“I am the master of my-” (for better or worse)
Each year there is a film that critics and award show judges can’t leave alone, in spite of how truly awful it is. This year, joining the likes of such trash as “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and Peter Jackson’s “King Kong” there is “Invictus.” Clint Eastwood directed this tale of South Africa in the day of Nelson Mandella, using the true life story of the country’s rugy team (and eventual triumph in the Rugy World Cup) as metaphor for nationalism. Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon star. It’s been nominated for 3 Golden Globe awards, and several others. Most are for acting, but many are for Best Director which implies the film is well put together.
Trouble is, the film fails on pretty much every level.
It’s a bad historical drama because it does very little to portray the true depth of racism and hatred that permeated the country before the end Apartheid. The film jumps from the release of Mandella from prison in the first scene (a single snide, racist remark provides the racial context here) to his election as President before the credits are over. Though I lived though this time of history, I was uniformed by this film about the depth of injustice perpetrated by whites over blacks in South Africa for many years. There’s some tension here and there, but if it’s to be a film about the history and end of hatred, it is lost.
It’s a bad biographical drama because Freeman is given so little to do. The depth of Mandella’s presidency is displayed only in the context of rugby. His grace toward whites is on display, but the film shows so little of the man actually leading it becomes hard to root for him as a cultural icon of our time. There are some indications of a painful home life, but these are not explored well – more like stereotypical inserts to try to get us to care. Freeman apparently does a good imitation of the man (who realy knows?), but is given no particular acting challenges. Perhaps the stunningly, agonizingly slow cantor of his speech is true to life, but it doesn’t make a good choice for a director who’s picture (already too long) is being drawn out by the spaces between his character’s words. Eastwood’s choices are so poor that he allows a lengthy dialogue between Mandella and his assistant in which he pledges to memorize the name of each member of the team as a sign of good will and later, once meeting them, we see him shaking hands, calling a few by name and saying, “Good luck, son” to the rest.
It’s a bad sports movie because the sport is not well explained, the team is not well developed, their struggle is poorly depicted and their triumph understated. Until the trophy was presented, I honestly thought the championship game was a semi-final. The thuggish enemy opponent is clearly drawn and easily defeated. If the team itself overcomes obstacles they are hard to pin down. Damon, in the role of team captain, may also be playing true to life, but the character he is portraying is frightfully undramatic. Twice he is to carry the emotion of the team along and both times he simply mutters a single line like, “So think about that” and walks out of the room! When in the huddle and we think he will forcefully and emotionally evoke the title poem, he does not. Unfortunately, Damon is to be the heart and soul of the film, but;
It’s a bad inspirational movie because it literally drops the sentiment off to the side. At one point the uncouth rugby team travels to the prison where Mandella was unjustly incarcerated for years, only to treat the side trip as a blythe walk through a museum. There is no great weight here. Matt Damon has visions of Mandella’s character but is stoic (either by choice or direction) and doesn’t have much to say. There’s no enlightenment visible in his face – and we don’t even see the other team members’ enough to decide. The theme of the movie, therefore, is supposed to be transferred to us later in the film as Damon looks out over the city at dawn, supposedly contemplating his big sporting challenge only to reveal he’s been thinking about the awesome heart of President Mandella. It’s a non sequitur to say the least.
And speaking of that – how do you give a best directing nod to someone who edits in a helicopter sequence in which the president is going to visit the team to wish them good luck (again!) which pops on the screen like a shampoo commercial, complete with rock anthem. It’s as if the song is by his daughter-in-law and he promised to stick it in there “somewhere.” The rest of the soundtrack is jazz (him playing piano, I presume), yet jammed in here is this odd sequence. Oh, and he doesn’t say the player’s names this time, either.
