Cherubim Play the Harp

To continue a theme from last week: let's root for some billionaires! I know it sounds gross and degrading, but I'm about to relate this to sports in the United States, which has almost always been about people with the least being involved directly in a portion of the holdings portfolios of the people with the most and the unequal, exploitative, emotionally problematic relationships implied therein. It's as American as apple pie, which definitely existed before America did so it's actually probably, like, German or some shit, but no no no, we're overthinking! I apologize! Flags titties beers! All things invented in America! Let's go!

Axiomatically, the actual trifecta of American things includes mom (not your mom specifically, we have to be careful in case your mom comes from somewhere else. We mean American moms, like maybe Superman's mom, the one from the first movie with Christopher Reeve, with the white silver hair and living on a farm, not his actual birth mom, a literal alien), apple pie (we covered this already) and baseball.

Honestly, it's early September as I type this and I've had very little reason to consider baseball as an idea this late in the year for over a decade now. The team I support--the finally/again expertly (if misleadingly) named Los Angeles Angels--has been consistently mediocre-to-bad over that span. This is not an unusual tale as sports fandoms as a rule are paeans to a state of voluntary suffering. No matter what sport you follow, the stark brutality of it is that only one team ever actually wins anything at the end of the year. One of the most popular long-running annual features at Defector, my preferred site for sports information on the internet, is bemoaning the curse of being a fan of any particular NFL team, inclusive of the one that just literally won the Super Bowl the previous year. It's a sportswriting stance that is a little dated at this point (it's a quaint 2010-ish kind of snark), but the underlying current of opt-in self-flagellation remains a truism.

Like all the mythic things associated with America and patriotism, baseball and its history are, of course, heavily sauced in half-truths and outright lies that suited a sensibility that preferred the coherence of narrative to the blurred, messy, contingent chaos one might end up with if we applied the rigors of modern fact. Not the current 2026 social value of facts, of course, I mean the pre-2016 ideas like actually figuring things out instead of letting everyone get measles because it conflicts with a constructed alternate political narrative. Its an interesting historical curiosity that we've found our way back to Big Lies to obscure the impertinences of reality. We can all agree its a surprise(?) and an irony(?!) that the reversion to a "simpler time" of story over truth has resulted in a dystopia of nihilism and social atomization instead of any kind of cohesion (narrative-wise or societal). Not funny in the ha-ha sense, more funny in the death-sooner-than-we-expected kind of a way.

At the root of the Abner Doubleday myth of the founding of baseball is the idea that baseball needed (to paraphrase the linked article) a daddy. Yes, America is mom and apple pie, but "mom" in this scenario is a blurry fetishization locked within the bounds of convention and silence, slicing up the apples provided to her by the sweat of the brow of her hunter-gatherer (or shift supervisor or banker or hedge fund manager) husband, the Daddy, the stand-in for God-His-Ding-Dang-Self. She receives graciously the fruits of his labor and somehow, in a mysteriously woman-magic labor-free, zero-agency way, transforms them into a nourishing labor-fruits-pie so that Daddy can sally forth again, sustained and supported in a way that in no way conveys equity in the outcomes or benefits, to hunterer and gatherer again. Though probably not "sally forth," a way butch-er verb than that. You get it.

American sports overall has been skeptical of private equity and sovereign wealth, big blurry concepts that lack focus and specific masculine charisma that have weaseled their way into effeminate things like "Europe" and "soccer." There has been some softening, but still American teams by and large have to be owned by a person with a controlling interest. A person with thick hands and a barrel chest. A booming voice and shoulders broad enough to lay your fearful head on when the big world gets scary. The contract language is very specific.

Me now, I'm dealing with the introduction of a new Sports Daddy as my baseball team, my first sports love, has been sold. The good news? It's my same Sports Daddy from my football team, the LA Rams! No awkward transition period where I call him "Stan" or just work conversations where I don't actually have to use his name at all, no getting used to the idea that he's sharing a room with my mom, no clumsy holiday dinners with his family as a weird outsider amongst strangers who have known each other since birth. No more Arte Moreno, the profligate wandering aloof weirdo who spent all mom's money on second-hand JetSkis that he never bothered to get off the trailer since he brought them home; not abusive, just distant and inattentive, a guy seemingly really interested in lots of things that just coincidentally don't include You and Your Needs. Now we've got Stan Kroenke (and his investment group), a guy (and his investment group) who has married (with his investment group) into a lot of sports families and generally made them better. A slutty sports polygamist with the kind of toupée that dares you not to notice, but parenting is a results-oriented business and this guy Gets It.

