• Free Pass for Gluttony. Hell, we’re all gonna die from this anyway, right? That’s certainly the sense you get from watching the news. Or worse, Facebook. So grab that party-size bag of Doritos off the near empty shelf at the grocery store. All the real food’s been hoarded, anyway. I mean, yeah, there’s some vegetarian crap, but I’ll be damned if my last meal’s gonna be a goddamn tofu burger. Think of it as if you’re on death row (’cause you kinda are). You got one last meal. Indulge. You wanna grab that pack of gummy bears, but worried that the cute, rainbow-colored fellas are gonna rot your teeth? Well, lemme ask you a question: have you ever seen a corpse in a coffin with its mouth open? Rest assured, you’ll take your plaque-ridden choppers to the grave. Literally and metaphorically. So gorge away, my friends.
• Wear Wutchyalike, to paraphrase the legendary philosopher Humpty Hump. Mismatched socks, sweat pants, and that grungy shirt with moth holes and spaghetti sauce on it? Fuck it. No one cares. Like, not one iota. Others are too busy tightening their surgical masks and calculating preciously how far six feet away is. Nah, you’re golden, pony boy.  Hell, you don’t even need to take a shower. And you certainly don’t need to comb your hair, let alone wash that unruly mop. What the hell for? That’s like washing your car before a thunderstorm… but do wash your hands, though. Seriously. For all of us.
• Be Like a Sloth. And I think we can all agree, objectively speaking, that sloths are f’ng adorable. This is the only time in recorded history that being a fat, lazy bastard is not only accepted by society, but downright encouraged. So go for it. Binge watch till your eyes bleed. Play Xbox till your thumb falls off. Stream porn till… well, you get the picture. Point is, indulge in the fine art of being a couch potato. Do it for your county. It is, after all, our communal duty. You know, like our grandparents did. They were dispatched to Europe to defeat the mighty German army and save mankind. Coronavirus is our Third Reich. And, unlike the Greatest Generation, we can fight the enemy from the safety of our futon.
• Tired of the Couch? Take a drive. It’s a hoot, I swear. Kinda like time traveling back to the birth of the Model T itself. Even the once dreaded 405 looks like a dusty trail in the Old West. Sure, this is what the apocalypse looks like, but savor this experience- it may never happen again. In a couple months (if we survive, of course), we’ll be back to blasting our horns, barking at the asshole in front of us. Oh, and another bonus: gas prices are super cheap these down. So take a cruise down the empty streets and pretend it’s the glory days of 1908. Bully for you!
• You Save $$$. Sure, the supermarkets gouge a little bit. Gotta expect that. We are capitalists, after all (much to Bernie’s chagrin). But think of all the ways that you usually blow your paycheck… Sporting events. Concerts. Restaurants. And the worse money suck of all, the bar. No more outrageous credit card receipts that you fish out of your pocket the next day, convinced the barkeep screwed you over. Bottom line, being a hermit is fiscally sound. So rejoice and cook those rice and beans… if the grocery store didn’t run out already. They are, after all, the toilet paper of food.

EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sun-soaked day. Swanky, million dollar yachts line the harbor. At the end of the pier, a ragged sailboat. From inside, the gurgling sound of weed being smoked out of a can.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. CABIN OF SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and stacks of self-help books. A fraternity paddle and photos of smiling, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed ‘SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL’ T-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk.

Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat (SAUCY) sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Know this is gonna fuck up your credit, right? Shit, you won’t even be able to get a Discover card- and they hand out those to the fucking homeless…

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his laptop as he munches cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

On his laptop, Chas opens Chaturbate, an interactive porn site; he’s bookmarked all his favorite girls. This is his lifestyle and he seems more than content with it.

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. Eyes his cell: the dreaded ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector.

He shudders, fear surging through his body. He declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to porn.

EXT. STRIP MALL, HOMEDALE, IDAHO — CONTINUOUS

Empty mom & pop shops in a dying town. On the second floor, a business: PERFECTION COLLECTION, a smiley face on the door.

KEITH V.O.: … And, oh yeah, full disclosure- did 8 years for aggravated assault. Bashed this fucker’s head in so bad, dumb shit got brain damage…

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

Shoddy gray cubicles. Scraggly collectors work the phones. These scoundrels reek of booze, body odor, and bad credit.

KEITH V.O.: … Now he’s a vegetable, thank you very much. And not even the smart kind. More like a… lima bean.

MANAGER’S OFFICE.

KEITH HOLMES (42) slumps in a chair. With his mullet, mustache, and Metallica tank top, he’s stuck in 1987. He’s calm now, but there’s menace lurking within his pudgy body.

KEITH V.O.: … Think I give a shit I go back? Called room and board, dickhead. And guess what? Mine’s free….

He sits across from his boss, PATRICK (50’s), a hippie with a ponytail. In stark contrast to the boiler room operation, the office is chock full of candles and incense- a mystic vibe.

They’re listening to the messages that Keith left for Chas.

KEITH V.O.: … So don’t think I won’t come out to that Saddam and Gum-whora city-

Patrick shuts off the recording, sighing.

PATRICK: How many times we gone over this?

KEITH: I dunno. How many times I told ya we gotta go alpha dog on their asses? All they understand is force- like terrorists. Why you think waterboarding works so good?

