Shark Night
My wife and I went to see Shark Night 3D yesterday—we washed the awful taste out of our mouths by going to see The Debt immediately afterward, but that’s for another post at another time…maybe—and we both went in with close to zero expectations. And before I proceed, let me say that I am a guy who’s usually irritated when people say things like, “I can’t believe what I just saw! It’s 2011! Haven’t we moved past this?” Those people really get on my nerves because racism, sexism, and all other forms of discrimination (sexual preference, handicapped, financial, etc.) are all in abundance today. Only the naïve and stupid see it otherwise. So when i say, as I did last night on Twitter, that Shark Night 3D was the most racist and misogynistic movie I’ve seen in at least ten years, please know that I am not shocked by it. I knew what I was getting myself into; I just wanted to see sharks eating people. Too bad I didn’t really get to see that. There was only one real shot of sharks eating people.
Before I begin this review, let me say that the only reason I said “in at least ten years” is because I don’t think the point warrants the research/brain power necessary to think back over all the movies I’ve seen to figure out if it is the most racist and misogynistic movie I have ever seen. It might be, though.
OK. This movie was awful. Another point I made on Twitter is that it made Apollo 18 seem like Inception by comparison, and I thought Apollo 18 made The Blair Witch Project seem like Apocalypse Now. No hyperbole there. But there’s no way to discuss it without massive spoilers—if that matters to you for a movie like this. I don’t think people should see this movie anyway.
The plot of Shark Night 3D revolves around 7 Tulane students who are taking a trip to spend a weekend at Sara’s house, which is on a lake. Sara, you can tell from her first moment on screen, will survive—she’s pretty, thin, and blonde. She has a little pipsqueak voice (I told my wife that the only reason I knew she wasn’t Alexis Bledel with a dye job was that I would have noticed her name in the credits). Secondly, she has a dog. And she and the nerd boy, Nick, are in love with each other but afraid to actually talk to each other about it. So, yeah, from the jump you have to assume that Sara and Nick are the survivors.
The other 5 friends are Beth, the promiscuous tattoo addict; Blake, Beth’s dude-bro boyfriend; Gordon, the gamer who acts like he knows everything about women, but is the only person in this group without a pairing; Malik, the Negro student-athlete; and Maya, Malik’s Latina girlfriend.
A nameless blonde serves as the first shark victim as the opening credits close. Otherwise, yes, Malik and Maya are the first named shark victims in the movie. Before we get there, though, I have to tell you how we are introduced to Malik. In the first real scene of the film, we see Malik walking across the Tulane campus and into the dorm room that Nick and Gordon share. Malik gets into Nick’s face, looks menacing and confrontational, and explodes into a tirade about how Nick was supposed to be the best tutor on campus, how he can’t play if his grades don’t get better, and if his grades don’t get better and he can’t play, he’ll lose his scholarship and “You know what that means? It means back to the 4-1-0! Back to the 4-1-0!” It’s all joking, of course, because Malik actually got a B+, and this is cause for celebration, which includes going to Sara’s house for the weekend and Nick not studying for his MCAT’s. But, Malik is planning on proposing to Maya. When Gordon questions Malik about why a guy who’s “about to be a top 10 draft pick” is going to get married, Malik tells him, “Maya was down with me when I was poor, so she deserves to be with me when I’m ballin’.” I need someone to tell me why he’s concerned about keeping his scholarship when he’s about to be a top ten draft pick.
Even though these people go to school in New Orleans and Sara’s house is on Crosby Lake, Louisiana, the 7 students left Tulane in the daytime, drove through the night, and arrived at the house around dawn the next morning. OK, whatever…it’s just another thing, but it reaffirms how stupid this movie is. They pull into the local bait shop to get some snacks and liquor. Here, Maya serves her other purpose. She and Malik are outside by the car when a couple of locals, Dennis and Red, show up. “Must be nice,” Red says. “What?” she asks. “That they let the help sit up front.” Lovely guys, Dennis and Red. Of course Malik gets in their faces, and Dennis calls him “Boy,” but all is diffused with the beautiful and serene Sara shows up and recognizes the local guys.