In the abstract, of course, I reserve all my rights to my leftist indignation about the existence of billionaires even as an idea. Inherently destabilizing, exploitative and disempowering and should be fought at every place fighting can be done. If in the meantime before we get this bloody revolution thing going the Angels actually aren't terrible, well... just a signpost on the path, a fading whiff of opiate as the masses one day surge forward. We can shake his hand before we put him up against the wall, right?

Soup Kitchen

I started my "deferred resignation" administrative leave (all at once voluntarily and completely against my will) back in April, which I know I shouldn't complain about. It's not the worst thing to not have to report to an office every day or stress about outputs or collaborations or which route is best to take in the hallways at the office at which time to avoid having to actually speak with anyone. Work is, it turns out, a lot of work.

As an American, there are only two things I know for sure: 1) these colors don't run, and 2) the value of a human life is starkly and manifestly quantifiable. Before you click away in disgust, no, I'm not winding up to some woke-ass spiel about the what-really-should-be-unsustainable-but-we-seem-to-be-pretty-good-at-sustaining-it epidemic of gun violence that is met with a forceful and defiant shrug of the shoulders by our elected leadership every time it breaks into the news cycle, or the way in which specific socioeconomic or racial demographic subgroups in this country are subjected to violence (at large and by authorities) exactly as though they deserved less protection than the hegemonic rump that controls all the levers of power and means of production.

I'm not doing that here! That would be bleak and so Woke 1. Social justice and equality before the law? What is this, 2020? As the kids probably still say: so cringe! Did I use that right? They still say that, right? Also, unrelated, what is "gyatt," anyone? How would I use it in a sentence? Should I try? I probably shouldn't try.

Right now, I'm not sure who I am. The thing that defines us as citizens in this country is, and this is not exactly groundbreaking social science or even really that deep a political insight, how we stand in relation to productivity. How much of our day is being spent contributing to the economy, and if it isn't the correct amount, how should the power of the state be used to punish us for noncompliance with the expected output norm? And the math is super simple, like obviously if you don't have a job, the public humiliation by political actors and the vulnerability you experience in terms of food scarcity, proximity to violence, police harassment, educational abandonment and social experimentation is not only tolerated but expected. Cheered, even. It's such a deeply ingrained societal truism that poor people vote against the interests of disgusting other (imagined) poor people and in the interests of billionaires as a matter of course, election over election, as part of a specific engineering program to frustrate and defeat the development of the idea of shared political interests among the wide base of the population that have the least. Pointing it out is like pointing out misogyny. Everyone's like "yeah guy, duh."

If you do have a job, is it the right job? If you're complaining about schools and food and the brutality of the police-state-within-the-state, well, have you thought about just getting a better job? It's the promise of America, after all, that literally every person should be able to be middle class. The fact that economies do not function in that way, never have, never will and there isn't enough money in the whole history of the world to make that sort of reordering even remotely possible isn't relevant or worth exploring, but the promise of it is enough to warp perception just enough to make something like the modern Republican Party (or even the non-modern one dating back to at least the New Deal) viable.

So if someone, just hypothetically, isn't doing anything to actually contribute, like not working at all, but is still on the payroll and collecting a check, is that person a) a dirty freeloader worthy of our scorn, or b) a folk hero living the dream, sticking it to The Man?

Like, I'm not on public assistance, except I'm definitely having my lifestyle subsidized without being required to put in work. It sounds fishy, but when you remember the context that this was a scheme cooked up by the richest person who ever was, well, I guess I have my answer. You can't be wrong or stupid or misguided or a narcissistic waste of space if you have a lot of money. Wealth is self-justifying. I feel like I'm covered. Thanks, Elon.*

---

*Did it hurt to type that, even as a rhetorical bit? Reader, it did.

Click Here to Apply

I don't think it speaks particularly to my sense of meticulousness to any level of peculiarity, nor to a compulsion toward constructing a codifying order in futile defiance of the entropy that has the advantage of a literally limitless pool of time to achieve its end-state goal of pulling the universe and all we've ever known to love into its subatomic constituent parts to point out that I made a spreadsheet for my job search. Really it's just that I like making the little grids. You can make the cells, like, different colors and stuff. And word wrap, woof... who's having a bad time?

