Scorsese's Back Where He Belongs

Went to see The Departed last night. Man, is that a fantastic movie. Easily Scorsese's best since GoodFellas, and it's surely not a coincidence that, like that 1990 masterpiece, this film is set on the mean streets that provide the director his greatest inspiration. If, as I've heard some argue, the praising of Scorsese as a genius of the gangster movie is a ghetto-izing of a great filmmaker, well, so be it. All I know is that Taxi Driver and Raging Bull are brilliant films that work in ways that decent-but-not-transcendent movies like The Aviator and Kundun do not.

The Departed is great for so many reasons. Jack Nicholson fantastic as a Boston crime boss, and for the first time in ages doesn't seem like a parody of himself. The cat-and-mouse interplay between law enforcement and the Irish Mob, each trying to uncover a mole within their ranks, is extremely compelling. The Boston atmosphere is so real that you can almost smell the Fenway Franks. There are great supporting roles from Alec Baldwin, Martin Sheen and Mark "Marky Mark" Wahlberg (who's rapid fire, profanity-laced New England accent is by far the most spot-on in the film). Even Leonardo DeCaprio impressed me, and that's saying a lot since he usually makes me want to throw things at the screen. Plus, the soundtrack prominently features Dropkick Murphys, and there's nothing bad about that:



The movie will get a lot of award nominations, particularly for Jack (Jaaaack!), but it probably won't actually win much. First of all, it's not perfect; the Boston accents are a little shaky at times, and the film is probably about twenty minutes too long. Second, it's total lack of even a hint of feel-good sentimentality basically eliminates it from being a real threat to take Best Picture, since Oscar and most of the other major awards usually reward end up rewarding "pretty good but safe" over "artistically challenging work of genius." Forrest Gump will always win over Pulp Fiction, Crash will always beat Brokeback Mountain, and that's just the way it goes.

But if you're just interested in seeing maybe America's greatest living filmmaker at the top of his game, go see this movie. In the interests of balancing opinion, I will tell you that Melissa didn't think much of this movie (although keep in mind that her favorite movie is probably Center Stage), and my mom, who saw it separately back in Alabama last week, thought it was great but was turned off by the over-the-top violence. As for me, I'd say this is one of the best movie I've seen this year.

Happy Nevada Day

Today is the official observance of Nevada Day, although the Day itself is October 31. Nevada Day is actually a pretty big deal in these parts. It commemorates the day in 1864 that Nevada was admitted to the Union as the 36th state despite the then-raging American Civil War. This is the reason our state flag has the words "Battle Born" on it. Most Nevadans believe that Nevada's statehood was pushed forward during the war in order to somehow safeguard Union access to Comstock Lode silver that was pouring out of Virginia City, just over the Virginia Range from Reno. This is not true; the Federal government would have had much better direct control over access to Comstock silver while Nevada was still part of a Federal territory. Statehood was really rushed through just prior to the elections of 1864 in order to help Abraham Lincoln and the Republican Party keep control of Congress. But whatever the reason the important thing is that the Greatest of All The States is turning 142 years old this Tuesday.

Ruminations For A Wednesday (One Day Late)

Wednesday is the second most vacuous day of the week, from a spiritual standpoint. It's not quite as vapid as the great empty nothingness that is Tuesday, but only because it's a little closer to the weekend and you can make lots of lame "hump-day" jokes, if you're so inclined (contrary to popular belief, Monday is not the worst day of the week--Monday is certainly not fun, but at least we get to enjoy the camaraderie of shared misery, that whole "it's Monday, it sucks, but we're all in this together" sort of esprit de corps).

The only thing that used to brighten Wednesdays up for me was the fact that that was the day that the new issue of The Onion was published online. I love The Onion, but ironically my favorite part was not the satirical news stories (they're great, but the best joke is almost always the headline itself) or the infografics or the always hilarious American Voices, but the only part of the entire website that isn't completely made up: The A.V. Club.

Recently this section of the website, which focuses exclusively on pop-culture stuff (movies, books, TV, music, video games--one of my favorite sub-sections is Commentary Tracks of the Damned, which dissects DVD commentary tracks made for terrible, terrible movies) has changed it's format. They've stopped publishing new issues on Wednesdays, and now new articles and features appear randomly during the week. This has jostled my Wednesday routine, but I'm not upset because they've also recently added some new features including a newswire, a club blog, and the best addition of all, Amelie Gillette's collection of "Pop Culture Love Letters" called The Hater.

