Say no to NOPE

Here’s the obligatory SPOILER ALERT: If you haven’t seen the movie NOPE, there are things in this post that will spoil some of the surprises in the film. Consider yourself warned.

I’m a great audience. Really, the kind filmmakers dream about. I go into comedies wanting to laugh, I go into suspense and horror films wanting to be nervous and scared—even more so than I am in real life—and I go into love stories wanting to fall in love all over again.

I’m easy that way. And other ways. For another post.

The point is when I went to see NOPE, I was ready to be scared and surprised. After all, I loved Jordan Peele’s directorial debut GET OUT, liked but less so his follow up US, and was ready to enjoy his latest offering.

Come to find out the biggest surprise was how disappointing the movie is.

It’s hard to write about it because even though I said SPOILER ALERT at the top—remember way back then—I don’t want to spoil too much if you’re planning to see it even after this review.

Jordan Peele is a massively skilled writer, director and visual artist. There are sequences stunning in their staging, and for the most part he doesn’t fall into horror film tropes like jump scares—for example the bathroom mirror being closed revealing someone, or something, behind it.

For the most part.

I understand Peele is going for symbolism and using the premise as metaphor for a broader message. But the screenplay is unfortunately so jumbled, and trying to convey several messages, it's unclear exactly what the story is supposed to represent or add up to at the end of it all. For me, there was absolutely no emotional attachement to any of the characters, with the possible exception of being afraid for the actors in the scenes with a chimpanzee that I'll talk about in a minute.

I know I like Daniel Kaluuya, who also starred in Peele's GET OUT. But here, he appears to be sleepwalking through most of the film, especially in his scenes with Keke Palmer who single handedly provides the jolt of energy, humor and liveliness missing from the other performances. You can even see it in the trailer:

The main story revolves around the first black Hollywood horse wrangling family, and a flying saucer that visits them to maybe devour them? Take them to the planet from whence it came? Stop by for a spot of tea? Never really clear where it's from or why it’s there other than to hide in a cloud that doesn’t move, and come roaring out once in awhile so the sound design department has something to do.

Steven Yuen is also in the movie, and there’s a backstory to him about being a child star on a sitcom with a chimpanzee as his co-star. There are flashbacks to this, and a horrific incident with the chimp that's without a doubt the genuinely truly scariest thing in the whole film. But sadly the entire sequence is only about five minutes total of a two-hour, eleven-minute film.

And as long as I’m picking at the bones, I know I said Peele is a great visual artist. Which is why it’s so baffling near the end of the movie, the flying sauce which had looked like a solid object earlier transforms into something like a king-size sheet caught in the wind, rippling through the sky trying to be scary.

NOPE has been getting mixed reviews, with an 81% Fresh from critics and 69% from audiences on Rotten Tomatoes. My feeling is Jordan Peele is experiencing what I like to call the M. Night Shyamalan effect. That is to say he's the recipient of a great deal of residual goodwill from his awesome first film, making people show more restraint when it comes to being as honest about his follow up efforts as they might want to be.

It’s probably worth a viewing once it comes on the streamer of your choice, if only for the two horrifying scenes with the chimpanzee. In the comfort of your home, with some Ruffles and onion dip at the ready, and the ability to stand up every once in a while.

But as far as spending money to see it in the theater, paying the concession stand and parking tax, and not be able to stand up for over two hours?

I can sum up my answer in one word.

The Lesson

I’m a terrible person. No, really.

I know, you beg to differ. To you, I’m just the handsomest best friend you could have, wildly funny, an unfairly talented writer, a great listener, a shoulder to cry on, generous to a fault, someone whose name appears in the Thank You/Acknowledgement sections of almost all the books my friends have written, a dependable source of Breaking Bad trivia and a dispenser of sage advice.

The only things I’m not are a ride to the airport, someone who’ll help you move or a guard dog for your laptop at Starbucks.

But despite all my many good qualities, I’ll say it again. I’m a terrible person.

Here’s why, and please pardon the abrupt shift in tone but the situation calls for it.

This past Saturday morning, the wife and I woke up to a fire truck and an ambulance at our neighbor Suzie’s house directly across the street from us. Naturally we were hoping everything was alright, but were curious what was happening.