Honestly, it's just too much to manage. Since I started the job search in earnest back in early June, I have applied for close to 90 jobs. I know this because of the above-mentioned spreadsheet, which, like all of technology these days, is supposed to make things easier but somehow can't be simplified enough to actually account for all the chaotic complexity that literally every task seems to require. Like how cars used to be carburators and dipsticks and now they're basically an IT department's worth of problems with wheels attached. My car is fully electric and I'm not exaggerating when I say any time I have to take it the dealership service department* they react with fear and surprise at the sight of it. I've never described an issue that I'm having and then been met with any level of reassurance; not "mm hmm" of general recognition, not a confident off-the-cuff appraisal of the issue, not a single probling follow-up question, not even the kind of "I'm following what you're saying" head nod they used to give you just before they cut you off in that charmingly condescending way only car people and financial consultants really know how to do. The flash of panic in their eyes catches you by surprise at first, but sometimes you can really feel when you're in the middle of a cultural shift and the people experiencing it are scrambling to catch up. This must have been what it was like back when women were first allowed to get their own credit cards. World turned upside down.

I've talked already about the absurd deterioration of the efficiency of any task, including job searching, as technology becomes more "helpful" to job seekers and prospective employers. I guess it underlines that point in a meta sort of way by overlapping a lot of the same territory with yet another overwritten blogpost, which is definitely what I'm trying to achieve here in my normal clever-clogs mode. It's not that I'm just complaining again about the same shit, over and over and over again. I mean, at best you could hit me with two "over"s.

There's loads of free (and less than free) advice out there about targeting, honing, perfecting and deploying your résumé, couched in whatever half-baked market-speak pseudo-paradigm is pinging its way around the "employment space" at the minute. What I can tell you from this many months in, only securing a response of any kind from seven of the almost 90 places I've applied: the only things that matter are volume and speed.

If you've been around the internet for any amount of time, one of its truest constants, an axiomatic known-knowable against which one could calibrate atomic clocks, is that if there is a comment section for the thing posted, SOMEone will, within 1-to-4 seconds of it being put up for public view, will comment "First!" Of course all of us know that in the time it took them to type that out, at least two other people will have posted a comment, so the "First!" comment, by understood and stipulated internet rule, cannot appear earlier than the third comment under a post or video, with no lower limit known.

What we didn't know is that impulse that makes people stupid in the sort of public way where people can see what you thought was a good idea to type, that's exactly and only the one strategy that will work to get a response when job hunting. It's FIRST! or nothing.

Helpfully, job sites will tell you a) when the job posting was first listed and b) roughtly how many responses it has garnered, up to "100+." The reason why it stops at 100 is that all these sites know that by the time you hit triple digits, your chances of even being seen--let alone considered--rest at zero, the same way the OceanGate Titan rests on the ocean floor. The people in that thing had a better chance at swimming to the surface than you do of getting a job that has "100+" applicants listed or has been posted for more than three days.

Grim metaphor, sure, but this is grim stuff. The only traction I've gotten for any applications has been because I stumbled across a posting soon after it went up. But it doesn't really get less bleak than that once you've (improbably!) cleared the first hurdle. So far I've had only one interview, with a "virtual AI assistant" bot about a week ago and from whom I have not yet heard anything back. Feels great. I haven't been ghosted by a bot since I was on the dating apps, so I appreciate the notalgia hit.

I had an interview scheduled for this morning, but the person never called, never responded to any attempted follow-up. Not my favorite experience, but you know what, the managing of the volume happens on their end as well. Just like with the dating apps, I can get pretty quickly to some kind of empathy for the other half of the equation. That's also a safe coping mechanism to recontextualize rejection by giving them a built in excuse, only in this case it has to be "well, they can't really get to everyone..." rather than "she was wearing that Sailor Moon shirt in her profile, she's probably not really that into guys actually." You have to adapt, obviously.

The answer is to, as the cliché goes, make finding a job as much like having a job as possible, which is to say: tedious and disheartening and getting in your way of playing more Baldur's Gate III.

No snoozing, literally, so I'm up with an alarm now. First thing I do is dig into my email and start sorting through the zillion messages I've gotten from the 6-12 active job sites (some I actively applied through and some who just... found me) I'm using and determine whether or not I can make any applications that day. I do it in 2-3 hour chunks a few times a day, right up until the the boulders of hopelessness avalanche through my soul and I have to take a break to let it re-inflate with the right amount of delusional optimism (about 5 parts per billion). I'm committed to getting this done.

And by "this" I mean "maintain continuity of health care so I don't have to pay for my statin pills out of my own pocket." Dystopias are dark things to live in, but you can't say they're not chock full of motivation.

---

*I'm not a financial masochist, it's just that it's still under warranty.

