Will I ever grow up? Part 2

I can hear many of you right now: "Ian, you're too damn old to get excited for a movie about a man who wears his red underpants on the outside of his blue tights." And I want to agree with you. One of these years, I should outgrow my love of comic books and movies based on comic books. Since I'm still indulging my inner 10-year-old, however, I'm eagerly awaiting the new Superman movie. (And I think I can now officially kiss away any ideas that this blog would eventually score me chicks.)

The original Superman flick, with Christopher Reeve, is one of my all-time favorites. I probably watch it 2-3 times a year. I own the soundtrack (which Mis Hooz can reluctantly confirm). A new movie's been in development for years, but only when Bryan Singer (of X-Men and Usual Suspects fame) got involved last summer did this thing finally get moving. He picked an unknown guy originally from Iowa (and a fellow Hawkeye) to play Superman, which raised some eyebrows. How will he do? We'll find out next June. But here's how he looks as Clark Kent:

brandonrouth.com

Hmm, where's he off to in such a hurry? Today, it was revealed what's under that natty attire. Here's what the new man in the red cape looks like. (I was going to pose for the picture, but I've been drinking a lot of beer lately):

superherohype.com

They kept the red underpants, which kind of surprises me. (The darker red is a nice touch, though.) But of all the attempts I've seen to re-design Superman's costume, it never works without the underpants. Is it a color thing? You need the red contrasting with the blue? I guess you just need something in the middle there.

I'm not sure if I'm more excited or less excited about the new Superman movie after seeing this picture. Maybe the fact I'm not totally geeked out is a sign of oncoming adulthood. Or maybe I feel funny about being in a public computer lab on campus, looking at a man in blue tights (with, um, red underpants). But who am I kidding - I'll be in the theaters when this bad boy comes out. Any of you with me?

Friday fright

Okay, I have to share this with you guys. Mis Hooz just sent this to me, and I'm still shaking off the effects. Click on the link after the blurb to get to the ad.

This is a car advertisement from Germany. When they finished filming the ad, the people who made it noticed something moving along the side of the car, like a ghostly white mist.

The ad was never put on TV because the unexplained ghostly phenomenon frightened the production team out of their wits. Watch it right after the car goes behind the trees and re-appears look to the left of the car and you will see the white mist crossing in front of the car then following it along the road...

Turn up your volume and you will be able to hear static when this happens.

** Here you go - get freaked out

Stock up now - before it's too late!

Here's an important story that's been lost underneath all this Pope stuff. Mis Hooz had to console me when I read about this over the weekend. The Washington Post was on the case, but it seems to have escaped national attention. (But I haven't been watching much news lately, since it seemed to largely focus on what color smoke was coming out of the Vatican chimney, so maybe I missed the coverage.)

Are you people sitting down? Are you ready for this? Okay, here it is: There will be a shortage of sunflower seeds in the United States this year.

Get 'em while you can!

According to the article by Don Oldenburg, the shortage can be attributed to three factors:

▪ Chilly, rainy, and snowy weather this past winter killed the sunflower crops in North Dakota, South Dakota, and Minnesota, where sunflowers are primarily grown.

▪ White mold. It's not just on your shower curtain anymore. Of course, it's probably not the same stuff. Whatever this stuff was, it wiped out 40% of sunflower plants.

▪ Instead of sunflowers, farmers decided to grow soybeans because they could be sold at higher prices.

Excuse me if I get emotional here. I just can't bear the thought of having to eat more beef jerky or bags of Combos on my long road trips this summer. Cracking the shells with my teeth and spitting them into a cup is what keeps me awake while driving that long, flat stretch of nothing called I-80 running through Iowa and Illinois. The slogan for David Sunflower Seeds says it all: "Eat. Spit. Be Happy." That's me on the road, man.

What's worse is the effect this shortage will have on my beloved baseball. You want those guys to go back to chewing tobacco?

"They're trying to put on a good face for the kids," said author Frederick C. Klein in the article. "Having a player walk around with a big chunk in his cheek isn't the image they want. You don't see that much anymore."

