Monday, September 10th
General Petraeus testifies before the Senate.
Tuesday, September 11th
The Washington Post reports that Col. Pete Devlin, the Chief of Intelligence for the Marine Corps, filed a secret report describing the situation in the Anbar Province as dire and beyond the potential for improvement. Summarizing the report, one Army officer said, “we have been defeated politically—and that’s where wars are won and lost.”
Wednesday, September 12th
The Los Angeles Times reports that the United States has secretly been negotiating with Shiite cleric Muqtada Al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army, the fearsome militia that made Fallujah such a hornet’s nest for U.S. troops. Their demand? A starring role for their leader in the next Matrix movie.
Friday, September 14th
Catching up on the week’s sports news and his fantasy football lineup, Dick Cheney reads of Bill Belichick’s troubles. “Send him a signed waterboard,” he tells his secretary. “Put a ‘Patriot Act’ pun in the note and be sure to let him know we’ve got a tap on Dungy’s phone.”
This past weekend, Brighton, England hosted the World Beard & Mustache championships, a strange event that makes a dandyist spectacle of a traditionally un-dandy secondary sexual charecteristic. Now, granted, certain trims can seem effete–George Michael’s penciled goatee comes to mind, as do Rolly Fingers’ curlicue and Geraldo Rivera’s sweep, or even David Ortiz’s manicured, mirrored “L”s. And I’m sure there are many other examples, both historical and contemporary, that I’m forgetting or never knew about. But overall, and especially currently, the communities one associates with facial hair—bears, Southern rockers, Harley riders, Wilford Brimley—are hardly known for devoting hours to their appearance (no matter how long they claim to spend sitting under the tattoo needle or tearing the sleeves off a new “If you can read this, the bitch fell off” t-shirt.)
Thus, the very concept of beard and mustache competitions is pleasantly counterintuitive. For that and other reasons that I’ll go into shortly, it seems a subject ripe for a feature-length documentary. The competition documentary is a time-tested genre, ranging from the spoof (Best in Show) to the genuinely touching (Angela Arenivar’s story in Spellbound), and has been particularly hot in the last decade. I did a quick google search for beard & mustache documentaries and, sure enough, someone is already on it. Splitting Hairs was begun in 2003 and is currently in post production, with no release date yet announced.
What drives the popularity of this genre? Is it novelty? The characters probably don’t have to be as compelling when the audience is also entertained by the introduction of something new–such as, for example, professional bodybuilding (though Pumping Iron was made thirty years ago, so we can’t count it as among the recent trend), wheelchair rugby, or large-scale competitions involving crossword puzzles, scrabble, or spelling bees. Lately, there haven’t been many documentaries about people trying to make it in conventional sports–at least few that I can remember reaching a wide audience. Hoop Dreams was 14 years ago; Through the Fire fairly narrowly targeted at hoop fans.
Perhaps, too, the prejudices of the documentary audience, which likely overlaps more with the arthouse than the stadium crowd, make it less inclined to jockish stories. Perhaps the jock can never be the underdog for those who were shut out of that culture and its attached social scenes growing up. And for others, the irony of the odd pursuit gives them the cover to indulge their closet Rocky instincts, rooting for the underdog, pumping their fists and armchair eye-of-the-tigering to victory. (How many of today’s Rocky fans get a thrill out of the movie that they’d never be able to get if it had been made today and didn’t sport the protective sheen of nostalgic, ironic appeal?) In this way, these documentaries may be like the movies of Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson, where the characters bear whimsical, absurdist touches that enable a hipster audience to cheer for and cry with them without feeling maudlin. (While I love the movies that Anderson and Wilson wrote, this technique is less appealing in a movie like Punch Drunk Love, where it’s used as a cover for a Charles Bronson-style “violence IS the answer” kick-ass-and-get-the-girl revenge yarn. (A shame because that movie was so cool in so many other ways).)
For a good critique of Anderson’s work, touching on the above themes and more, check out this piece by hipster-hater (but surprisingly insightful for a scapegoater) Christian Lorentzen. Lorentzen argues that the overriding theme of Anderson’s movies is the “fundamentally disappointing quality of adulthood.” I don’t know if he’s the first to zero in on this, but it seems a pretty apt assessment. Nevertheless, while fetishization of childhood and the prophylactic use of quirky style may sound like cheap gimmicks, I think there’s something fundamentally humanizing about writing vulnerable characters whose ambitions are both ridiculous and grand. After all, very few grand ambitions aren’t also a little ridiculous—and vice versa—and it’s nice to find a midpoint between Rocky and Don Quixote.
Finally, a note on an obvious charecteristic of these documentaries’ subjects—their unwavering commitment to their endeavors. It reminds me of a Vince Lombardi quote I liked as a child: “The quality of any man’s life has got to be a full measure of that man’s personal commitment to excellence and to victory, regardless of what field he may be in.” In a way, despite my lifetime immersion in sports culture, I was (and am) somewhat like the documentary audience I stereotype above, a little averse to and uncomfortable with that culture. As a kid, I was ambivalent about the macho ethos, feeling alternately empowered and alienated/constrained by it. I remember reading the Lombardi quote and thinking that the famous tough guy coach would have held someone like Mikhail Baryshnikov (not sure why he came to mind–I knew (and know) nothing about him or ballet) in high esteem, simply for the dancer’s total dedication to his art. You didn’t have to be a traditional tough guy; you just had to commit yourself to doing your job well.
