Likes, Dislikes, Compulsive List-Making, and Malleable Meanings

For about a year, I had a digital subscription to The New York Times.  Unfortunately, about a year ago, the economy went to pot.  Since pot is still illegal in the state where I live, I found myself in a position where I had to drop the subscription in order to save a few bucks each month.  However, I still get their daily newsletter in my email (and I play Wordle on the app).

In the newsletter for Saturday, 18 March, 2023, Melissa Kirsch mentioned a list of likes and dislikes by the author Susan Sontag which she "stumble[s] across" with what would appear to be some degree of regularity.  Sadly, whenever Sontag's name is brought up, I'm always reminded of one reviewer who described her novels as "self-indulgent, overrated crap."  Since I've never read any of her novels and, therefore, can't back up that opinion, I looked at her list of likes and dislikes.

As a compulsive list-maker myself, I was thoroughly fascinated by these brief glimpses into Sontag's personality.  Part of me wants to know the context, although, strangely, I really enjoy the mystery of not knowing--why, for example, did she like Louis XIII furniture?  Why did she not like Robert Frost?  And, since she didn't specify, did she not like Frost the man, or was she just not a fan of his poetry?  Or, perhaps maybe she knew a completely different person named Robert Frost who was just an asshole?

As Kirsch writes, "Each item taken alone could be passed off as a caprice, but in the list, there are clues to the person--a person who likes babies but dislikes couples, who likes the smell of mowed grass but dislikes the cold... Absent any explanation, the meaning of the list is malleable."  Frankly, I like that about lists like this.  I particularly enjoy the possibility of one's likes and dislikes seeming to be contradictory.  And I love the fact that it probably is not contradictory to the person who made the list.

Another point that tickles my fancy is that, as Kirsch also points out, "One's likes and dislikes are forever changing, too, which permits a person to be complicated and fickle and to change their mind."  While my likes and dislikes have been cultivated from a lifetime of personal experience, I like a lot of things that I didn't like when I was younger, like punk rock.  The reverse is also true--when I was a child, I loved bananas.  I ate them frequently.  Today, I'm physically repulsed by them.  Even just the smell of a banana makes me nauseous.

As I said, I am a compulsive list-maker myself.  My lists are usually centered around popular culture--best cinematic death scenes, best songs to play in the car, favourite guitarists, etc.  I seldom find myself making practical lists--I don't have "to-do" lists, for example.  Even my ability to make grocery lists is spotty.  For some reason, though, I've never made a list as simple as basic likes and dislikes.

I was surprised by the amount of soul-searching that went into it, particularly my list of dislikes.  I found myself asking how revealing I wanted to be.  After all, a lot of the items I put on the list could potentially bring some questions and criticisms (an admittedly unlikely possibility, given the number of people likely to read this).  As much as I enjoy screwing with people, how contradictory do I want to sound?  Should I let the reader ponder the fact that I like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, but I don't like peanut butter... or even peanuts?

One of the things I like about this is that I can't be comprehensive.  There are too many things I like and dislike that I can't possibly mention all of them.  There are also a lot of things that, at this point in my life, I've never experienced.  For example, I've never had escargot, therefore, I don't know if I like it or not.  Consequently, I'm sure I'll revisit this in a future post... one day, after I've had some new experiences and don't have anything else to write about.  In the meantime, I've kept my lists to fifteen items apiece.

Things I like:  Watching old black and white movies on a rainy Saturday afternoon, watching Steve McQueen films on a Sunday morning (the actor Steve McQueen, not the director), medium rare steak, bagpipe music, peeling dried rubber cement from any object, slowly opening a two-liter bottle of soda for the first time and feeling the label crumple in the palm of my hand, psychedelic rock music of the 1960s, women who don't shave their body hair, emptying a really full three-hole punch, stick shifts, cheeseburgers, the feeling of my teeth biting into a mushroom, bibliosmia, Art Deco, and single malt Scotch.

