vast majority of our encounters with other people are one-shots, so what feeling do you want to leave people with?

Those of my readers who are more inclined to gastronomic than sociopolitical matters are probably wondering: how was the pineapple shake? Quite acceptable, though for a more thoroughly enjoyable and less gimmicky shake, try the definitive pineapple shake mixed at Which Wich.

"We are sold out of the Double Down"

No, they didn’t really say that to me when I went to the nearest KFC to finally get my paws on the biggest thing to hit fast food since the McDLT. But they may as well have, considering the gluttonous demand for the thing that was evident at this particular outpost (which almost certainly reflects an equally ravenous demand nationwide).


The first thing I noticed when I entered the establishment (other than the utter lack of counter service for walk-in customers) was a girl behind the counter informing a guy in the drive-thru lane that they were out of the fried chicken fillets, and whether he would be “all right” with the grilled Double Down. Noting the man’s lofty carriage, I found it hard to believe he would be “all right” with the grilled. Maybe “kinda okay,” but certainly not “all right.” He reluctantly acquiesced.

This clearly wasn’t that guy’s first Double Down, or else, like me, he surely would have stood his ground and waited for the fried one. I was told that I’d have to “wait a few minutes” for them to fry up some new fillets. They even gave me a free soda to apologize for the wait. Well-played, Colonel.

During this intermission, I should note that the Double Down “sandwich” (if it can be called such a thing) costs $4.99 a la carte, which puts it squarely in the realm of “premium” fast food items, alongside McDonald’s Angus Third Pounders (which are disgusting) and the Carl’s Jr. Six Dollar Burgers (also gross). The economy being what it is, I ordered merely two Double Downs, and resigned myself to having to ration the portions out among myself and my friends and family.

Unlike some critics, I was actually rather looking forward to the Double Down’s release, partly because of culinary curiosity, and partly for its symbolic slap-in-the-face to organic food Nazis and sanctimonious Fast Food Nation-reading drones who have of late terrorized the hungry populace. (FYI: I am currently reading Fast Food Nation. Best thing about it: the relatively thorough discussion of the history of the fast food industry and how it is related to other trends in mid-century America. Worst thing: the author’s arrogant expectation of your moral outrage.)

Back to the chicken: I watch as a girl tongs a few chicken fillets onto some paper wrappers, squeezes some sauce onto them out of a plastic bottle, and tops them with two slices of cheese and a strip of bacon torn in half with her bare fingers. And so, after about 20 minutes in this “fast food” joint, the Double Down is mine. How does it taste? Delicious. How could it not be delicious? It’s two KFC chicken fillets hugging bacon, cheese, and a creamy sauce that (like the rest of this hunk of gustatory delight) has been chemically engineered to be pleasing to normal human taste buds.

Is this the end of human civilization? Hardly. The Double Down is no worse than a double cheeseburger with bacon and mayo, and most people consider that perfectly sane. Or think of it this way: the last time your mom, er, ahem, your significant other, brought home a bucket of KFC, how many pieces of chicken did you eat? Two? I rest my case. Yes, there’s bacon, as well, but as any anthropologist will tell you, bacon has long been an essential food in every human civilization. It’s a common denominator, like wine or potatoes. As it says in Deuteronomy, “Therefore eateth ye of the fat of the swine, and your generations shall be fruitful upon the earth.” And let me quote Leviticus: “Verily, a man shall cleave unto his poultry, and his hoggish brood shall comfort him all the days of his life. I am the Lord thy God.”

KFC Double Down – the chosen sandwich.

They’ll Go Gaga at the Gogo: The Second Coming

Some months ago, I went to see Lady Gaga in concert. This was the second time I had seen her, the first being when she opened for New Kids on the Block and fairly stole the show (and that’s no mean compliment, as the New Kids were Block-tacular). Though she was the headliner this time, and though she performed well, I must admit that this second experience was a lesser one overall.

I endured a smorgasbord of emotions at this one.

Confusion – at the labyrinthine queuing on display at the venue (San Diego Sports Arena) that had me hopping around trying to figure out which line led to which door for which ticket-holders.

Searing rage – at waiting for some 20 minutes in one line just to find out that I was in the wrong line and would have to find a different one – twice.

Lumbar pain – I’m about five years too old for the kinds of shows that have you standing elbow to elbow with Bud-swilling, 7-foot-tall douchebags as you wait two hours for the main attraction to get on stage.

Elation – at finally seeing Gaga perform in all her Gaga-ness.

She played every song of consequence, aside from duets (like her current hit, “Telephone,” featuring Beyonce). Though it was hard to tell what was live and what was lip-synced, I would say a far larger portion of the show featured live singing than the Britney Spears concert I went to a few months prior. The dance routines were aggressively primitive and scandalous, and the special effects were appropriately flashy.

And yet the show was a bit disappointing, and at times, a real drag. Though it may be unfair to give too much weight to peripheral issues like a maddeningly incoherent venue and loutish rabble – things that have nothing to do with the performer – a concert is more than just the music; if it weren’t, I would just stay home and listen to my CDs. A great concert is more than just a stellar performance; it’s the feeling that you’re in a special place where you and the performer share a unity of purpose that brings that performer closer to you.