Think about the children! I guess they'll have to go back to peanuts and Cracker Jack. Or bubble gum. Those poor bastards.

Hey, does this stain look divine to you?

I don't know how the Catholic Church had time to choose a new Pope so quickly with all these images of the Virgin Mary popping up everywhere. (Evan has a take on the brand new Pope Benedict XVI that's definitely worth your time.)

This $#!+ is officially out of control now, isn't it?

▪ Melbourne, Australia: The Blessed Lady is supposedly visible in a bedsheet stain. The sheet was discovered in a Salvation Army charity shop.

(Last night's Daily Show had a hilarious feature on this last night. The Monsignor examining the sheet seemed to be more interested in where he'd have lunch.)

▪ Chicago: A yellow-and-white stain on a freeway underpass looks like ol' Mary.

Here's my question - who the hell spotted that one? Somebody sleeping underneath the bridge? Someone stopping to take a piss? Aren't people driving by a little fast to see a stain, let alone process that it looks like the Virgin Mary?

The ABCs of Monday Night

I think my dad and I had one of those "we must be from different generations" conversations last night. He asked me what I thought about "Monday Night Football" moving from ABC to ESPN. I realize that's probably not big news to most of you. But my dad thought it was worthy of bringing it up on the phone. To me, it's big news for as long as it takes you to read the sentence "'Monday Night Football' is moving to ESPN."

I suppose the move is notable in that "Monday Night Football" will have been on ABC for 35 years after its final upcoming season. 35 years = sort of a TV institution. But I think this means more to people like my dad who remember watching Howard Cosell broadcast the games. Back in those days, before cable and satellite TV, that might be one of the few NFL games you'd get to watch in a given week. It was an event. Now, you can see any and every game you want. You can go to a sports bar on Sunday and watch 'em all. And how many people don't have cable these days? (I'm not talking about those who choose not to have cable. I don't think people like that watch TV.)

But I am surprised ABC is letting go of the NFL. Having NFL football on your network is a big deal. Don't believe me? NBC just ponied up $600 million to broadcast NFL games on Sunday nights. (One cool thing about that NBC game for football fans: NBC will get to decide which game it wants to broadcast later in the season, so it's not automatically stuck with a suddenly meaningless match-up that was chosen before the season began.)

Dad, what can I say? The world is changing around you.

Still here, still standing

©2005 Universal Press Syndicate

No, this isn't why I didn't post an entry yesterday - and might not until late this afternoon. Today's looking like a busy day, and I'm still trying to regain my bearings after Mis Hooz's weekend visit. That girl wore me out, man. My adopted laid-back Iowa philosophy wasn't ready for her New York, jet-set lifestyle.

Actually, I think she took to the area quite well. It was a fun weekend. Good people, good company, good times. And there's nothing like a guest visiting from out-of-town to make a town seem interesting again. Places that might seem boring or repetitive suddenly look fresh, with a different perspective. You get to check out an establishment or two that you might not have gone to by yourself. And you might realize just how hermit-like your existence has been after someone drags you out of the house to rock the town.

Now, the apartment seems a bit empty. But I'll try to keep busy so I don't dwell on that.

More later today, hopefully. Keep on rockin', people.

Movie review quote of the week

From A.O. Scott's New York Times review of David Duchovny's directorial debut (Man, that is some serious alliteration), House of D:

"The reasons to avoid House of D, David Duchovny's earnest, unwatchable coming-of-age drama, can best be summarized in a simple declarative sentence. Robin Williams plays a retarded janitor."

Pressed for time

I apologize for the quickies today. Normally I like to spend as much time with you, tending to your needs, as possible.

▪ What are the worst consecutive songs you've ever heard from a jukebox? (There has to be a better way to phrase that question. I ask you to refer to this entry's title.) Last night at The Mill, everyone at our table was brought to a halt and nearly reduced to tears from Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." Man, what a powerful song. And who knew drinking could make guys so emotional? So what kept the feeling going? What was the next tune? Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." Wow. What a follow-up. I suppose it cheered us up. Did the same person choose those songs? And if so, did he or she realize what they were doing?