Things I dislike:  Cole slaw, parking garages with cheaply produced automatic gates, having to repeat myself, bureaucracies, the ringing of a telephone, texting abbreviations (OMG, it's like we live in a world of eight-year-olds.  Seriously, WTF?), human stupidity (especially my own), people who mispronounce the word "nuclear," cooked tomatoes, raw celery, people who say "unquote" instead of "end quote," our collective dependence on cell phones (especially my own), Daylight Saving Time, and having to repeat myself.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, please feel free to share some of yours and I'm actually happy to discuss my list if you really want context.

What Florence + The Machine Gave Me

Frankly, I'm kind of hurt and really pissed off right now. And while the reasons for this seem kind of stupid, petty, and childish in the grand scheme of things, knowing that doesn't necessarily alleviate the anger and hurt feelings that I have in the moment. So I'm dealing with it the only way I know how--I write (what's your superpower?).

For the last month or so, I've been really looking forward to this past Friday's release of Florence + The Machine's new album, Dance Fever. Along with The Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen, Florence + the Machine is the only other artist whose new studio albums I feel compelled to buy the day of their release. I've been following her Twitter feed for updates, I've watched every new video posted to YouTube (some multiple times), I made a point of recording her appearances this past week on Jimmy Fallon and "CBS Mornings." And when I went to buy the album Friday morning, guess where I was able to find it? NOWHERE! Not one damn retailer in my area that sells music had it available in their stores to buy. I'm still trying to figure out what was more insulting--the fact that Barnes & Noble didn't have it, or the fact that their website had the unmitigated gall to list it as a bestseller. Here's a tip--if it's a bestseller, make sure I can buy it at my local store. What kind of crap is that? You can damn well better believe that this never happened when I ran your music department, I can tell you that right now.

Now I know what you're thinking--this isn't the end of the world, I can just order it and pick it up later. Trust me, I'm way ahead of you. It's not like I don't want the album just because places like B&N and Target didn't have enough foresight to stock it. You're also probably thinking that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill and that I'm being stupid, petty, and childish. And if you think that, I challenge you to re-read the first paragraph of this missive. Look, I know that overall, this is a pretty trivial thing and that I'm overreacting. All I can say is that it may not be that important, but it is important to me. It's been a long week and I knew it would be going into it. This was literally the only thing I was looking forward to this week and the whole thing's been ruined. Sure, I can wait, but it's not the same thing as buying the physical copy as soon as the store opens and knowing that you're one of the first to do so. This is why we go see movies on Thursdays that actually open on Fridays. I actually had to listen to the album on YouTube where I was subjected to at least one ad between every song. And I know YouTube has a premium service that I can pay for and not have to see the ads, but dammit, that was the whole point of buying the album in the first place!

Now I know what you're thinking--people still buy physical media? Can't you just download it from iTunes? Well, yes, I suppose I could, but, like waiting past the release date to buy it, it's not the same thing. I like having something to hold on to while I'm listening. I like to read liner notes and look at pictures of the artist, maybe even read the lyrics while listening to the songs if the artist included them. You know--all the ephemera that digital downloads can't provide... those little things that to my, admittedly overly romantic view of music appreciation, just make the whole listening experience better. I read somewhere once that a vinyl record is a handwritten love letter. A digital download is a text. Friday was one of those days where I deeply felt what I refer to as the ongoing struggle of an analogue soul searching for his place in an increasingly digital universe. And in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I was looking for it on CD, which sounds a bit blasphemous, but to me it's a happy medium between analogue and digital. I get all the ephemera of the vinyl and I can play it in the car. Not that it matters anyway since I'm sure I'll buy it on vinyl eventually. Again, I realize this is an overly romantic viewpoint that even a lot of self-professed music lovers don't understand. Honestly, I don't expect them to. However, I will go on record as saying that the followers of that cult leader Marie Kondo don't know what they're missing.

