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Punk Rock Bowling: The Dreaded Line.
Over Memorial Day weekend, I attended the 13th Annual Punk Rock Bowling festival in Las Vegas. And by “attended” I mean I saw three bands on the second day. But the bands I saw were pretty awesome: Bouncing Souls, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, and the mighty Descendents.
How could I not go to a festival with a logo like that...
I’ll have more on the actual music part of the festival either tomorrow or four years from now, but first I wanted to share with you all the little slice of heaven I went through to pick up my tickets.
The promoters sent out emails suggesting that if you were attending the festival, and were in town the Friday night before the festival started, you should get your tickets then. It sounded good to me. It also made the plan for Friday night simple: pick up the tickets and go drink. We had purchased the tickets months ago and all that stood in the way of us getting stupid drunk was a Will Call line, and how bad could that be?
Really fucking bad, as it turns out.
Picking up tickets from a Will Call window is normally an easy endeavor. You show up, wait in line, show a person distributing the tickets your I.D., and they hand over the tickets. Easy, right? If you get multiple people distributing the tickets from a central location it shouldn’t take more than 3-5 minutes a person, even if a signature is required from the person picking up the tickets.
I thought that would be the case, and man, was I wrong. I was in line for five hours. Apparently, what was complicating matters was the festival promoters were also selling tickets for a club show that evening.
Of course, I didn’t know that walking into the El Cortez casino, where the promoters were distributing tickets.
The El Cortez is located in the old section of Vegas. Fremont and Sixth to be specific. This casino is so old it was around when Bugsy Malone ran Vegas. That’s old, if you don’t know Vegas history. And like most of the old casinos, it has that sleazy, old-school Vegas vibe: it’s filled with smoke, desperation and sweat.
The place was built when Vegas was all about gambling, not expensive stage shows, celebrity chefs, or museums. As such, the place looks run down and smells like failure and cheap liquor. It’s not a place I’d want to spend five hours or any kind of time at all. It’s like someone took a small dive bar in New York, blew it up, and put slot machines and cheap prime rib in it.
In other words, the place was icky.
It just looks inviting, doesn't it?
I arrived at 5:00, when the promoter’s email said tickets would be distributed. We parked in the El Cortez parking structure and walked through the casino to the Fiesta room, where the email said the tickets would be handed out. After going through the rows of slot machines and table games, I saw a line of people in front of a table that was just inside the Fiesta room (which didn’t look all that Fiesta-y). The line was long — about 40 people I estimated — but manageable. I got at the end and prepared myself for a bit of a wait.
“Sir?” I turned around a saw a chubby Latino guy in a security guard uniform. “The line starts outside,” he said gesturing with his thumb to the glass doors behind him. I looked and I saw a bunch of people huddled at the door looking inside. I shrugged. How long could it be, right?
I went outside. There was a mass of people in one of those thick, bulging, disordered lines, where clumps of people congregated together in a sequence, not a nice, clean, single file line. This group of people stretched all the way down the block, around the corner, and almost down the rest of that block.
Still, this was the Will Call line. How long could it take?
Like I wrote above, five hours. And since they would only let in small numbers of people at a time, I would stand in one place for 30 minutes, usually longer, not moving. That made it even worse. Long lines are tolerable if you’re moving constantly. That’s what a place like Disneyland does. The lines there are long, but they’re snaked around enough so that even if one person moves the rest of the lines moves. It feels like progress is being made. Disneyland lines are also in dark places where there are interesting things to look at or interact with. Here there was nothing to do but stand in place for a long time and drink. A dangerous combination.
The crowd had all the ingredients for a full scale-riot: they had been waiting in line for hours for something that should have taken minutes, they were being dicked around by uniformed authority figures, and they were bored. Most of them had also spent the day getting wasted. The situation was tenuous at best. All it would take is one misunderstood shove or some guy oogling another guy’s retro/punk girlfriend a little too long.
Some trouble started when an overweight hermaphroditic security guard came out and told the front of the line that he/she was taking 10 people inside to buy tickets for that night’s show, regardless of where they were in line. A guy behind me in Black Flag hat yelled “Bullshit!” at the security guard and others followed suit.
The crowd yelled and chanted. I wondered what it would be like to actually be in a riot and looked around planning my escape. I was also, after four hours, in front of the line. Believe it or not, I was conflicted. What to do? Tickets or safety? Tickets or safety? Tickets or safety?
I made my decision. Personal safety schmafety — I wanted my goddamned tickets. Then, behind me, I heard the slightly metallic link of a beer bottle shattering — the seemingly universal kick-off sound to every riot in a movie. This crowd was degenerating by the moment.
Thankfully, the guard backed off letting people in and left. Cooler heads prevailed and the crowd calmed down a bit. The weather helped too, I’m sure. That weekend, Las Vegas was in the middle of an unseasonably cool bit of weather. Had it be normal temperatures — somewhere in the mid 90s — I’m sure there would’ve been a riot. Hot, drunk, and angry people do not play well with others.