I particularly loved this entry the other day, a list of Things That Still Exist But Shouldn't. Here's her list, with my comments in parentheses:

1. The Real World (My only request would be to throw in Survivor, too. And all those other "pretty people bitching about each other" reality shows that all sort of run together after a while)
2. News Items About Mike Tyson (I gotta admit, "Mike Tyson Still Crazy" doesn't really qualify as an earth-shattering news bulletin)
3. Tickle Me Elmo Hysteria (I can't comment on this--I'm only sort of vaguely aware of who/what Elmo is)
4. Judge Judy (Yes, yes, yes, sweet merciful God YEEEEES)

How much fun is a list of Things That Still Exist But Shouldn't? I can't resist ripping off the idea. So here is my own humble list of stuff that has long since outlived whatever entertainment value it may have once had:

1. TV Sitcoms. I know that Sitcoms, like snowboarding and Saturday Night Live, are declared "dead" by the supposed authorities on an annual basis. It's something of a cliche. But with the single exception of Sienfeld, there hasn't been a truly funny, original, and (here's the part that eliminates Arrested Development) successful sitcom on television in at least two decades. I exclude The Simpsons and other animated shows from the category of Sitcoms 1) because animation is by it's very nature a genre that allows for expansion and experimentation outside the parameters that define live-action entertainment, and 2) because it's my list and I say so.

2. Tom Leykis. I know he's got a million mouth-breather fans out there, but honestly, for how many more years is this guy going to do the exact same show every day? I don't care whether you like his gender-baiting schtick or not, if you've heard a half-hour of this show then you've pretty much heard the last ten years.

3. No-Frills DVDs. The bells and whistles are the WHOLE POINT of DVDs! Nothing is more aggravating to me than taking a DVD off the video store shelf, turning it over, and reading that the "Special Features" consist entirely of "theatrical trailer" and "subtitles in English and French". How can I possibly contain my excitement? The only reason No-Frills DVDs continue to exist is because the industry knows that after the money is made off the initial round of sales and rentals, fans of the movie will still buy the "Special Edition" DVD when it comes out in two years, as well as the "Director's Cut" two years after that, and then perhaps the "10th Anniversary Edition", if they can manage to play it out that far.

4. Boy Band Members. The music is bad enough. But then we end up having to follow these Tiger Beat turds down through the years as they progress through the various levels of celebrity decay (tabloid scandals, strange marriages, reality shows, etc.). Thanks a lot, VH-1.

5. MTV. It couldn't possibly have been this stupid back when I watched it in High School. Could it?

6. Saw-type horror movies. One or two new ones come out every month, and they always make a tidy sum on their opening weekend. And yet I don't know anyone who can legally buy a beer who goes to see them.

See how much fun this is? That's a good start to the list for now. I'll surely come back to this stolen idea in the near future.

Ice, Ice Baby

For a while now I've been hearing rumors that despite the official word to the contrary the Rink on the River, Reno's downtown ice rink, would not be returning this year. Looking out the window of my office just now, it appears that these were nothing more than rumors because the ice rink equipment is being moved into the Virginia Street Plaza.

Speaking of the Plaza, I wasn't able to find out what, if anything, was decided at the city council meeting yesterday about the construction of a giant shade-canopy. The canopy was originally supposed to be part of the design of the Plaza but has apparently run into cost problems. If anyone knows how this was addressed yesterday, please let me know. It's going to pretty embarrassing if we have another sunny winter that constantly melts the outdoor rink.

UPDATE: Downtown Makeover reports that the issue was kicked down the curb to December.

World's Worst

Keith Olbermann (who has been at the top of his game lately) bestowed upon Jim Gibbons, Republican Candidate for Governor of Nevada, the coveted title of Worst Person in the World today. In case you hadn't heard, a Las Vegas cocktail waitress told police last week that Gibbons assaulted and propositioned her in a parking garage. But according to Keith it is not these alleged inappropriate actions that win Mr. Gibbons his crown, but rather the disappointing "lesson" he says he has learned from the experience. To get the details see the video here. All I know is that right now Scandalmonger has to be the happiest person in this state.

Goodbye To The Sundowner

I noticed coming back from lunch the other day that the "Sundowner" sign is coming down off the former casino of that name on Arlington Avenue. Obviously this is part of that building's gradual transformation into Belvedere Towers, one of at least a dozen major condo projects in various states of completion in downtown Reno right now. The essential website for information on downtown redevelopment, Downtown Makeover, has a great summary here. I remember this project being talked about approximately two years ago. D.M. says that while much work has been done, completion of the final phase is "estimated" at 2009. Of course, in Reno the phrase "estimated completion date" has a much looser definition than it does most other places when it comes to construction projects, so who knows.