Lady Gaga didn’t necessarily help her own cause when she repeatedly baited the crowd with cries of “Hello San Jose!” I’ve always loathed this cliché of the touring circuit – calling out the name of the city you’re playing to elicit gratified hee-haws from your slavish audience – but if you’re going to do it, at least you could bother calling out the right city. She yelled out “San Jose” about six or seven times before the surely mortified crowd started chanting back, “San Diego!” Then she said “San Jose” about two more times before switching to “San Diego.” About three songs went by before she started bantering with the crowd and finally issued a shockingly sincere mea culpa, which I didn't expect, or at least I thought if she were going to apologize, it would have happened right away. She said she didn't want to "pretend it didn't happen," because she "respected her fans too much." I appreciated that, I guess. More mystifying was when she said her people had told her before the show that she wasn't in San Diego. I guess when you lead a diva’s life like hers, you rely on other people to tell you where you are, what year it is, what your name is, etc.

She later embarrassed herself and the more knowledgeable fans in the house when she announced that just one year ago, she opened for New Kids on the Block in this very arena. Har har. She didn’t – she opened for them at Cox Arena across town, now known as Viejas Arena. Whatever.

* * *

During our interminable wait for Gaga’s appearance, they (the house? her handlers?) had the audacity to play only Michael Jackson songs. For concert-going veterans, this will surely come as a surprise. They will wonder, “What, you mean they didn’t just blast awful crap from bands you’ve never heard of?” No, they played a known quantity, and a monarch at that. This was fun for the first few songs. Then, frankly, it became awkward. Perhaps this comes as a shock to no one, but the longer you pump out the MJ, the more unfavorable the comparison will be when you play your own music. I have to believe this is why most concerts entertain you with the lousiest music available – they don’t want the intermission music to outshine the actual performer.

And yet, part of me thought there was another force at play here. Maybe this was Gaga’s not so subtle way of announcing that she was Michael’s successor, a fittingly nutsoid Princess of Pop. After all, one of the questions that arose in the aftermath of Jackson’s death was: who is his successor? It’s like asking who the next Jordan or Gretzky is. Everyone has a nomination, prefaced by vehement proclamations that no one could ever replace the original. And yet the questions keep coming.

Well if you have questions, you’ve come to the right place. I know my readers don’t come to Czardoz Contra World for wishy-washiness. They come for straight answers from a straight shooter. So here it is: Lady Gaga is not the next MJ. But that doesn’t mean she’s not the next something. Something a little more obvious.

What made Michael Jackson the King of Pop was not just the extraordinary talent, but the singular strangeness that he embodied. He couldn’t help being Wacko Jacko any more than he could help being a brilliant artist. This sense of the inevitable hasn’t been seen since, not even in Gaga.

Gaga has a much more calculated sense of world domination. She’s a freak, yes, but you get the feeling that she could dial it back if she wanted to. She could dial it back, drive it deeper, sprout antlers, grow a penis – whatever it takes to stay one step ahead – in fashion, in music, and especially in controversy. In short, Gaga is the next Madonna.

Madonna was Jackson’s contemporary and near-equal in fame and fortune, but it was always clear that hers was a different sort of mania. For Michael, it was all unaffected: he was as natural doing the moonwalk as he was dangling babies over balcony rails. Madonna, on the other hand, was the ultimate salesman selling the ultimate product: herself. All the shapeshifting in her career has been about getting an edge and keeping people’s eyes focused squarely on her, even when other shiny objects were fighting for some of that attention. They copied her hair, so she changed it. They copied her moves, so she came up with new moves. They even tried to horn in on her controversy, but how could they? Look at “Papa Don’t Preach.” Look at the “Like a Prayer” video. The “Justify My Love” video. The Sex book. Oh, the controversy!

Like Madonna, Gaga isn’t the prettiest starlet. She doesn’t have the most range in her voice. But she has the larger than life persona that turns a star into an icon. I don’t care what adherents of Beyonce or Britney or Taylor or any other diva may say. As respected, beloved, or well-known as those artists may be, none of them dominates pop culture the way Lady Gaga does. Just turn on the radio. I can’t remember the last time I heard a single artist with so many different songs played on so many different stations. I can name six Gaga songs that are in current, regular play on any of four radio stations in San Diego alone: “Poker Face,” “Just Dance,” “LoveGame,” “Paparazzi,” “Telephone,” “Bad Romance.” No other artist commands that kind of appeal, both broad and deep.

The Britney-Madonna kiss (to Christina Aguilera’s everlasting dismay) at the 2003 MTV Video Music Awards was widely seen as a passing of the torch from a pop icon to her heir apparent. I’m not so sure that the right person took the torch. Britney is huge and Britney is great, and I even preferred her live show to Gaga’s (at the same venue). But Britney is a product of other people’s imaginations, whereas Gaga, like Madonna before her, seems to be a product of her own.

In fact, I’m most reminded of the ashen body of Optimus Prime on his deathbed, passing the Autobot Matrix of Leadership into the hands of Ultra Magnus, who (in a brilliant piece of foreshadowing) fumbled and bumbled it into the hands of Hot Rod, who would later become Rodimus Prime and turn out to be the true successor to Optimus Prime, leading the Autobots to victory and salvation.

Roll out!