CineMasochism: The Sandlot 2

Welcome to the second edition of CineMasochism, where I examine a movie I didn't know existed until I saw it in DVD form or in the online streaming ether. For this installment I will be watching 2005's The Sandot 2, the cat-from-Pet-Sematary-after-it-comes-back of movies.

The mid-90s were a golden age of baseball movies aimed at kids. Rookie of the Year (1993), Little Big League (1994), Angels in the Outfield (1994), and--my personal favorite--The Sandlot (1993). You may have a different favorite (Little Big League. If you saying anything besides LBL or "I don't like baseball movies" then you're a fool.) but you can't deny that these four movies represent the pinnacle of the genre. Which is what makes The Sandlot 2 so disheartening.


I do not take The Sandlot 2's existence as an affront to my childhood, because I am an adult and, presumably, possess the emotional intelligence to not be angry with another person's creative endeavors. However, I am suspicious of its existence. The fact that David Mickey Evans, the original writer-director-narrator, returns to his roles offers hope. And having recently viewed and enjoyed Mad Max: Fury Road, it seems silly to foster hostile feelings towards one auteur for expanding upon his vision while accepting another for doing the same. Even though it is my idyllic youth being TRAMPLED UPON, I am determined to give it a chance. Besides, why shouldn't kids now (or in 2005) have their own baseball movie to enjoy?

Fortunately the movie quickly squanders any leeway and good will afforded to it. Which is nice, because it allows viewers (please, don't view this movie) to enter full Buzzfeed Ehrmagehrd My Childhood Was Objectively Better Than Any Other Human Childhood Because Disney's The Gummi Bears Mode and begin loudly accusing the characters on screen of being no Hamilton Porter without remorse. David Mickey Evans had his chance. And he left that chance in a hot car to die.

Sandlot 2 opens with a montage of scenes from the first Sandlot, reminding you of the movie you should probably be watching instead. Even the trailer is fifty percent scenes from the original.

It is now the 70s. You can tell SL2 is set in the 70s because every once in a while someone will say Groovy, Far Out, or Right On. Plus, one kid looks like he's wearing a Jimi Hendrix costume and the Women's Lib movement is mentioned in pejoratively. It is ten years after Benny pickled the Beast. We are told the ball he got back is know as The Great Ball. The movie is narrated by Johnnie Buckminster Smalls, younger brother of Scotty Smalls, though still voiced by writer-director Evans. Johnnie is a model rocket enthusiast who gets involved with the Sandlot kids when he accidentally sets fire to the dugout. Johnnie's rocketry hobby also leads to some unfortunate CGI.

What's most frustrating about The Sandlot 2 (other than it reminding me of my lost youth, time's ability to vanquish us all, and that weird sound my knees make) is that it has the same plot and most of the same scenes  as the original. The kids have to rescue an object Smalls sends into Mr. Mertle's back yard. They go to a carnival. There is a fireworks scene. They go swimming because it is too hot to play baseball. They face off against a snooty Little League team after a round of name calling. Except none of it is done as well as in the original. This is the kid version of The Hangover Part II. There's nothing in this movie that you can't get by rewatching The Sandlot. Even if you're watching with a kid who's only reason for doing so is that it exists, my advice would be to push for simply starting the original over from the beginning.

Even a lot of the same dialogue is used. After Johnnie accidentally launches a NASA prototype he stands in the outfield dazed. Saul, SL2's mash-up of Bertram and Timmy, says that "Maybe the shock of knowing some famous science dude was too much for him." Which is a version of what is said about Scotty Smalls after hitting his first homerun. When Johnnie explains what happened with the rocket, the scene plays out exactly like the scene when Scotty explains that he hit a signed Babe Ruth ball over the fence. The kids take turns berating him, someone tells him that it's worth more than his whole life, then they give him some air by fanning him. It's all the same scenes. It's awful.

How to use this movie to be a film snob
Discuss how it's a lazy retread and uses feminism as comedy. You can also argue that while the film does use 1970s feminist stereotypes as sources of humor, it also pokes fun at male characters for being scared of assertive women. You'll appear extra smart for finding a positive aspect of this film.

Key phrases to bandy about: Retrograde Misogyny. Dreck.

Sweet lines to help you start The Sandlot 2's cult following
"Serious like Gloria Steinem."
That's it. Every other line worth a damn is from the first movie.


Is it rewatchable?
No. A small child forcing you into a repeat viewing is the only reason to experience this twice. But they'll eventually kick you out of the room once you start ranting about "Baseball movies in my day..."

Was that summary not enough for you? Do you want to read my reactions to The Sandlot 2 as I watched it?

Allow me to present:

Denny's Diary of The Sandlot 2

[Editor's note: The Sandlot 2 is available to view on YouTube if you want to grit your teeth along with me.]

David Mickey Evans sounds like Seth Macfarland. It's not a critique. Just a fact I hadn't noticed until now.

Johnnie Smalls? IT'S FUCKING SCOTTY! WHO IS JOHNNIE?!
Johnathan Buckminster Smalls?
[Editor's note: It's not Scotty, it's Johnnie. I was naturally confused because Johnnie and Scotty grow up to have the same adult voice.]