PATRICK: Well, actually…

KEITH: Shit. Hitler be runnin’ amok today, didn’t fake drown his generals.

PATRICK: It’s not the way we do business here. We talked about this.

KEITH: Fucker’s got money, too. Know he lives in a 3 million dollar house?

PATRICK: Sorry, but… this is, uh… gonna hafta let you go.

KEITH: (chuckles) Yeah, right. Pretty sure that’s the incense talking.

PATRICK: Gave you a chance after, ya know…

KEITH: Thanks. Thanks for the opportunity of a commission-only job.

PATRICK: Not everyone hires ex-cons.

KEITH: Awright, fine. Fuck it, you win. I’ll play by your stupid rules.

PATRICK: Afraid it’s too late for that. Frankly, you’ve become a liability.

KEITH: Frankly, you become an asshole. (beat) How much cash I brought into this fucking place? Huh?

PATRICK: Zero, last couple months.

KEITH: Ah, that’s… know I ain’t been right since my moms passed. (beat) Oh, and guess what? Goddamn IRS says she owes a shit ton a’ back taxes. Might lose the house.

PATRICK: Tsk, sorry to hear that. Wish there was something I could do.

KEITH: Yeah. Gimme my fucking job back.

Hating confrontation, Patrick reaches down and grabs a large, wrapped fruit basket off the floor. Sets it on the desk, proud of himself for solving the problem. Keith gawks at it.

KEITH: … Fuck’s that?

PATRICK: Gift. From corporate. Supposed to go to the top man, but… go ‘head, take it.

KEITH: (snickers) Gotta be… that’s my parting gift?

PATRICK: It’s a very nice assortment.

Keith springs to his feet, incensed.

KEITH: Know what, Patrick? Fuck you and the Hyundai you came in on.

He knocks over a stick of burning incense.

KEITH: Smells like Tibet in here.

PATRICK: Don’t make me call security.

KEITH: Call ‘em! Fuck do I care? Hell, I’d love a police escort, go out in style. Let’s OJ this bitch.

Snatches the fruit basket off the desk.

KEITH: Fuck it, I am taking this thing. Sell this shit on the street like a fucking Mexican… thank you, Patrick. You made me an illegal alien. Vaya cum dios, motherfucker.

And flips Patrick off as he stomps out of the room.

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

A black security guard at his side, Keith cleans out his desk: half a baloney sandwich, a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetoes and a plastic flask. The security guard eyes him quizzically.

KEITH: What, gonna judge me? You’re a fucking mall cop- strip mall.

He whips open his flip phone like a switchblade and snaps a photo of the computer screen: Chas’s info is on it.

EXT. PARKING LOT, STRIP MALL

The security guard escorts Keith as he struggles to carry the fruit basket and all his belongings.

KEITH: Could help me, ya know. Fucker.

Opens the cab of his battered, mud-caked 1995 Ford F-150. Crams his stuff next to a stockpile of shotguns and rifles.

EXT. COLONIAL HOUSE, NEAR COLLEGE CAMPUS — AFTERNOON

Charming, 19th century New England colonial: sky blue, wrapped in a cozy blanket of ivy. The home of an aristocrat. Or an esteemed professor at an elite college, which it is.

In the backyard, a few dozen folks of various ages mingle. It’s a party for LINDSAY (18), who’s leaving for college.

She grabs a diet Snapple and shuffles inside, followed by her friends. A guy steals a lusty glimpse at one of the girls-

STEVE, Lindsay’s dad and aforementioned professor. Boyishly handsome, he’s 40 but still gets carded in good lighting.

He chuckles at a witty bon mot with the pompous dean, DEAN ANDREWS (60’s), who wears tweed even in the blazing sun.

In the shadows, EMILY (40), Lindsay’s mom. A timid secretary, she’s more than content in her supporting role. But there’s a lioness buried beneath her sweet demeanor, aching to surface.

Mournful, she drinks wine with BECKY (40), a portly and brash lawyer, the type unafraid to spew opinions on packed subways.

EMILY: … Still don’t get why she couldn’t just stay here.

BECKY: Gotta let it go, dude. Seriously.

EMILY: I mean, free tuition and board? That woulda been my dream.

BECKY: She’s 18, Em. She can buy Parliaments, vote for President, and fight in wars the prick starts.

EMILY: I know, it’s just… so far away.

BECKY: It’s not Fallujah. Talking a five hour drive. Four if I drive.

EMILY: … Know what the worst thing is?

BECKY: ‘Quality time’ with shitbag?

EMILY: Pretty sure she doesn’t want me there.

BECKY: Well, no, not at first. (off Emily’s look) She spent 18 years trying to bust outta here. Cut her some slack.

EMILY: Always thought the ivy looked like barbed wire…

BECKY: Give her space. She’ll come around.

Emily sips her glass of wine, hoping that’s true.

Cartman’s been 10 years old since 1997, the year the iconoclastic show South Park was born. If the big-boned, foul-mouthed adolescent aged like a normal human being, Cartman would be in his early 30’s right now… and more than likely (okay, definitely) a huge Trump supporter. And if he was in his seventies- if animated characters, like canines, age at an accelerated pace- he could actually be Trump. The similarities between the two are startling. Think about it: they’re both morally corrupt narcissists who loath poor people, liberals, and minorities. The perpetual fourth grader and the current President of the United States both believe they’re the supreme leader of their respective worlds whose authority should never- under any circumstances- be questioned, let alone challenged. If you’re a fan of South Park, you’ll recall the episode about the boys’ once beloved water park being (allegedly) overtaken by minorities. Cartman sang a dirge about it, an anthem that could be blasted at Trump rallies.