It’s a bad thriller. Going in you might not think it was meant to be, but Eastwood spends so much time with this subplot and its characters that there must be something going on. Bodyguards are constantly meeting, exclaiming, fretting and arguing about the President’s fate. But no threat actually arrives. Has no one in charge of award nominations noticed one of the stupidest sequences of the year is in this movie? As the big game is about to begin, he cuts to the interior of an approaching jumbo jet and tries to get us to believe the rogue pilot is going to dive bomb the stadium. Cue the rousing music! Sequentially cut to the faces of the body guards looking alarmed but unable to act! Cut back to the plane! Then the unsuspecting Mandella! Ugh! So pat and quiet possibly the worst visual effect of the year when the plane has a near miss (I mean laughable the way that plane looks like it was pasted in there using my MacPro’s hard drive). The film could have lost this entire side line and it would have been 3o minutes welcomed on the cutting room floor. A simple scene depicting the tension between the white and black members of the guard early; then a scene of them 75 minutes later playing rugby in the yard is all that’s needed from them!
It’s a bad nationalistic movie, because the tensions of the country are never well depicted nor resolved. The best sequence in the film (though also cliche) is when the brutish rugby players must set aside their goals (apparently they really are eager to win, we just never get to see this) and enter the slums to teach children about the game. Here are the shots of the whites and blacks coming together through sport. And, apparently, the repressed blacks did rally around the all white team during the World Cup. Eastwood’s shots of this phenomenon are so lame, so static and still so bizarrely separatist. If there is unification besides the fact that everybody jumps up and down at the same time, it is lost on us.
So, how do you embrace a movie that tries to be so much and fails. In my opinion you don’t. In fact, you shouldn’t be honoring it at all, nor spending money or time to see it.
The Opposite of Shallow
On the way to a movie with my daughter (8 years old), I find myself in an interesting discussion. We’re listening to the soundtrack of the musical Wicked, one of her favorites having seen the show and performed a number as part of her most recent stagecraft class. She wonders why it’s funny when Elphaba, having been described as “exceedingly unusual and peculiar and all together nearly impossible to describe,” classifies her roommate Glinda as merely “Blonde.” In the best way I can, we talk about stereotypes, what they are, what they mean and why we don’t prescribe to them in our daily lives (though they can make for good literature).
Prior to leaving the house, I read a brief review of our movie, Where The Wild Things Are. In sum, it says the movie is clever, “but not very much happens.” We settle in and off it goes. An adaptation of the classic Maurice Sendak book, the film shows frustrated, emotional Max charging through his house, being ignored by his sister and acting out for his mother before running out of the house, finding a boat and sailing away to the island of the wild things. Director Spike Jonze says he decided to depict the monsters as emotions. On the surface perhaps not much happens, yet we are invited to go deeper.
The film is an amazing depiction of youth. The emotions bared by tiny Max on an intimate level are echoed on a grand scale by the monsters. It is tender, telling, emotional, and scary – a meditation on the perils and joys of being a child.
We need to begin to value the joys of depth. Nothing in this world is as it seems on the surface. When exposed to art (high or low), if you consider the work to be simple and basic please remember layers of decision making were required to agree that it should appear simple and basic. There’s depth in the process, even if it isn’t in the result. Every moment, wink, piece of clothing, prop and watchband is put there on purpose.
Every public move, every political decision, most every dollar spent, every moral, ethic, establishment, premise, promise, desire and promotion – especially promotion – is multi-layered, examined, considered, tested and rendered by a team. There are 300 million people in the United States, seven trillion in the world. To move forward on any venture with an aspiration of reaching, pleasing or understanding them all is a fool’s errand. The diversity of our world is staggering. Find the niche you can serve and serve them well – aspiring for mass fame and fortune is the dream of a bygone era.
The exception that proves the rule is love. There are no facets, layers or degrees. If you believe there are, you are doing it wrong. Your relationships may vary – all the while you either love or you don’t. That’s not shallow – that’s deep.
Eat At Joe’s
When I was a young man living in New York City, I lived about three blocks from the best pizza in the world. You don’t have to take my word for it; Joe’s Pizza – at the time on the corner of Bleeker and Carmine, now a few doors north at 7 Carmine – has long been called the best by many. It appeared in another smarmy GQ article on the subject just a few months ago. It is considered the real deal in a world of Famous Ray’s and The Original Famous Ray’s and The True Original Famous Ray’s. The sauce of this pie is so particular, when you get to the crust end of the slice and are only getting bread and sauce it doesn’t taste quite right. What I mean is, the sauce is the perfect compliment to sauce and cheese. If one is missing, the balance is off.