When the young people arrive at the house, of course they hit the beach. Because he can’t ask the woman about herself, Nick asks Malik about Sara. “I’ve known her 3 years, and I’ve never seen here with a guy,” Malik tells him. “Just her and her dog.” Sara, our virginal queen. We learn later what had been bothering Sara for 3 years, why she hadn’t been with a guy and hadn’t been back to the lake in that time. She was Dennis’ diving student and girlfriend—yes, that Dennis—and she was caught underwater and couldn’t breathe. She panicked, and saw him treading still and not helping her. He was watching her drown to death and did nothing to help her. She called out to him for help, and he did not move. She managed to save herself, and when trying to get out of the water, accidentally cut his face with a rotor blade (I’m not sure how exactly that happened, but I take the story at face value). This causes Dennis to hate her, causes her years of guilt, and leads her to apologize to him. What in the misogynistic White male privilege hell? How in the world is Sara the bad guy in that scenario? And why did the filmmakers portray her guilt as reality and not just Dennis’ psychotic misperception. He tried to kill her!
Anyway, back to Malik. He goes water skiing and loses his arm to a shark. Only he knew it was a shark, but he’s in too much shock to speak. Everyone thought he just fell and was run over by the boat. They are stranded at the house with no cell reception—and no landline?—so Nick swims into the lake, finds the severed arm (don’t ask me how he found the arm or why it wasn’t eaten), sees a shark, swims back by outracing it to the shore, applies a tourniquet to Malik’s stump, then drives a boat with Sara and Maya to take Malik to the hospital. Unfortunately, Malik’s blood dripped into the water and attracted a shark that knocked Maya into the water, ate her, and eventually destroyed the boat.
Amazingly, our old friends Dennis and Red arrived and volunteered to go somewhere to call a helicopter to come pick Malik up. Beth wanted off the island and volunteered to go with them. Gordon wanted to be Beth’s big, strong man, so he volunteered to tag along and keep her safe. While they’re gone, Malik woke up, found out Maya was gone, found a spear somewhere in the house, and swam out into the lake. “This is how West Baltimore does it!” was his battle cry. (Quick aside: so this guy is clearly in college to play sports, left West Baltimore for New Orleans, and all his friends are White? As they say on Twitter, wheredeydodatat?) Malik actually finds and kills a shark, but a different species than the one Nick had seen.
Meanwhile, Dennis and Red reveal to Gordon and Beth that they are responsible for bringing sharks into the lake. And then they kill Gordon and Beth. Blake straps Malik to a jet-ski and tries to make it to a hospital. Malik sees a shark and sacrifices himself to save Blake. But he dies too. In the end, only the virginal king and queen survive, and the whole ordeal took place because Dennis, Red, and the sheriff were upset with Sara for leaving Dennis, leaving home, and going to college where they do all that learning and enlightenment crap.
This movie’s gotta go.
Don’t worry…the dog lives.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tea of Life
Early Saturday afternoon, my wife and I drove down to Bethesda to see The Tree of Life. I have to say, with the exception of the worst CGI dinosaurs in cinematic history, it was a visually beautiful film. That is the only positive thing I have to say about the movie.
Throughout the entirety of the 138 minutes I sat in the theater, I thought of Michelle Bachmann. While not being political, The Tree of Life was an unintentional ode to the Tea Party’s vision of America. When it was over, I sat and thought about it for a minute. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a movie with fewer lines spoken by women. There was a funeral scene during which Jessica Chastain’s character had brief conversations with her mother and a friend. There was also a scene of her teaching a young son how to say kangaroo. Other than that, I don’t think she—or any other woman—spoke a word to another person. Granted, most of the spoken words were spoken to God or self.
What I do know is that I’ve never seen a movie in which women had less agency than they did in The Tree of Life. Brad Pitt’s Mr. O’Brien was the stereotypical domineering head-of-household father of that time. His word was the law; he was the disciplinarian. Jessica Chastain’s role as the mother was to be the children’s friend. She did not discipline. She did not stand up to her husband. She did absolutely nothing but hug & kiss her children, teach them how to ride the swings, and smile at them. I’ve seen more motherly behavior from older sisters.
The only women outside of the family that we see are the mother and daughter next door. Neither speaks. We see Pitt and Chastain’s son stalk the daughter and we see the mother berated by her husband.