With Any Luck, He's Got The Grail Already

Denholm Elliott is dead. This is not breaking news, as it happened way back in 1992. And honestly, if you were coming here for current hot-stove celebrity news, you've misread the last 20-plus years of my posting history. To the extent that there is an operating philosophy behind any of this, it's that nothing published here should ever be misconstrued as enlightening, informative, actionable or timely. Developing and maintaining a reputation for that kind of reliability and/or usefulness comes with it way too much implicit responsibility. I have a cat, I'm already way over-booked in that department.

Besides mourning a deeply dependable British character actor and also taking a minute to refresh myself on some of his roles and accomplishments,* mentioning him is just a culmination of thoughts I had today when I was filling up my 32-ounce large drink cup with iced tea before I enjoyed a bean and rice burrito at a local Mexican fast food institution. I concede that it's possible that the connection there is not apparent or immediate to some of you, so I will flesh it out, just in case.

My first experience with Denholm Elliott was in Trading Places, the Eddie Murphy-Dan Aykroyd-Jamie Lee Curtis high-concept comedy from 1983. I don't remember when or where I saw it, but I imagine it was on early HBO in the 1980s, at somebody else's house (HBO used to be just for fancy people), and it definitely contained way, way too many boobs for whatever age I was. Also a man gets sodomized by a gorilla. You know, as a joke.

It's very possible I first saw him in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but he played Marcus Brody so straight in that one, I don't think he stuck out that much and I only recognized him retroactively. To be fair, he was competing with animatronic snakes and Nazis having their faces melted by a box of ghosts. If you compare it to his later turn as Marcus in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, he went from Supporting Exposition Man to Main Comic Relief, a gigantic upgrade and, to Steven Spielberg's credit, really leaned into what Denholm Elliott could deliver as a performer. Iconic line readings, effortless stealing of scenes... everyone once in a while, this Spielberg guy gets something right. Credit where it's due.

In the intervening nine years between Last Crusade and the goofy-ass, abortive (but still ultimately delivered) follow-up Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, Elliott died (today I learned) due to AIDS-related complications. This is before we started CGI-ing digital zombie avatars of dead people into films, so in an apt reflection of the creative effort that went into Crystal Skull, Spielberg et alia cast deeply dependable British character actor** Jim Broadbent as Indiana Jones' new English Supporting Exposition Man, probably actually named Marcuss Broddy.

Part of the attempted creative character and narrative messaging in that film has to do with time passing and the life transitions forced upon us by aging, conceding agency from one generation to the next. This had also been touched on in Last Crusade, but in that case the handoff was to the protagonist from his supporting Dad character, so we didn't take much note of it. But now, it's a central theme because the check is being cashed agaisnt the account of Indiana Jones himself, to the benefit of (let me double check my notes here to be sure I haven't made a grave error... nope, it still inexplicably says) Shia LeBoeuf.

English Supporting Exposition Man Who Is Not Denholm Elliott, from his home nestled deeply in Act 1 of Crystal Skull, delivers the iconic and THEME-CRITICAL nut graf: "We seem to have reached the age where life stops giving us things and starts taking them away." Were they mostly referring to Sean Connery in that line? It's not impossible! But they mentioned Marcus Brody directly, and this is his stand-in character specifically delivering the line, so yeah, it makes me think more of Denholm Elliott. Roger Moore was a better James Bond, too. I said it.

Of course the movie then blatantly betrays itself by spending the rest of its run-time just giving Indiana Jones new things like a rekindling with his One That Got Away in a sparky, game Karen Allen and the burden of a new son in the-guy-whose-name-we-already-mentioned-it's-fine. We had to wait for Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny to do a way better job of directly pitting Indy against mortality, even if it still wasn't great. But give me a choice between Sh*a L*Bo*uf and Phoebe Waller-Bridge and, well, Phoebe Waller-Bridge is Roger Moore all day.

Again, what I'm getting at is obvious, but in case I have to spell it out: I've had to give up drinking diet soda. I know. I was at the burrito place and I was getting iced tea (to be fair, they do pretty good iced tea) instead of my normal Diet Coke (I buy Coke Zero at home, but Coke Zero from soda fountains is gross for some reason) as yet another adjustment to mitigate my ongoing low-level medical issues that do not have an obvious solution, or even palliative program, as yet. I've already given up pretty much all meat except poultry to control for cholestorol, even though I'm on a pill for that now anyway. And now, what, I can't give myself the pleasure of some lab-made harsh chemical sugar-substitute fizzy caffeine delivery vehicle, for what? Dried leaves steeped in some water.

I've reached the point where life stops giving me things and starts taking them away.