We didn’t have the kind of relationship with Suzie where we’d be comfortable going over to ask what was going on. She’d moved in about eighteen months ago, and had been redoing her house for that entire time. Contractors coming and going from the house were just something we got used to, as was the shortage of street parking.

We’d met Suzie when she initially moved in, but hadn’t spoken to her hardly at all since. She was noticeably standoffish, not just with us but with other neighbors as well.

The prior owner of the house, Bob, had been a magnificent gardener. The front lawn was always impeccably kept, and beautiful rose buses adorned the yard. Since we looked directly at the house, we appreciated waking up to that view for years.

But since Suzie had bought the place, the front yard had gone to hell. The lawn was overgrown and underwatered, and the rose bushes were being given last rites.

And of course me, who can kill a plant just by being in the same room with it, never missed a chance to comment on her lack of gardening skills or her less than sparkling personality.

The ambulance was there for Suzie. I saw her wheeled out on the gurney, intubated and unconscious. She died a day later.

Yesterday I saw a truck in the driveway, and a woman going in and out of the house. I went across the street, introduced myself and asked what had happened. She told me Suzie had passed. She’d fought cancer for the past twenty-one years, and had been diagnosed with leukemia not that long ago, and was on some industrial strength chemo that apparently was too much for her body to take.

Her friend, who had known her for sixty years, went on to tell me what a welcoming person Suzie was, and how she worried about seeming so standoffish. She didn’t want people too close to her because of the chemo and her weakened immune system.

She also let me know how awful Suzie felt about the appearance of the front yard—how’d she’d wanted it to be beautiful not just for her, but also for the neighbors. She was just too weak to give it the attention it needed.

After a bit more conversation, she told me the house will be sold. In the meantime, the wife and I are going to have our gardner go over there and restore the front yard so it looks presentable and like someone still lives there.

I know it’s a new-agey kind of sentiment usually found on inspirational posters and those square day-at-a-time calendars Barnes & Noble sells at Christmas. And in a world seemingly fueled by judgement and hatred, it seems an impossibly quaint notion.

But none of that makes it any less true. It’s the lesson I have to keep learning. A little more kindness and a lot less judgement would make this world a far better place.

Not to mention me a better person.

Rest in peace Suzie.

The new GQP mascot

Why doesn't the GQP just get it over with already.

It's long past time to stop insulting the image of the gentle, majestic elephant by using it as a symbol for an insurrectionist party made up of spineless, ass-kissing, backward-looking, boot-licking cowards.

"C'mon Jeff, tell us how you really feel."

It's not hard to recognize they've never been ones for accuracy or truth, but you'd think they'd really like to have something more representative of their true character to put on their Made In China red caps and Let's Go Brandon t-shirts.

And what could be better than a mascot that universally represents the total absence of courage.

Today's GQP lives their sad, fearful little lives scared of everything good, right, fair and just. To name a few: women's rights. LGBTQ rights. Gay marriage. Gun control. Universal healthcare. NATO. Ukraine. Abortion rights. Voter rights. BLM. Police reform. Truth. Facts—real ones, not the alternative kind.

The list goes on longer than one of Moscow Mitch's floor speeches.

Seriously, the best thing they could do is reposition themselves as what they've always been: the party of people your parents warned you about becoming. After all does anyone really want to grow up to be Ted Cruz? Jim Jordan? Cadet Bone Spurs? Lindsey Graham? John Cornyn? Tom Cotton? Lauren Bobert? Marjorie Taylor Greene? It doesn't matter. Insert any Republican politician name here (with the exception of Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger, for the moment).

I will admit one thing the GQP does exceedingly well. They confirm the obvious to anyone watching.

That besides courage, they're also missing a heart and a brain.

Encore post: One for Father's Day

I first posted this piece about 7 years ago. The kids sure don't look like this anymore, and I'm certain that beautiful pooch has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge by now.

Be that as it may, the essence of the words are the same.

It's hard not to feel like my life is becoming a Harry Chapin song, especially now that they have successful, happy lives of their own in progress.

But damn if they don't love their old man. When they were young, I used to ask them, "What's the one thing you know for sure?" And their answer would be, "That you love me."

Now that I think about it, some things never change. Happy Father's Day.

They don't look like this anymore. I don't know about the dog. He might if he's still around.