So that's why I'm pissed, but like I said, I'm also kind of hurt. I've been waiting in anticipation for this album for over a month. Yeah, okay, Florence Welch is one of my top three celebrity crushes (Tina Fey and Zooey Deschanel being the other two), I do have a severe weakness for redheaded women, especially those with musical talent, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc. But it's much more than that. Her music actually speaks to me on an emotional level. I remember listening to her MTV Unplugged album one afternoon while sitting on a bench and drinking a cup of tea while snow fell around me. The whole thing was beautiful. That live performance of "Dog Days Are Over" combined with the snow literally had tears streaming down my face. I described it later as a religious experience. It makes me wonder if there was something in the tea other than lemon and honey. The albums she's released since have had similar effects on me, regardless of the weather. I even bought a book of her writings (Useless Magic: Lyrics, Poetry and Sermons, in case you want to check it out for yourself). There's something mystical, comforting, magical, even healing in her voice. And while she's been very open about how many of her songs get written as a way to help her deal with her own dramas and traumas, I think I speak for many of her listeners when I say they help us deal with ours too. Again, I realize I'm overreacting when I say this, but I feel like my life and the things that matter to me were casually brushed aside in the name of streaming convenience. I was essentially robbed of the opportunity to listen to her new album because I'm some romantic old fart who prefers physical media. Her music makes me feel like it's okay to be this hopeless romantic. Not being able to buy it on the day of its rather hyped release reminds me that I'm just... well, different.

The great irony, of course, is that I'm venting about this in a digital, social media format. That's okay. I've always been a fan of irony.

I Don't Know Why I Love You (But I Do)

When I was thirteen years old, I came home from school to discover that the Soviet Union had done something that they couldn't possibly do (I think they somehow repealed the Bill of Rights to the United States Constitution).  The U.S. considered this an act of war and responded with nuclear weapons.  Of course, the Soviets retaliated in kind.  From my kitchen window, I watched as a missile was about to explode just up the road.  The only thing I could do was pick up the phone and frantically try to call you to tell you I loved you.  I don't remember my call getting through.

Of course, this is the point where I woke up to discover the whole thing was just a bizarre dream/nightmare.  But I did get an uneasy feeling that if I didn't tell you how I felt about you that something globally catastrophic would happen.

Two weeks later, I finally worked up the courage to tell you I loved you.  Your reaction was pretty much what I predicted.  I walked away from it feeling the way I thought I'd feel--rejected, dejected, and thoroughly humiliated.  But, hey, the world didn't end, so I must have done something right.

When I was 27, those feelings were still there.  We'd been through a lot together since the end of the Cold War--good times, bad times, two weeks in England and Scotland.  You were my best friend.  I've never in my life been closer to anyone.  No matter how much I tried to convince myself that any youthful, romantic feelings I had for you were in my more youthful, romantic past, everyone around me seemed to know otherwise.  Clearly I was in denial.

I debated putting my heart on the line once again.  I didn't say anything because we'd just moved in together with my cousin a month earlier and I didn't want to make things awkward for any of us, especially him.  I also knew there was no way I could compete with a British accent that was fifteen years my senior.  So I said nothing.  I'd been through that humiliation before and it still stung.  I didn't see the point in subjecting myself to it again.

I think it's safe to say that the events of 11 September, 2001, constituted a global catastrophe.  Arguably the ramifications of it persist to this day.  When I was first informed as to what was going on in New York and Washington, DC, the first thing I thought of was that dream I had when I was thirteen and the virtually public humiliation I forced myself to endure in order to prevent a calamity such as what we were now experiencing.  Did I really save the world that autumn day in 1987?  Probably not.  I find it highly unlikely that I have that kind of influence over international politics.  But on the off, off, off chance that I did, what if I could have prevented 9/11 simply by telling you that I love you?  That would have also prevented a 20-year war in Afghanistan, a side boondoggle in Iraq... honestly, who knows how differently the world might have turned out?

I tend to look at the human race as God's failed third grade science project--put specimens in a jar and see which one(s) will eat the other(s) first.  In the intervening two decades, I've watched the human race, specifically America, decline drastically.  Wars, plague, climate change, mass shootings, road rage, partisan politics--we all know how to fix these things, but we refuse to do so because ultimately it negatively affects the bottom line.  There's no real money in it for the greedy, corrupt people who are running everything.  We can fix a lot of problems, but the real root cause of it--mass human stupidity--is incurable.  And I've lost so much faith in my own species, that I'm not sure it's worth saving.