One of the kids rides in a side car bike while his brother pedals. Sidecar kid is deaf. I'm not sure if these are related. Do they need the sidecar because it's dangerous for the deaf brother to be riding or only for the coolness factor? If I was the brother pedaling I would be pissed. I know he's deaf, but he's also too big to not carry his own weight. Get a tandem!

 His name is "Fingers." This is a solid attempt to recapture the magic of the Squints and Yeah Yeah nicknames. Plus, that nickname can only get better as he ages and starts getting to third base. (SEE WHAT I DID THERE? DOUBLE DOUBLE ENTENDRE!)

The black kid looks like he's in a Jimi Hendrix costume. Later he wears a leather vest with fringe.

Dizzy by Tommy Roe plays while a boy bumps into a pretty girl and is speechless at her prettiness. Except he is also pretty, so I'm not buying it. She then comments on how fast he is after picking up her book from the ground. What a weird comment. Think about how fast someone would have to pick up a thing for you to be impressed. There's a large range of speed that you would just find awkward and weird. Like, calm down, dude. Don't throw out your back over a dropped book. Any impressively fast bending over and picking up would be SO fast that it would make you suspicious.
[Editor's Note: Later, the girl, WHO IS NO WENDY PFEFFERCORN, will assume the boy can run fast because of this incident. Fucking stupid.]

A knock-off of Cream's White Room plays.

Johhnie Smalls shoots a rocket through a couch in dugout. There's some voice over exposition. Apparently it's a case of mistaken identity. The fancy shmancy little league team wants to take over the sandlot for their practices. The crew sees Johnnie launching a rocket and naturally assume he's blowing up the sandlot. These kids are idiots. They chase Johnnie. He jumps a fence and lands in a pool.

The girl with a keen eye for speed saves Johnnie. She inexplicably has a southern accent despite living in California and having parents who lack southern accents. Fingers tells everyone that the dugout is on fire. The crew rush to save it in a moment of Marxian (Marxist?) slapstick involving a hose of insufficient length. During the commotion, the southern belle--named Hayley--demands that Johnnie return the next day since he owes her.

She makes him act as groundskeeper so she and two friends can play softball, which they refer to as baseball. When the boys return, Hayley continues to refer to softball, the game and the physical object, as baseball. The boys are sexist and tell her leave. (Listen, doll.) But she's liberated and stands her ground. Unfortunately, she is calling a softball a baseball which makes her sound like a dumb girl who doesn't deserve to play sports. I don't care how unfounded and unfair division of the sexes is, or how obvious the benefits of equal treatment are, the instant you stand on a soccer pitch declaring your right to play lacrosse too, you're done. The sexist boneheads have won, if only in their minds. You can't come back from mislabeling the sport.

It's an odd choice on the part of David Mickey Evans to open the movie with the sandlot crew being sexist and in the wrong. Let me get to know them first and them have them be dumb boys who default to "Girls, yuck!" As it is, they're unlikable and I don't care if they keep the sandlot. They don't deserve it.

I've already done the math. There are 5 boys terrorizing everyone, there's the nerd kid, and three girls. 9 people. Which is how many you need to field a baseball team. NEW BESTIES/TEAMATES.

Despite this obvious solution, the crew still wants to assert their alpha-male dominance over the girls even though it's totally the 70s and women are burning their bras and stuff. A chubby, ginger kid, an obvious stand in for Hamilton Porter who will be referred to as Fake Hambino, steps up to put the dames in their place. A heated discussion of the merits of women playing baseball begins.

Fake Hambino

Fake Hambino: Girls can't play baseball
Hayley: Wanna bet?
Fake Hambino: I don't bet trash, I burn it.

And then

Fake Hambino: You're serious?
Hayley: Like Gloria Steinem.

They bet that she can strike him out in three pitches. Winner assumes dominion over the sandlot.

"Bring it on, skirt," he says while wearing a WWII helmet and choking up on the bat way too much.

She pitches underhand and he doesn't see it. Blinks and misses the pitch. Which is extra sad, because softball mounds are closer than baseball mounds because you can't throw softballs as fast. But she was pitching from the baseball mound.

The pretty boy pinch hits to save the day. He then fouls off a thousand pitches until their mom's yell for them to come home because it will be dark soon, even though it is still bright as hell outside and can't be past 4pm. God, Mom! You ruin everything!

Intrigue: Some kid who looks like Draco Malfoy's disco brother has been spying on the events from the tree house.

The girls and boys reconvene the next day to settle the score. Instead of resuming the at-bat, the two factions refuse to talk, opting to have Johnnie serve as go-between delivering messages such as "Leave, this is our Sandlot" and "No." There's a Benny Hill style sped up section, where he zips back and forth. Which would be funny if the times we heard what the kids had to say it was anything more substantial than "We were here first" and "Tough shit." Plus, they're fifty feet apart.

The kid playing Johhnie is a terrible actor. Plus he has some non-descript accent. And he likes rockets!? He's a Russian spy! Fake Hambino is the only one with any chops.Were the kids in The Sandlot this terrible? No way.

Johnnie (who I refuse to refer to as Smalls) suggests they all just play together. The boys, victims of the hetero-sexist patriarchy in which they were raised, find the idea unnatural. Until Bertram 2.0 points out that doing so will fill out the roster, giving them a full team. Something I knew instantly, because I am smarter than fictional children in desperate need to dramatic tension.