As I stood by the glass doors waiting for my turn to go stand in another line inside the casino, I felt a hand on top of my head. I turned around quickly and saw a guy with a shaved head looking at me. His idiot’s grin and his dull, lagging eyes indicated that he was drunk. Possibly really drunk. He smiled at me and said, “Heeey….another bald guy!” I smiled at him and hoped he would go away. “We got to stick together man,” he said.
“We sure do,” I said and turned around again, hoping this would placate him.
He didn’t like my approach. “Hey man, I’m just trying to be friendly. What’s up?”
This wasn’t going well. From my days of being a bouncer, I knew that drunks could go from friendly to violent in a matter of seconds, like any undomesticated beast. I also knew that you should always be nice, until it’s time to not be nice, but that’s a different story…
Diplomacy was required. “No man, we’re cool. I’m just tired of waiting, that’s all.”
He bought it. “Yeah, this is some bull shit, huh.” He turned to the crowd, “LET US IN! LET US IN! LET US IN!”
Some people joined in, but the chant fizzled out. I breathed easier. I hoped that I could get inside soon. My feet hurt, my back hurt, and there was a bald headed lunatic taking an interest in me. The current state of affairs could get ugly in a hurry.
Finally a security guard with slicked back black hair and the best mustache this side of a Dirty Sanchez came out. “I’m letting in ten people,” he said. The front of the line mobbed towards him. Like some half-assed bouncer at Studio 54, he started separating the worthy from unworthy. He pointed at people, numbered them, and they went in, visibly elated. He had gotten to six and that’s when I started worrying. The line at the door was a mass of people. There was no way for the guard to know who’s turn it was to go in.
At this point, it had been an hour since the last group had been let in. My mind reeled at the possibility that I would have to stay outside for another hour. A line from Robert Shaw’s Jaws monologue through my head: “You know that was the time I was most frightened… waitin’ for my turn.” Robert Shaw only had to deal with sharks; I was facing the possibility of getting my ass beaten by a drunken punk rocker just because I wasn’t friendly enough — and I doubt anyone would hold my place in line while I was getting beaten, either.
“Eight,” the security guard said and pointed at me. My heart jumped and adrenaline went through my system. I had survived the line. I now had access to the holiest of holies — the Fiesta Room at the El Cortez.
If you don't get this reference, google it.
About 40 minutes later, tickets in hand, with aching back and aching feet, I left the El Cortez. The group then went to In-n-Out Burger. A great way to end a shitty evening.
Random Anecdote #1
Years ago, in 1992 to be exact, I saw the Pixies perform at Hayden Square Amphitheater in Tempe. I really wasn’t into them at all but all my friends were going, so why not go? This was also the first show I used earplugs, a practice that continues to this day.
I was assaulted by this woman...
The opener, Pere Ubu, were boring and I don’t remember much about them, except that the lead singer was on the larger side and that they were from Ohio. I’m not sure the two are connected, but check out recent pictures of Greg Dulli, another famous rocker from Ohio.
The Pixies opened the show with their Jesus and Mary Chain cover, Head On. I recognized my friend CW crowd-surfing up front — something he had never done before that night and what he’d swore he’d do at the show. Mission accomplished.
The only other thing I remember from the show, aside from it being very long, was at the end of the last song they played — Where is My Mind — Kim Deal threw a very thick book out into the crowd. I reached up to grab it, but it flew by, bending my fingers back a bit which hurt. The guy who caught it was a few people away from me. I asked him what the book was. He said it was a travel guide called Let’s Go: Europe. “So let’s go,” he said.
I think he was wearing a flannel shirt. But I’m not sure.
Ren Faire Memories: B.Michael Gets the Finger
(For the past two decades of my life, I’ve participated, with varying levels of commitment, at both the Arizona and Southern/Northern California Renaissance Faires. I’m going to start chronicling some of the stories here. It’ll be sort of like Get in the Van, but lamer. Please note, the names have been changed to protect all parties.)
The last gig I had at the AZ Ren Faire was being a Morris dancer with an English folk dance team. This was a good gig for me since I liked to drink and Morris dancers love drinking. It was a match made in heaven.
One girl on the team — let’s call her Dana — did the entire team a favor by brewing up some grog every weekend. Grog was this potent mix of rum and fruit juices. Sometimes it was nasty because she either put too much rum in or too much fruit juice. The balance had to be just right, or else it would be too sugary or too rummy. And I hate rum. However, I also love free booze, so you can see my dilemma.
Dana's grog never looked this cool...
Anyway, one night we were sitting around camp and getting really wasted. Like spinning room wasted. Like shitting in your cooler wasted. Like I’m about to fuck Andy Dick wasted. As the night went on, one by one, the team members went to bed until it was just me, Dana, and some other dude who’s name I can’t remember, passing a jug of grog back and forth.
Dana and the dude started talking and I thought I saw a girl that I was interested in walking across the parking lot towards the Port a Johns by the showers. Being a nice guy, I decided to take the jug of grog over to her and chat her up.
I don’t recall if the person I met was the person I wanted to meet, but that’s not important. The important thing to know here is that I was standing a fair distance away from our camp, drinking Dana’s grog. Me and this unknown person were passing the jug back and forth, shooting the shit as they say. I then hear a girl’s voice cut through the calm desert night.