OK, I can deal with that. Just like I can deal with the lack of any minority representation in the film. It is 1950s Waco, Texas after all. But in order for me to deal with it, the story has to acknowledge or steer toward certain things. The Tree of Life, however, had no plot. No real one, anyway. What Terrence Malick did with this film was create a dream. This was not a movie that was designed to draw the audience in and tell a story. Instead, it was to create a setting and allow the audience to daydream, reminisce, and become immersed in nostalgia. As Roger Ebert wrote (emphasis mine):
There you have it. Without plot, heavily reliant upon the viewers’ own experiences, The Tree of Life is not for people who did not grow up like the O’Briens. This is a movie for people whose hearts harken back to the “good old days” when White men ruled, women were invisible, and life was “innocent”. It was the film version of A Tale of Three Cities, and I found that very disgusting. The Tree of Life looked like the world Michelle Bachmann wants.
Throughout the entirety of the 138 minutes I sat in the theater, I thought of Michelle Bachmann. While not being political, The Tree of Life was an unintentional ode to the Tea Party’s vision of America. When it was over, I sat and thought about it for a minute. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a movie with fewer lines spoken by women. There was a funeral scene during which Jessica Chastain’s character had brief conversations with her mother and a friend. There was also a scene of her teaching a young son how to say kangaroo. Other than that, I don’t think she—or any other woman—spoke a word to another person. Granted, most of the spoken words were spoken to God or self.
What I do know is that I’ve never seen a movie in which women had less agency than they did in The Tree of Life. Brad Pitt’s Mr. O’Brien was the stereotypical domineering head-of-household father of that time. His word was the law; he was the disciplinarian. Jessica Chastain’s role as the mother was to be the children’s friend. She did not discipline. She did not stand up to her husband. She did absolutely nothing but hug & kiss her children, teach them how to ride the swings, and smile at them. I’ve seen more motherly behavior from older sisters.
The only women outside of the family that we see are the mother and daughter next door. Neither speaks. We see Pitt and Chastain’s son stalk the daughter and we see the mother berated by her husband.
OK, I can deal with that. Just like I can deal with the lack of any minority representation in the film. It is 1950s Waco, Texas after all. But in order for me to deal with it, the story has to acknowledge or steer toward certain things. The Tree of Life, however, had no plot. No real one, anyway. What Terrence Malick did with this film was create a dream. This was not a movie that was designed to draw the audience in and tell a story. Instead, it was to create a setting and allow the audience to daydream, reminisce, and become immersed in nostalgia. As Roger Ebert wrote (emphasis mine):
I don’t know when a film has connected more immediately with my own personal experience. In uncanny ways, the central events of The Tree of Life reflect a time and place I lived in, and the boys in it are me. If I set out to make an autobiographical film, and if I had Malick’s gift, it would look so much like this. His scenes portray a childhood in a town in the American midlands, where life flows in and out through open windows. There is a father who maintains discipline and a mother who exudes forgiveness, and long summer days of play and idleness and urgent unsaid questions about the meaning of things.That is the setting that Malick created. For those of us who cannot relate to that—and that is a whole lot of people—this type of movie cannot work without plot and story. However, as Ebert also wrote, “What’s uncanny is that Malick creates the O’Brien parents and their three boys without an obvious plot: The movie captures the unplanned unfolding of summer days, and the overheard words of people almost talking to themselves.”
…
I wrote earlier about the many ways this film evoked my own memories of such time and place. About wide lawns. About a town that somehow, in memory, is always seen with a wide-angle lens. About houses that are never locked. About mothers looking out windows to check on their children. About the summer heat and ennui of church services, and the unpredictable theater of the dinner table, and troubling sounds of an argument between parents, half-heard through an open window.
Watching the film, I remembered Ray Bradbury’s memory of a boy waking up to the sound of a Green Machine outside his window—a hand-pushed lawnmower. Perhaps you grew up in a big city, with the doors locked and everything air-conditioned. It doesn’t matter. Most of us, unless we are unlucky, have something of the same childhood, because we are protected by innocence and naivete.
There you have it. Without plot, heavily reliant upon the viewers’ own experiences, The Tree of Life is not for people who did not grow up like the O’Briens. This is a movie for people whose hearts harken back to the “good old days” when White men ruled, women were invisible, and life was “innocent”. It was the film version of A Tale of Three Cities, and I found that very disgusting. The Tree of Life looked like the world Michelle Bachmann wants.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Motherf**ker with the Hat
A few weeks ago I learned that Chris Rock is performing on Broadway, so wife and I drove into Manhattan on Saturday so we could go see Bobby Cannavale, Chris Rock, Elizabeth Rodriguez, Annabella Sciorra, and Yul Vasquez in Stephen Adly Guirgis’ The Motherf**ker with the Hat. The first thing we noticed while walking to our seats was the size of the set. It was so small. It was very reminiscent of the Sydney Theatre Company’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire that toured the United States in 2009 in that less than a quarter of the visual space was actually utilized by the set. Like Streetcar, the tiny spaces occupied by the cast create a sense of tight, cramped, confined spaces with no room to breathe. Knowing that Hat is set in modern day New York City, I went into the play believing that we were about to see the characters under some immense pressure. Oh, how right I was.