Seeing the Sundowner sign coming down got me thinking. I don't live downtown anymore, and these days I'm sort of out of the loop on where development is heading. Obviously at least one major renovation--Riverwalk Tower, at the site of the former Comstock Casino--has been completed and several others--Palladio, Montage, etc.--are well underway. But there are definite signs that not everything is hunky-dory. Downtown Makeover has gone out on a limb and declared the massive Waterfront project "unofficially dead" until someone proves otherwise. A lot of people, like Myrna the Mynx (correct me if I'm wrong, Mynx), had hoped that this would be a sort of signature piece of architecture for Reno. Other large and small projects that are still in their developmental stages seem to be stuck in limbo, although hard hard facts are sometimes difficult to come by.

But beyond numbers, what I wonder is whether or not the momentum of a couple of years ago has been lost. In mid-2004, when I first bought the little condo that I nicknamed The Fortress of Solitude in (now it can be revealed) Arlington Tower, I could sense the energy and the general sense of optimism in and around downtown Reno. That's why I chose to live there, rather than in some stucco apartment complex. Downtown had at one time been the sort of place where decent people tended not to go, but I and a lot of other folks were convinced that it was about to be reborn as a hip urban center, a sort of miniature Soho in the Sierras. A lot of pieces, like the Wingfield Kayak Park, the Nevada Museum of Art and the refurbished Riverwalk, were already in place. And when derelict casino after derelict casino was bought up for conversion into condos, I felt even further vindicated in my belief, even though I wondered from the very start whether or not there was enough real demand to fill these thousands of proposed living spaces.

These days, I don't feel that same energy that I did two years ago. Maybe it's the fact that I'm out of touch since I no longer live there, but I suspect that a few factors may be leading to a loss of enthusiasm for downtown redevelopment. One factor is that most of the condo projects completed or underway downtown are shooting for a pretty high-end market, which would seem to me to price out a lot of the young single professionals or service industry workers who would be most interested in living downtown. Another factor is that while a lot of great local business have sprung up and in some cases begun to thrive in the redevelopment zone, larger retailers and restaurants have (with some notable exceptions) stayed away, probably for fear that the downtown area has neither the residential population nor the economic base to support them. And then there's the general Reno malaise that I run into so often whenever I talk enthusiastically about some project that I think is positive for the region: The response I tend to get most often is "it won't work--this is Reno."

I'm not the most informed person on the issue of downtown redevelopment, and if you can't tell I'm kind of fishing to be told that I'm wrong on this. Anyone who remembers what the river front was like just three or four years ago knows that the improvements have been tremendous. But I can't help but feel that if you'd asked me in May of 2004 where I thought we'd be by October 2006, I'd have thought that we'd be a lot further along. I would have assumed that by now there would be thousand more people living downtown. I would have thought for sure that we'd have a grocery store, a drug store, and many more thriving local and nationally-known retailers and service providers doing business with and hopefully providing good jobs for those new local residents. And I would have assumed that a great many more construction and redesign projects would be completed or near completion. Some of this has happened, but the process has been agonizingly slow and much remains to be done.

I so want downtown Reno to become the sort of place I still believe it has the potential to be. I just can't escape the sinking feeling that a lot of the momentum has been lost over the last few months. I hate sounding like such a pessimist. Somebody, anybody, please tell me I'm wrong on this.

Eureka

Melissa is has lately been feeling the stress of trying to complete a Master's Degree in Journalism in a single year while planning our wedding at the same time. I myself was in something of a sour mood this morning, which isn't at all uncommon for me on a day after Alabama suffers a disappointing loss to a bitter rival. And the latest addition to our little family, Keela, was practically bouncing off the walls like a five-year-old child on a sugar rush. So I figured today would be a good day for us to escape to the mountains for a while.

That's how we found ourselves in Plumas-Eureka State Park this morning. "Plumas" (as I'm told it's called by locals) is barely an hour from the valley north of Reno where we live, and yet most Reno residents I know have never heard of it. This is both a shame and a blessing. The park sits inconspicuously just a few miles up from the retirement community/artist colony of Graeagle, just to the east of Eureka Peak. Gold was discovered here in 1851, and so while the park provides protection to a hidden corner of 6,700 acres of Sierra Nevada wilderness, including all the granite peaks and waterfalls and big piney forests that you would expect, it also protects the remains of the mining era, including the massive Plumas-Eureka Mill through which $8 million in gold is said to have moved. These buildings, which in their day were probably not much more than noisy, dirty industrial plants, have gained a sort of looming, mysterious presence as they have sat for many decades, rusting and unused, relics of a different era standing quietly alone in a great pine forest.

I'm surprised not only that so few people in Reno know of the existence of such a fantastic little mountain park so close by, but also that it's taken me over a year and a half to bring Melissa there. I am surprised because I (selfishly, delusionally) consider this wild region north of Truckee to be "my" little corner of the mountains. I can get away with this delusion because these deep forests and granite hills of the northern Sierra are often overlooked by outsiders, wedged as they are between the much more high-profile tourist attractions of Lake Tahoe to the south and the massive volcanic edifice of Mount Shasta to the north. These are the "undiscovered" Sierra Nevada, and that's just how I like them.