So you understand it is with a very high standard that I enter a place like “Za” – 801 Broadripple Avenue – the new home of “New York Style” pizza in my town. The storefront is the right demeanor for this kind of pie and the hours clearly cater to the drunk nightclub scene (open to 4am Wednesday through Saturday); lunch only one weekend day. The demeanor of the guys behind the counter seem to fit as well. Friendly, but more interested in business than anything else.
I had to get “a slice” (that’s cheese only) and something called “A Slice Of Goodness” (red and green peppers, red onions, prosciutto in addition to the sauce and mozz). The slices are big enough to fold in half and you can always get cheese, peperoni and whatever the special of the day is. I visited during the week and the place seemed a bit slow (I drew the employees inside from a break with my arrival). This leads to the reheated pizza slice, which is commonplace around the world I suppose. The danger, of course, is ending up with the “mall slice.” That is, the slice that has been sitting in the window for around three hours and now is getting heated through, much to the dismay of the crust, in particular. This crust held up well, the reheating adding just the right bite. I don’t know how long ago the slice had been fresh, but it was the last one of it’s kind. Za is keeping their pies in a warming oven, not just under glass at the counter. I suppose this means the heating was just to crisp the crust, but I couldn’t really tell the difference. The sauce is excellent, subtle and fresh tasting. The peppers stood out as the freshest flavor, as I would expect at this time of year. The menu said prosciutto was featured, but it was hard to find. I dug around to look and found a few shavings, certainly not enough to provide a flash of flavor I expected. The whole thing goes down fast, easy and filling. And I was sober.
Twenty years is a long time, but I remember being able to poke around my college digs and drop $2.10 on the counter for my “slice and a coke” at Joe’s. I was just back there in August of this year and the price had increased, to a mere $4.25. Joe’s is a world famous dive, residing in some of the most expensive commercial real estate in the world, and I can get a lunch for four-and-a-quarter. Why, then, must I feel ripped off being charged $4 for just the slice in little ole’ Indy? (Okay, the chalkboard says $3.50, but the to-go menu says $4.50. I split the difference.) Add a second piece and a drink and I’m almost to $10. What this world needs is a good meal under $4 and a pizza joint should be able to pull this off!
For starters, let’s bring back the small fountain drink. I guess if you handed a 12 ounce cup to a guy in the Midwest he might punch you in the jaw for insulting his masculinity. But if you only charged him $0.45 for the thing he might not. I worked in food service once. I know the margin on those soft drinks (astronomical, in case you didn’t know) is supposed to be the bread and butter. But the restaurant business has become greedy. $1.50 for 24 ounces at Za is reasonable compared to other places, but still absurd. Hey, Joe’s doesn’t provide the fountain out front for refills, either. But nobody complains when they get change back from a $5 bill. And when your main product is pizza, where the margins are already crazy high, you should be looking for ways to get people to talk about your store. Sure, the pizza is good – maybe worthy of comparison to the best pizza in the world even if it can’t possibly measure up – but if you want to make friends in Broadripple Village, I suggest you open for lunch, drop the prices in half and start cranking out those pizzas so fast they can’t possibly need more than the slightest toasting when ordered.
Of course, this is America. There are (drunk) suckers born every minute. And plenty of P.T. Barnums to take advantage of them.
Tarantino’s Wet Dream
The problem with reviewing a film like Inglourious Basterds lies in the conceit of the auteur and, simultaneously, the reviewer. Tarantino has made such a broad epic about movies with so many inside jokes and obscure film references that anyone who doesn’t get it is perceived as a (insert Uma Thurman drawing a box in the air). So many of the rave reviews of this film I have seen read like a film school essay paper, the reviewer striving to show just how in the know he or she is by praising the subtleties of the soundtrack, camera angles and homages. Just like Sasha Baron Cohen, half the battle in enjoying the ride is realizing the joke is also on you. If you can’t take it, it just shows how little you know.