Sticking with the set, I was very impressed by the thought and detail put into it. As you sit, you are presented with a tiny, cramped one-bedroom apartment with low ceilings and no sense of comfort. To the left of the apartment’s front door rises a stairwell. Unlike the stairs in Streetcar, though, these were broken, leaving no escape. Above the apartment, to the right of the broken staircase, is a large expanse of empty blackness. On the far right of the set stands an empty billboard. Emptiness. Nothingness. We know going in that these people’s lives are not good. We all know that New York is a beast. Being poor—as evidenced by the apartment we see—and stressed in New York is torturous. Adding to that feeling is a tiny sliver of light in the middle of the blackness. In that light, we see a tiny glimpse of the Empire State Building. It’s just enough light shining on these people to let them know what they do not have.
Once The Motherf**ker with the Hat starts, we see the technical brilliance of the set. We’ve all seen walls, panels, and floors move, but only in The Lion King have I ever seen a set whose moving parts are so intricate and seamless. This play takes place in three different apartments, and none of them look anything alike. And the transitions between the apartments were flawless. Also, size and space were used very well throughout the production.
The Motherf**ker with the Hat is a tale about relationships, overcoming addiction, and more than anything, in my opinion, the self-righteousness of the recently enlightened. People in the midst of their 12 steps, the recently religiously converted, and those who have just discovered the great new thing all fall victim to this type of self-righteousness. Along with it comes an attitude of “I’m just doing what I have to do to protect myself, so you can’t really criticize me.” It’s a load of crap, but people are often too self-absorbed to see that. Hat gets to the heart of this.
Although there are bigger names in the cast, Cannavale’s Jackie and Rodriguez’s Veronica are the lead characters. Both actors are up to the task. My wife and I often talk about going to a play and waiting for the moment when you forget you’re actually watching a stage production. That did not take long this time. I grew up on the East Coast, and these two created a very real New York Puerto Rican couple. It did not take long to understand the depth, struggle, and pain of their relationship.
It is the struggle and pain of Jackie and Veronica’s relationship that drives much of Hat’s plot, but Jackie’s relationships with the other three characters that give the play its depth and meaning. I won’t say more because I don’t want to give too much away and I want you all to go out and see it. The Motherf**ker with the Hat is an emotional tale that will draw you in and give you something you don’t quite expect.
4 stars out of 5
Sticking with the set, I was very impressed by the thought and detail put into it. As you sit, you are presented with a tiny, cramped one-bedroom apartment with low ceilings and no sense of comfort. To the left of the apartment’s front door rises a stairwell. Unlike the stairs in Streetcar, though, these were broken, leaving no escape. Above the apartment, to the right of the broken staircase, is a large expanse of empty blackness. On the far right of the set stands an empty billboard. Emptiness. Nothingness. We know going in that these people’s lives are not good. We all know that New York is a beast. Being poor—as evidenced by the apartment we see—and stressed in New York is torturous. Adding to that feeling is a tiny sliver of light in the middle of the blackness. In that light, we see a tiny glimpse of the Empire State Building. It’s just enough light shining on these people to let them know what they do not have.
Once The Motherf**ker with the Hat starts, we see the technical brilliance of the set. We’ve all seen walls, panels, and floors move, but only in The Lion King have I ever seen a set whose moving parts are so intricate and seamless. This play takes place in three different apartments, and none of them look anything alike. And the transitions between the apartments were flawless. Also, size and space were used very well throughout the production.
The Motherf**ker with the Hat is a tale about relationships, overcoming addiction, and more than anything, in my opinion, the self-righteousness of the recently enlightened. People in the midst of their 12 steps, the recently religiously converted, and those who have just discovered the great new thing all fall victim to this type of self-righteousness. Along with it comes an attitude of “I’m just doing what I have to do to protect myself, so you can’t really criticize me.” It’s a load of crap, but people are often too self-absorbed to see that. Hat gets to the heart of this.
