Friday, March 30, 2007

Hide Your Daughters... In About 15 Years.

During my wife's birthday party three Januarys ago, I decided to give my young nephew Cody one of my smaller guitars as an early 4th birthday present. (I will own the fact that the gift was fueled 95% by love and 5% by a little alcohol.)

I ask his mom and dad periodically if he's enjoying the instrument, and I'm told that he is. Apparently, my status as Most Exalted Uncle is secure, because his mom sent me the following update, via MySpace (where only good music lives):

Cody is working on his latest masterpiece.

Today after school he was teaching Hannah and Timo the chorus to his new song. It went a little something like this...

"I believe I can fly, I got shot by the FBI"

And he's already doing the work and paying his dues. This message came immediately after the first:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Tim City

Like it? I want to record it! I can have him on tour in about a year.

From: Fay
He would be in Heaven. He uses all of our blank video tapes to make movies of himself, and then watches them back and comments on his performance.

You find me another six-year old with a work ethic, a rad guitar and a subconscious Guided By Voices jones, and I'll give you money. Get on board now before you're made fun of for not knowing the name: Cody Lee Douglas.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Why Don't More Chicks Like 300?

My capsule review of the 300 experience, given over the phone to my like-minded confidant Gus, began like this:

"Sandy hated it. All this fighting and no story, she says."

I won't bore you with the middle of the conversation that followed, and instead I'll just skip to the important part, our agreed-upon conclusion:

Sometimes, a movie with 300 oiled up dudes impaling several thousand other dudes with costumes and piercings is just that--a movie about impaling people. But, much like the mythos of children being the only ones who can see through the Devil's disguise, so too can ladies see beyond 300's flimsy metaphor: it's totally about butt-sex.

Only one female character of any consequence (and even she gets a little rough trade out of it). All the fussy little strategies to get guys in a vulnerable position. There's even an evil drag queen. Throw in a writer with a little misogyny pinned to his reputation, and you've got a recipe to Drive Straight Women To Watch Music And Lyrics Again.

I can't believe Frank Miller fooled us again, so soon after his unsavory (and still in progress) All-Star Batman and Robin, His Boy Lover... er, Boy Wonder.