▪ I have to give a shout-out to a handful of my fellow bloggers who graciously and generously took the time to help me out with an essay I'm working on about the blog culture. John, Susannah, Liz, Evan, and J9 - you guys are great. I appreciate you guys giving me your input.

Fried Rice Thoughts's New York correspondent, Mis Hooz, is visiting Iowa City for the weekend, so I don't know if I'll be blogging much over the weekend. (I'm sure she'd love it if I did.) This midwestern boy is gonna show the big city girl how we get things done in corn country. Of course, I think she'll love it and want to move out here, a la Lucinda Trout in Meghan Daum's The Quality of Life Report (an extremely enjoyable book, if you're looking for a fun read).

Enjoy your weekend.

A "man date" for change?

Occasionally, one of my female friends will ask me to explain the male gender for them. I'm flattered to be the spokesman for an entire gender and try to help as best I can. But there have been plenty of times when all I could do was shrug my shoulders. I don't always understand men, either. I was reminded of that while reading Jennifer 8. Lee's feature in Sunday's New York Times about "man dates." (By the way, how do you get a numeral as your middle initial?) Here's Lee's definition:

"Simply defined a man date is two heterosexual men socializing without the crutch of business or sports. It is two guys meeting for the kind of outing a straight man might reasonably arrange with a woman. Dining together across a table without the aid of a television is a man date; eating at a bar is not. Taking a walk in the park together is a man date; going for a jog is not. Attending the movie "Friday Night Lights" is a man date, but going to see the Jets play is definitely not."

The article is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but it points to a truth in our culture. If two men are spending time together without the pretext of sports or business, and the setting is someplace else besides a bar, does that automatically mean they must be a gay couple? Where does that tension come from? When did we become so defensive about our masculinity? I don't really get that. And I really don't get one of my favorite examples of male defensiveness, which Lee's article cites: Two guys at the movies, sitting with an empty "Hey, we're not gay" buffer seat between them. Guys - we're watching Die Hard 4: Die Really, Really Hard This Time. I think it's safe to assume you two aren't on a date. (But if you were, it'd be kind of sweet.)

In a fiction writing workshop last year, I became irritated when a few people implied that there was a homosexual subtext between my lead character and his best friend. If that's what they got from the material, fine - that's a valid interpretation. But not because they're two guys who spend time together and banter back and forth. A friendship between two men can be portrayed without calling their sexuality into question. Look at Sideways. Or Scrubs.

Maybe it's because I grew up with my closest male friends. We know each other well, we became men together (okay, that sounds kinda gay), so there aren't any underlying questions if we check out an exhibit at an art museum. Or watch a slightly "chick-ish" movie. There's a comfort level, a familiarity that might not exist with a classmate or co-worker.

Okay, I realize there are some situations that might look strange. If you two are having a candlelight dinner at a white tablecloth restaurant (Hey, we're eating steak!) or watching The Boy From Oz on Broadway (Hey, Hugh Jackman played Wolverine, okay?), then maybe you can expect a question or two.

But I wonder if I unwittingly acknowledge that tension as I get older? Going to a museum, watching something on TV that isn't sports, or seeing a foreign film that doesn't involve kung-fu? I do most of those things by myself these days. Or with a female friend. I suppose that's something I need to think about. I'll look at myself in the mirror (while applying moisturizing after shave, of course) and analyze whether I'm an insecure male, too. But we're being silly, guys. There's no reason for us to be defensive about hanging out together. Who's going to understand you more than another man? Just make sure we're drinking beer and watching football while we talk about it.

When's the last time you ate a Twinkie?

Did you know the Twinkie turns 75 years old this month? (And you could probably eat the first one ever made if it was still around - HA!) I figured people stopped eating them after the age of, say, 12, (and if you look at the Twinkies website, it's clearly marketed toward kids) but according to this Washington Post article, that's not quite the case.

Americans spent $47 million on Twinkies over the past year. Hostess made 500 million of the resilient yellow, cream-filled sponge cakes. In Chicago, you can have Twinkie Tiramisu at Kitsch'N. Or a deep-fried Twinkie (yeesh!) at Swank Frank.