The thing about being a parent is that, as time goes on, I begin to realize all the clichés come true. How fast it goes. How fleeting it is. How one day they're riding tricycles, and the next they' re driving my car (with the same lead foot they must've inherited from their mother). One minute I'm driving them to kindergarten, the next they're off to college.

Father's Day isn't the only time I ponder these thoughts, but it hits a little harder today for some reason.

Here's the thing: I won the kid lottery. I look around at some of our friends' kids - who shall go nameless - and all I can think about is how fast I would've left them on the steps at the firehouse. Don't look so surprised. Think about some of your friends' kids and tell me I'm wrong.

I have two beautiful, smart, funny kids who still kiss their parents goodnight no matter what time they get home. We tell each other how much we love each other all the time. Their pain is my pain, and their joy is my joy. Their successes are my pride, and their failures are my heartache. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for them, with the possible exception of loaning them my American Express card.

Bill Murray put it best in Lost In Translation: "It's the most terrifying day of your life the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone, never to return. But they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you'll ever meet in your life."

Anyway, the days' activities will be getting under way any minute. I know they'll be giving me cards and a few gifts today (new Stephen King book, hello?), and I have a sneaking suspicion the family's going to hijack me to my favorite breakfast place (it's the Coffee Cup Cafe in case you get the urge to treat me sometime).

Whatever they have in store for me this Father's Day, I want them to know the very best gift they can give me, the one I'll never get tired of, the one I want most, the one I'll always want, is more time with them.

So maybe take the tie back.

Buckle up.

It's been a long while since I sat my ever expanding derriere down to write a blogpost. But the public, noticing a literary, insightful and humorous void in their lives has spoken.

Nah, I'm just messin' with you. No one even noticed. But it's a slow night and a great movie so here we go.

There was a time when the word "maverick" would conjure up images. To audiences of a certain age, it represents the long-running television show of the same name that starred the late, great James Garner. In more recent times, it brings to mind a certain former senator from Arizona who, in hindsight, might have been the last reasonable Republican before he lost his battle in 2018 to an aggressive brain cancer.

But thanks to Paramount Pictures, Tom Cruise and director Joseph Kosinski, "maverick" will heretofore only refer to one thing: the Top Gun sequel, Top Gun: Maverick.

Like this blogpost, it's been a long time coming—36 years since the first Top Gun film. I don't say this very often, but it was well worth the wait.

Not unlike my high school girlfriend, from the first frame the movie is thrilling, fast and wildly entertaining. Cruise is in top form again as Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, a Top Gun flight school instructor known for pushing the envelope and a healthy disregard for the rules.

He's joined by Jon Hamm, Jennifer Connelly and Miles Teller all at the top of their game.

Cruise has long been known for the authenticity he brings to his roles, whether it's hanging on the outside of a C-130 as it takes off in Mission Impossible, or hanging out a top floor of the Burj Kahlifa, the world's tallest building, in a different Mission Impossible.

In Top Gun: Maverick, he's actually in the cockpit of an F-18, actually taking off of an aircraft carrier, actually doing barrelrolls and actually in the seat during most of the dogfights.

It's an example of what Hollywood does best when it's firing on all afterburners. Pure adrenaline, pure entertainment, pure emotion. Just like my high school girlfriend (alright, I'll stop now).

Since this is definitely not a movie where you should be flying solo, my co-pilot for the afternoon was my good friend, esteemed colleague, fellow bronze medal curling champion and proprietor of Roundseventeen, Rich Siegel.

It was a little embarrassing when Rich and I left the theater after the movie, and we got stopped and asked several times if that was us in the beach volleyball scene. We get that a lot. Understandable, since we're both built so similarly to those actors. Like looking in a mirror.

Anyway, after I got home Rich texted me what he thought of the movie. He summed it up perfectly (no surprise), and I couldn't agree with him more.

Top Gun. Top Fun.

Muh muh muh my Flurona

It’s amazing to me how much our collective vocabulary has expanded in the last couple of infectious years. Suddenly we’re tossing around words like “viral load” and “antigen” and “herd immunity.”

And, as Rich Siegel would be the first to tell you, while all of those would make awesome band names, we probably could’ve done without them and just gone on with our average eighth-grade vocabularies the rest of our lives.

But, as I wrote about here, in the not so illustrious advertising tradition of combining two words to make an astonishingly bad third one nobody would ever use even if they had a gun to their head, it seems medical science has jumped on the bandwagon.