‘What has happened to this place?/I don’t recognize it anymore/It used to be so fun and special/What is life worth living for?/ The dream is dead/Our land is gone/There’s a hole in my heart/And I can’t go on/There are too many minorities (minorities)/At my water park (my water park)/ This was our land, our dream (our dream)/and they’ve taken it all away/They just keep coming and coming (minorities)/I tried to go and tell the police/But even the authorities/Are minorities (are minorities)/At my water park/There’s no place for me to sit anymore/And the lines just keep getting crazier/There are Mexicans all around me/The lazy river has never been lazier/It’s a 40 minute wait to go down one slide/And the instructions are in Spanish on the Zip Line ride (just do it in English!)/There are too many minorities (too many)/At my water park (somebody do something)/Where did they all come from/Why can’t they leave this land alone/And it’s such a tragedy (feel a bit like dying)/We looked the other way too long/We’ve got to change our priorities/And get all these minorities/ Out of my water park/(Minorities) Mexicans and Asian/Black people/I think I even saw Native Americans (gross)/God I’m asking please/Get all of these minorities/Out of my water park (my water park)’

Okay, I’m pretty sure I could stop right here and you’d get the point. But for the proverbial shits and giggles (a really odd phrase, btw; bowel movements and laughter should never be lumped together), let’s carry on with more Trump- er, Cartmanisms.

‘The only way to fight hate is with even more hate!’

This could be the unofficial motto of the Trump administration. The Orange One reacts to any perceived slight, whether real or imagined, as a sucker punch to his privates. Cue up Twitter and prepare for a Category 5 storm… misspellings and all. And in perfect Orwellian fashion, the President accuses others- the media, primarily- for inciting the animosity. His rallies are breeding grounds for hate and have undoubtedly led to such tragedies as Charlottesville. Not surprisingly, Trump defended the white supremacists responsible for killing a protester. At the very least, he engaged in moral equivalence, claiming both sides were to blame… but more on his racism later.

‘I’m not fat, I just have a sweet hockey body.’

Trump’s delusion regarding his appearance was never more apparent when he posted a photo of his 73-year-old, heavily made up face on Rocky Balboa’s buff body. Despite a recent, unscheduled visit to Walter Reed hospital- decidedly not for a physical, which are always prearranged- the President claims, naturally, to be in perfect health. But like his taxes and grades, we’ll never know the truth. However, based on his protruding gut and affinity for fried chicken, I think we can safely assume that his health is far less than perfect.

‘Kenny’s family is so poor that yesterday they had to put their cardboard box up for a second mortgage!’

It’s no secret that Trump has always harbored a hearty disdain for the poor, particularly those who are non-white. In his grand delusion, Trump believes he’s a self-made man, completely discounting the millions that were gifted to him by his father. As President, Trump has shredded the safety net for the poor. Among the dozens of charitable programs his administration has gutted, food stamps, housing rental assistance and job training for low-income youth have all been victims of the chopping block. And, of course, there’s his messianic crusade to rid the country of Obamacare as if it was an infectious insect.

‘Alright, y’all, keep your eyes peeled and your guns ready. There’s a heap of Mexicans out there who want nothing more than to sneak past our border, and we’ve got to stop them!’

Ah, yes. Trump’s most notorious target of pure, unadulterated hatred: the Mexicans. Whether it’s the supposed wall he’s building to keep out the vermin- with the vermin’s own dough, no less- or denouncing the citizenry as drug smugglers, criminals, and rapists, Trump’s treatment of our Southern neighbor is undeniably deplorable. And if that word sounds familiar, it’s the same invective Hillary used to described Trump’s supporters. While she certainly wasn’t wrong (hey, if the basket fits…), Hillary would have been better served if the derisive term was lobbed directly at the leader of the hatemongers himself, rather than his loyal acolytes. It would’ve had the benefit of being more accurate, too.

‘Dolphins, Eskimos, who cares? It’s all a bunch of tree-hugging hippie crap.’

The most powerful man in the world believes climate change is a hoax. Yes, still, as we approach the year 2020 with all the conclusive scientific data at our disposal. That’s why (in his not so infinite wisdom) he yanked us out of the Paris Agreement, a global initiative that aims to, ya know… save the f’ng planet. Since he took office, Trump has rolled back environmental regulations and fought the (not so good) fight to keep fossil fuels prospering. He’s like a stubborn explorer refusing to sail to far stretches of the world because he fears tumbling off the edge of the Earth. And in another bout of Orwellianism- and I’m 99% sure he’s never even heard of the author, let alone read his books- the Trump administration has removed the words ‘climate change’ from government reports. Flat Earthers, unite!

‘Sorry, I don’t make the rules. I just think them up and write them down.’