On a whim we decided to hike up to the old Jamison Mine, who's abandoned buildings and rusting equipment sit perched above a noisy creekbed. When we had left the house earlier in the day I had been concerned that the weather might be cold--it is late October after all, and we would be over 5000 feet in elevation--and so we had dressed in layers. But the temperature could not have been more comfortable, and soon our fleece jackets were stripped off and tied around our waists. Melissa and I sometimes joke about enjoying the Fall "Color" (as opposed to the plural "Fall Colors") here in the eastern Sierra, since the only trees in this climate whose leaves change color in the Fall are the aspens, which turn a uniform shade of brilliant yellow around the beginning of October. Certainly, the Sierra will never rival New England for extravagant displays of fall foliage, but Autumn in these mountains does have an unmistakable quality to it, very distinct from the rest of the year. The low-angle of the sunlight seems to make every detail stand out just a bit more than at other times.

Keela is half Labrador Retriever and half Border Collie, a water-loving hunting dog mixed with an athletic, highly-intelligent working dog bred to shepherd animals several times her size. At six months old she is a bundle of pure energy, and she was never going to be satisfied with the short hike up to the mine, and so we decided to push on towards Grass Lake and the Lakes Basin. Although I suspect she is only a little more than half grown she pulls powerfully against her leash, and this morning she practically jerked me up the steep ascent to the basin. When we crossed out of the park boundaries and into the Plumas National Forest I decided to let her off the leash, despite dire warnings posted about the presence of bear and mountain lion in these woods. Though I'm sure Caesar Milan would disapprove, there really is nothing like watching the unbridled joy of a puppy set free to explore the mountains.

The hike to Grass Lake from Plumas consists of a steep, rocky vertical ascent for about 3/4 of a mile, followed by a general leveling out of the trail over the last 1/2 mile or so until you reach the lake. You know you're getting close when you can hear the roar of Little Jamison Falls off to the right. Some years this waterfall would be little more than a trickle by late October, but this year we are lucky, and today the falls were roaring. Little Jamison Falls is a near-perfect example of what I love about the West. Back East such picturesque little waterfalls can be found occasionally, but they are usually well-known, boasted about by locals, pictured in postcards, visited by hundreds of people on a busy day, and are often the focal points of hiking trails or even of whole parks. But the West is still big enough that it can surprise you. In these mountains, such a wonder is not marked or advertised, and is not even on the main trail. It can be found off a short spur, churning away in obscurity, known only to a few locals and overshadowed by larger, more "impressive" waterfalls close-by. Although yesterday's weather couldn't have been better, when we unexpectedly stumbled across these 30-foot falls the entire viewing audience consisted of two human beings and one dog.

When we finally arrived at the lake, Keela could not contain her excitement. She charged through brush and water and dirt in tight, hyperactive circles of joy, with no purpose other than to fill her lungs with cool mountain air, stretch her young legs and take in every muddy, earthy sensation. Watching her, I knew exactly how she felt, although I don't have that kind of energy anymore (if I ever did). I was content just to sit still and breath it all in.

Grass Lake itself was having one of those serendipitous days when everything comes together just right--the weather was warm, the sky was clear, the surrounding mountains were reflected perfectly in the still water and the fall colors (yes, there was actually some red mixed in with the yellow aspens and the green cedar and pine) were the perfect accent. You just can't plan these sorts of moments. Sometimes you'll spend hours hiking to a lake like this in the cold or the rain, and when you get there the skies are gray and drizzly or snowy and the lake itself looks fetid and grim, and there's nothing you can say or do to convince your skeptical fiancee that spending the day this way is actually "fun."

And then there are days like today, days when the only frustration is the knowledge that the demands of the work-a-day world will soon force you back down the mountain and home again to face Monday. But the hike was amazing none the less. Driving back through Portola, with Keela passed out asleep in the back seat, Melissa (who isn't really in to this sort of thing and doesn't even own a pair of real hiking boots) actually said "You know, if we did hikes like that on a regular basis next year I think I'd really like it."

Music to my ears.

Bring The Pain

I'm told that I'm going to have to have my wisdom teeth removed. I'm 33 years old. Somehow this doesn't seem right.