As I write this, it would appear that all hell is on the verge of breaking loose in Eastern Europe.  I'm predicting that if (more likely when) it does, it will start World War III.  Honestly, I genuinely don't care anymore.  I figure it's been roughly 80 years since the last one, we're overdue for another.  And yet, in spite of my possibly apocalyptic apathy, I feel I have a moral obligation to try to prevent it if I can.

Yes... after all these years, I'm still in love with you.  I don't know why--I mean, after all, you're a lying cunt--but I am.

I know I'm not supposed to feel this way, but falling in love is the only thing in my life that I truly regret.  It cost me my heart, my soul, my best friend (a couple of times), arguably my immune system, and my left hip.  It turned me into a bitter, cynical old man before I was 30.  It brings out the absolute worst traits in me as a human being.  Frankly, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.  And I don't know if I regret falling in love or if I regret falling in love with you, but since you're the only person with whom I've ever truly been in love, I can't really make a proper distinction.

Many years ago, I gave up on ever finding anyone with whom to share my life.  I realize that's bleak, but I figure if you can't measure up to married men and suicidal drunks in the eyes of your own best friend, you probably won't find anyone.  Besides, you can only get called a "really nice guy" so many times before you start to believe your own bad press.  I get it--I'm no one's ideal man.  The good news is, I no longer feel like I have to impress anyone.  Besides, I've never found anyone who made me feel the way you did... and I mean that in a good way.

As cynical, bitter, resentful, and angry as I am toward you (and, believe me, I am), for some fucking ungodly reason, every time I see an old picture of you, something inside me melts and I begin to ache in ways that only missing someone you love can cause.  In those moments, all I want to do is hold you as tightly as I can for as long as you'll let me.  If I'm honest with myself, that's really all I've ever wanted since we were eleven years old.

I know you don't feel the same toward me (or at least that's what you claim).  Hell, you probably won't even read this, but at least it will be out there in all its humiliating glory.  I doubt that it will change the world, certainly not for the better.  As I said, I'm not sure humanity as a whole is worth saving, and I know I no longer care.  But, just in case it does make a difference, I suppose it would be immoral of me not to at least try to do the right thing.  And if World War III doesn't break out in the next few weeks, I guess it will have worked.

Some Thoughts on Charlie Watts

I should have written this back in August of 2021 when it first happened. I did write something for a Facebook post and quite a bit of this is lifted verbatim from that post. But, for some reason, I find myself still affected by the death of Rolling Stones' drummer Charlie Watts.

I don't usually get bent out of shape over celebrity deaths as--at least at this point in time--I've never actually known any celebrities. I've had the privilege of meeting a few and I've shaken a couple of hands, but it's never been possible for me to spend enough time to get to know them as people. However, the older I get, I find that the deaths of certain entertainers tend to bother me if their work has had a lasting impact on me. I won't lie. Charlie's death hurts... even four months after the fact.

I've never felt that I could fully describe or explain what the Rolling Stones' music has meant to me. I first heard them at the tender age of twelve and it was not like anything I had ever heard before. Initially, their music got me exploring not just their own extensive musical catalogue (which has gotten more extensive in the intervening years), but other artists that became known during the 1960s, particularly anything I could find worth listening to in my parents' vinyl collection. I started to read anything I could find regarding those artists. I sought out the artists who influenced them. The Stones had started out in the early-1960s idolizing American blues musicians. Knowing this, I got turned on to the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Little Walter, and my blues idol, the one and only John Lee Hooker. The Stones' appreciation for country and reggae music led me down even more interesting musical paths. I even began exploring artists who cited the Stones and their contemporaries as influences which then broadened my appreciation of rock music as well. Today, I still read liner notes religiously, a habit I picked up somewhere in high school. I like to know who played what instrument for what song on what album for a particular artist in a certain year. I think I would have always turned out to be a music lover, but the Stones turned that love into a geeky passion--at a time when being a geek wasn't exactly cool (come to think of it, neither was being a twelve-year-old Stones fan in the 1980s).