Hey, I’m a film school graduate and I left feeling like I got maybe half of what I was supposed to see. Judging by the reaction of the audience around me, I was well above the average. For them, most of what is remembered will be the startling (if not cathartic) bursts of brutal violence including iconic images of heads being scalped, necks being slashed and Hitler’s face being pulverized by machine gun fire. Oops, hope I didn’t reveal too much there. Funny that; revealing too much about a film which is pretty much an exercise in revealing too much. Except, unfortunately, when things get a little more serious as when he cuts away much to soon from a crumbling Melanie Laurent who has managed to keep her composure during a congenial exchange with the man who killed her entire family and loses it after he leaves the room.
Tarantino is, in my opinion, better when he isn’t revealing as much. Or when he allows his reveals to come via a mish-mash of time defying storytelling. Here he obviously thinks his exposure of suspenseful bits of information is knock on, but the most brilliant scenes (the opening sequence; the basement bar; the theater during the premier) are put off by trickery and reveals that are just slightly too early. This is the sense of the entire movie: Just when you want the film to play out with its amazing story line, brilliant acting and intense camera work, Tarantino slams himself into the middle of the epic, pounding you on the head with reminders that this is HIS MOVIE!, DAMNIT! A completely dopey introduction of one anti-hero negates the brilliant portrayal of the true villain of the film; a brief interruption to allow explanation of an obscure, but vital, plot point is something that would be “jumping the shark” in anyone else’s movie; in spite of all the other violence, a completely gratuitous, slow-motion shooting in the projection booth betrays all hipster chic and is Tarantino’s most conventional death to date, et. Al.
The story is pure pulp fiction (though not nearly as good as that); a rewrite of history all of us wish were true. The fate of Nazi’s in his world is horrible and spectacular. Those responsible are subject to a gruesome end. And yet, given the real horrors of the war known to us now, the death of the elite is hardly delightful and really more wistful and depressing. In Tarantino’s vision, violence and death are the ultimate revenge, which is surprisingly subtle from a guy who graphically told us how to “go midevil” on somebody’s ass and let us listen in on a torturous ear-ectomy once upon a scene. We don’t get to revel in their fear or revelation even pain in the midst of this ultimate revenge. Just dead Nazi’s, dispatched far more painlessly, probably, than the horror they inflicted on the world in their time.
I still recommend it. For one, the high points outweigh the lows and are worth the price of admission. Second, the acting is outstanding. Brad Pitt is allowed to go a little nuts and he’s much the better for it. Christoph Walzt (as one of Taratino’s greatest characters, played with brutal Nazi truth from wink to punch) and Diane Kruger (as a actress with the resistance who brilliantly portrays the most heart wrenching moments) are the highlights from a very solid cast.
And third, you can chat with your friends for hours about the representations of the Nazi Propaganda, the wry insertion of his favorite actors – or characters – in fanciful moments throughout, the implications of the strudel or why he used the theme music from a 1973 southern trash Burt Reynolds film for his opening credit sequence. Just don’t take it too seriously, even though the director sure does.
Somebody should tell a guy.
Firefox is a much better web browser than Safari. Apparently there are people in my life who knew this already. Somebody should tell a guy.
So nobody can claim I never told you so: I think Macs are much better than PCs.
Perhaps you should consider another line of work …
First, she tries to explain to me how the one-year limited warranty is invalid after you use it once. Since the item in question had already broken once this year, we’d have to pay for this second repair. In my opinion, any reputable organization would consider the warranty renewed after a repair. They should have enough confidence in their product to guarantee it won’t break again within another twelve months. Not here. Once broken, you’re on your own. “Expensive and fragile, so we can’t really stand behind it. Guess you should have thought of that,” they seem to be saying.
Then, this exchange between customer and clerk. Read the first line carefully.
She says, “Would you like to pay for this now?”
“Oh,” we reply, “can we pay for it when we pick them up?”
Nervous glance to coworker. “Um, no. We require prepayment.”
“Oh, so there’s no real option.”
“Not if you want us to place the order. We only order once we get payment.”