Some Guys Never Learn

While much of the sports world is buzzing about Denny Green's blow-up after the NFL's Cardinals gave up a 20-point lead to the Bears in the second half last night, one bit of news that has flown under the radar screen caught my attention. Loudmouth former Miami Hurricane Lamar Thomas lost his job as a TV analyst today for making some strange comments on-air this past weekend. Thomas was working a game at which his alma mater's current team saw fit to engage in a brawl with cross-town Florida International, a much weaker opponent that they would eventually beat 35-0. As the fight raged, Thomas' rant included stuff like this:

"Now, that's what I'm talking about. You come into our house, you should get your behind kicked. You don't come into the OB playing that stuff. You're across the ocean over there. You're across the city. You can't come over to our place talking noise like that. You'll get your butt beat. I was about to go down the elevator to get in that thing."

Of course, this isn't the first time Thomas has let his mouth get him into trouble. For Alabama fans like me, the nice thing about hearing Lamar Thomas' name mentioned in the news is that it provides an excuse to re-live what I believe to be the second greatest moment in Alabama football history (behind only the 1979 goal line stand against Penn State, and just ahead of "The Kick" against Auburn in 1985). In 1993 Alabama was ranked second in the nation but wasn't given much of a chance against #1 Miami in the Sugar Bowl. Lamar Thomas, then a Hurricane wide receiver, spent the week or so leading up to the game talking about how the SEC wasn't what it used to be, how no one could guard Miami's recievers man-to-man, and how great it would be for him to win a third National Championship.

Then it came time to actually play the game. With Alabama somehow leading in the second half, Thomas was hit by Miami QB Gino Toretta (Fun Fact: for some bizarre reason Toretta actually won the Heisman Trophy that year and was then never heard from again) as he streaked down the sideline. He was on his was toward what appeared to be an easy touchdown and a chance for Miami to get back in the game. Then Alabama DB George Teague came into the picture. Re-live the memory for yourself:



Ironically, the whole play was then called back on an Alabama holding penalty, but had Thomas scored--or just held on to the ball--Miami would have refused the penalty and would have had a real shot at a comeback. As it was, Alabama won the game and their 12th National Championship, and George Teague's rundown has gone down as the greatest play that never officially happened in Alabama football history. Thanks for this trip down memory lane, Lamar.

One other sports note: My Cubbies hired Lou Piniella to manage the team today. Rumor has it that he's already pressuring the front office to bring in Alex Rodriguez, whom Piniella coached in Seattle. God knows I and all the residents of Cub-dom are pulling for you, Lou. But I've endured too many losing seasons to get my hopes up yet.

If You Must Blame Someone, Blame John Cusack

My brother daniel went to college at a small liberal arts school in New Hampshire and his Major was, and I swear I am not making this up, "Great Books." He's since gone on to achieve success in finance (or maybe accounting--he's never really been able to explain to me what he does), but he obviously still loves books and often recommends particular titles to me.

His latest suggestion is Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which I picked up yesterday. Now, I know "Book Clubs" are sort of lame and never really work anyway unless they involve Oprah. I've tried getting quasi-literary discussions going on this site before and it's never worked. But perhaps this book is different. It's a collection of meditations on Pop Culture and it's written in that breezy, Douglas Coupland-like style that's so popular these days (see, for example, this blog) and is what publishers like to call "very accessible", i.e. not hard to understand. So if anyone out there wants to read and discuss this book in the comments section, I'm all ears.

So far I'm about six chapters in. I became familiar with Klosterman a couple of years ago when I heard a radio piece--on NPR, of all places--about a game of sorts he created called "Monkees = Monkees" in which, as this book also recounts, you try to figure out "which television show is the closest philosophical analogy to a specific rock 'n' roll band" based on "a combination of longevity, era, critical acclaim, commercial success, and--most important--the aesthetic soul of each artistic entry." So Molly Hatchet equates to Petticoat Junction, U2 is M*A*S*H (mostly because they both got insufferably preachy toward the end), etc. This is the milieu in which Klosterman works. His publisher says that "countless writers and artists have spoken for a generation, but no one does it quite like Chuck Klosterman." If that's true, the generation for which Klosterman speaks--which by coincidence would also be my generation--thinks about Pop Culture more than all other possible subjects put together.

So far this book is greatly entertaining. I particularly like the chapter in which Klosterman recounts his trip to a gig in rural Virginia with Paradise City, a struggling but apparently very content Guns N' Roses tribute band. Mocking these guys would be easy, but Klosterman is actually fascinated by them and the whole "tribute band" phenomenon. He notes, with a certain amount of glee, that Paradise City, a fake version of Guns N' Roses, actually got just as good a response as the REAL version of Dokken who played the same venue a week later. His genuine affection for these professional pretenders is obvious. "Paradise City may not always look like Guns N' Roses, but they certainly sound like them; when I go to the bathroom and hear music through a wooden door, it's impossible not to imagine that this is how it would have sounded to urinate on the Sunset Strip in 1986."