Well, the joke's on them (whomever has told me to cut out diet soda, my own nagging inner voice I guess), because it doesn't seem to be helping that much! Next thing you know They are going to be telling me to stop eating fast-food burritos the size of my forearm as overeating is as likely a culprit for digestive discomfort as anything.

Oh god, there's no bottom, is there?

---

*Did you know he won a BAFTA for his role in Trading Places? That was news to me just today! Pretty happy about it too, he was great in that. Hang on, did this blog just lead to something informative

**Please do not describe him as such in front of Mike Leigh

No Thugs in Our House

 

The Odyssey

starring Zendaya, Tom Holland, Jon Bernthal, Anne Hathaway, Matt Damon, John Leguizamo, Samantha Morton, Himesh Patel, Robert Pattinson and Charlize Theron

directed by Christopher Nolan (Inception, Memento, several Batmans, that one with John David Washington we don't talk about, Oppenheimer, etc. [the "etc." here is doing an embarrassing amount of work])

---

Spider-Man: Brand New Day

starring Zendaya, Tom Holland, Jon Bernthal, Sadie Sink, Jacob Batalon, Tramell Tillman, Mark Ruffalo, Florence Pugh and Marisa Tomei

directed by Destin Daniel Cretton (some indie stuff, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, Wonder Man)

---

OK SERIOUSLY THIS TIME, THERE WILL BE MAJOR SPOILERS IN THIS FOR A NEW-ISH MOVIE, SO THIS IS A GENUINE WARNING. NOT FOR THE ONE THAT IS BASED ON A 5,000-YEAR-OLD STORY THOUGH, COME ON

---

It's not easy to make a summer blockbuster anymore, I get it. You have to contend with the changing paradigms of what a movie studio is and how it manages (or doesn't manage) risk, and that doesn't even take into account the fact that most studios are run by spreadsheet dipshits whose only real responsibility is to keep an eye on how leveraged their private equity patrons are and whose only common denominator seems to be how much they kinda hate movies and TV.

I'm not minimizing the fact that these types of big-rollout films are a massive financial investment that carries actual risk to some degree for studios, not just "risk" in the way noodgey consultants talk about it. Like there are rooms right now in corporate offices where a hired outsider is giving a presentation where at least one of the slides is going to quantify as a percentage how much sexual harrassment is "survivable" and a pros/cons breakdown on whether or not the health care plan should include support for transgender employees. What constitutes a good financial decision these days is so much more complicated than the Golden Age of Hollywood where the primary consideration was whether a studio executive wanted to bang one of the leads. Now it's a spaghetti-map flowchart of knock-on decisions for global entities with a dizzying array of holdings and assets across an array of industries. If a massive film fails, they'll have to balance out the expenditure with write-offs and insurance claims and offsets in other lines of business. Maybe that means if, say, The Flash underperforms, we have to lose a few thousand acres of rainforest or fire everyone in an athleisure-wear sweatshop in Bangladesh, but the only measurable "evil" in 2026 is if the number doesn't go up at the correct angle on the graph. We can all agree on that.

The fact is that sometimes these films do miss relative to their investment, without even addressing the quality of the product, and vice versa. It's not like Star Wars Episode IX The Rise of Skywalker lost anybody any money, even though we'd all rather do 600 burpees over a puddle of our own sick than watch any of it again. But we keep getting more Star Wars because it's time not necessarily because someone has a good idea. This has been the issue that has plagued the post-Endgame Marvel movie franchise system as they keep cranking and cranking and cranking out product to meet concepts of tempo and expectation to statisfy the investor class and prediction markets, not because, say, someone as reliably awesome as Ryan Coogler has a burning need to make something that results in a wonder like the first Black Panther movie. And every move nudges the risk meter in one direction or the other, pushing them to make wronger and wronger decisions, so you end up with a super messy Doctor Strange movie that everyone is frustrated with (even though it's mostly fine), but somehow Blade with Mahershala Ali gets cancelled, in some ways explicitly because the Doctor Strange one turned out to be a miss.

Reliability is hard enough to find in this marketplace run by crouching, shuddering, mewling hedge fund babies and the people they hire in their image, but we knew already that there are a few poles on which we could pitch our tents in any weather: Spider-Man and ancient Greek myths of dubious authorship (as directed by the guy who made a blockbuster out of a very talky movie about a science dork). All know this.