“So perhaps you could have said ‘How would you like to pay today.’”
“Well, I didn’t want to just say, ‘Give me $91.’”
“Exactly. And yet, you could have said what you meant. I was offering a suggestion.”
She stares at us like perhaps we could get the heck out of her office. We gave her the money and did. We plan to return once more to pick up the repaired glasses (seven to ten days, don’t you know), and likely to never return again. I get the feeling with this organization, they are just fine with that.
I didn’t yak.
It’s an unfair title, to be sure. Yats eatery (now with something like five locations around Indy) is hardly a sickening place to dine. In fact, most everyone I know loves the place. Crave it, as a matter of fact. I’d eaten there before, but all I could remember was that I didn’t like it so much.
The wife sent me out to get some (she’s kinda crazy for the stuff and we only live two blocks away). I decided to give it another try. The staff is great and gave me as many samples as I could handle. Cajun food worries me as I have pretty wimpy taste buds in relation to spice. The things I tried steered away from fiery and they were very good. I settled on something called Cheese Chili. Not a chili in site, however. Rather, a savory mix of crayfish, something melty, beans, corn and who knows what. They glob a big spoonful over white rice and toss on some oiled bread. I headed home.
The dish was delightful, rich and warm. The rice added some heft, but no flavor. Perhaps in some dishes it’s needed to tone down the fire. Then I had a few more bites. And a few more. And more – truly enjoying them. I looked down to discover I’d only eaten about half of the generous portion. And I wasn’t sure I needed another bit. Oh, I was still hungry, but spoonful after spoonful of savory and rich had worn me out.
When you get a bucket of hot wings you can only plow along so far until you need to take a break and have some celery with blue cheese (or some such thing). Why can’t Yats understand that, while delicious, they need a little something on the side to break the taste. Some fried okra or the cajun equivilent of cole slaw. Give me less of the steaming pile of goo plus something to crunch on, leave it at $5.50 and I’d be back as often as the lines of people who crowd your stores every single day.
Oh, I guess the Ignored Critic is missing the point. Yats does just fine without me, thank you very much.
The light at the end of the tunnel is indeed a train coming.
My Grandpa, who passed away when I was sixteen years old, was a railroad enthusiast. He was an engineer. Not a guy who drove steam trains down the tracks, but an electrical engineer who worked for Ma Bell his entire forty-two year career. I believe he enjoyed his job. His love was trains.
He and Grandma took a month-long honeymoon, mostly by rail that included the Grand Canyon and other sites. Christmas and birthday gifts were easy to settle on, so long as we could find a book or video about trains. He and I once visited a model train show at our convention center. We took a ride on a train that traveled to nowhere and back so you could have dinner and enjoy the ride.
It’s only natural he would decide to build a model train, and he did. In 1967 he took the plunge and began construction on 320 feet of portable train track in his back yard. The rail was purchased from a specialty company in Michigan, the authentic trucks (wheels) and couplers from Pennsylvania. Taking his cue from catalogs, magazines and blueprints provided by manufacturers, his first car was a hand-cranked hopper, suitable for riding.
This allowed diversion for the grandchildren while he focused on building an electric power engine with a diesel facade. I’ll never understand why it was bright orange, but we’ve kept it that way ever since. The wiring inside is a mystery to us but each time we pull it out of the garage, attach two 12-volt car batteries and flip the seemingly ancient wooden lever it comes to life. Soon there was an additional flat car and a caboose built from a toy box.
This past week we set up Grandpa’s train again, leaving out 60 feet of track to get it to fit in the smaller yard, and discovering that it made no difference. My eight-year-old daughter was eager to be the chief conductor, her cousin was always in the same seat anytime it ran and, true to form, my four-year-old became enamored only after a couple of days of study, consideration, introspection and, finally, leap of faith.
I had a bit of a moment when my daughter told me that her stuffed animals would be riding in the caboose, heads sticking out. That was where we had always put our as children but I hadn’t even prompted her it was the right thing to do.