Vince thinks you’re great as long as you do your best!
Oh, and as for the actual competition, a couple results: Pacific NW readers may be interested to hear that 22-year-old Olympia, WA resident Burke Kenny, the man with a last name for a first name and a first for a last, won best beard with a styled mustache. Similarly, Mr. Jack Passion, a mere 23-years-old, won the “marathon” of all categories—best full beard, natural. How many more victories do Kenny and Passion (would make for a hell of a buddy movie, eh?) have in the chamber? Clear your Thursday nights, Beard Fans, because it looks like Dynasty is back!
A few years ago, my friend Jason told me that Prince could ball. Whenever I’ve repeated this, people have assumed that I got it from the Chappelle Show. When I told them I got it from Jason, they assumed that he got it from the Chappelle Show. However, thanks to the work of some industrious bloggers (and a reporter from MTV), the truth is out, and Jason, Prince, and I are all vindicated.
In the Chappelle Show “True Hollywood Stories” skit, Charlie Murphy recounted how he, brother Eddie, and some friends lost a pick-up game to Prince and the Revolution, who played in their dandy-ish concert gear. Prince recently confirmed the story–minus the fancy attire–in an MTV interview. When asked about his vaunted crossover–the version displayed in the Chappelle sketch was decidedly more 21st century/And1 tour than what one would’ve expected of a baller in 1984–Prince said “we didn’t call it crossover back then…just speed.”
Bryant Junior High team, circa 1970 or ‘71. The Artist wears #3.
Funny how the Captain of “the Blouses” (so dubbed in the Chappelle sketch) was so spartan in describing his moves, while the NBA’s most infamous homophobe, Tim “I hate gay people” Hardaway, fluttered about the hardwood with a little dance entitled “the UTEP two-step.” Perhaps if your wrist had been a little looser, Mr. Hardaway, you’d have improved on that career .431 field goal percentage.
But enough on the odious jocks of yore. While Hardaway now expiates in P.R. purgatory–this writer won’t be disappointed if he’s gone for good–Prince has returned to illuminate the world of sports with the purple glow of his genius. No doubt it’s old news, but it’s worth recycling. Here he is, in the best Super Bowl halftime performance in recent memory (a dubious honor, no doubt, but this was just pure virtuosity):
Bonus points for flipping the FCC the crotch rocket via silhouette.
Looking through old Prince album covers, I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between Prince, circa Prince, and hip-hop’s favorite current dandy, Andre 3000, circa Speakerboxxx/The Love Below.
With Prince pushing 50, this made me wonder who will be next to carry the torch of the secret baller of showbusiness. Given the cultural nexus between hip-hop and basketball, can Andre 3000, or any hip-hop artist, truly shock us by having skills? After all, Master P almost played for two NBA teams, his son Lil Romeo has a scholarship to play at USC, and Nelly has shown a decent off-the-dribble repertoire, while pro ballers Allen Iverson, Tony Parker, Troy Hudson, and Shaquille O’Neal have all tried their hand at the rap game.
And as with all levels of sports, scouting has improved; MTV had its Rock n’ Jock Jams through the 90’s, and the NBA now puts on a celebrity game during All-Star Weekend. Thus, unlikely baller Tony Potts, of Access Hollywood sorta-fame, is no longer an undiscovered talent. So where, then, lie the hidden gems?
I’ve taken the lessons of a lifetime of basketball and general television/movie viewing to assemble the following starting five of unlikely ballers. I don’t give them positions because real ballers don’t need ‘em.
Michael Jackson
You may think this an unimaginative selection, given the similarities to Prince (chart dominance in the 80s, elaborate costumes, effeminate appearance). Also, there is the issue of age–like Prince, Jackson is nearly 50. But an unlikely baller is an unlikely baller. Like many other sports, basketball favors physical size, and its culture features macho posturing and an undercurrent of homophobia. The King of Pop is slight, far from macho, and perhaps not heterosexual. Finally, while Prince obviously grew up playing the game, strict taskmaster Papa Joe seemed unlikely to have allowed Michael, Jermaine, & co. the spare time to shoot around at the park. But the seasoned observer will note several elements working in MJ’s favor:
Age: Again, the calendar says he is 48, but we have to remember that he spent the better part of 17 years living at Neverland Ranch, where nobody ages. Thus, MJ’s real age is closer to 31–past prime, for most ballers, but not by much.
Agility: Basketball is a game of balance, quickness, and lateral movement, all traits displayed by MJ.
Large hands: In his book, Bo knows Bo (yes, I own it), Bo Jackson recounts meeting the King of Pop and marveling at the size of his hands. Large hands have been a boost to the careers of many famous ballers–the acrobatics of Jordan and Erving were possible partly as a result of their ability to palm a ball easily, and John Stockton’s surehandedness at the point was certainly enhanced by his massive mitts.