“B.Michael! YOU TOOK MY GROG!” Hearing my name, I looked up and I saw nothing but a large white light coming at me from the camp. The light was running towards me and kicking up dust as it went along. I started laughing. It was like the Tazmanian Devil from the Warner Brothers cartoon was coming at me with a very large flashlight. A Tazmanian Devil who was swearing and pissed off that I absconded with her alcohol. It was a real funny sight. Funny until the light went down on the hard desert floor.
Drunk people falling over isn’t uncommon anywhere, especially when they’re running over broken ground like the participant’s parking lot at the AZ Ren Faire. Normally someone trips, swears and gets back up. Not this time. Dana went down hard and didn’t get up for about 20 seconds or so. Worse still, she wasn’t making any noise. That’s what freaked me out the most. No swearing, no yelling, no moaning. And that desert floor is made up of hard, beat down dirt and rocks. A concussion was not out of the question.
I dropped the grog jug and ran over to her. She was just sitting up and when I got there and was in the beginning of a pretty good freak out. I picked up her flashlight and then I saw why.
When she fell, she had jammed her finger into the dirt and rocks. Her nail was bent back and broken, shredding the nail bed, and ripping the tender flesh below. Blood was coming down her finger’s mutilated tip and running onto her hand. It was gruesome, to say the least.
Seeing what happened to her turned my drunken stomach. I felt like I need to boot. Thankfully, I didn’t.
Instead, I picked up Dana and supported her weight as I walked her towards the Faire site where our friends Alice and Andrew’s trailer was located.
Alice and Andrew are legendary. Both of them do night security at the California faires and are scary, paramilitary badasses. Like, they live on a compound paramilitary style and collect guns badasses. To be fair, the level of idiocy at the CA Faires is pretty high, and so being security requires a certain amount of badassery. One story I heard, and I never confirmed it, was one night, after hours, Andrew and/or Alice were responsible for throwing Wil Wheaton out of the CA Southern Faire when he was being an obnoxious underage drunk. The story goes Wesley Crusher was pissed about getting thrown out and asked repeatedly if “[they knew] who I am!”
They did and it didn’t help.
Anyway, Dana and I knew them both personally because Alice danced with our team at the AZ Ren Faire. Andrew did night security out at the AZ Faire, and thank God for that because there were a lot of nights out there I was a loud, drunken jackass, and had anyone else been doing Andrew’s job, I would’ve been kicked out.
As I was walking and supporting Dana, she was freaking out. But not like in a normal kind of freaking out where someone is hysterical. Dana was quiet, slurring her words, and very distressed about her finger. She was acting like Steve Carrell in the final bar scene of 40 Year Old Virgin and Kate Hudson when she overdosed in Almost Famous. She tried to stop me from taking her to Alice and Andrew’s trailer, claiming that she was fine and we didn’t need to bother them. I told her to cool it and that I was taking her to Alice and Andrew’s and that was final. They’d know what to do.
“But they’ll be mad,” she said.
“Are you fucking kidding? They live for shit like this.”
We arrive at the trailer and I knock on the door. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m pretty sure I told them who I was and that Dana was hurt. The door flew open and a topless Alice pulls Dana inside. Andrew was in the back of the trailer, getting dressed. Once he had his drawers on, he came into the narrow dining/lounge area of their trailer.
After Andrew arrived, it got serious. It was like a scene out of ER or something. Alice and Andrew were all business, speaking in short sentences. Almost barking at me. They grabbed Dana and examined her. She protested a bit, but as drunk as she was, her resistance was completely ineffectual. Alice turned to me and asked (read: demanded) to know what happened. Andrew was examining her finger as I told them the story. Dana started moaning and then I saw her eyes roll back into her head, exorcist style. Alice cut in front of me, shouting, “She’s going! She’s going!” They pulled her back towards the bathroom in the trailer and I fell backwards on my ass onto a bench.
My head was spinning, so I got up and announced that I was going outside to get some air. As I left, I heard Dana crying. This was too much.
After five minutes, I came back inside. Alice was supporting Dana and Andrew was standing in front of me. There was a weird vibe inside the trailer, like I had fucked up and now Mom and Dad were there, pissed off and disappointed at me. He looked me in the eyes and told me to take Dana to the hospital. “Now,” he said, sounding like how a prison guard talks to the newest inmate.
“Okay, we’ll get her to the hospital –”
“Tonight.”
“Sure, Andrew. But I’m drunk off my ass right now. I can’t drive her anywhere. So I’ll find someone who can drive.”
“Tonight,” he said.
“Tonight,” I repeated.
I took Dana out of the trailer and went back to camp. I think she was a little calmer now, but she was still hurt and very drunk. My memory is a little foggy here.
Once we made it back to camp, I knew who I had to wake up. Let’s call him Jethro.
Jethro was our resident stand-up guy. He’s a mixture between Owen Wilson and Oz from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He’s smart, responsible, and, best of all, he went to bed early so he was reasonably sober. I knew he could probably drive Dana to the emergency room.