After everyone realizes the benefits of fielding nine position players in baseball. They agree to terms and celebrate over cookies and OJ in the dugout, which the girls somehow fixed in one day and made look like Martha Stewart decorated it. Fake Hambino has a metal canteen and camo vest/cap. He's probably going to have some flashbacks.

Because they have a full team, everyone goes to the nice baseball field to challenge the snooty-ass little league team, which consists entirely of Mitch Kramer clones. Fake Hambino and the leader of the other team have an insult-off. Nothing about this scene is as good as the one it's rehashing. You will need to watch the original to wash the taste out of your eyeballs. But you can't accuse David Mickey Evans of being a lazy writer. Sure, he reuses the "You play ball like a girl" line, but it's given to the other archetype. Except the sandlot crew has actual girls, so it's totally not cool. #YesAllCoedPickUpBaseballTeams.

Having successfully shouted at the other team, they go to the carnival.

Deaf kid isn't allowed to go near the kissing booth. He's a mack daddy.
The kissing booth has a height restriction, and he's too short to kiss. He gets some platform shoes. Smooth.
The girl at the booth tells him, "just on the cheek." I wonder what's going to happen.
He grabs her head and gives her a big ol' smooch.
This is all the same shit from the first movie with shittier music.
And no Wendy Pfeffercorn.

The big game against the Little League One-Percenters happens. Hayley is heading home from third to win the game. The catcher, Snooty Kid, stands in front of home with the ball and tags her out/knocks her down. And the Sandlot kids freak out even though blocking the plate is A TOTALLY NORMAL BASEBALL PLAY! Hayley is crying, which I feel validates the boys original assertion that girls should not play baseball with boys. Pretty Boy punches Snooty Kid. Everyone acts like someone just used a racial slur. The little league team storms away.

Fake Hambino gets an aluminum bat which is space-aged technology. Instantly cranks a homer.
everyone goes to get the ball back.
Johnnie freaks out. Warns them about the Great Fear, spawn of the Beast. They have to look through a hole in a wall of washing machines to see for themseves.

Fake Hambino says Johnnie is "freaking oot." THEY'RE CANADIAN! THIS MOVIE IS A SHAM!

Smalls freaking oot.

[Editor's note: This clip encapsulates the movies pretty well. Bad CGI, 70s slang, recycled material.]

Smalls has to explain the Great Fear. This obviously requires a sleepover, but to mix things up Fake Hambino says "bivouac" instead of "sleepover."
Of course there's a black and white flashback where Johnnie explains that some kid lost something over the fence and couldn't get it back because The Great Fear drooled on it. The kid loved some made up superhero, tried to get his toy back and was bitten by the dog. There's a chase scene in the flashback with rip-off Wipeout music. So,

I just realized that Johnnie looks like Tig Notaro with a bowl cut.

Fourth of July is coming up and since Johnnie loves rockets he buys a bunch of fireworks. The narrator tells us that kids these days are coddled because they aren't allowed to buy dangerous fireworks. I don't come to subpar sequels for the hot parenting takes, David Mickey Evans!

Oh, now it's too hot. The girls want to go swimming.
Fuck this movie. It's like they asked people what their favorite parts of the original were and then recreated the environment those parts occurred in.
Oh they liked Hambino saying "I'm baking like a toasted cheeser" let's have another scene where it's hot. And they loved Squints kissing Wendy Pfeffercorn at the pool. We need a scene with a pool.
I find this movie aimed at children to be insulting to my intelligence.

Pretty Boy (whose name is David) is ashamed of something under his 70s tubesock and won't go swimming. He's a never nude.

Far out. Right on. Groovy. It must be the 70s.

Hey, they got the rights to Spirit in the Sky.

Hayley's dad works for NASA and has a badass rocket. He offers to launch it with Johnnie, but then flakes just because he has urgent NASA business. But he doesn't tell Johnnie, so our man J. Smalls sets it up to wait for Mr. Hayley.
 Johnnie straps an astronaut action figure to the rocket. That's his thing. Except it's a dumb thing for a nerd to do. PAYLOAD WEIGHT BALANCE SMALLS!
He falls asleep with the launch button on his lap. It falls and the rocket launches. OH NO!
Crazy special effects.
Ruins the dugout again.
Oh Shit, that rocket was important real NASA shit.

Smalls is standing in the crater made by the launch. Staring off into space (GET IT) and Bertram 2.0 says Maybe the shock of knowing some famous science dude was too much for him.
It's the same damn line from the first one.

The shuttle from the rocket lands in the Big Fear's/Mr. Mertle's back yard.

God dammit.
"You mean to tell me that you launched a scale model of the NASA Space Shuttle."
"It's worth more than your whole life, Smalls."
He faints. "Give him some air."

Whole chunks of dialogue, just recycled from the first movie. Am I allowed to be angry this movie now without seeming like a person with unresolved emotional issues?


Johnnie explains that, like his brother, he has a bit of an engineering streak. The crew decides to sacrifice a cat to The Big Fear using, not an erector set, but some jankity mish-mash of toys.