Our foreign policy, in a nutshell. Especially as it relates to Turkey. Only this Cartmanism goes too far; Trump doesn’t actually write his so-called rules down. After a phone call with his buddy Erdogan, Trump decides it’s high time to abandon the Kurds, our greatest ally in the Middle East. And, by doing so, gives hundreds of ISIS fighters a get-out-of-jail-free card. Naturally, slaughter ensues.  No one, not even his biggest sycophants, thought this was a prudent strategy. After a few days of constant criticism, Trump alters course and lobbies his friend for a ceasefire. The President claims victory, of course, as if his rash decision and abrupt about-face were all part of a master plan. ‘Sometimes you have to let kids fight it out.’ Cartman would heartily agree.

‘I’m gonna need an engineer, a scientist, and of course a black person who can sacrifice himself if something goes wrong.’

You can’t just have one blurb on Trump’s racism. After all, there’s so many minority groups out there… and no one has been more victimized by Trump than African-Americans. You can go back to the early Seventies when, as a budding real estate mogul, he flatly wouldn’t rent to black folks. A ‘c’ (for ‘colored’) was scrawled on the application, a scarlet letter of sorts for racial discrimination. In the Eighties, he called for the death penalty of the Central Park Five, a group of black kids who were ultimately- and completely- exonerated after spending years in prison. He even took out a full page ad in the New York Times to assure a guilty verdict. The next chapter of his bigotry involves Obama’s birth certificate. This bizarre campaign for the nation’s first black President to submit proof that he wasn’t born in Africa- and (egads!) a Muslim- propelled the reality star into the political world. And as commander-in-chief, he ceremoniously referred to African countries as ‘shitholes.’ Churchill, he is not.

‘I would never let a woman kick my ass. If she tried something, I’d like HEY! Get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie!’

You can’t have a complete view of the 45th President without mentioning his scurrilous treatment of women. From his parading past nude, underage girls at Miss Teen USA pageants to boasting about ‘grabbing ’em by the pussy,’ to the numerous sexual harassment suits filed against him, Trump has left an ignominious trail of abusing the fairer gender.  Then there’s the verbal grenades he has launched at celebrities such as Rosie O’ Donnell, Megyn Kelly, and Meryl Streep, all laced with misogyny. And, of course, his Twitter rants could be compiled into a comprehensive handbook for female bashing. I’m pretty sure that was an actual major at Trump University.

‘You gotta respect my authora-tah!’

Trump thinks ‘strong man’ is a term of endearment. Never mind the fact that it’s been applied to the most ruthless autocrats in history. The President admires leaders like Putin and Jong Un whose authority is supreme and unquestioned. Hell, he aspires to be them. Even as impeachment looms, the President still believes he’s above the law. Bill Maher came up with a dictator checklist for Trump… he marks off all but one. When he dons a military uniform- a very distinct possibility- it’s officially time to panic. Maher’s greatest fear (mine, too) is that Trump will not relinquish office if he loses next year’s election. He’s already working the refs, claiming his opponents are rigging the votes. If Cartman was running for fourth grade president, that’s exactly what he would do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cameron Crowe is a wise man- definitely not a guy (read on)- particularly on the matters of relationships and love. His films are replete with romantic bon mots, yet they rarely dip into the shallow waters of mawkishness. No Capra-corn here, folks… er, not much anyway. Here’s 12 lessons from the romcom master. Learn it, know it, live it as Brad Hamilton advises Spicoli in Fast Times.

1. SAY ANYTHING: The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy.

Yes, they’re similar: three-letter words meaning adults males. But there’s a world of difference between the two, as any woman knows. Men are mature. Responsible. Hunters and gatherers, sure, but also caretakers. Guys are, well, aging frat boys. The closest they’ll ever get to being a man is creating an eponymous cave to watch football while quaffing beers… with other guys, of course.

2. SAY ANYTHING:  I don’t know you very well, you know, but I wanted to ask you – how’d you get Diane Court to go out with you?/I called her up.

A common theme that weaves through Crowe’s movies (see the blog below) is the spoils of taking initiative. Fortune favors the bold, as the Latin proverb goes. A more recent iteration of the motivational adage comes from none other than the great Canadian philosopher himself, Mr. Wayne Gretzky: ‘You miss 100 percent of the shots you never take.’ Indeed. Lloyd Dobler took a shot and cold called the girl of his dreams. Advice? Listen to the Great One. Make that call.

3. SAY ANYTHING: Did you really come here with Lloyd Dobler? How did that happen?/He made me laugh.

Okay, I’m a little skeptical of this one, though I desperately want it to be true… kinda like a no-carb pizza that, ya know, tastes like actual f’ng pizza. Women always proclaim that a sense of humor is vitally important, though I hate to say, I’d like to take a gander at Buddy Hackett’s wife (sorry for the cheap shot, Buddy). My politically incorrect point is that the ability to make a woman laugh is nice, but it can’t stand on its own. A sense of humor, alas, must to be combined with looks or money- preferably both. Thankfully for Lloyd, he doesn’t look anything like Mr. Hackett (apologies again, good sir).

4. SINGLES: Desperation: it’s the world’s worst cologne.

Yes, it’s even more toxic than Drakkar Noir… if that’s even possible. It reeks a country mile and has veto power over all the admirable traits mentioned above. Better a certified geek who looks like Buddy Hackett (last dig, I swear) who’s bizarrely confident than a good looking guy who’s, well… creepy. Takeaway here is, there must be something inherently disturbing about you- creepy, good looking guy- if you’re so g-damn desperate.