Jack Black
Short, chubby, and white, Black isn’t the archetypal baller. But just like his name belies his hue, his physique belies his abilities. Check out the rhythm (an underrated element of an effective crossover) and agility on display here:
And, of course, there is the obvious; his band’s name is taken from the sport itself. “Tenacious D” implies not only a familiarity with the game and one of its finest play-by-play announcers, Marv Albert, but also a commitment to defense that is rare in the entertainment world. Anyone who has watched a Rock n’ Jock or Celebrity All-Star game (and I’ve watched many) can attest to how little effort entertainers expend on the defensive end of the floor. Black has the quickness and tenacity to set himself apart from his peers. And he even pondered naming his son after “The Big Aristotle“: “I was gonna go with Shaq Black, but then Shaq moved to Miami, so no dice.”
Eva Longoria
Best known as Wisteria Lane’s Gabrielle Solis–fashion-obsessed, prissy, and loathe to break a nail (much less an opponent’s ankles)–Longoria nevertheless appears likely to possess both a knowledge of and aptitude for balling. First, she is married to baller extraordinaire Tony Parker. Balance Toi!
Second, her brother Evan was the third overall pick in the 2006 Major League Baseball draft, and is considered one of the best third base prospects in the minor leagues. Clearly, her bloodlines carry some athletic talent.
Dustin Diamond
The slight is not just a way to make a baller mad; it’s a way to make a baller. Gilbert Arenas, for example, has built a career on carrying a grudge, attempting every year to prove to every team that they made a mistake by passing on him in the first round.
And so it may be with Dustin Diamond. As the guy who played Screech, he’s been perennially clowned on both sides of the screen. Even as he grew to a sturdy 6′, the producers insisted he speak in an exaggerated, pubescent voice that made Peter Brady’s famous croak sound subtle.
Now he’s a decent-sized guy, not yet 30, with quick enough hands and a desire to get back at the world, as anyone who saw him defeat Welcome Back Kotter’s Horshack on Celebrity Boxing can attest. (Said ESPN’s Bill Simmons: “Screech looks like he has heard one too many Screech jokes over the years. He’s a homicide waiting to happen.”)
Should that be enough to get him a spot on the unlikely ballers starting five? After all, young, 6′ entertainers are a dime a dozen.
Well, say what you will about Bruce Bowen being dirty (he’s dirty), but is he the only long-armed 6′7″ dude in the league with quick feet? The NBA’s full of them. Bowen never played on an AAU team, never got to sit in the green room on draft night, never got a shoe contract, and, like Screech, he looks a little funny. Some dudes just have reason to want it a little more.
Carrot Top
The last spot goes to the least likely of the unlikely ballers. Carrot Top may be a clown, and his hoop audition with 1-800-collect may have been less than inspiring, but he certainly looks like he’s ready to set some nasty picks. Every team needs its muscle, and Diamond might not be able to take care of all the dirty work on his own.
That about does it. If you have your own suggestions for who should be starting for the Secret Ballers of Showbusiness, comment away.
I just saw the news that Pat Tillman, erstwhile NFL star and Pentagon poster boy, may have been murdered (rather than accidentally killed) by his own troops. Apparently, his family has believed this for a long time, which came as a surprise to me–meaning either I am not paying attention or our trusted news outlets are not doing their jobs. Hmm.
The evidence: multiple bullet wounds in close proximity on his forehead, leading an Army doctor to conclude that the person who shot him was no more than ten yards away; no sign that his unit had received enemy fire; and stonewalling by the Army when an investigation was requested.
Like any “real American” and/or person with a conscience, I can’t help but feel awful for Tillman’s family, bristle at the apparent massive cover-up by our armed forces and executive branch (is there anything that’s beneath this administration?), and, of course…wonder about this story’s celluloid future. Will the Tillman family sell the rights?
While the plot twists are now public knowledge (you sure have a good sense of pacing, free press!), the story should still provide compelling drama, with its clash of idealism and cynicism, and with all the bad smells from high places.
Plus, Tillman is a fascinating character–a guy who enthralled pro-war America by turning down millions to become an Army Ranger and fight in Afghanistan, but also turned out also to be an atheist, Iraq War opponent, and fan of Noam Chomsky.
Which leads to some interesting questions re: casting. Russell Crowe seems a likely frontrunner for the role of Tillman, which would demand considerable brawn. Wildcard: The Rock. Granted, not a match on melanin, but if Angelina can go browner, why can’t he go whiter? Wildercard: Michael Cera in his muscle suit.
Buster’s not the only Bluth in Army!
My thoughts: Make Tillman’s character an extended cameo–like Orson Welles in The Third Man–and keep the focus on the cover-ups and investigations. Do it up noir style. (Could all the intrigue, deception, and corruption of the Iraq War mean a comeback for one of my favorite genres?). And, of course, cast Paul Reubens as General Peter Pace.
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