Even as superhero movie fortunes (in a literal sense) wax and wane, with varying levels of think-pieces generated by their failures especially (doubled if a woman is featured as a lead or co-lead), for some reason the two reliable exceptions are films about Batman and films about Spider-Man. Even The Amazing Spider-Man 2, the film so worrying they had to reboot the whole thing with a whole different English person pretending to be a Queens boy, made over $700 million worldwide, almost the exact same number as 2022's The Batman, which was hailed as a return to form for the character, despite featuring the sleepiest of all the Batmen to date.

Brand New Day had a lot going for it then, separated from the chaff and clutter of a bunch of Avengers baying for screen time and character arc. Totally unfairly, then, Destin Daniel Crestin and writers Chris McKenna and Erik Sommers also hit us over the head with a truly excellent expression of the genre. They were helped immensely by an insanely gifted core of performers, which feels like shameless overkill, but these are the factors that result in the second highest box office opening week of all time.

Also, hey, remember Troy? It's kind of a meme because Brad Pitt is so weird in that movie and Orlando Bloom is such a little bitch, but if you're going to be portraying a demi-god with priorties outside the scope of human morality and a sniveling princeling who runs off with a powerful king's wife, respectively, those are the right outcomes, in terms of characterization. OK, Greek-poetry-based films maybe aren't quite a "franchise" in the modern sense. I know it feels like a reach going back to Troy to talk about Homeric epics on screen since that was over 20 years ago, but in the whole scope of how long the stories have existed, that's lightning fast really. Spider-Man has only been around since like the 1960s. Dude is WAY behind.

Both The Odyssey and the latest Spider-Man rely on epic and spectacle in different ways, and both do so exactly to the sensory-pummeling levels we've come to demand. Both are, in their ways, about journeys of transformation and self-discovery, The Odyssey you'd think in a more literal sense but Spider-Man is out here sort of maybe becoming a whole-ass spider? That part wasn't entirely clear, but it came with a cool blacked-out eyes effect for Tom Holland. Not exactly shipmates-being-sculpted-into-pigs, but it was going for something.

The Odyssey itself exists at much more of an emotional remove than Spider-Man, mostly because we've had three other movies now to live in the character dynamics (Peter Parker, MJ and Ned) that are centered in this iteration the way fan service and (literal) magic were in the previous one. In fairness to No Way Home, they made that into something really good as well, but Brand New Day is a rough and poignant metaphor about post-high school separation, isolation and the struggle with becoming someone separate from the safe context of your childhood friends and family, although here in a sci-fi extreme case where literally everyone forgets who you are (instead of just feeling that way because you're 19).

Odysseus has the opposite problem is that nobody forgets who he is, which is a real pain in the ass for his wife and son, a super-power-free Tom Holland again. Everyone back in Ithaca is stuck in a grinding stasis because they just can't get past Odysseus as an idea, as a place-holder, with Penelope literally doing and undoing her weaving night after night just to keep her grubby swarm of Tinder stalkers off her ass. They're in his house, fucking up all his shit, eating up his food, asking where the hell he is, while he's out there literally on a 20 year boys' weekend that includes all the stops at every roadside attraction including, literally, hell.

I'm not going to compare the two directly... but OK Spider-Man is way better. You have to mark it out as even with the casts almost since there's so much overlap (if I'm Jacob Batolon, I'm pretty mad I'm not in The Odyssey. There's already all this bullshit "race controversy," no reason you couldn't have also had a Filipino), but Spider-Man also has a truly excellent and story-crucial turn from Sadie Sink, who isn't in The Odyssey at all. AND Brand New Day has ninjas. Red ninjas. And they fight Spider-Man. I know The Odyssey had a lot of cool enemies too, but they didn't really fight, they just made the Greeks yell "BACK TO THE SHIPS!" as they just barely avoided having their shit wrecked over and over. Ninjas win.

Now we wait for the next Window of Film Distribution Profitability, which will be around Christmas time, this time with a built-in spectacle of so-called "Dunesday" when Dune Part 3 releases on the same day as Avengers: Doomsday, two films which will of course in the aggregate also include Zendaya and Florence Pugh and Robert Pattinson and Tom Holland and what I like to call the off-brand less-American version of Tom Holland, Timothée Chalamet. You can't really manufacture reliability on your returns, but I guess when it comes to blockbuster movies, you mitigate by using the same 8-10 bankable movie stars, pair them with some franchise IP and that's it. Literally nothing else works. Sorry, Paul Rudd, apparently you don't make the cut.

Desmond Has A Barrow in the Marketplace

Don't worry, I'm fine. We don't really know each other (unless we do, in which case you've already rolled your eyes because you can feel I'm about to attempt to be either humorous or clever, with reliably mixed results), so I don't really imagine you are or would be all that worried. I'm not such a narcissist. Besides, I should make it clear, that first sentence was exclusively for me.