5. ALMOST FAMOUS: Let’s say all the things we never said.

Precious time, as Van Morrison poignantly crooned, is slipping away. I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but there’s no time like the present to tell your partner- heck, friends and family members, too (well, some of ’em)- how much you care.  They could be gone tomorrow.  Today, in fact. Remember: regret is permanent. Embarrassment is temporary.

6. JERRY MAGUIRE: I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.

Like the NBA draft, potential is a crucial factor in choosing the right partner. Like a caterpillar blossoming into a butterfly, a guy can be transformed into a man with the proper guidance. Perhaps you’re the person- maybe the only person- to bring out this concealed potential. Dorothy Boyd certainly was for his boss. And, in turn, Jerry became a man.

7. JERRY MAGUIRE: Maybe love shouldn’t be such hard work.

It shouldn’t. It should be natural and easy, like a bucolic creek in the woods, water flowing gently over the rocks. If a relationship becomes a daily struggle- if the pain dwarfs the pleasure- take Jordan Peele’s advice and Get Out. Now. Before you become indoctrinated… or, ya know, have your brain cut open.

8. FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH: All right, now pay attention. First of all, Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl. ‘Oh, Debbie. Hi.’

If you know the movie, this is the first of five nuggets of advice proffered by Damone, the ticket scalper. The other four are either sexist (‘you always call the shots’) or dated (‘put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV’), so I’ll focus on this one. This is some high school shit to be sure… in 1982, no less. But, yes, hiding your love away as the Beatles sang is a good rule of thumb. I wish this wasn’t the case- much like accepting the fact that decent pizza contains a ton of carbs- but you gotta play the game, you gotta be cool. ‘Specially if your name is Rat.

9. ELIZABETHTOWN: Most of the sex I’ve had in my life was not as personal as that kiss.

Birds do it. Bees do it. Even… whatever the hell the next animal in that stupid song goes. We get it- every dumb animal has sex. But how many primates kiss? Or better yet, make out? Along with the opposable thumb, it’s the thing that makes us human. And kissing is so much more intimate than sex. Not only is it STD free, you don’t hafta make that run to Walgreens a month later for the test strips.

10. WE BOUGHT a ZOO: You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.

Another quote worthy of Gretzky. Keep shooting till you score.

11. WE BOUGHT A ZOO: Well, talking to girls is easy. They’ll tell you everything. The secret to talking is listening.

Oldie but goodie. Two ears, one mouth, blah, blah, blah. And you don’t necessarily have to listen, per se, but at least pretend to. Nod a lot, throw in a few hmm-mmm’s and if the situation warrants, take Chris Rock’s advice and toss in ‘I told you that bitch crazy.’ You’re golden.

12. VANILLA SKY: You can do whatever you want with your life, but one day you’ll know what love truly is. It’s the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.

You can’t experience pleasure without having suffered pain. And they’ll be plenty of both in relationships, no matter how long you’ve been together. It’s the yin and yang, the sweet and sour… hmm, they’re both Chinese (well, ‘least the chicken, anyway)…  wait, where was I? Oh, yeah. It’s the knowing and accepting that when shit hits the fan- and it inevitably will- happy days will surely be here again… hopefully without the feces.

Writer/director Cameron Crowe is best known for his romantic comedies- namely Say Anything, Jerry Maguire, and Almost Famous- and tear-inducing lines like ‘You complete me’ and ‘You had me at hello.’ What’s not as well know is the motivational messages found in Crowe’s films. Nearly all his movies, in fact, have characters trumpeting the virtues of being bold and taking risks. Yes, the author of Fast Times at Ridgemont High– and creator of the iconic Spicoli- is really (egads) a self-help guru. Here’s my top ten Crowisms… with apologies for Elizabethtown, hardly the trophy of his oeuvre, making three appearances (blame the plot, which revolves around a mammoth failure and is therefore ripe with encouraging badinage).

WE BOUGHT A ZOO: You know, sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage. Just, literally, 20 seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.                                                                                   

ELIZABETHTOWN: No true fiasco ever began as a quest for mere adequacy. A motto of the British Special Air Force is: ‘Those who risk, win.’                                 

SAY ANYTHING: Nobody thinks it will work, do they?/No. You just described every great success story.

VANILLA SKY: Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around.

JERRY MAGUIRE: That’s how you become great, man. Hang your balls out there!         

ELIZABETHTOWN: You failed. You think I care about that? I do understand. You wanna be really great? Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make them wonder why you’re still. 

FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH: That’s what I do. I mean I just send out this vibe and I have personally found that women do respond. I mean, something happens./Well, naturally something happens. I mean, you put the vibe out to 30 million chicks, something is gonna happen./That’s the idea, Rat. That’s the attitude. 

VANILLA SKY: Most of us live our whole lives… without any real adventure to call our own.

ALMOST FAMOUS: I didn’t invent the rainy day, man. I just own the best umbrella.     

ELIZABETHTOWN: You have five minutes to wallow in the delicious misery. Enjoy it, embrace it, discard it. And proceed.