We now have a name for the virus you have when you have the bad luck to come down with the seasonal flu and covid-19 at the same time: Flurona.

Two mints in one.

I suppose it’s a catchy (no pun intended) way of identifying what’s ailing ya. It’s also a way to broadcast your monumental bad luck to the world.

And while the odds of contracting both respiratory illnesses simultaneously are small, the risk of hospitalization is considerably greater. Fortunately, you can now get a flurona vaccine, which is exactly what it sounds like. Two vaccines in one shot.

So if you haven’t had your flu shot, and you’re due for a covid booster, just sidle up to the CVS pharmacist/bartender and order yourself a Flurona straight up.

Be careful not to ask for a Shingmonia, Hepatolio or Measbies. Those shots aren’t ready yet.

Thinking outside the box spring

While the country’s supply chain has been racking up headlines lately, my own personal supply chain issue has been front and center here at the Ponderosa for some time.

And what’s in short supply? Sleep.

I can’t remember the last time I slept a solid eight straight through. I’d like to say it’s been months, but sadly it’s been years.

Part of it is my own fault—I have the bladder of a three-year old (who’s going to want it back anytime now) and the bad fortune of usually wanting to quench my thirst with a can of mango-flavored Spendrift from Trader Joe’s right before bedtime.

So there’s that. Perhaps I’ve said too much.

But the other thing that’s also worked against my slumber has been my mattress.

For years the wife and I enjoyed the quality craftsmanship of a California King, Custom Comfort mattress. But a dozen years of kids trampolining, dogs of various weights and sizes jumping on and off, and two exhausted, alleged adults flopping down for the night year after year had definitely taken its toll. And I don’t just mean on the mattress. Don’t get me started.

Anyway the Custom Comfort mattress finally caved—or concaved—and we were forced to shop around for a new one.

I went to the Google, and discovered that now—like salty soup, cheap wine and organic milk—mattresses also come in a box and are all the rage.

Being the trendsetter you know me to be (cargo shorts are still in fashion, right?) I was on it. I thoroughly researched all the boxed mattresses. Once I landed on the one I wanted, I revved up the Mastercard and started the countdown until my comfy new Cal king arrived. In a box.

In the badly produced, low-res video that seems to live on all the boxed mattress websites, all I had to do was unfurl it on top of my existing, seemingly indestructible, original Custom Comfort box springs, which I firmly (no pun intended) believe will outlast us all.

What they conveniently fail to mention is to get a mattress that big in a box, they have to machine coil it so tight it's virtually spring-loaded. My daughter had the misfortune of standing in front of our first one—yes I said first one, keep reading—when we unleashed it from its wrapping, and she literally got knocked across the room.

Oh well, that's what therapy is for.

The first mattress we ordered was the Luxury Bliss® Organic Hybrid Latex Mattress from Plushbeds. You could tell it was a hybrid because it was uncomfortable and expensive.

Fortunately they have a 100-day trial/return policy, with a minimum trial of at least 30 nights.

The first night was great. Then it got progressively more and more uncomfortable. We were waking up with horrendous back, knee and hip pain. Not hip in the sense of trendy. Hip in the sense of “Did you know Rich Siegel got a new hip?”

There was a bit of a rigamarole getting it returned, but the bottom line is they finally did come out and take it back. Which was a good thing because we weren’t about to tackle rolling it back up and putting it in the box.

Setting the pick up date for the return took a bit of planning, because we didn’t want to be between beds for too long, although the living room couch felt like a Heavenly Bed after that mattress.

Being gluttons for punishment and having to learn the same lesson over and over, we went ahead and ordered another boxed mattress. This time it was from Birch, which is the organic luxury division of Helix Mattresses, which advertises on Smartless, which is my favorite podcast. See how that works? Ad people are the biggest suckers.

Anyway, same song, second verse. Long story short, we wound up sending that one back as well.

In the end, we went back to the beginning and bought a real mattress, another Custom Comfort California King. It didn’t come in a box. It came in a big truck with two big guys who set it up for us.

The moral of the story is don’t try to save money on your mattress. You get what you pay for.

Thanks to Custom Comfort, now when I sleep it’s the sleep of kings.

Now if they could just do something about my bladder.