"Don't worry, I'm fine" is a thing I say to myself a lot the last few months as I make shuffling, unwilling steps along a boringly pedestrian (ha) health journey with profoundly common and predictable features that shouldn't give anyone much pause at all. There are simply Things That Happen when you crash into your 50s, an impact your 40s don't really prepare you for except maybe planting in your head the perspective "Oh you thought you were 'old' before now, did you?" Really the curse of aging is a constant reframing and stockpiling regret regarding your just-passed previous era and how well you were actually doing in retrospect. The trap is, of course, that you're always older than you've ever been and you have no experience to tell you how to be that old. And look, that moment passed and you just totally wasted it and now you're even older. And now you're even older. And now you're even older.

You should brace yourselves now. Everyone you have crowded around the screen to read this with you at your regular Ochlocracy In Action Blog-Drop Group Read Party should probably take a seat, partly because of how shocking the following news is and because sometimes, I can really go on and on. You should be comfortable.

I had the follow-up appointment with my specialist after my VIOLENT SCOPING of a month or so ago and here are the results:

There's nothing visibly wrong with me.

I'll let that sink in, I know it's a shock to a lot of you. But, and I hate to say this, there's more.

Also, I've managed to lose some weight.

I'm sorry to give you all that at once, I know it's a lot. In a demographic space where the main/possibly only thing to reliably talk about is ongoing/nagging/developing health issues and the ways in which our once taut and viable bodies are sloughing and morphing into something like eight pounds of wet oatmeal in a five pound sack, finding out a) I'm fine and b) keeping it kinda tight is something a disaster, social-currency wise.

Independent of the inevitable ostracization from my peer group on a level I haven't experienced since I joined the marching band in junior high school, this is actually somewhat worrying in a few other ways.

First, I still don't feel great. The complaint that had me VIOLENTLY SCOPED in the first place is still extant, still an irritant (literally), though very manageable and not a massive degradation in my quality of life, by any stretch. The medication I have for it doesn't seem to help a ton, but some lifestyle changes around meal sizes and food choices seem to mitigate. None of this should be a surprise as anyone in middle age knows mostly it's a series of winnowing out, bit by bit, of all the things you like to eat for various health reasons. If we follow the trendline, if we make it to 80, it'll just be starchy pap force fed into our toothless mouths by a syringe, like abandoned kittens, except without the payoff of developing into something anyone would want to pet.

Second, weight loss is way harder as you hit a certain point in middle age, but I've dropped like 5-10 pounds in the last two months. Is this because of the minor changes to my diet (see above) that still includes (in small amounts) Ben & Jerry's plant-based ice cream frozen dessert, plus the fact that I've changed up my exercise routine in favor of tennis rather than the boxing conditioning group classes that I'd been taking for nearly 20 years due to some nagging hand and arm injuries? Nobody seems to be able to say!

Either way, what this means is that my surprisingly healthy and correctly colored esophagus and stomach--absolutely on point for their on-camera debut last month--plus the weight loss plus the continuing issue means I get to do some more medical imaging. This will be my third round after an ultrasound (everything OK!) and VIOLENT SCOPING down my throat (everything OK!) frustratingly found that I'm 100% healthy, and not just "for an older fella," like objectively.

There's a CT scan in my future which, by all indications, will also show that I'm fine and having to deal with a gurgly tummy is just my cross to bear for the near-to-indefinite future.

In the meantime. though, in the absence of that final clear bill of health, Schrödinger's Cat has nestled up cozy in my solar plexus, purring away, meaning right before I go to bed every night, I get to scroll away on my phone looking up symptoms to reassure myself I don't have, like, pancreatic cancer or a vengeful gall bladder. Literally NONE of my symptoms line up with either of those things, but yeah, in this transitional time before I know-know, I get the luxury of wondering the Big What If.

This all really tracks though, for when I'm comfortably in my 60s and I look back at how I wasted my stupid 50s worrying about nothing and I wish I was as healthy in that future-now as I am in the now-now. It's good to know yourself, but even if you can say you see it coming, you can only really process and internalize it in hindsight. Like a car crash, but in incredibly slow mothion and nowhere near as visually interesting.

