Don't say I didn't warn you

As movie one-sheet lines go, the one for Signs seems unusually relevant.

"It's not like they didn't warn us." True of so many things.

Every once in awhile I find myself in a situation I've been in before. I call these situations the lessons I have to keep learning.

You know the ones.

They keep reoccurring in our lives, and when we find ourselves in the middle of one of them we can't believe it's happening to us again.

Each time, in the aftermath of these situations, I realize that if I think about it all the signs were there from the start. And if I'm being truthful with myself (highly overrated by the way), I can't say they didn't warn me.

I do think I'm honing my skills and getting better at spotting the signs before the fact. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't.

But when I don't, at least I know I'll have another shot at it next time I'm there..

 

Captain Ewww

Here's an idea. Get George Lucas and Francis Coppola together to come up with a 3D dance spectacular starring Michael Jackson, then show it as an attraction at Disneyland.

What could possibly go wrong?

The answer to that question has been resurrected at Disneyland: Captain EO. Once again it's being shown there. And it's every bit as bad as it was when it first stunk up the Disneyland 3D theater in 1986. The fact that now it's under the guise of a "tribute" to Michael Jackson doesn't make it any easier or pleasant to watch.

While waiting in line, you're captive to a video that plays showing Lucas and Coppola in the throws of the creative process as they invent this masterpiece for Michael.

In the film, Michael dances the Michael dances. Hip thrusts, crotch grabs, moonwalks. And if that weren't enough, he, ahem, "acts". Something about shooting lasers from his wrists and being happy. He's surrounded by fake foam rubber creatures that are supposed to be Star Wars-esque, but are actually cheaply painted foam rubber Lucas probably had laying around the studio.

It's hard to decide what's sadder. Watching Lucas and Coppola cash a huge payday for a creatively bankrupt effort. The fact that Michael Jackson's dead. The fact that 23 years before his death he was cranking out crap like this and people were lining up for it. Or the fact they're still lining up for it.

I have many issues with Michael Jackson. But one thing I always thought was undeniable was his talent.

Unfortunately the same can't be said for his taste.

Why so serious?

The man on the left is Christopher Nolan, who directed the man on the right, Heath Ledger, in a little film called The Dark Knight.

Today my friend Cameron and I saw Nolan speak at the Hero Complex Film Festival at the Chinese Theater in Hollywood. First they screened a thriller he did with Al Pacino, Robin Williams and Hillary Swank called Insomnia. Afterwards, Nolan came out for an interview and some audience Q&A, and then the lights dimmed for The Dark Knight.

It's hard to know what to be impressed with about Christopher Nolan first. His intelligence, his talent, his originality, his clarity, his polite-beyond-reason treatment of the stupidest film-geek questions (Hollywood, go figure), his clear love for and trust in actors who know what they're doing or his genuine disdain for 3D movies.

As director of the third highest grossing film in history, the studios pretty much let him do what he wants. As a moviegoer, I feel lucky that what he wants to do is keep making intelligent, entertaining films.

One story Nolan told was about Michael Caine, who's been in his most successful films. Caine told him that the reason those films did well was because he was Nolan's good luck charm.

After listening to Nolan today, I'm pretty sure he's making his own luck.

The other German Sheperd

The first german shepard is the Pope. The other one is mine.

As far as I can tell, apparently my dog has never read the German Sheperd manual. He's lovable instead of fierce. Assertive only when he needs to be. Long-haired instead of short-haired.

And while he scares the bejeezus out of Jehovah's Witnesses and pizza delivery guys, it's completely unintentional.

They think I'm holding him back because he's going to go after them. Actually, he only wants to make new friends. They all ask the same question, "Does your dog bite?" And I always give the same answer, "We'll find out." (Never gets old).

At the dog park, since most people haven't seen long-haired Sheperds, they insist on telling me he's a mix instead of the pure bred that he is. The people who tell me this usually have dogs that look like one of God's cruel jokes: Lab body, Pit Bull head, Chihuahua ears, Terrier tails, Dalmatian markings. I usually just smile, say nothing, and secretly hope their dogs never breed.

Sometimes my big, powerful, scary dog decides to take his dinner lying down.

I'm hiding that manual from him forever.

They LOST me at the end

LOST was always a show that prided itself on raising intriguing questions each week. As it turns out, I too have a question: why did the finale suck so bad?

Like many of my fellow LOST fans, I simply can't keep up the charade anymore. I'm tired of pretending I liked the finale. That I liked investing six years (and five seasons worth of DVD's) in a show only to have virtually none of the major questions it raised answered.

Instead of a giant Egyptian statue, it may as well have been a middle finger.

So they're all dead, but at least they're dead with their soulmates, their constants. Jack's alcoholic dad is the guide, and there's - get this - a white light they walk into. They had two years notice when the show was ending, and the best they could come up with was a white light? To quote Seth Meyers and Amy Pohler: really?

Here's the truth - I feel completely betrayed. Not to say that I wasn't entertained, involved and intrigued over the years. But like the long term relationship you have that suddenly ends, you wonder what it was all for.

There's a great article by Emily Nussbaum in New York Magazine called A Disappointed Fan Is Still A Fan - How the creators of LOST seduced and betrayed their viewers. It's exactly how I feel about the show and the finale.

I was wondering what it would take to get me to appreciate the ending of The Sopranos. Now I know.

Born To Be Wild

Dennis Hopper

1936 - 2010

The shirt off their back

There are things in this world I admit I'll never understand. How deep the ocean is. The vastness of the universe. My income tax forms. And why every store can't offer the same extraordinary level of customer service as Nordstrom.

There's such a thing as going the extra step, and then there's going above and beyond above and beyond. Which is exactly what Nordstom's did for me.

If you know me at all, you know I practically live in black shirts. Specifically lightweight, black corduroy shirts from Nordstrom. These magnificent shirts are incredibly comfortable and amazingly versatile. They're equally at home whether the occasion is formal or casual. They save me a lot of decision making when it comes to what I'm going to wear - kind of like Jeff Goldblum's closet filled with all the same outfits in The Fly. (Point of fact: I'm much more careful going through the transponder).

But I digress.

When I first saw these shirts, it was love. So I bought four of them, thinking that would be plenty to last me. But the years take their toll, and the shirts became threadbare, torn, and faded. I admit I took them for granted. I always thought I'd just be able to hop over to Nordstrom and get some more.

Come to find out that wasn't the case.

When I couldn't find them in the store, I went online. They weren't there either. So I sent an email to a Nordstrom customer service person who replied they no longer carried the shirts and weren't planning on getting them in. I asked if they could special order them, and the answer was a polite no.

Here's the thing - "no" is not an answer I'm fond of taking. I decided to take my case higher up the Nordstrom food chain.

I got the name of a senior management person - let's call him Dave - who I thought might be a good person to talk to. After explaining my situation in an email to him, he said he'd see what he could do and get back to me.

Not only did he get back to me, he got back with the answer I was hoping for.

He said even though they didn't stock the shirts, there was a person in their product development department - let's call her Annie - who could make it happen. Annie figured out that they had enough of the material to make four sample shirts. They'd be made at the sample shop instead of on the line, dyed black, hand-stitched, and they'd be just like the original shirts.

Except custom ordered, hand-made and mine.

So the shirts will arrive this week. I'm forever grateful to Dave for his responsiveness, and Annie for her extraordinary efforts to insure I got the merchandise I was looking for. And to both of them for demonstrating that genuine customer service does still exist.

When you see me wearing one, you may not know it's one of the shirts that Nordstrom hand-made for me.

Don't worry. I'll tell you.