Disco Draco shows up to get the shuttle back. He says they call him the Retriever. He lost his frisbee over a fence to a dog once, and now collects dogs' name tags as vengeance. He doesn't say he kills the dogs, but you know he does. One look at his necklace dangling with hundreds of tags tells you all you need to know.
The Big Fear tosses the Retriever over the fence and into the pool. The Retriever retires instantly. I guess this supposed to tell us how formidable The Big Fear is, because a kid we're meeting for the first time told us how great he is at murdering dogs and taking their tags as trophies, and that kid couldn't handle the dog.

The kids tunnel under the fence.

I swear to God if James Earl Jones says "Why didn't you just come and ask me. I'd have gotten it for you." I will be pissed.
[Editor's note: Spoiler alert, he does.]

Fake Hambino, the one who volunteered to go into the tunnel, poops his pants after being chased by The Big Fear. We get to see the stain.

Why the hell is a NASA employee keeping a working model of the space shuttle in his garage? I don't know why that question is only now coming into my head.

Pretty Boy declares that he needs to step up and be a hero, so he will climb into Mr. Mertle's backyard, grab the shuttle and bring it back. Of course he has some special shoes to help him run faster. In a blink-you'll-miss-it moment of product placement, the narrator drops a line about Nike the winged Greek goddess of victory. (NIKE SHOES? FUCK YOU! PF FLYERS OR GTFO!) Pretty Boy pulls out what are clearly basketball shoes. They are bulky and puffy. They are not meant for speed on dirt or grass. I hope he gets eaten in that yard and The Big Fear chokes on his femur, so they rot together under the hot July sun. Hayley, who does not share my wishes, knows Pretty Boy is fast because she saw him pick up her homework real quick, and tells him to Just Do It.

Pretty Boy is the kid from the story who liked the Rocket Comic book. Or something. He acts like a matador to avoid The Big Fear, minus the stabbing with frilly spears--Do you hear me, Spain? The spears you use to slowly murder an animal are gaudy!

The dog jumps the fence, thus beginning the rehash of The Sandlot's chase scene. This time scored with BTO's Taking Care of Business. They reuse the shot of the dog jumping over the camera, which means that every Sandlot movie has shot of a dog's dick in it. Way to keep the streak alive.

Pretty Boy curses. You can tell a movie cool when it thinks you're mature enough to curse in front of you.
Like version of this scene I enjoy, everyone ends up back at the sandlot. The giant wall of washing machines falls on Pretty Boy. He falls into the tunnel. The Big Fear digs him out.

Another recycled line. This time it's, "He doesn't look too good." That's not even a very distinctive line, but I know David Mickey Evans half-assed his way through this screenplay and I'm looking out for it. There were too many other repeats and I know The Sandlot so well that I can't let anything slide now. I'm like a conspiracy theorist who's too much in his own head, to the point where innocuous things seem to hint at something nefarious. "Strike three". Hey! That's in the first movie.

James Earl Jones recaps the first movie for them. This is the second time the first movie has been summarized. Mr. Mertle says the crew should have just asked to be let into the backyard. Then he strikes a deal to take down the wall--Mr. Mertle, tear down this wall!--if they agree to walk The Big Fear (who's real name is Goliath. Which is great, because Pretty Boy's name is David. Get it?).

The Big Fear has sex with a lady dog. Puppies are born. Everyone gets a puppy, which they will chain up in a yard surrounded by a makeshift fence cobbled together with scrap metal, until neighbor kids develop a mythology around the rabid animal kept in solitary confinement.

Everyone is summarized. Fingers and his brother started Def Jam Records. BOLD MOVE! Because I know that to be false. Unless his brother is Rick Rubin. Fingers also started Kissing Booth Bubble Gum. That's got to be something you keep from the artists you're trying to sign to Def Jam.
[Editor's note: I did consider the fact that they went with the spelling of Deaf Jam and they aren't really implying one of these kids became Rubin, but are in fact violators of trademark/copyright law. In one scenario the script writer thinks he or you are an idiot. In the other scenario the characters are idiots.]

The credits are rolling.
The producers would like to thank Nike. No shit, I'm sure that Just Do It line paid for the rocket launch scene.

I'm excited to find out if I can watch The Sandlot ever again without shaking my head and muttering "goddammit."

Dear Diary: Get a Load of This Guy

Dear Diary,

Today, I found a douchebag on the internet. I know, I'm a regular love child of Dora the Explorer and Steve from Blue's Clues. (once Dora is legal. Don't be gross, Diary.)

And before you get judgey about me being so judgey allow me to say that I am trying to be less judgey. A person can't be discerned to be a douchebag from one thing put up on the internet. Everyone should get the benefit of the doubt, and rather than being called a douchebag we should be labelled as a stranger who said/wrote a douchebag thing. It may be a momentary lapse or a comment requiring further context. That's what I would want for myself.

But this guy was a douche. I looked into it after I saw this tweet.