I went over to our tent (we were tent mates at the time), and I crawled inside and shook him awake. “Jethro. C’mon man, wake up. Dana’s hurt, you need to take her to the emergency room.”
Spitting Image...
He stirred a little, but wasn’t awake yet. “C’mon man, wake up. I’m too drunk to drive her.” He slowly woke up and I explained what happened. He finally got the message and woke up fully.
As he was putting on his shoes, he turned to me and said, “Are you coming?”
I snorted. “Are you high? No. I’m passing out.” He kind of laughed and left the tent to drive Dana away.
I fell backwards onto the rat’s nest pile of padding and blankets that was my bed. I then passed out.
The next morning (about six hours later) I found out the person I met at the Port a Johns ran off with the grog and spent the rest of the night wasted. Dana’s finger was fixed up (they had to take the nail off and clean out the wound) and I don’t think she danced that day. Everyone was concerned about her and no one said anything about me being clear headed and calm in a crisis. So really, who suffered the worst in this situation?
That’s right, Jethro. The poor bastard…
Ren Faire Memories: The Ballad of Mongo
(For the past two decades of my life, I’ve participated, with varying levels of commitment, at both the Arizona and Southern/Northern California Renaissance Faires. I’m going to start chronicling some of the stories here. It’ll be sort of like Get in the Van, but lamer. Please note, the names have been changed to protect all parties.)
You won't look at Cheetos the same way again...
Okay, so when I was 17 (it was a very good year), there was a flood of SCA types into the AZ Ren Faire. Most civilians don’t know this, but there’s a fair amount of animosity between the SCA and the Rennies. I have no idea why there’s a feud, but I’m sure the reason is stupid. I never really got it, but that didn’t stop me from joining in the hate. I just went with the crowd and fell in with my tribe. It was just like Munich in ’39, man!
Anyway, there was this guy who called himself Mongo. He probably told me his real name, but I forgot it. Besides the event that I’m going to tell you about, he really wasn’t memorable.
Mongo hung out with the front gate crew. That’s the crew that takes attendance and ticket stubs. They were really clique-y and hung out with each other in various trailers, including one which we used to call the Playboy mansion. More on that in a future installment.
As you might have guessed, the last weekend is usually the wildest. All sorts of substances are ingested, people hook up, and goodbyes are said. It’s sort of like a combination of Animal House and the last episode of M*A*S*H. Well, that year, the last Saturday night I was sleeping in my tent and Mongo and his crowd were sitting around a nearby campfire talking loudly.
I was in my tent, doing a slow burn, listening to Mongo and his crew become drunken idiots. Suddenly, I heard Mongo’s deep scratchy voice say, “Mongo like Southern Comfort and Cheetos.” This annoyed me. I was around that clown Mongo for the entire run of fair and I had enough of his nonsense.
I yelled an epithet at Mongo, insinuating that Mongo prefers the company of men, and told him to shut the fuck up. We yelled back and forth, exchanging insults. Mongo then came and rattled my tent.
Periodically during that run of faire, my friend Jerry would crash in my tent. Usually without letting me know about it ahead of time. I had no problem with that, since he is a good friend and all, but it was weird coming to my tent and finding a sleeping man in there. Anyway, that night was one of those nights.
When Mongo rattled my tent, it woke Jerry up. This pissed Jerry off to no end because I think he was either a) really tired, b) sleeping something off or c) both. Jerry, pissed off and grunting in anger, pulled himself out of my tent and the following exchange happened. I am not making this up.
Jerry: What the hell’s the matter with you? Can’t a person take a sleep around here?
Mongo: Your friends are fruit loops.
Jerry: I don’t care if they’re Frosted Flakes! Don’t mess with my tent when I’m sleeping.
Me: Your tent?
Jerry: Shut the fuck up!
Eventually, security came by and told them to shut up. All was well. I fell into a deep sleep.
Do I have to explain why this is here?
The next morning I woke up and got out of my tent. Across the way, I saw Mongo, wearing a white, fluffy Ren Faire pirate shirt and steadying himself over a trash can. There was a wide orange stain that started up at his collar and went all the way down his shirt. Upon seeing me he sneered and I started laughing. His crew were shaking their fists and swearing oaths at him. I could barely stand up I was laughing so hard.
But, seeing my enemy covered in orange puke wasn’t the best part. Oh no. As Mongo upchucked again, I saw some of his crew pulling out stained foam mattresses. Normally tan, these mattresses were now covered, stem to stern, in thick, goopy orange liquid.
Mongo eventually got control of himself and went to go take a shower and get cleaned up. While he was gone, I got ready and went over to his campsite to get the dirt. Apparently, around 2:00 AM, Mongo started projectile vomiting all over the trailer. This one guy, Carl I think, got the worst of it. He looked like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters after being slimed. I didn’t have the guts to look inside, but from what I was told, there was stuff all over the walls. And, to make matters worse, I also heard that Mongo might have had a double blow-out. But that was never confirmed. Mostly cause I wanted to drop the subject as soon as I heard about it.
That was Mongo’s first and last year at the Faire.