It was through their music that I started paying attention to the individual instruments used within a song, particularly the drums. I frequently will play out the drum parts to some of my favourite songs on any hard surface that happens to be near while I'm listening (much to the annoyance of anyone who happens to be with me at the time). Charlie taught me what a drummer was supposed to do--keep time. He didn't play a lot of lengthy intricate solos, he didn't have a huge setup with twenty different drums and a large gong behind him. He played a simple jazz drummer's kit (Gretsch drums, specifically) and he played with the sensibility of a jazz drummer. He wasn't flashy, he just kept the beat. Somehow, that made his drumming seem flashier to me.

When I think of the concept of what God might look like (something I believe to be subjective), I don't think of the guy with the long flowing white beard that we've seen in so many Renaissance paintings. I don't even think of film depictions like George Burns or Morgan Freeman (both good choices, by the way). I think of a photograph of Charlie Watts that I first saw in a coffee table book I have about the Stones. It was taken by photographer Jill Furmanovsky at her London studio in the early 1990s. It's a black and white picture of his profile. When combined with the colour picture on the opposite page (from the same photoshoot), something in my head said that, at least for me, this is what God looks like--an incredibly snazzy dresser with a very dry sense of humour who also happens to be one hell of a drummer. Today, I actually refer to God as "Charlie"--it takes the formality out of it for me... but that's another story, hopefully, for a later posting.

I suppose this continued sense of loss has a lot to do with my late father. I get much of my taste in popular culture from him. He was the one who introduced me to the Stones when I was twelve. Obviously, he had been a fan long before I was even born. I claim that my appreciation of music transcends genre because of Dad--he played not just rock records growing up, but also classical and country music. He liked everything from Wagner and Beethoven to Merle Haggard and Leon Redbone. He also had a deep love of jazz and blues which I'm sure would have been passed to me with or without the Stones' influence.

In 1989, the Stones announced that they would be releasing a new album (Steel Wheels) and embarking on a North American tour--their first major tour in seven years. It was Dad who suggested that we should try to get tickets if they were playing anyplace close. Lo and behold, along with some church friends, Dad managed to get tickets for their concert in Louisville, Kentucky, scheduled for 19 September. (I still find it amusing that essentially a church group went to a Stones concert. It sounds like the setup for a bad joke. We may as well have walked into a bar.)

I was fifteen years old and it was my first concert. Prior to this, the only "famous" person I had ever seen was Rip Taylor in a stage performance of Peter Pan when I was in the third grade. This was something considerably different. It was the first time I ever felt like I was part of something bigger than myself--particularly when they played "You Can't Always Get What You Want," which is still my favourite song all these years later.

Along with the Chicago Cubs game I wrote about in a previous post some years ago ("What the 2016 World Series Means To Me"), this was one of those father/son moments that I'll always treasure. I was out until 2:00 in the morning on a school night with my dad at a rock concert. How many of you can say you did that when you were fifteen? I got my shoelaces soaked in beer (which I still have), ate my first White Castle hamburgers, and found out what marijuana smells like. (At one point, before the opening act even took the stage, Dad looked at me and said, "Do you smell that?" I said, "Yeah, what is that?" He said, "That's grass. Don't inhale. Let me do that.")

As the Righteous Brothers once sang, "If there's a rock and roll heaven, well you know they've got a hell of a band." Sadly, that band is getting bigger and bigger with each passing year. Even Bobby Hatfield is a member. But I do take comfort in the belief that my parents have a front row seat and Dad's probably hanging out backstage with a lot of them... possibly even picking up a few musical tricks of his own.

Some Thoughts on Donald Trump

I don't usually like getting political in these writings, but I do feel that it helps me process everything that's been going on the last few months.

As a teenager, I realized that Donald Trump was a fraud.  I may not have thought of that exact word when I was sixteen, but I definitely realized that the man who would become the 45th President of the United States more than a quarter of a century later definitely had no concept of what it's like to be an "average American."

In 1990, Trump was going through one of his financial crises, and he had to be put on an allowance of $450,000 a month (you can read all about it at https://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/26/business/quick-who-d-have-trouble-living-on-450000-a-month.html).  Many media outlets of the time raised the question about whether or not he could survive on that amount of money.  My first thought was, "Why don't you ask the average American if they can survive on that amount?"  I know I could get by on that.  Hell, I could get by on $450,000 a decade and still make more money than I make right now!  The whole incident certainly made me skeptical toward the ultra-rich in general and Trump specifically.