By the way, Hostess officially says the Twinkie has a 25-day shelf life.

If you're up for some nostalgia, here's the 10-year-old "T.W.I.N.K.I.E.S. Project," a set of experiments which dropped Twinkies from buildings, set them on fire, left them in water, etc.

But seriously, when's the last time you ate a Twinkie? When's the last time you even considered it?

Interesting to me, anyway

To the baseball fans out there: You know that 100 mph is the top speed a pitcher can reach with his throws. (The Tigers are fortunate enough to have one guy who can reach that level, Kyle Farnsworth.) But why hasn't that speed ever been surpassed? Sprinters run faster, weightlifters press more weight, etc. Is 100 mph as fast as the human arm can throw a baseball? The short answer is yes, apparently. There's only so much torque a human body can generate before muscles rip away from bones and tendons snap. This article at Slate has a longer, more detailed explanation.

10 years too late

(I've been sitting on this one for a while. Since today looks like a busy day - and a rainy one - it seems like a good time to take it off the shelf.)

During my visit home last month, I stopped by the Work Gallery in Ann Arbor to satisfy a curiosity and check out a piece by Sam, who's responsible for the mucho entertaining Blue Cats and Red Sox blog.

Looking at the exhibit and the rest of the gallery (and picking Sam's brain via e-mail about her work) got me to thinking about decisions I could've made, roads never taken, etc. I don't regret where I am now; I think it's where I'm meant to be. But through my early teens, I wanted to be an artist (more particularly, a cartoonist or illustrator). The University of Michigan School of Art even sent me a recruitment letter when I was in high school. (I actually still have that letter.) I've always kept that "what if" with me, and considered taking classes at Detroit's College for Creative Studies when I met Mis Hooz, who was studying there at the time. I also sent away for information from the Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art in Dover, NJ.

Why didn't I do it? Money. Fear. Uncertainty. And surely, a handful of other reasons that aren't occurring to me right now. But a part of me will always wonder what would've happened had I gone to art school. Along with the visit to the Work Gallery, this week-long journal by cartoonist James Strum in Slate brought that "what if" bubbling back to the surface. Strum is the director for a new school in Vermont called The Center for Cartoon Studies, which will focus on "the creation and dissemination of comics, graphic novels and other manifestations of the visual narrative."

http://www.cartoonstudies.org/

Man, if only this place existed 8-10 years ago. I'd have been all over it. I have no idea if I would've been admitted. Probably not, but I would've tried like hell to get in. But hey, who knows? If this writing thing doesn't work out for me, and I can't find a decent-paying regular job, maybe I'll finally give the art thing a try. I'm getting a little too old to chase a dream, though - especially when a different chase brought me to Iowa in the first place. But I like to think that in an alternate universe, I'd be a great #@$%ing cartoonist.

Tiger Woods: Joke Killer

This might be the only time I ever write about golf (I'll leave that to John, who does it much better than I would), but I was kind of hoping Tiger Woods would lose The Masters this weekend, so I could post this "Pearls Before Swine" cartoon for some laughs. But I'm running it anyway, because it's funny. And in my world, I like to imagine that Tiger read this before The Masters and that gave him the necessary motivation to win the tournament.

Drunk talk

▪ "Dude, you gotta have a baby. We saved $3,000 on our taxes this year."

▪ "You know a name you never hear? Judas. No one names their kid Judas."

▪ "I think we're gonna check out The Corn Palace this summer."

▪ "Hey, you got here just in time. We're talking about David Foster Wallace."

▪ "You know who I'd #$@%? Martha Stewart."

▪ "I haven't gotten drunk since election night."

▪ "That Blind Justice show - it's #$@%ing horrible! Blind me while the show is on - that'd be justice."

▪ "What is a 'tar baby'?"

▪ "This guy took my class last summer! Hey, I'm teaching again this summer - tell all your friends and get 'em to spend $3,000!"

▪ "So she tells me, 'I think we should #$@% other people.'"

▪ "She has the fattest cat I've ever seen. It's 29 pounds. When it lays down, it's like a frying pan with legs and a tail."