Fallen Soldiers Pt. 1
I write a music column over at Guy.com. Currently I’m working on one about Blink 182. After several days, I’ve finally gotten a handle on it and I got a first draft. Unfortunately, that means some stuff had to be cut, including this wonderful paragraph:
” If the members of Blink 182 are as insecure and neurotic as their lyrics indicate, then this dismissive attitude of their own music makes sense: it’s a form of protection. By acting like immature clowns it insulates them from criticism. Disliking their music becomes your problem because, well, what did you expect? (Of course I don’t believe that members of a multi-platinum selling band are as insecure as their lyrics suggest anymore than I believe J.K. Rowling is a witch or Stephanie Meyer is a vampire. Then again, considering her sales, maybe I shouldn’t be so sure about Rowling.) ”
Sniff. I’ll miss you, lovely paragraph.
This bunny doesn't care about my pain...
Simple Solutions to Complicated Movie Problems: Die Hard 2 Edition (Or, Why I Hate Die Hard 2)
The Die Hard movies. The series that created Bruce Willis, the movie star.
As a series, it’s 2-2. The first one is an action classic, filled with memorable sequences, quotable lines, and a great protagonist in John McClane. The third, Die Hard with a Vengeance, is nearly on par with the original. In the third movie, John McClane is fighting a memorable and complex villain, Jeremy Irons’s Simon Gruber, and through most of the movie McClane is losing that fight. That’s an essential element to the McClane character: he’s not invulnerable. Unlike most 80s actions stars, McClane was fallible. He got hurt — a lot. He was aware of his mortality and afraid of it, but that fear never stopped him from fighting on. Die Hard with a Vengeance goes away from that a little, but it’s still there, which is why I think the movie works.
The other two? Die Hard 2 sort of sucks (and I’ll explain why in a bit) and you should avoid Die Hard 4 like the plague. In fact, Die Hard 4 is so bad, I’m not even going to discuss it. Let’s just all agree to never talk about Live Free or Die Hard again.
Yeah, I know it's not a current release, but it's been on TV lately so...
Before diving into my problems with Die Hard 2, let’s recap the basic plot and situation. On Christmas Eve, during a massive blizzard, John McClane is visiting his in-laws somewhere in the DC area. His wife is flying into Dulles airport from California to meet him there. At the same time, a man called General Esperanza is flying into DC to stand trial for drug trafficking. While all that is happening, Colonel Stuart, who leads a group of highly skilled mercenaries, is plotting to rescue Gen. Esperanza from the evil clutches of the DOJ. Stuart’s plan is simple: he’ll take control of the Dulles tower and prevent the incoming planes from landing there, which gives him effective control of the airport because if anyone tries to stop his nefarious plans he’ll crash planes, and that’s just plain inconvenient for an airport. After he has de facto control he’ll rescue Esperanza.
Stuart executes his plan and takes control of the airport. Now, McClane’s wife is circling above DC in a plane that’s quickly using up fuel. Unless McClane and the plucky, scratchy voiced engineer guy can come up with a plan, McClane’s wife will die.
On paper, it’s not a bad plot idea. It has all the necessary elements for good story: lives in danger, a race against the clock, and a series of impossible challenges to solve.
Here’s why it’s fucking stupid.
First, the fuel idea. Commercial aviation is not like driving to Vegas with your buddies after a night of drinking. The pilots don’t get into the cockpit and say, “How much fuel we got? Half a tank? Eh, that should get us to Iceland. We can stop there if we need to.” The FAA requires enough fuel to 1) get to your destination, 2) to get to an alternate airport, and 3) to fly for 45 minutes after that. Therefore, if for some reason the plane cannot land at its primary destination, the pilot can go to another airport. The conversation might go something like this.
Tower: Hey, pilot, we’re having problems here. You can’t land here.
Pilot: Well, no problem, we’ll contact another airport and en route traffic control and go to our alternate airport.
Tower: Very good, pilot. Oh hey, while I got you on the line, I want you to quit sleeping with my wife.
Pilot: Crap.
My second problem with Die Hard 2 is that the villain’s scheme relies on a condition that he has no control over: the weather.
The movie establishes early on that a severe blizzard shut down the eastern seaboard of the US. Airports are closing and diverting traffic to Dulles, which itself is slammed by the weather. According to the movie, Dulles cannot hand its traffic over to other airports due to the bad weather (never mind that this information is invalidated by subsequent dialog…but we’ll get to that). So, at this point in the movie, there is a severe weather problem and lots of planes that can only land at Dulles. A perfect situation for Colonel Stuart. He can take control of the tower and hold the planes hostage, forcing the Dulles airport to allow him to rescue Esperanza without interference. Huzzah! Evil and villainy win the day!
One problem though: what if there was no blizzard?
If there was no blizzard, then the other airports would be open. Dulles could then send the planes to their alternate airports and everything would be great. This foils Colonel Stuart’s plans since he’d have no leverage. The conversation might go something like this:
Stuart: Dulles Tower?
Fred Thompson (F.T.): Yes, this is Dulles tower.
Stuart: Ah-ha! I have taken over your flight operations. You now have to do as I say or I’ll start crashing planes! You have five minutes to inform your planes to hold over the outer marker and not to land.