Don't get me wrong, I actually respect and even admire many rich people, particularly if they use their wealth to make the world a better place.  I appreciate everything the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation does to help people in poorer countries improve their lives.  I'm impressed by the fact that Warren Buffett is upset over the fact that he pays a lower tax rate than his secretary who makes considerably less than he does.  Even people in the entertainment industry like Matt Damon, George Clooney, and Brad Pitt (among others) have my deepest, utmost respect for their charitable works.  These people know they are financially better off than the average individual and feel an obligation, even a duty, to better the lives of those who have less.  I don't care if a person has a lot of financial wealth.  I also wouldn't mind having it myself, but it's not something that motivates or defines me.

 

 

I do, however, get concerned when a person is motivated by or defines themselves by their wealth, like Donald Trump consistently has.  It's as if he thinks that having money makes him a better person than someone who has less than he does.  His public behaviour has always indicated to me that he is incredibly shallow, he has no real friends except for sycophants and hangers-on, and that he would sell out any one of them--even his own children--at a moment's notice if he thought he could get more money out of it.  Underneath his gold-plated, spray-on tanned, combed over veneer is a churlish, friendless little boy who has to bully/buy his way into getting exactly what he wants exactly when he wants it.  Sad, really.  Of course, that's just one man's opinion.

Kenneth Gamble, Leon Huff, and Anthony Jackson wrote a song called "For the Love of Money," which was a hit for the O'Jays in 1974.  A sample of the lyrics include:

"For the love of money

People will steal from their mother

For the love of money

People can't even walk the street

Because they never know who in the world they're gonna beat

For that lean, mean, mean green...

For the love of money

People will lie, Lord, they will cheat

For the love of money

People don't care who they hurt or beat

For the love of money

A woman will sell her precious body

For a small piece of paper it carries a lot of weight

Call it lean, mean, mean green

Almighty dollar...

I know money is the root of all evil

Do funny things to some people

Give me a nickel, brother can you spare a dime

Money can drive some people out of their minds."

The great irony is that this became the theme song of his hit show, "The Apprentice" (or as I always liked to call it, "The Biggest Loser").  I never actually watched the show (like I said, I lost any respect I might have had for him when I was a teenager).  For all I know, the song may have only been used in the show's advertising campaign.  Either way, I wonder if Trump actually knew those lyrics ahead of time or, like most people, he only knew the "Money money money MOOOOO-NEY" chorus with its slinky bass line.  If he did know them, was he really confessing all the things he'd do in order to acquire that "lean, mean, mean green"?

I can't decide if Trump is a narcissistic sociopath or a sociopathic narcissist.  He is a bully.  Like any bully worth his salt, he has an incredibly thin skin that houses an easily bruisable ego.  Therein lies his real weakness:  he can dish it out, but he can't take it.  If anyone points out a flaw in anything he says or does (especially if it's factual), he goes off on some kind of screed, usually on Twitter, mocking the person or persons who have the unmitigated audacity to point out the flaw in the first place, throwing around terms like "fake news" and "witch hunt" and crying like a whiny little bitch about how he's being treated "very unfairly."  And don't even get me started on how many times he's "doubled down" on however many specious claims he's made over the last five years--naturally without a scrap of evidence to back up any of it.  He seems to believe that if you repeat a lie enough, people will eventually believe it's true.  Some will even believe it immediately.

 

Reviewing that New York Times article again, I find myself questioning Trump's brand--something I started doing the moment he announced his candidacy for President.  Particularly, I question whether or not he's really a billionaire.  Personally, I don't think he is.  He has been far too reluctant to release his tax returns to make me believe he isn't hiding something.  And the returns that have been leaked seem to indicate a considerable amount of debt, much of it to foreign interests.  That reluctance to back up his claims of his own self-worth make me doubt whether there's as much wealth there as he says there is.