EXT. PALATIAL ESTATE, RURAL NORTH CAROLINA — NIGHT

Eerie fog blankets the sky. An imposing, wrought iron fence protects the massive property. Posted on the gate (like the opening of Citizen Kane) an ominous sign: ‘NO TRESPASSING’

Behind the fence, a colossal palace surrounded by endless fields of tobacco plants. Over this, a 1940’s-style narrator:

NARRATOR V.O. … Legendary tobacco king Duke Bentson in the battle of his life, fighting the scourge of cancer…

INT. BEDROOM, PALATIAL ESTATE

DUKE BENTSON (70), white-haired and sickly, lies in bed, clenching a snow globe with a miniature White House inside.

NARRATOR V.O. … He amassed his fortune for one reason and one reason only: for his son to become President…

Duke shakes the globe. Instead of snow, dollar bills fall.

NARRATOR V.O. … His firstborn, John Junior, was certain to carry out that destiny- Harvard grad, military officer…

The snow globe slips out of his hand as Duke utters one cherished word: ‘power’

NARRATOR V.O. … But he was killed in that terrible war in Grenada. So the obligation fell upon his second son, Jack, who nearly fulfilled…

The globe SHATTERS on the floor. Tiny dollar bills spill out.

NARRATOR V.O. … His father’s wish, narrowly losing the White House 2 years ago. He now serves as Vice President, one step away from the Oval Office.

EXT. BASKETBALL ARENA, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA — DAY

JACK BENTSON (40’s), handsome and folksy (think Will Ferrell) delivers a speech to the graduating students. A gifted politician with a good heart, Jack sort of lost his way serving under a corrupt boss who keeps him at a distance.

JACK: … There’s an old saying in Virginia- I know it’s in Carolina, it’s probably in Virginia- that says early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and…

Flustered, he glances to his left, looking for his trusted adviser… he’s not there. Awkward silence.

JACK: … Mize. (nailed it) Makes you Johnny Mize. And in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

The students gawk at one another, befuddled.

INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL — DAY

Jack reads a children’s book to a class of first graders. A SECRET SERVICE AGENT (African-American, 30’s) whispers into Jack’s ear. Instantly, Jack’s face sours. In hushed tones:

JACK: Can I finish this real quick? Dying to see how it turns out.

The agent stares him down.

JACK: They really need to know a gang of rapey terrorists are a block away?

The teacher GASPS as her students panic. Oblivious, Jack continues to read aloud as chaos ensues around him.

EXT. AIRPORT RUNWAY — DAY

Jack steps onto the ramp of Air Force Two.

REPORTER: … After all your recent blunders, are you concerned the President might replace you?

Jack huffs. To the secret service agent at his side:

JACK: That guy’s a total douche- bag, nozzle, and the box it came in.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT: Uh, we’re still live.

JACK: Let’s edit that out.

And strides onto the plane.

BOBBY V.O. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

INT. FIVE-STAR HOTEL ROOM, PARIS — NIGHT

BOBBY ‘HIT MAN’ HEARNS (40’s) watches a news report of Jack’s blunders. A former street kid, Bobby’s a natural born hustler turned political adviser (think Mark Wahlberg).

BOBBY: Leave for one week…

His girlfriend, ELLE (30’s), a gorgeous, spoiled socialite, sashays out of the bathroom in a slinky black dress.

ELLE: I don’t know why you’re so surprised- can’t open his beer without you.

BOBBY: Seen him open plenty, believe me.

ELLE: Face it, guy’s a total loser.

BOBBY: Hey, c’mon, don’t say that.

ELLE: You backed the wrong horse. He was in my stable, I’d shoot him.

BOBBY: Owe my whole career to him. (beat) His dad, anyway.

ELLE: Shoulda worked with Peters when you had the chance.

BOBBY: Yeah, right. Guy who had his wife killed to win an election.

ELLE: That wasn’t proven and you know it.

BOBBY: Campaigned against him for two years. Trust me, he’s the devil.

ELLE: Yeah, well, that devil’s in the White House.

BOBBY: Say what you will about Bentson, gotta admit, he’s a good man.

ELLE: Only if you admit he’s a loser.

BOBBY: He was the most popular governor- ugh, let’s just drop it.

She studies him, dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

ELLE: Not gonna wear that, are you?

BOBBY: Guess not.

And trudges to the bathroom.

EXT. STREETS OF TAPEI, TAIWAN — DAY

Taiwan soldiers STORM the Chinese embassy. Looters RANSACK a grocery store. Students RAVAGE a Mao statue. Complete mayhem.

A title: ‘TAPEI, TAIWAN 2024’

JACK V.O. … It all started in Taiwan. Revolution had broken out on the island. China acted swiftly- and with extreme vengeance…

A Chinese soldier SLICES OFF a rebel’s head. A tank BARRELS over students, SQUASHING them. Kids are FLAYED, girls RAPED.

JACK V.O. … The U.S. was pressured to act- and act we did. But casualties quickly mounted. Like a poker player on tilt, the President doubled down on a bad bet, pulling troops from the Middle East to defeat the Chinese…

Abrams tank’s BLOWN to bits. Apache helicopter’s SHOT down. An R-P-G INCINERATES a platoon. Sarin gas CHOKES OUT another.

JACK V.O. … When that didn’t work, he sent in fresh ones…

EXT. USS REAGAN, MOVING — NIGHT

The massive aircraft carrier cuts through the Pacific Ocean, on its way to Taiwan…

INT. SLEEPING QUARTERS, USS REAGAN

Musty, sparse room. Few dozen bunk beds, soldiers asleep. Four play poker on a table. The leader’s BRAD DAVIS (24). Handsome. Athletic. Cunning. And he knows it all too well.