One thing that bugs the crap out of me is when someone telling people that they are using social media incorrectly. This gentleman is telling Metro Rail Info that they shouldn't send promotional tweets onto their own account. STOP USING YOUR TWITTER ACCOUNT IN A MANNER THAT YOU SEE FIT! I WILL TELL YOU HOW TO TWITTER! I assume his brain must be typing on the brain keyboard like I assume they have in the upcoming Disney/Pixar film Herman's Head Except for Kids and It Will Probably Have You Sniveling With Emotion As You Exit the Theater. I hate to go to bat for a metropolitan mass transit social media coordinator, but mind your goddamn business. Is having one in six tweets not be specifically about train functionality affecting your commute in a meaningful way that you feel you should scold the organization for not providing the content you expect from them? (I dunno, Dennis, is reading his tweet worth spending 45 minutes of your evening anxiously typing at a keyboard when you could be doing something productive? Yes, Diary, it is.) 

It would be like if the 49ers sent a congratulatory tweet to the Giants on winning the World Series and I responded, "Please, keep it football related. I don't follow you to hear about baseball." I like the "please" too. You aren't being polite. You're being bossy and nosy. (I called a man bossy. Score one for feminism.)

You see this crap on Tumblr too. (Don't roll your eyes at me, Diary). People calling out others for not following their own moral code for reblogging stuff. Do not reblog my stuff if you're X type of blog. You have to keep my original tags. Do I? Is that in the terms of service? I didn't realize this was nerd baseball* and that I had to follow all of your unwritten rules. I'm pretty sure that if the program I'm using allows me to do something, then it's okay if I do it. If you don't like it then...well, nothing. You just have to deal with your feelings. 

Okay, but how do I know this guy IS a douchebag and didn't just send the tweet OF a douchebag? Allow me to present his twitter bio.

Before, I dig into this assemblage of semicolons and random phrases, one more word about Twitter Comptrollers staying on message:
I want to harass this guy every time he tweets about something that isn't beer and Iceland.

"Just saw The Avett Brothers in concert. So much fun."
"@toolbag. Please don't tweet about concerts unless it is to say what beer you drank at a Sigur Rós show."

The moment I knew that I could never be friends with this person was the moment after I looked up the definition of bon vivant. I had a general idea that it meant foppish nancy-boy. At least that's who I thought used it. You know, people like Oscar Wilde and people he mocked.

Well I was wrong. It means a person who enjoys a sociable and luxurious lifestyle. What a stupid term. Who doesn't enjoy luxury and being social? Ted Kaczynski is who. Do you have to be currently living a sociable and luxurious lifestyle to qualify as a bon vivant? And if you aren't then you're just an aspiring bon vivant. This is the same as saying "I enjoy the finer things in live." No shit? Who doesn't like nicer things? It's an empty self-description. Really? You wouldn't rather have a shittier couch?

You don't learn anything about a person when they tell you that they like sheets with high thread counts and driving sports cars. Everyone enjoys that stuff. You aren't special or interesting. You know who is interesting? A person who says they really like a Sam Adams six-pack while watching their neighbors shoot off fireworks on the Fourth of July. That says something about their personality. It says that person is chill as hell, and I'd rather hang out with them instead someone breaking down where the best caviar comes from. (Is it Iceland?) Because I assume everyone I meet would get a kick out of the high roller's suite at Caesar's Palace and a bottle of Dom.

Identifying as a bon vivant is just a way of admitting that you're fussy and high maintenance. Also, you're doing Twitter wrong.

* I realize that fantasy baseball is the real nerd baseball.

Dear Diary: Ron Grossman's Crankiness Makes Me Cranky

Dear Diary,

I read a stupid thing by an old guy. I'm going to complain about it now.

Ron Grossman penned an article about Starbucks' recent (it's now been a few weeks, but when I wrote the draft of this it was recent. I swear.) point of sale system and how it highlighted Kids These Days' general lack of gumption and boot straps to pull themselves up by. Ron wants you know that it's a damn shame and it shows a lack of moxie. You can read the article here, but all you need to know is that straight up accuses Starbucks baristas of not having moxie. I know. Strong words. This is some old man, get off my lawn bloviation.

The background is that Starbucks suffered a widespread crash of its POS system (what a POS, amirite?), and, as a result, some stores gave away drinks for free while others closed. Ron Grossman wants you to know that isn't how things were done back in his day, which experts estimate to be at least 5 decades ago. Ron used to work at a deli, and once, he couldn't change the receipt paper fast enough and  probably for fear of being beaten with cured meat, his frustrated boss started doing math by hand. Not on regular paper either, but a brown paper sack. Xtra Folksy. Grossman later tells a wistful tale of his boss smacking him with a stick of cured meat.

"When frustrated by me, Mr. Gertzkin would reach for a hard salami hanging over the deli case, holding it like a night stick."

I'd have trouble using fine motor skills to thread a spool of paper into a cash register too if the fear of violence were looming in the back of my mind. But Grossman still blames himself, because he was a young, low-level employee, and the young and low-level are inherently dumb and incompetent. The abusive deli owner is just trying to run a business.

Ron goes on to recount a tale of woe at his local RadioShack. Ron's TV was on the fritz and, seeking an aspiring electrical technician learning the ways of servos and transistors, headed to RadioShack, a business patronized by people who find Best Buy too advanced. But Ron found no whiz kid to fix his rabbit ears. Instead he was met with a clerk as clueless as he. He eventually found a helpful hand at a different RadioShack.