Regardless of how much money he actually has, let's not confuse wealth with worth.  More importantly, let's not confuse the lows to which he sinks with any kind of depth.  There is nothing really there.  I doubt there ever was.

I Suppose It's an Honour Just to Be Nominated

Last week, the Motion Picture Academy made some changes to its biggest award ceremony--the Oscars.  The Academy announced that next year's Oscar ceremony will have a new category to honour "popular" films.  This will give big tentpole blockbusters like Black Panther and... well, any superhero film a shot at something other than a technical award.  Because, let's be honest, no matter how good the film is (and I think Black Panther is certainly that), it doesn't stand a chance at getting a Best Picture nomination because the Academy will never look at it as anything other than a 50-year-old comic book character.

The sad truth is, the Academy has always, at least in my lifetime, been a bit snobbish about who gets nominations.  Most of their nominees and certainly their winners are films that are supposed to make one think about the human condition and morality and our place in society and all sorts of other weighty issues like that.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sure Moonlight is a great film, but it's not something that I'm necessarily going to jump at the chance to watch... certainly not multiple times.  And I'm not saying that weighty issues shouldn't be examined in film.  I am saying that the Academy just likes it when those issues are really in your face.

The best example of this was 2008's The Dark Knight.  This film touched on all sorts of important social issues.  It made us ask important questions like, is it okay for someone to invade our privacy if its in the interest of protecting the general populace?  (Again, this was 2008--we still cared about things like warrantless wiretapping in the name of national security.)  And yet, with the obvious exception of Heath Ledger's performance (more on that in a bit), the film failed to garner any non-technical nominations.  In my opinion, it should have been nominated for Best Picture and Christopher Nolan should have been nominated for Best Director.  It was seriously one of the best directed films I'd seen in a long time.  In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say that Nolan did as good a job directing that as he did last year's critical darling Dunkirk.

I'm an Oscar junkie.  As I write this, for the life of me, I can't remember what won Best Picture that year, or, for that matter, any of the Best Picture nominees from that year except Frost/Nixon and that's only because I'm also a Watergate junkie.  However, I do plan on looking it up after I post this.

Which brings me to the late, great Heath Ledger, who was posthumously awarded the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his work in The Dark Knight.  To me, it was almost insulting.  Not because he didn't deserve to win, mind you.  He absolutely deserved that award.  His performance was jaw-droppingly amazing.  What was insulting about it was the fact that had he not died before the film's release, I don't think he would have won.  In fact, I don't think he would have even gotten a nomination because I think the Academy would have only seen the fact that he was playing a nearly 70-year-old comic book character.  That is why the film was left out of the Best Picture and Best Director categories--because at its heart, it's still Batman.  You can make all the serious social commentary you want when you make a movie, but if you couch it in an action film based on a beloved comic, all the Academy will see is that comic.

Speaking of comics--there was one other injustice in the Best Supporting Actor Oscar category in 2008.  (Who knew there could be multiple issues with just one category in just one year?)  The person who really got shafted that year was Robert Downey, Jr., for his hysterical performance in the movie Tropic Thunder.  Frankly, I was amazed he even got a nomination (again, not that he didn't deserve it).  But why tease him like that?  Even if he wasn't up against Ledger, there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to win it for the simple reason that it was an over-the-top comedy.

I've often wondered what the Academy has against comedies.  Even the really good ones will usually only get nominated in Supporting Acting and writing categories, and even then, it only has a chance at winning for the screenplay.  The few times in recent memory that Oscars have been awarded to comedies, there was always some kind of underlying drama as a counterpoint to the humour.  Jack Nicholson's performance in As Good As It Gets could be looked at as comedic.  And it was very funny.  But underneath the funny, if offensive, one liners, Melvin Udall was an obsessive-compulsive, misanthropic, germophobic writer who just wanted "to be a better man."  This brought out enough drama that the Academy felt it was okay to give Jack his third Oscar.