Although there are bigger names in the cast, Cannavale’s Jackie and Rodriguez’s Veronica are the lead characters. Both actors are up to the task. My wife and I often talk about going to a play and waiting for the moment when you forget you’re actually watching a stage production. That did not take long this time. I grew up on the East Coast, and these two created a very real New York Puerto Rican couple. It did not take long to understand the depth, struggle, and pain of their relationship.
It is the struggle and pain of Jackie and Veronica’s relationship that drives much of Hat’s plot, but Jackie’s relationships with the other three characters that give the play its depth and meaning. I won’t say more because I don’t want to give too much away and I want you all to go out and see it. The Motherf**ker with the Hat is an emotional tale that will draw you in and give you something you don’t quite expect.
4 stars out of 5
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Stop Clapping
As I approached my local Wawa this morning, there was a guy ahead of me. He reached the door first and held it open for someone coming out. The person leaving the Wawa was a soldier. “Thank you,” the soldier said as he walked through the held open door.
“Thank you,” the man replied with an exaggerated game show host voice.
This needs to stop. Now. This overindulgent fawning of men and women in uniform that has overcome this country since 2001 is ridiculous. Moreover, it is an embarrassment.
I am not in the military. If I was, I would go out of my way to not appear in public while wearing my uniform because sometimes, I want to just be left alone. America has made it pretty clear that our uniformed men and women have lost that freedom.
After a cross-country flight, my mind is focused on getting out of the airport and to my destination. Every soldier I’ve seen on my flights had to stand, smile, and wave to acknowledge the standing ovation they received as they walk from the gate and through the terminal. This faux patriotism has turned American citizens into paparazzi.
Please, can we let these people breathe? They’re just like you and me. Like us, they don’t want to always be reminded of work. And like us, sometimes they want to just be left alone. They can’t tell you that, though, because then it will show up on the news and the internet and pretty soon will be a big deal.
If you want to thank them, let them have moments of peace. Help make sure they’ll have jobs, incomes, and healthcare when they leave the military. Don’t stand and clap; it’s just annoying.
“Thank you,” the man replied with an exaggerated game show host voice.
This needs to stop. Now. This overindulgent fawning of men and women in uniform that has overcome this country since 2001 is ridiculous. Moreover, it is an embarrassment.
I am not in the military. If I was, I would go out of my way to not appear in public while wearing my uniform because sometimes, I want to just be left alone. America has made it pretty clear that our uniformed men and women have lost that freedom.
After a cross-country flight, my mind is focused on getting out of the airport and to my destination. Every soldier I’ve seen on my flights had to stand, smile, and wave to acknowledge the standing ovation they received as they walk from the gate and through the terminal. This faux patriotism has turned American citizens into paparazzi.
Please, can we let these people breathe? They’re just like you and me. Like us, they don’t want to always be reminded of work. And like us, sometimes they want to just be left alone. They can’t tell you that, though, because then it will show up on the news and the internet and pretty soon will be a big deal.
If you want to thank them, let them have moments of peace. Help make sure they’ll have jobs, incomes, and healthcare when they leave the military. Don’t stand and clap; it’s just annoying.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Nuclear Power & Techno Twits
Since the problems at nuclear facilities caused by Friday’s earthquake and tsunami barrage in Japan, television, radio, and the internet have been bombarded with people demonizing nuclear power. I am not here in support of nuclear power—I am neither pro nor con on the issue—but I am here to speak to the idiocy of many of the people who are speaking out.
Among the chief criticisms heard over the past five days is that Japan was supposed to be the most prepared nation for nuclear emergencies. I have also heard cries that the disasters are the result of poor regulation. These techno twits are in no position to speak to this. Not a single one of them can say for certain that poor preparation and poor regulation was the case.
It is only to a very limited extent that someone can prepare for an 8.9 earthquake. Even if you are structurally prepared for that much seismic activity, how can anyone, in preparation, account for hundreds—yes, HUNDREDS—of 5.0+ aftershocks in the 48-72 hours immediately following that 8.9?
The nuclear problems in Japan remind me of a plotline on The West Wing during which a nuclear plant in southern California caused a crisis when a valve failed. Every politician on the show blamed poor regulation for the crisis. How stupid. What does poor regulation have to do with a bad valve? Even if you perform preventive maintenance on a daily basis, you can’t check every valve every day. If you did, there would still be 24 hours during which the valve can fail.
The truth of the matter is that things happen. People know this and accept this in their everyday lives, but are unwilling to do so when it comes to science and technology. This is foolish. Sometimes valves fail. Sometimes a disaster for which there is no proper training or preparation strikes. Sometimes things happen. Not everything can be checked.