F.T.: That’s what you think, limp dick. During those five minutes, I’ll tell them some lunatic took over our airport and they should go to their alternate airports. Then you won’t have any planes. Sit and spin, tough guy.
Stuart: Well…then I won’t let you talk to them. Ha!
This guy could never be President. He couldn't even figure out that picking up a phone would beat William Sadler.
F.T.: Fine. Then I’ll go downstairs, go to a pay phone, call the FAA and tell them what’s happening here. Then another control tower, probably National’s since it’s just down the street, will call the planes, tell them what’s happening, and then they’ll go to their alternate airport. Then you won’t have any planes and then you can go sit and spin, tough guy.
Stuart: Crap.
However, that plot hole is not my main problem with Die Hard 2. My main problem with Die Hard 2 is that it follows certain physical rules but then it ignores those rules completely. To recap, in Die Hard 2, John McClane has to beat the villain before his wife’s plane runs out of fuel. McClane’s main motivation — saving his wife — is driven by three physical rules: 1) that planes need fuel to fly, 2) the longer that planes are in the air, the more fuel they consume, and 3) planes without fuel crash. Those rules are a good plot device. There’s nothing quite like the immutable laws of physics to create jeopardy for the lead character to deal with. Of course, the fact that this scenario is completely implausible ruins it, but ignoring how commercial aviation works this could be good plot device. Could be. Then, in a stupid attempt to deal with the fuel issue plot-hole discussed above, we have a random air traffic controller guy say this line:
“The planes with enough fuel have already been diverted to Atlanta, Nashville and National.”
Which means, as the scratchy-voice engineer says, there are 13 planes left in the air that cannot reach Atlanta, Nashville, or National airport. This statement, taken at face value, destroys the airplane plot device completely.
For those of you who don’t know the geography out east, Dulles and National airports are about 40 miles away from each other. Now, assuming that a plane circling above Dulles is going about 150 mph (established by Colm Meany in the movie), that plane travels 2.5 miles per minute (150 / 60). At that rate, the plane will travel 40 miles in 16 minutes (40/2.5). Still with me? Good.
The random air traffic controller establishes that the 13 planes above Dulles do not have enough fuel to go 40 miles down the road. Therefore, according to the rules of physics and rules the screenwriters are using, those planes will be on the ground in less than 16 minutes. On the ground and big fiery wrecks.
Of course, this doesn’t happen. The movie goes on for almost another hour and no planes fall out of the sky.That irritates me to no end.
I don’t necessarily care if movies and stories aren’t completely realistic. I’m not worried about that. However, what bothers me and insults my intelligence, are stories that violate the rules that were already agreed upon. In Die Hard 2’s case, it’s just a case of lazy writing. The screenwriters (or someone) added what they thought was a throwaway line to deal with the alternate airpot plot-hole, but which destroyed their larger scenario when confronted with physical reality.
This guy aint exactly Sun Tzu
And yes, I know this is only a summer blockbuster. I’m supposed to turn my mind off and just enjoy the ride. But you know what? I can’t. I can’t just turn my brain off. Unfortunately, I demand a little more from the professional screenwriters that brought us this film. Like I wrote above, the basic conceit of the movie is a decent one: John McClane has to beat the villain before his wife’s plane goes down. That works. It forces him into action in a situation where the correct decision would be to let the professionals handle it. However, the larger scenario falls apart once any scrutiny is applied. The fuel issue is ham-fisted into reality and that bugs me. Especially when you consider there are better ways to achieve the same scenario.
For instance, what if Stuart and his men got a few bombs on some random planes heading to Dulles? Not many; let’s just say five. That’s 1250 people in jeopardy (assuming 250 on each flight, which I don’t think is unreasonable), one of which would be McClane’s wife. The tower doesn’t know which ones, and there’s not a lot of time to search for the bombs. Stuart can still monitor communications, and if the Tower tries to inform the planes about what’s going on, Stuart blows up a plane.
My fan fic wank aside, I think that it is far more plausible (especially pre-9/11) that an elite commando unit could pick five planes and hide bombs on them at their origin airports. At least it asks the audience for a reasonable suspension of disbelief rather than asking them to believe a pilot wouldn’t try landing at another airport when there’s trouble. Especially if that pilot has enough fuel to circle DC for 2 hours or so.
Anyway, enough with my crankiness. How does this create a simple solution? Easy. Without the planes, Colonel Stuart has no leverage. He cannot coerce compliance with his demands with threats of crashing planes if the planes have already crashed. So, in about 14 minutes, all of his hostages will be dead, and he’ll have nothing to threaten anyone with anymore. Problem solved.
Alternatively, someone could call over to National’s air tower and tell the planes what’s going on. In the movie, Colonel Stuart cuts off Dulles Tower’s ability to communicate with their planes. Then he mimics the tower and crashes Colm Meaney’s plane. According to Scratchy Voice Engineer Guy, there is no way for the planes to determine if Stuart is actually speaking from the tower or not. That’s a problem, and the good guys spend a lot of time trying to solve it. So here’s what you do.