Klosterman's encyclopedic knowledge of Pop Culture will probably amaze you, even if it's bound to fly right past you at times. This is especially likely if you weren't a fan of whatever his subject is. I got next to nothing out his chapter on the pervasive influence on young Americans of the MTV reality show The Real World, because I've never seen an entire episode of the show and don't know any of the people he's referring too (I don't "get" reality TV and I never will). Still, it's an engaging book, and "very accessible." And I particularly like his idea that blame for the romantic disappointments and failures of pretty much everyone under the age of 38 can be laid at the feet of John Cusack, or more specifically on Lloyd Dobler, Cusack's character from Say Anything. Read the book and see if you agree.

Get On The Frackin' Bandwagon

I've pimped this before, so I'll try not to go into a long fan-boy-esque diatribe here. But the television program that an awful lot of respected critics are calling The Best Show On Television is now back for it's third season, and despite the acclaim and a devoted, slightly obsessive fan base of the sort that often accompanies these "kinds" of shows, it's just not being watched by that many people. If you've one of the many who've never seen it before you should do yourself a favor and catch it this week. It's called Battlestar Galactica, and it's on a low-profile basic cable channel (the Sci-Fi Channel) on a day and time (Friday night at 9 p.m. here in Reno--check local listings) when most normal people are doing things instead of just sitting around watching TV. Oh, and did I mention it's called "Battlestar Galactica", a name that most adults would have a hard time saying outloud without smirking. Although it's enjoyed some ratings success in the low-expectations world of basic cable, it hasn't yet entered the public consciousness. This is a shame, because this show deserves to be a mainstream hit, not something condemned to cult status with the Stargates and Babylon 5s of the world.

If you're the sort of person who just can't get past the spaceships and the walking toasters and all the other trappings of science fiction, then there's probably nothing I can say to help you enjoy the show. But if you can keep even a slightly open mind, then please give it a shot. Galactica is one of the most complex, challenging, and rewarding television shows to come along in ages. It's not a show just for sci-fi geeks; there are no aliens with laughable foam-rubber heads, no endless series of habitable earth-like planets, no captain sitting in a chair and talking to people through a giant big-screen TV, no pat resolution at the end of every episode. It's a story about people dealing with difficult, sometimes catastrophic situations in ways human beings actually would, and it takes place in an incredibly imaginative environment. Simply put, it's just great TV.

One bit of warning--as I said in my post about Galactica last year, except for a few names and some basic plot elements this show is nothing like the campy late-70's show that inspired it. There is no cute kid (he disappeared mysteriously after the pilot episode), no robot dog, no Pa Cartwright from Bonanza. Calling the new version "bleak" doesn't do it justice. During last week's premier, when Starbuck graphically stabbed her Cylon captor through the head, I barely flinched. Oh, and don't worry, he didn't die, because see Cylons...well, it's complicated. Suffice it to say, family friendly it isn't.

I don't know if it's the Best Show On Television ("Lost" is probably still my favorite, but BSG is nipping at it's heels and will surely overtake it if they drag out this damn Kate-Jack-Sawyer love triangle nonsense much further), but if you want to see great TV then check it out this Friday night.

Some Perspective

Earlier this summer I wrote this post about a trip to a ranch in the Carson River Valley. The name of the man who owned the ranch I wrote about was Daniel. I don't know his age but I would have guessed it to be early 50's, and he had that healthy look of a man who doesn't mind working outdoors. I knew him through a co-worker of mine who was his significant other. She got us together because she knew that we shared a lot of common interests. Although I never got to know him well, Daniel was obviously a good man who had great love and respect for his land and for the people around him. He tried to convince me to volunteer for an organization that he worked for, an organization that helped low-income people and families build and own their own homes. I'm ashamed to say that I don't remember the name of the organization--although I promised him I would get around to volunteering my time, I always found excuses not to.

Today Ruby, Daniel's girlfriend, told me that Daniel had passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference to anyone in the long run, but tonight I find myself wishing more than anything that I hadn't been too busy to help out.

And Speaking of Baseball...

UPDATE: I published this post a couple of hours before reports of the apparent death of Yankees' pitcher Cory Lidle in a plane crash in New York. The crash also apparently killed three other people and damaged a NYC highrise. It was not my intention to make light of, or even refer to, his untimely death.

I meant to write about this a couple of days ago, but I got distracted. Still, I think it's timely enough.

Why is MLB the only professional sport in which teams celebrate by uncorking Champagne at every single level of advancement in the post-season? This used to sort of make sense in the old days, when each league would crown a pennant winner based entirely on who had the best record during the regular season, and those two league champs would meet in the World Series (which, for many years, was actually looked at by players and fans as sort of an afterthought to the Pennant races, kind of like the NFL's Pro Bowl is today). Then when the leagues each divided themselves up into two divisions, you could still sort of argue that being division champ was an accomplishment worth celebrating, even though it was just a lead-up to the League Championship Series.