Variations on a Theme

This has always been a variety blog as I don't really do series. I do give the same metadata label to all the film/TV reviews that I do, but that's really only so I can call them up quickly to see if I've done them already. I've been at this Blogger thing since before they had labels as an option, so when they arrived I treated them with the same kind of arch bemusement as I treat everything else here that I might have used to purposely grow an audience or betray in any way that I took this seriously. It's a specific GenX kind of personality flaw that ensures I'll be able to keep putting in the work to produce these every week, but without any of the burden of expectation of quality, ease of use or betrayal of my emotional needs. In retrospect, I guess posting these once per week for 20-odd years is in the aggregate a small indicator of what my emotional needs are, but we're not allowed to talk about that directly.

And also, OK, I don't purposely do series except how, again, in the aggregate this is also a chronicle of my inner life, lightly-to-moderately obscured by jokes, comedic premises, obvious exaggeration and more than a few well-placed lies (but only if, like nudity in films, they're tastefully lit and serve the plot). So sort of topic-agnostic, the whole thing counts as a series accidentally, kind of like how if you put enough marbles in a big enough bag, one at a time over a long enough period, eventually you end up with a planet.

I did not take astrophysics or really any sciences past basic physical science, but I'm pretty confident that's how planets are born. Just a big enough bag of marbles.

What I'm trying to get at is just recognizing that sometimes my actual interests interfere with the curated presentational interests of by blog-writer persona and I end up with de facto series about things that betray what I'm actually in to, especially if it lasts, says, four to six weeks and is probably the only truly global cultural event in this age of post-internet attention-siphoning.

No, I'm not talking about The Odyssey coming out in IMAX (more on that in short order when I run out of things to write about during these summer doldrums), I do of course mean the just-concluded FIFA Men's World Cup. And see, you can read my own feelings and exeriences regarding said thing in these several places because, apparently, I couldn't help myself.

I've said before, quite often out loud to people around me to the point where they just put a hand up to indicate they'd like to auto-skip that part of the conversation like it's a dialogue option in a role-playing video game, the the World Cup is my favorite thing, past any movie or TV show or book or whatever. As a point of cultural experience or consumable entertainment option (depending on your level of cynicism, but given how many commercials starring David Beckham I watched, it's at best some level of both those things) unique on that level, it stands to reason that I struggle to shut the fuck up about it. The challenge is being reflective when it's over instead of just being all twitchy, palpatative, sweaty and hyperventilating like a junky forced to go cold turkey. To paint you a picture, I'm sitting here on a weekday morning typing this with the television off entirely, zero games on in the background, for the first time in I'd like to say... maybe forever? Is that possible? Was there a "before"? Who am I if I'm not calculating group standings in real time based on current scorelines? Do I even exist, and if I do, what would even be the point of it?

For all the drama and surprise--the elements that make live sports the last lingering vestige of the pre-streaming paradigm where people all kind of watched the same thing--the ending was still an ending, recognizable in the way almost all World Cup endings are. The final was actually pretty dramatic in retrospect, though while you're watching it, it never feels like it lives up to the month-plus of building expectation. That's unfair of course, but it's also ruined by the aboslute banger that was the 2022 final between Argentina and France, the exception that really fucks up the rule.

Spain were both dominant in a specific way and kind of boring through a lot of the tournament, but they were fairly active in the final. And Argentina knew it didn't have much shot (or any shot) past a lot of hysterical jumping around and judo kicks to the body parts of their opponents. The match was way better than a team that doesn't score that much vs. a team employing a nullification strategy implies, and the result was predictable if Argentina is relying on a statistically unreliable (but somehow repeatable in all their previous knockout round games) intervention from heaven (in the form of Lionel Messi, in some notable way).

Was the third-place game comparatively insane? It sure was. But a) it takes a while to warm up to that as a viewing experience since everyone watching feels so so bad after having their dreams shattered by a semifinal loss, and b) I didn't watch it as I was at a function (sometimes I have to go to functions) so, as far as my experience goes, I can't factor it in. So we'll pretend it was a shared fever dream some of you had and leave it there.

Now we're back on the clock, T-minus four years until the next iteration for the fellas. We can start the cycle of picking up the USA men's side again after a hard switch-off of interest or attention the second after they were knocked out, after a reasonable period of letting that interest lay fallow for a brief period, like two years or so. Will that be long enough to forget their non-competitive pulverization by a mediocre Belgium side? Likely yes, but odds are they will endeavor to remind me of it with subsequent underwhelming performances.

In the meantime, I will revert to being a normal person with healthily variegated and diversified interests for... OK, definitely not for the entire four years. The qualifiying campaigns for 2030 will reach a peak in 2029, so I'll be into that. And the Euros will be in 2028. Oh and the Women's World Cup will be in Brazil next year, so... Eleven months or so of hinged normalcy, then we pick up this series again. Back to our irregular programming.