Pick up a damn phone and call the FAA and National airport. One of those two bodies will have the ability to communicate with the planes. In fact, the conversation will go something like this:
This guy needs to gargle with salt water.
Scratchy Voice Engineer Guy (SVEG): Hey, FAA, how’s it going?
FAA: Going well. Hey…what’s wrong with your voice?
SVEG: I blew it out at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. But never mind that shit. We need you to contact the planes circling above Dulles and tell them a maniac has hijacked our equipment.
FAA: Wow. That’s a problem. We’ll get right on it.
SVEG: Thanks. And hey, while you’re doing that, would you mind calling National and tell them about the planes? Maybe they could land them at National, since it’s only 40 miles down the road.
FAA: Sure. Okay… But why can’t you call National?
SVEG: Oh hey…now that’s a great idea. In fact, it’s a rather simple solution to this whole mess. Tell you what, you notify the planes and I’ll call National. With a little hard work, we could have this whole mess wrapped up in half an hour.
FAA: This is a horrible situation, but it’s taught me a valuable lesson about teamwork.
SVEG: Fuck teamwork, this taught me a valuable lesson about using the goddamn phone.
I Solved the NFL’s Playoff Problem (WARNING: SPORTS CONTENT!)
If you listen to sports talk radio, you’d know the biggest problem this nation faces is that a team from the NFC West will host a playoff game. In the 90 years the NFL has existed, no team with a losing record has ever hosted a playoff team and this is putting a lot of people’s panties in a bunch. Apparently, it’s too much to ask of the Saints to travel to Seattle or St. Louis to kick the shit out of the Seahawks or Rams before going on to another playoff game. Maybe these people are concerned that a 7-9 team might beat a 12-4 team and knock the 12-4 team out of the playoffs. To them I say if, for instance, the Saints can’t beat the Seahawks, do Saints deserve to be in the playoffs? This kind of thinking usually ends with me in a bar fight.
Anyway, because the people that write and talk about football are a calm, collected bunch, many are calling for the NFL to change its rules to prevent a team with a losing record from hosting a playoff game. An event that has not yet occurred, and if it did, would have occurred once in the 90 years of pro football in America.
Eli Manning does not like my plan
There are two popular proposals: 1) to not allow a division winner with a losing record into the playoffs or 2) to allow them in but reseed according to record. Frankly, both of those proposals suck. If you’re not going to allow a division winner in with a losing record, or if you’re going to reseed, with the current divisions intact, why have divisions at all? Just split the league in half, take the six best teams and be done with it.
Now, if the NFL wants to do away with divisions and take the six best in each conference, I’d be fine with that. It would take some realignment, but that’s totally cool with me. The current divisions in the NFL are retarded anyway, and they should be abolished.
And how would these new divisions be created? I’m glad you asked. Here’s my proposal.
Given where the teams are located, it doesn’t make sense to split the league into East and West divisions like basketball and hockey. It makes the most sense to divvy them up between the north and south. As an added benefit, since the best of the North and the best of the South will be fighting again, each year the Superbowl won’t just be another championship game, it will also be a metaphor for the Civil War. And who wouldn’t want to relive that experience through the majesty of sport?
After dividing between the north and south, the two conferences would be further subdivided into meaningless divisions, like in Basketball and Hockey. It would look something like this:
| Northern Conference | Southern Conference |
| North West Division | South West Division |
| Seattle | Oakland |
| Minneapolis | San Francisco |
| Green Bay | San Diego |
| Chicago | Arizona |
| Detroit | Denver |
| Indianapolis | Kansas City |
| Cincinnati | Dallas |
| Cleveland | Houston |
| North East Division | South East Division |
| Pittsburgh | St. Louis |
| Buffalo | New Orleans |
| New York Jets | Tennessee |
| New York Giants | Atlanta |
| New England | Carolina |
| Philadelphia | Jacksonville |
| Baltimore | Tampa Bay |
| Washington D.C. | Miami |
There will be some objections to the new alignment. I’m sure there are people who don’t like that I destroyed the whole NFC/ AFC thing. To them I say: get over it. The NFL and AFL merged back in the 1970. That was like, 40 years ago, man. Back then nobody lived past the age of 15 and the only place with in-door plumbing was New York City (and even then it was just a pipe that came out of your apartment and dumped your crap in the street). The AFL is dead, the NFL killed it, and it’s time we stopped dividing the league in an antiquated fashion.
Of course, this does away with some of the traditional “rivalry” games, like the Giants vs. the Eagles, Dolphins vs. the Jets, or Dallas Fans vs. Personal Hygiene (actually, that one will never go away). To that I say: who cares. Really, no one gives a damn. I know the NFL owners like saying they need these rivalry games for added revenue, that if the Browns don’t come to Cincinnati, the fans won’t show up, and then the owners will lose money.
That is, in a word, bullshit.
Seriously, it’s a dumb argument. Attendance, while down at some stadiums, is fairly steady across the league. In fact, it’s only a news event if an NFL team doesn’t have a sell-out game (e.g. Jacksonville), and quite a few teams have a long (in some cases at least a decade) waiting list for season tickets. So if some relic who used to watch the Pottsville Maroons play can ‘t handle the fact that the old rivalries are dead, let him leave and give some sad sack on the waiting list a chance to drop ten large for the privilege of watching an NFL game in-person. Honestly guys — change is good.