Here’s an example for you: the next syringe a diabetic uses to administer his/her insulin has not been tested. The processes by which the syringe and all its parts were made and packaged have been validated, but the syringe itself has not been. Had it been tested, it would have been used and no longer sterile, which means that the patient cannot use it. See?
We are human beings. Our understanding of science and technology is very limited. All we can do is our best. Sometimes our best is not good enough. But that is no cause for the blame game. This whole ordeal is the opposite of 1692—people are persecuted for not being witches who can make things happen. Come on people, get real.
Among the chief criticisms heard over the past five days is that Japan was supposed to be the most prepared nation for nuclear emergencies. I have also heard cries that the disasters are the result of poor regulation. These techno twits are in no position to speak to this. Not a single one of them can say for certain that poor preparation and poor regulation was the case.
It is only to a very limited extent that someone can prepare for an 8.9 earthquake. Even if you are structurally prepared for that much seismic activity, how can anyone, in preparation, account for hundreds—yes, HUNDREDS—of 5.0+ aftershocks in the 48-72 hours immediately following that 8.9?
The nuclear problems in Japan remind me of a plotline on The West Wing during which a nuclear plant in southern California caused a crisis when a valve failed. Every politician on the show blamed poor regulation for the crisis. How stupid. What does poor regulation have to do with a bad valve? Even if you perform preventive maintenance on a daily basis, you can’t check every valve every day. If you did, there would still be 24 hours during which the valve can fail.
The truth of the matter is that things happen. People know this and accept this in their everyday lives, but are unwilling to do so when it comes to science and technology. This is foolish. Sometimes valves fail. Sometimes a disaster for which there is no proper training or preparation strikes. Sometimes things happen. Not everything can be checked.
Here’s an example for you: the next syringe a diabetic uses to administer his/her insulin has not been tested. The processes by which the syringe and all its parts were made and packaged have been validated, but the syringe itself has not been. Had it been tested, it would have been used and no longer sterile, which means that the patient cannot use it. See?
We are human beings. Our understanding of science and technology is very limited. All we can do is our best. Sometimes our best is not good enough. But that is no cause for the blame game. This whole ordeal is the opposite of 1692—people are persecuted for not being witches who can make things happen. Come on people, get real.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Skipping the Super Bowl
Super Bowl XLV is less than sixty hours away. For only the third time since I was 4 years old, I will not watch the game. The first two times were in January 2003 (in the lab working on my Senior Design project) and January 2004 (job-arranged flight). There is no pressing business keeping me from watching the game on Sunday. I am refusing to watch the Steelers take on the Packers because of a small, personal protest.
Last week, I mentioned to my wife and her friend that Super Bowl Sunday would have been Ronald Reagan’s one hundredth birthday. “I bet you they do some pre-game tribute to him.” A few days later, I learned that the NFL is planning a video tribute to Reagan shortly before kickoff.
That knowledge ruined my Super Bowl Sunday. Maybe I’m taking it too seriously. Perhaps it makes me immature and childish. I don’t care. I cannot abide that man.
I was not around for George Wallace’s heyday. I did not experience the 1950s and 1960s in America. I was born during the Carter Administration. In my lifetime, Ronald Reagan’s is what I consider the face of hatred in America.
By celebrating that man, the NFL is acknowledging that they don’t care about humanity, decency, equality, or respect. But that’s to be expected—they’ve already shown themselves to not care about player health. I’ll pay attention to the league again when the lockout is over.
Last week, I mentioned to my wife and her friend that Super Bowl Sunday would have been Ronald Reagan’s one hundredth birthday. “I bet you they do some pre-game tribute to him.” A few days later, I learned that the NFL is planning a video tribute to Reagan shortly before kickoff.
That knowledge ruined my Super Bowl Sunday. Maybe I’m taking it too seriously. Perhaps it makes me immature and childish. I don’t care. I cannot abide that man.
I was not around for George Wallace’s heyday. I did not experience the 1950s and 1960s in America. I was born during the Carter Administration. In my lifetime, Ronald Reagan’s is what I consider the face of hatred in America.
By celebrating that man, the NFL is acknowledging that they don’t care about humanity, decency, equality, or respect. But that’s to be expected—they’ve already shown themselves to not care about player health. I’ll pay attention to the league again when the lockout is over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)