"[M]y interlocutor wasn't an employee but the father of the store's youthful manager. An electronics buff in his youth, he happened to be visiting his daughter."

Ho, ho, ho, what a twist ending.

Ron Grossman's point is that whippersnappers aren't helpful, and yet, nowadays, only whippersnappers are employed at the chain stores that muscled out the Mom and Pop shops. It was those small, locally owned businesses where you found knowledgeable employees who cared about the business. The loss of those places as the norm is a fine thing to lament. But the employees of Starbucks and other chains aren't responsible for that. Consumers, people like you, me and Ron, are. We get what we pay for, and we pay for lower prices and convenience that stand alone stores can't offer. The youthful RadioShack manager didn't hire herself. If you're mad at someone for grabbing the brass ring of RadioShack store manager, then you probably think Monty Burns and the Grinch are misunderstood champions of self-reliance.

So, why is Ron focusing his tongue clicking at baristas forced to wear black and green? He's probably an old crank. And he's probably never had a low-level customer service job for a giant corporation. I've got news for Ron Grossman. The reason that RadioShack employee couldn't offer real help, and the reason the Starbucks employees gave away free drinks, is because they don't give a shit about their employers. Nor should they. They probably aren't paid enough to care that much. National chains run on low-wage employees. One of the reasons Ron cared about that deli he worked in is because he saw and worked along side the owner every day. Do you know who owns the Starbucks currently nearest to you? Of course not. Neither do I. And I'll bet you a sixer of frappuchinos that if you went to that Starbucks every day for a month you'd never see them, because it's someone (or a group of someones) who have never been there. To expect the same level of investment from the bottom rung employees at a Starbucks as employees in a neighborhood deli from yesteryear is idiotic. You know when politicians use that brain dead Main Street/Wall Street analogy? Ron Grossman is the kind of blockhead slapping his armchair saying "It's about damn time!"

Another important factor in the Starbucks Free Drink Fiasco is the fact that the POS system was down. They couldn't take credit cards, which probably account for well over half of transactions. They may even not have been able to open the registers for people who were paying cash. A lot of computerized cash registers are dumb that way. They may have been unable make change. When employees feel like nameless cogs in a machine the odds of them saying "fuck this" when the going gets tough are very high. If anything, this is great publicity for Starbucks. Giving away product when they couldn't take payment and being okay with that (or seeming to be cool with it) makes Starbucks look like a cool company. And they can afford it. If they couldn't then I wouldn't be within walking distance of four of their stores. If they came out and said "Our baristas screwed up and it cost us a lot of money" they would look like a dickbag robber baron from the 1800s, or member of the Walton Family.

To be clear, I've never worked at Starbucks, but I've worked at places where protocol and rules were determined by people I'd never met. Rules about hours and overtime (don't work too much or we'll fire you), training videos with accompanying worksheets, systems to determine what grade of toilet paper can be ordered for employee bathrooms. It's not the same as being taken under the wing of a kindly shop owner.

I don't even know why Ron is taking up for Starbucks. Is he upset that Starbucks lost money because its employees couldn't keep a cool head in a crisis? Or is this just as reason to bemoan kids these days? Either way, Ron needs to get off my lawn.

love,

Dennis

CineMasochism: Redbelt

Welcome to the inaugural installment of/first attempt at CineMasochism. A series where I watch and then discuss a movie that I have never heard of. I will select movies by analyzing the DVD cover, the plot synopsis, and the cast. If there is a Tom Hanks movie I don't know about (and there is), then it is getting picked. Obviously this will result in me finding some gems and some stinkers, but I'm also expecting to see some movies whose absence in my consciousness seems inexplicable.

Which is the case with the first movie I chose, Redbelt. It was written and directed by David Mamet, stars Chiwetel Ejiofor, and features Tim Allen, Emily Mortimer, Joe Mantegna,  and Randy Couture.  Ed O'Neill and Jake Johnson make cameos. It even has two That Guys, Ricky Jay and David Paymer. How have I not at least heard of this movie?

There are two parts to the answer. First, Redbelt was released on six screens May 2nd, 2008, the same week Iron Man came out. The following week Redbelt expanded to almost 1,400 screens and Speed Racer opened. Speed Racer looked real good on the big screen.

The second part to the answer has to do with the movie itself. Mamet described Redbelt as a Fight Movie, except there isn't much fighting. It's a shame, because this could be a solid Sunday afternoon TBS movie. It has all the right elements. Ejiofor plays Mike Terry, the owner of a struggling jiu-jitsu studio who, because of a cabal of show business types, must enter a martial arts tournament to earn money to pay off debts and defend his dead friend's honor. It has famous athletes (Cotoure) acting.

One scene in particular best illustrates Redbelt's potential as perfect double feature partner to Timecop. In it Ejiofor questions a bartender in the middle of a shift for information on why his cop buddy, who had been working as a bouncer at the bar, hadn't been paid. During the exchange a magician interrupts the two, attempting to con the bartender into rolling a dice for a free drink. Ejiofor asks a question, the magician says something wacky, the bartender answers the magician, Ejiofor repeats his question, and the bartender answers. It's two conversations between three people happening simultaneously, the kind of thing that happens all the time in movies but never in real life.