But now it's gotten a little ridiculous. The other night I watched the St. Louis Cardinals celebrated their win in one-half of the NLDS (that's National League Division Series to those not in the know) by dousing each other with Champaign as though they had just won a championship. Only they didn't. They advanced from the first round of the playoffs to the second. Now that each league sends three division winners and one wild card team to the playoffs, winning your respective NLDS or ALDS is just another step along the way to a much larger goal. I'm not trying to single out the Cards here, though they are the hated nemesis of my beloved Cubbies. The Detroit Tigers did the exact same thing after beating the Yankees, and although I didn't get to see it firsthand, I'm sure the A's and Mets also followed suit in their respective series.

It is now a given in baseball that every team clinching the playoffs or winning even a best-of-five playoff series will celebrate as though they'd just won the whole thing. The stupidity of this seems obvious to me, but so far it seems I'm alone on this. Would you have expected the New England Patriots to celebrate with baths of bubbly after beating Jacksonville in the NFL playoffs last year? Of course not, that would be ludicrous--it was just a first-round win. But in baseball, by the time a team is crowned World Champs, they have enjoyed four separate Champaign baths--one each for making the playoffs, winning the Division Series, winning the League Championship Series, and finally the World Series. If you do the math, that's 15 separate exuberant celebrations on the way to crowning one (alright maybe two--the Pennant still means something to purists) real Champ.

I'm not trying to be a spoil-sport here. All I'm saying is that you shouldn't celebrate like you've won a Championship unless that's what you've actually done.

Why Does The U.S. Constitution Hate America?

Take a look below at a great piece from MSNBC. Keith Olbermann, in his inimitable style, explains that the Military Commissions Act of 2006, passed by Congress and currently awaiting the President's signature (which probably won't come until after next month's election, natch), would, among many other things, do something that the U.S. Constitution forbids: Give the President the power to eliminate a prisoner's right to petition for a Writ of Habeas Corpus at his whim. Habeas Corpus is what keeps the government from being able to throw you or me into jail arbitrarily. Keith's visual aid at the end of the piece using the Bill of Rights is perhaps a bit unsubtle, but maybe this is what it takes to get people's attention in an era that doesn't "do nuance."



C'mon all you self-styled Libertarians out there, all you guy's with "I love my country but I fear my government" bumper stickers. You should be fighting mad about this. This matters. Yes, the bill as written applies only to "aliens" (editor's note: not the Sigourney Weaver kind), and yes, in a couple of years it will probably be overturned by the Supreme Court, but that's immaterial--what this bill attempts to do is against the highest law in the land, and trite as it sounds, if they can do it in this case then there's nothing to prevent them from doing it again in the future, to anyone they deem an "enemy."

It may be that the Congress passed this bill, a bill whose supporters must know to be unconstitutional, simply as an election year ploy, a serpentine way to allow candidates to argue that their opponent wants "more rights for terrorists" instead of having to talk about their own association with an unpopular President and his unpopular war in Iraq. But this matters more than an election. This is about whether or not we value living in a free society. Its about what our founding principles actually mean to us.

Maybe there are people out there who don't care that this nation started an unnecessary war in Iraq that has now killed thousands and thousands of people (over half a million by one estimate) and has become the best recruiting tool a jihadist could ever have hoped for. Maybe there are people who don't care that thanks to Republican policies there has never been a better time in our history to be one of the super-rich, while at the same time more people than ever before live below the poverty line, real wages for working Americans haven't risen meaningfully in years, the number of Americans without health insurance is at 46.6 million and rising, and the middle class drowns in debt to pay outrageous costs of housing and higher education. Maybe there are people who don't care that the ruling party uses wedge issues and fear-mongering to divide our population and to paint those who dare speak out as some sort of America-hating Fifth Column. But dammit, everyone should care about this issue of Habeas Corpus! As long as we want to consider ourselves a nation of laws, our most fundamental rights must not be used as pawns in an election-year gambit.

Autumn in Northern Nevada

I'm a sucker for Autumn, always have been. Today was one of those pitch-perfect Autumn days of the sort that we sometimes get here in Reno, when the temperature is moderate, the light comes in at just the right angle and there isn't a cloud in the sky. It makes you glad to be alive. I'm not trying to oversell it or anything, but if you're lucky enough to live in the shadow of the Sierra Nevada then you know what I'm talking about.