But what's wrong with giving awards to films and performances that just make us laugh?  Most actors will be the first to say that comedy is harder than drama.  So why do Oscars only seem to go to the more "realistic" dramatic performances?  Why couldn't Melissa McCarthy actually have won for her performance in 2011's Bridesmaids?  Or Downey for Tropic Thunder?  The last Oscar I remember being awarded to a completely over-the-top, laugh-out-loud comedic performance was to Kevin Kline for A Fish Called Wanda--thirty years ago.  (I suppose one could cite Jack Palance in City Slickers or Cuba Gooding, Jr., in Jerry Maguire, but, like Nicholson in As Good As it Gets, there were enough serious, more dramatic moments that kept them from being too funny.)

One performance that I felt was unfairly passed over was Michael Keaton in 2014's Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance).  The Academy was kind enough to give him a nomination, but because Eddie Redmayne was playing Stephen Hawking--a real-life person who overcame almost unimaginable obstacles to become one of maybe two astrophysicists recognized by people who know nothing about astrophysics--he was the more "logical" choice.  To be fair, I still haven't seen the film and I'm sure he did a magnificent job, but giving him the Oscar--or, rather, not giving it to Keaton--just seemed too easy to me.  I often wonder if Keaton killed his chances of winning when he accepted his Golden Globe.  He thanked the Hollywood Foreign Press for recognizing comedies, which is not exactly something the Academy is well-known for, as I hope I've illustrated above.

Over the last few years, there have been a number of criticisms of the Academy Awards, from a lack of diversity among the nominees to how long the ceremony is.  And people have complained in the past that a lot of popular films don't get recognized except in the technical categories.  I remember the Academy trying to address this issue some years back when they doubled the number of nominees for Best Picture.  I don't think it worked too well.

Most of the time, I have to say, these "popular films" are not as good as the films that do tend to get nominated and/or win.  I don't see The Meg being huge Oscar bait.  I'm sure it's probably highly entertaining.  There's nothing wrong with that, but is it really great cinema?

I really feel that the best way to improve the Oscars (other than obviously recognizing diversity) is to recognize other genres than drama.  I think they ought to take a page out of the Golden Globes' playbook and separate drama and comedy into two categories.  This will give a lot of really great performances a chance that they wouldn't otherwise have.  I'm not sure I would go as far as to add an action category as the spectacle of blowing things up is usually the primary focus of action films.  But if there is an action film worthy of critical praise (let's say... oh, I don't know... The Dark Knight), they could be nominated as a drama or comedy, depending on the storyline.

And I realize that this will make the ceremony longer.  Personally, I think this is a non-issue.  The Oscars are once a year.  It's the highest holiest day of the awards season.  Get over it, already!  Don't start eliminating the technical awards from the broadcast just to please the local news anchors.  The sound mixers can often work as hard as the actors, writers, and directors.

Just because a movie makes a lot of money and attracts a lot of people to the theaters, doesn't mean it's the best written, best acted, or even just the best film... except at making a lot of money and attracting a lot of people to the theaters.  When most people go to the movies, they're just looking for escapist entertainment.  They want to be taken out of the dramas of their own world for a couple hours.  Not that I think there's anything wrong with serious films.  Sometimes we need those too.  But, ultimately we must remember why we have these awards--to honour what's best (which I realize is a subjective term), not what's popular.  I think the Grammys should look into this a little more often.

As Long As...

I recently stumbled upon something I wrote a long time ago.  I think it's safe to say that none of it is relevant anymore, which is too bad because I think it's still kind of a lovely poem on my part, if I do say so myself.  Oh, well.  Live and learn, I guess.

As Long As...

As long as you need me in your life

As long as I'm willing to do anything to protect it—even at the expense of my own life

As long as I carry your heart in my hip pocket

As long as you would do the same for me

As long as we still sing to each other

As long as there's room for you in my arms

As long as your sighs and your tears shatter my heart into tiny fragments

As long as I'll endure the pain to help relieve yours

As long as I still call you the next day to make sure all is well

As long as we're willing to tell each other anything and everything

As long as I can always call you my best friend

As long as you can always call me yours

As long as you always think of yourself as my girl—even if nothing comes of it

As long as I can say I love you, just because sometimes I don't know what else to say

Then you needn't worry

I'll never complely close off my heart.

                                                                     --William Allen, 15 May, 2001