So there you have it. A plan for divisions that makes sense and prevents a division winner with a losing record. Plus, it reduces travel costs since most of the teams are near each other. Easy peesy, as they say.
Of course, if you still want meaningless divisions, I have a plan for you too. And frankly, this plan is long overdue.
As I mentioned above, the current divisions in the NFL are retarded. Why, for instance, is Dallas in the NFC East when A) Dallas is further west than St. Louis (a member of the NFC West), and B) the other members in the NFC East are, basically, in the North East of the country. I know, I know, tradition, right? Well screw tradition, it makes no damn sense.
So, here are the new divisions, as I see them. And because I think preserving the whole NFL/AFL divide 40 years after the merger is stupid, I did away with the NFC/AFC split. You now have eight divisions, divided into two arbitrary conferences.
| This Conference | That Conference |
| Marxist Division | Liberal Elites Division |
| Seattle | Buffalo |
| Oakland | New York Giants |
| San Francisco | New York Jets |
| San Diego | New England |
| Jesus Land Division | Crab Cake Division |
| Arizona | Philadelphia |
| Denver | Baltimore |
| Dallas | Washington D.C. |
| Houston | Carolina |
| Tundra Division | BBQ Division |
| Green Bay | Kansas City |
| Minneapolis | St. Louis |
| Chicago | Tennessee |
| Indianapolis | Atlanta |
| Rust Belt Division | Trailer Park Division |
| Pittsburgh | New Orleans |
| Detroit | Tampa Bay |
| Cincinnati | Jacksonville |
| Cleveland | Miami |
That’s much better, isn’t it? Now I can already hear some of you saying, “Hey, those division names are mean.” To you I say: you’re right.
See? Problem solved. Of course, it’s possible just to leave everything the way it is since everyone’s making money hand over fist in the NFL (seriously, even the beer guy pulls down at least a 1.5m a year), but that might be a rational reaction to a one-time event, and who wants that?
NASA’s Upcoming Presser
One of my Facebook friends posted a link to a NASA press conference announcement. Apparently NASA has some big announcement dealing with astrobiology that is embargoed until the press conference on the second of December. This can only mean one thing: NASA has discovered aliens and is announcing it to the world to get Wikileaks out of the news. That’s the only logical conclusion here.
No, not these kinds of aliens...
Monday Night Debacle
I’m not going to rehash the awful turd the Cardinals just shat on a national audience because I don’t do post-mortems. The season is over, the team has quit, and the sooner this terrible experience is over, the better. The only thing I hope for now is that the Cardinals lose every game from here on out and get the number one draft pick. A draft pick that should be used on a QB, but, knowing this team, will probably be used on a Safety.
I do want to comment on one thing though. A lot is being made out of Derek Anderson laughing on the sideline in the fourth quarter. During the broadcast, Jon Gruden (who, in my estimation Jaws, is one of the most annoying commentators in sports) chastised Anderson for appearing to have a good time on the sideline during the lopsided loss. He said he wanted Anderson to be bothered by the play of his team, and, to him it didn’t look like Anderson was sufficiently upset. These comments, broadcasted nationally, got the press’s attention, and reporters asked Anderson about Gruden’s comments after the game. Anderson got pissed off and left.
Now, as a Cardinals fan, I applaud Anderson’s fire during the press conference. Maybe next week he can picture Gruden during the game and play better. Or, at least with a little intensity. However, I think Gruden is making a big deal out of nothing, Jaws.
If you watch the video from the Monday night game, yes, you see Anderson laughing weakly and smiling. But that’s not all. You also see Anderson hang his head and look at the ground with his shoulders slumped. What does that body language tell you, Jaws? Clearly Anderson is upset. Most people who are having a good time don’t hang their heads and avoid eye-contact, Jaws.
Yeah, this guy looks like he's having a great time, Jaws.
Anyway, this begs the question: what does Gruden want from Anderson? Anderson, as the QB, has to inspire confidence in the other players. If he cannot do that (and I’m not saying he can), then he shouldn’t be in the position. Now what will inspire confidence in a blow-out like that? Does Gruden think Anderson will inspire the team running around, foaming at the mouth, and screaming his fool head off? Will that help the team play better? To see their QB acting like a lunatic? Or, does Gruden want Anderson to be morose and down, acting defeated. Yeah, that’ll help inspire his teammates, Jaws.
Look Gruden, criticize his play, his accuracy, or his penchant for throwing 10 yards over a receiver, but leave the guy alone when it comes to his sideline demeanor. Especially when there are plenty of examples of him acting pissed off when he misses a receiver or throws an interception. I know — I’ve seen him do that a lot this season, Jaws.
Happy Turkey Day
Hope you all have a good Thanksgiving. I won’t, however. Today I’m dealing with a sick pug. Anyway, enjoy and be thankful for something.
The movie that ruined "gobble gobble" for the rest of us...
Ruminations, etc.. 