Today it was easy to make out the brilliant dash of fresh snow that now accents the upper reaches of Mount Rose. You have to love Winter at least a little bit if you're going to love living east of the Sierra, because Winter is never far away in this corner of the world. Up in the North Valleys we are already getting frost in the morning. In my yard the flowering plants have somehow chosen these last couple of weeks to put on their most extraordinary display of the year to date; right now the front of the house is a virtual riot of blues and purples and reds and pinks and all sorts of shades that we never saw through the heat of the Summer. When the afternoon sun has made the air warm enough, bees and other insects still buzz from bud to bud as if this were early July instead of early October. I almost feel like my little garden is dancing in defiance of the coming dark season, and I love it for that.

But I also love this landscape, and as I said loving this land means loving Winter. In the next month or two snow will cover the mountains, the hours of daylight will shrink into the single digits and the daily commute on ice-slicked roads will become an exercise in white-knuckle terror. But it will also be time to pull the snowboard out of mothballs, wax up the cross-country skis, and remember how fantastic a warm fire or a hottub can feel at the end of the day. Winter doesn't make itself easy to love the way Summer does, but he rewards are just as great if you're willing to work for them.

That's in the future, though. For now, we are having a fantastic Sierra Nevada Autumn. I'm planning to enjoy the flowers in my front yard for as long as they can hold out.

Teenage Suicide (Don't Do It)

Leaving work today at 5 p.m. I was surprised to find that the streets were closed for a block in every direction from the intersection of 1st and Lake. The police were holding back traffic because some guy was dangling off the roof of the Cal-Neva's parking deck in what I guess was some sort of suicide stand-off. I didn't stick around to see how it ended and now I can't find any news accounts of the incident online. Does anyone in Reno know how this whole thing turned out?

UPDATE: It's now Friday morning and I still can't find any news about whatever was happening at the Cal-Neva garage yesterday, but my lovely journalist/fiancee tells me that this isn't unusual, that potential suicides rarely receive much media attention. In any case, I'm pretty sure nothing bad happened. Whoever that guy hanging off the railing seven stories up was, he didn't look like an investor who'd just lost everything in the stock market; he actually looked like someone who was either on something or perhaps just a bit "off" in the head. I'm sure everything came out okay in the end. Just another day in downtown Reno.

October is the Cruelest Month

It's hard enough being a Cub fan without the whole world always piling on. Check out Fox Sports' latest post-season baseball commercial:



You know the saddest part? I own a jersey identical to the one the guy in the tree is wearing.

You Don't Say

This article appeared in the RGJ today. It says that even despite the small drop in housing prices in the past couple of months, its very difficult if not impossible for middle-income earners to even consider buying a home in this market.

That thunderous sound you're hearing right now is everyone in Reno who earns under $100,000 a year and/or didn't just sell a house in California before moving here saying "DUUUUHHHHHHH!"

An Ass-Whipping In Vegas Stays In Vegas, But The Fremont Cannon Does Not

I was over the hill in Napa this past weekend to see two of my friends get married (to each other, as luck would have it), so I wasn't able to get a reliable report on the annual Nevada-UNLV game until late last night even though the game took place in Vegas on Saturday. Turns out the Wolf Pack wiped the turf with their erstwhile rivals from down south by a score of 31-3. This means that the Fremont Cannon will stay blue for another year, and won't be subject to the sort of embarrassing treatment shown to it by the folks in Vegas back in 2000.


The game wasn't on TV and received almost zero press coverage outside the state of Nevada. This is a shame, considering how much the partisans here in Northern Nevada enjoy beating UNLV and would love the world to witness it happen. For some reason, people in Vegas revel in a sense of smug self-satisfaction when comparing themselves to those of us living in and around the Truckee Meadows. Somehow I wasn't surprised at last year's game here in Reno to hear the cheering section from Vegas chanting "Reno is white trash." Or consider this Open Letter to the Fremont Cannon, a little gem published in UNLV's student newspaper before this year's game:

I, like many other students at our fine university, won't feel complete without you among us and our non-mobile homes...My only hope is to christen you with a bottle of champagne once more; not a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon like the other team must have used.

What's hard for those of us who live up here in God's Country to stomach about this southern condescension is how unearned it feels. Sure, there are people in Reno who live in mobile homes and, although I can't think of anyone offhand, I'm sure someone in this city must like Pabst. But that's no different from any town in America, Vegas included. Yet we are forced to endure an overblown superiority complex from the city that considers these guys cultural icons, that made Elvis impersonation a fine art, and that has the world's highest per-capita concentration of creepy guys standing on street corners passing out flyers for call girls. Reno may not be Paris on the Truckee, but spare us the oh-so-sophisticated act, Vegas. You're still the city that's been defining bad taste ever since the Mob conjured you up out of the Mojave in the 1940's. Oh, and your football team sucks, too.