What keeps Redbelt from achieving it's full potential is the lack of action. Mamet had been studying and practicing jiu-jitsu for years before making the movie. As a result the fighting is realistic instead of flashy (except for when Ejiofor runs up a wall to escape a choke-hold). This isn't inherently bad, but when the fighting in a fight movie is infrequent, tactical grappling it's not the most inherentlyengaging  cinematic experience.

How to use this movie to be a film snob
There are multiple tacks to take when using Redbelt to flex your toned cinephile muscles. You can explain that it adds a seriousness and maturity to the Fight Movie genre. When they point out the lack of action is extremely boring, you counter that the realism of the combat technique leaves viewers free to appreciate the selflessness and philosophical ideals of Ejiofor's character. They may argue that the plot is needlessly complicated and requires multiple viewings to follow. Counter by saying something about it being an homage to B-level predecessors, then change the subject to seeing the greatness Ejiofor would later display in 12 Years a Slave, even in a historically "low art" genre. You may also condescend to them that, which it was intricate, you had no problems following the plot. Be sure to study IMDB's synopsis, because it is pretty goddamn ridiculous. If explaining Redbelt to someone who hasn't seen it, do not attempt to give them a plot summary as it cannot be done in less than five minutes. Every plot point builds on the one preceding it in an absurd way. You can't explain why Ejiofor has to enter the tournament instead of pursuing his intellectual property lawsuit without talking about Mortimer accidentally shooting out the jiu-jitsu studio's window in the opening scene. Instead say that Redbelt is about a man struggling to uphold his moral code against outside forces. It will seem as though you are mysterious and understand film on a deeper, philosophical level than normal humans.
Key phrases to bandy about: CinemaScope. Thinking man's Road House. Peaceful warrior. Mametian.

Sweet lines to help you start Redbelt's cult following
"Let the wheel come around."
"Administer the fight. Insist."
"The battle is the issue. Who imposes the terms of the battle will impose the terms of the peace."
"Boxing is as dead as Woodrow Wilson."

Is it rewatchable?
Yes. Chiwetel Ejiofor is undeniably cool as Mike Terry and CinemaScope is pretty.

Dear Diary: That Damn Scarf

Dear Diary,

Something I've noticed since being fully immersed in public transportation in a city with people who feel the need to appear hoity toity is that everyone has the same stupid scarf. The tan one with black, white, and red stripes. 

You know the scarf. 

Yeah. This stupid thing. Everyone has it. Men. Women. Animals. I don't understand why so much of the population wants to have the same scarf as everyone else. 

But Dennis, It's April. Spring is elbowing Old Man Winter back into his celestial nursing home until next years doddering ambulations. Soon leaves will be sprouting from trees like hair from the armpits of junior high students. What concern is a scarf to you now, in the time of Day Light Savings? Besides it's from Burberry.

To that I say, shut up, Diary. It's not even a good looking scarf, and I just looked it up and it costs $300. Tell me that isn't the stupidest thing you've ever heard. You can't, because it is. 

That pattern is unattractive. It looks like couch upholstery from the 70s. I'm not willing to debate this. It's objective fact. Which makes it even more confusing that every third person I see on the subway would be wearing this overpriced piece of neckwear that doesn't even look that warm. Are we really so easily influenced by what everyone else buys that we have made a scarf a status symbol? 

Seriously, it's the color of diarrhea.

Love, 

Dennis

Dear Diary: Old People Are Weird About Money

Dear Diary,

Why are old people so weird about money? Not spending or saving it, but physical bills and coins. They have an unhealthy preoccupation with, if given the choice, keeping the currency in the best physical condition and spending that with the most wear and tear. When making a purchase with a full wallet that is always the main concern.

You might think I'm unfairly stereotyping. But I have years of retail experience to back up this claim. I've seen an elderly woman, who owed $4.85, rifle past fives and tens, explaining that, "I'm sure I have a ratty twenty in here. I'll give that to you."  I marked each note she thumbed past mentally, thinking to myself, "give me that one give me that one give me that one give me that one."
I questioned whether this pursuit was the best use of both of our time. It's annoying enough as a cashier to have someone ruin your drawer by breaking a large bill, but to do it for a reason as trivial as the aesthetic appeal of that large bill is especially galling. The twenty she gave me wasn't really even damaged. It was simply wrinkled, weathered and worn from age. Like the woman's own face. Was it's presence in her wallet an affront to the other crisp bills? Does it's appearance remind her that she herself is not what she once was?

A man once dug into his pocket twice in search of a discolored, barely recognizable nickel even though he'd snagged a clean one on the first attempt. Who are these people trying to impress? Do they think Lucius Malfoy is going to see them at the muggle bookstore and accuse them of being a Weasley?

Tatty Dollars?

Even if they are able to curate a crisp and shiny stack of cash it won't last long. The money in our wallets is inherently transient. It's there for us to get rid of. Will they tell their friend or spouse, "You couldn't tell by looking now, but before I went to the dry cleaners my cash was beautiful. It looked like I'd ironed it. Oh, you should have seen it." 