DAVIS … So you’re EPW, getting raked over the coals, about to crack- these fuckers don’t do Geneva…

EXT. DEEP UNDERWATER, PACIFIC OCEAN — CONTINUOUS

A Chinese submarine lurks. Menacing. Seeking a target…

FADE IN:

Scruffy, handsome young man with bloodshot eyes grins slyly. Cocky. Like he owns the world. And, hell, he just might.

RADIO ANNOUNCER V.O. (Southern, folksy): … Once in a generation talent…

A flashbulb POPS, blinding us.

Title: ‘OCTOBER 1947’

He leans back in a chair, on an interview of some sort. Drunk, he wears a baseball uniform, ‘PONTIACS’ scrawled on the front. Famous athlete? Perhaps. This is EDDIE KLEP (26).

INTERVIEWER O.S.: … Klep. That one ‘p’ or two? Got it both ways here.

Eddie scoffs at the perceived slight.

EDDIE: Just call me Lefty. Ya know, like Gomez or Grove.

INTERVIEWER O.S.: Quite a record you got, Lefty.

EDDIE: 21 and 4, couldn’t touch me.

INTERVIEWER O.S.: Drunkenness. Disorderly conduct. Adultery.

Strange thing to say in an interview, especially in 1947. But Eddie smiles it away, oozing his natural charm.

EDDIE: Two and oh for the Bucks. Can’t pin that one on me- wasn’t my fault, bases were loaded.

INTERVIEWER O.S.: Seem a lil’ loaded yesterday.

Eddie leaps up in his chair. And we see he’s not being interviewed- he’s in a city jail, being processed.

EDDIE: Hey, got a bottle stashed in here? Don’t worry, I won’t say nothin.’

INT. JAIL, ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA — AFTERNOON

‘The interviewer,’ a burly, mustached cop, SERGEANT KRAVITZ (32), thumbs through Eddie’s file. On his tidy desk, a tiny American flag and a crackly radio airing the World Series.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: This time it’s what… ‘burglary’ and ‘receiving stolen goods.’

EDDIE: Goods? C’mon! It was just beer.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: 42 dollars and 50 cents worth.

EDDIE: What can I say, I was thirsty.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Think this is a joke? Huh? Fellas overseas, fightin’ and dyin,’ you in and outta here like a hotel?

EDDIE: Whaddya want, they said I was 4F. Uh, funny and frank and…

Loses his train of thought as he hears the radio broadcast.

RADIO ANNOUNCER V.O.: … Just 21, the young southpaw has a honey of a future ahead of him…

Eddie stares at the radio, dejected. Like his dog just died.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Everything the same? Same address?

EDDIE (distracted): Yeah.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Still married?

EDDIE: Huh?

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: There a Mrs. Klep? And we’re gonna go with one ‘p,’ keep it simple.

EDDIE: Whadda she gotta do with it? She don’t gotta know nothin’!

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Think she’ll find out soon enough.

EDDIE: Yeah… yeah, you’re right. Prob’ly be all over the papers.

Slumps in his chair, sighing.

EDDIE: … Could ya turn that off?

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: It’s the World Series.

EDDIE: Got rights, ya know.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: What, don’t like baseball?

Eddie sneers. Another slight. He’s a volcano about to erupt.

ANNOUNCER V.O.: … Glares down at the batter as if he insulted his own mother…

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Figured you did, that getup on.

Eddie springs up in the seat, his face flushed with rage.

EDDIE: You don’t know who am I, do ya?

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Am I supposed to?

EDDIE: (big) Yeah.

HOLD on his fiery eyes, a look we’ll get to know. On the radio, raucous CHEERS from the crowd as the pitcher strikes out the batter. Over this, chants of ‘ED-DEE!’ ‘ED-DEE!’

Title: ‘ONE YEAR EARLIER’

• published October 17, 2008, a few weeks before the election

Movies have been entrenched in our nation’s zeitgeist since nickelodeons dotted the landscape at the turn of the 20th century. From the first celluloid rag beatifying the works of Chaplin to the latest TMZ reporter chasing down a drunken starlet, the world of cinema has shaped, molded, and often crafted popular culture. Ever since Griffith’s monumental albeit overtly racist oeuvre Birth of a Nation, Hollywood and Washington have been inextricably linked, its relationship waxing and waning over the years depending on the tides of social mores. The grubby milieu of politics wasn’t exposed until the typically mawkish Capra delivered a cynical gem, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in 1939, a seminal year for film. Like other public figures, politicians have been judged, usually in a negative manner, against their on-screen personas. While many promising Jefferson Smiths have succumbed to the meat grinder of congressional compromise, less desirable protagonists have had their share of imitators. Clinton was deemed, particularly on far reaches of the AM dial, to be a modern-day Elmer Gantry, a slick, silver-tongued preacher who eschews the values he proselytizes. Likewise, his successor was likened to the dimwitted Chauncey Gardiner, whose earthy folksiness was mistaken for profundity. As election day looms, the media, which now includes a disturbingly wide assortment of bloggers, is sure to stamp a cinematic simile on the candidates. For your consideration, I’d like to suggest the 1995 thriller Crimson Tide as a exemplary model for the 2008 campaign.

Directed by Tony Scott, Crimson Tide depicts a power struggle between two senior officers aboard a U.S. nuclear submarine that may or may not have been summoned to launch missiles at a suddenly chaotic Russia whose rebel leader, hellbent on terminating his enemies, may or may not have access to the country’s nuclear codes. Ramsey, the crusty, impulsive captain, authorizes a preemptive strike but is denied assent by Hunter, his Harvard educated yet wet behind the ears commanding officer, who happens to be three decades his junior and, oh yes, black. Beyond simple demographics, it’s a classic confrontation between experience and education, force versus diplomacy. In a nutshell, McCain versus Obama.

“Do you think I’m some crazy old coot endangering everyone as I yell yee-haw?”

No one in Washington has been a stronger advocate of aggressive military action in both Iraq and Afghanistan than Senator McCain. Despite his differences with Bush on such issues as tax cuts and campaign finance reform, McCain has become the administration’s mouthpiece for the War on Terror. Not content with maintaining the mission, he upped the ante by calling for additional troops. While the so-called surge undoubtedly has led to a decrease in violence, at least temporarily, his militaristic bent has struck trepidation in voters with a less hawkish stance. For those familiar with the film, you could easily imagine Ramsey, cigar clenched in his teeth, his face crinkled with prolonged laughter, palling around with his fellow officers, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.” The grizzled captain, in an early scene on the sub, boasted that not only he would have ordered the annihilation of Hiroshima, he would have “dropped the fucker. Twice.” In a similar tone of audacity, McCain declared he wouldn’t mind if troops were stationed in Iraq for one hundred years, let alone fifty. As any military historian can tell you, boldness often deteriorates into recklessness.

“You’re out of your league, Hunter. You’re not ready to make tough decisions.”

A lean resume has always been the albatross nipping at Obama’s vulnerable heel ever since he announced his candidacy one frosty day in Springfield. His work as a community organizer and law professor, along with his lone, truncated term in the US Senate, is hardly a suitable backstory for a Presidential aspirant. Similarly, his cinematic counterpart was awarded a tour of duty on the USS Alabama despite the fact he served only a single stint as commanding officer. While Obama deftly deflected the issue during the primary- though Clinton’s red phone ad still has a lingering effect- you can bet the Swiftboaters now employed in the McCain camp will slice open the wound and, for good measure, dump in the salt. As Captain Ramsey gripes to a loyal subordinate about Hunter: “The closest he’s come to combat is a policy seminar.”

“I’m the captain of this ship. Now shut the fuck up.”

McCain’s prickliness was evident in his first congressional race in ’86, when his Republican challenger suggested he was a carpetbagger. Concerns about his fiery temper were partly to blame for the Straight Talk Express derailing in 2000 when conservative kingmakers, notably Limbaugh and Hannity, questioned the Senator’s mental stability, heaping their support onto the untested governor of Texas. Perhaps worse, at least on a personal level, one of his own, Republican Senator Thad Cochran, expressed worries that his colleague was too erratic, too hotheaded to be commander in chief. A declaration which, knowing the Naval pilot’s insistence on absolute loyalty, must have stung, if not scarred.

By contrast, Obama’s equanimity has been his greatest attribute during the campaign. The image of him picking an imaginary strand of lint off his shoulder provides a portrait of his coolness under fire. Sure, Obama may qualify his remarks, as Ramsey accuses Hunter of doing, but there’s denying his model temperament, particularly when compared to his crabby opponent. Likewise, the even-keeled Hunter seeks additional information- critical information- before he’s ready to light the match that could very well ignite a global conflagration. More time to obtain more data that leads to a more informed decision. A rational approach, to be sure, one that parallels the reasoning behind the inspection of Iraqi weaponry and, later, Obama’s objection to the invasion.

“The Lipizzan stallions are the most highly trained horses in the world. They’re all white.”

There’s no discounting the importance of race in this historic campaign. Obama addressed the complex issue in a courageous, if not necessary, speech, simultaneously broadening minds and, vastly more importantly to his campaign, soothing fears. While virtually all poll respondents deny that race will have an impact on their votes, anyone familiar with the Bradley effect has wisely adopted a cautionary approach. Like Obama, Hunter seems to have transcended race, blending seamlessly into a (subterranean) world that is nearly as white as its uniforms. McCain, for his part, has steered clear of these murky waters. Considering his party busting move to the left on immigration, McCain may be viewed as much a compassionate conservative as he is a maverick. It is a stubborn fact, however- and stubbornness in McCain is more than a passing streak- that he once voted against establishing a holiday for Martin Luther King, Jr. In later years, he regretted the vote, much like Ramsey, at the film’s conclusion, conceding the fact that he was, indeed, wrong. After all, the horses may be white, but, as Hunter declares, they were born black.

If the election follows script, Obama’s cool-headedness will win the day, retiring McCain to the Arizona sunset, and, in the process, tightening the knot between Washington and Hollywood. Much like Hunter, now in charge of the USS Alabama, Obama will have to lead our nation against an avalanche of adversity, both foreign and domestic. We can only hope- and hope is what will have propelled him to the Oval Office- that he isn’t out of his league and that he’s ready to make the tough decisions.