Keep in mind I'm not talking about a five with a rip down the middle. Obviously if you have a bill with legitimate damage then you spend that first. You don't want to be the person who finally tears Abraham asunder. Then you've got two halves of a bill. And sure, you can go to a bank to get a new one, but that's a hassle. The only time I go to the bank is when the bank makes me go for some transaction or bit of business I can't do online or over the phone. It's always a special trip. I'm never near my bank when it's convenient. The only people who still go to the bank are old people. So really, they should be forced to keep the disintegrated bills and muck encrusted coins.

I'm sorry, Ethel, but you know the deal. You go the bank every week anyway because of your distrust of direct deposit and inability to use online account transfers. While you're there just swap out the grungy cash. Now, Ethel, I know you think all of these flimsy bills have been on strippers' behinds and you're probably right, but this is your generations penance for ruing social security by screwing too much after the war. Eisenhower did not tell you to screw like bunnies.

These people are old and need to live with more urgency. Younger people can reasonably expect to be alive for many more decades. It might not play out that way, but the odds are good. But these people are in crunch time. How many minutes a day are you willing to sacrifice to cling to nice looking money? It's all worth the same. Grab some and move on with your day. Don't you have a dying light to rage against?

love,

Dennis

Sport Not a Sport: Golf

It's St. Patrick's Day! The the Americanized version of Ireland's weak-ass version of Germany's far superior Oktoberfest. Have you ever noticed how come September the beer aisle is littered with Oktoberfest seasonal beers, but the only beer specific to St. Paddy's day is Bud Light dyed green, which will be served throughout the NCAA tournament. You never realized how long beer sits around at a bar until they dye it green for one specific week and they're still serving it month later. I've ordered a beer in April and been served a green one. It's shocking.

Anywho. In honor of this most Irish of days I decided to knock back a few ales and write about golf, a sport I assume originated in Ireland.

Nope. Just Bing-ed it. Scotland. However, I watched Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: Why Is This A Trilogy, Can I Stream the Weird Cartoon Version I Used to Love last night, and according to Gandalf it was created in Middle Earth by Bilbo's ancestor.

Golf, a game which the origins of are highly contested, is a game played on courses of well landscaped forest clearings. The quality of the game is directly related to the property value of the particular course in use. This fact is part of the reason golf is seen as a sport of the elite. Another reason is cost. Golf is stupid expensive. Here is an Amazon listing for a used driver which you can purchase for $29. That is one club. You will be needing 8 to 11 more clubs to play golf. You can buy an entire set of clubs at once. Sometimes buying in bulk can lower costs. Let's see what happens when I search for "affordable golf club set."

$800!!!!

I specifically used the word "affordable." This is crazy.







More digging uncovers a used set on Amazon for $160. So that's good. You can buy those and still be able to pay your electric bill this month. Now you just need to buy some balls, special shoes and then pay to go play a game.

Yes, unlike in basketball, a sport whose sportiness is beyond reproach, the old men wearing double knee braces on the golf course don't take kindly to you standing off to the side and yelling "Next!" to stake your claim. Golf requires you to call ahead and arrange a time where you can play. Golf a sport for gentlemen. White gentlemen.

Just because golf is a game with daunting start-up costs and classist/sexist history that doesn't prove whether or not it's a sport. But it doesn't bode well. One of the great things about sports is that they act as an equalizing and unifying activity. Merit is determined on the field of play. If not everyone can afford to get onto that field of play then it doesn't seem very sporting.
(Note to self: Pitch movie to Disney about inner-city golf team)

Let's get into the nitty gritty of golf to figure out if it is a sport or not a sport. It has objective scoring. Every time you swing that counts as a point. Stroke? Whatever. You accumulate strokes until the ball goes into the cup. The person with the most points...what? Least points? YOU'RE ON THIN ICE ALREADY, GOLF! You accumulate strokes until you get the ball into all of the cup. "Cup" refers to the hole you are trying to hit your ball into. "Hole" refers to the stretch of course you are currently playing. From the tee to the cup is the hole. God you're stupid, golf. Still, objective scoring is involved. Penalties are given for prescribed reasons. There are no judges. If someone starts talking trash, you can always respond by saying "Scoreboard."

Golf is also physically taxing (so I'm told) which seems to be a qualifying aspect of sports. But the reason it's physically taxing is because you're walking around for 4 hours carrying a bag of metal sticks. Making a connecting flight in Charlotte is physically taxing when you have to haul your carry-ons from one gate to another. That doesn't mean ESPN2 should devote any airtime to it. And golf gives you the option of using a go kart if you get too winded. I'm sure John Kruk would have loved the option to hop into car instead of legging out a double when he hit one into the gap. To be fair, I don't think professional golf events allow the use of golf carts. I can't be sure because I've never watched one, because that would be the most boring thing in the world.

Golf also does not allow defense. You don't get to effect the way an opponent plays or what they do. It is played by taking turns. Players don't even take turns on the same hole consecutively. At pro events some players start on the first hole, some in the middle of the course, and some at the end. You could be winning when you finish the course and end up losing. How can something be a sport if the competitors aren't competing at the same time? I could play a course on Monday and my buddy could play it on Tuesday and then we compare scores to see how won. That's not a sport, that's a high score board. Golf is just an outdoor, extreme version of skeeball. But less entertaining to watch than skeeball.

GOLF: Not a sport.