And I drove the train. Almost as much as my daughter did. The electric motor whirrs like no other sound in my life; grinding in the low gear to get the slippery wheels turning and humming in the high position with a ferocity that provides a low growl to the ear and steady buzz in the seat. The rails have a song of their own, a futuristic swoosh like how I imagine those electric cars might run when I read Popular Mechanics many years ago – but much more real, a true ringing in your ears. Yet it is ethereal, too, beyond anything near to my daily life. I hopped on one afternoon when everyone else was occupied and let the sounds take me …
Once the track is set the ride will run for hours, and often did. Five grandsons would pile in and ride the wild rails. Smooth and fast (it seems), it never got boring, even though it was the same view over and over again. We could chase baseballs with bats, pretend to be going coast to coast or just lay down in the long flatcar and rest while the sunlight danced on our lids. It has a light for night driving; a near mystical experience of cool air, lighting bugs and blinking stars behind the trees. Sometimes the rides would end only once Grandma came and literally pulled the plug; reaching in to seize an enormous, outdated fuse that makes the entire contraption work, or not. We all knew where it was kept, but when it had been commandeered in this fashion it would require permission to be retrieved, inserted and bring the beast back to life.
I turned forty years old this year and I am in the interesting state of being anxious about the future and drawn to the past. It’s not a unique phenomenon. Books and essays have been written about it for ages. The trick is to discover what strengths of our history we are being called to utilize without being stuck there and simultaneously have enough faith in the future to belie our self doubts about the impact of our lives. This occurs to me while I am taking innumerable revolutions around the circuit, focusing, as I did years ago, on the rails just in front of the cab; watching the ties fly past and the rails guide the unseen wheels without fail. The white noise and gentle rocking (perhaps aided by the glass of wine previously consumed) led me to simple meditation in motion.
And this, among all the memories of bats and balls, construction and mechanics, childhood enthusiasm and exhaustion was the memory that rose to the top. It is not the blithe, almost cliché concept of being able to “act like a kid.” Finding the joy of childhood is a folly, for we are never that child again. Even when we are still a kid, we are not the same kid. When the train is set up again and I am twelve instead of nine or six or four, it’s an entirely different experience. When I am fourteen and helping Grandpa set it up, just him and me, for what will be the final time it is new all over again. When I am forty and suddenly responsible (in association with my own Dad, who helped the original designer bend the rails from straightaway into curve by hand) with making the contraption safe enough for the small children who will run from far and wide to take a ride, it feels like an anachronism. Can I really be in this role?
In meditation, I am all of these roles at the same time. It is not youth I am seeking; it is permission to spend time exploring the space between things and between activities. I was fortunate that Grandma didn’t come out after just a few minutes to slow the action, claiming we must engage our minds more. She came long after we were allowed to go beyond the simple tasks of playing. There, without interruption or even wondering what we were doing and, especially, without asking why we were doing it, we found peace and contemplation and expansion and mystery and joy and enlightenment. Rhythm, light, motion, noise, blur and mechanics combined to allow us transcendence.
Now, reaching back from atop that bright orange machine tracing a track built by loving hands before I was born, I find renewal. Enough blasé commentary about midlife and how it should make me feel; here is the tangible question, action and answer all in one odyssey. What should I remember? Why this desire to reflect back on my life? By building a train, literally, we take action. It is tangible in the present and based on the past. It serves others and ourselves, if we let it. It teaches: Remember not the emotions, but the connections and fundamental insights that all people have and children retain closer to the surface. The emotions are a siren, calling us back to the knowledge that we are One and capable of all things. Take action to recall these talents, this fundamental strength, the empowerment of man by God.
Sometimes spiritual action looks like play. It’s not. It’s the work of living openly, honestly, lovingly, and emotionally. All aboard.
You’re the Tapas!
Upon arriving at BARcelona Tapas Restaurant last night, I really had no idea what the concept entailed. I was soon to discover a friendly, fun, delicious dining experience. Tapas is dining on small, appetizer sized plates passed around the table. Yes, it requires you trust your fellow diners and not have many hang ups about sharing. If you can do this, however, the rewards are worth it. I recommend going with a group of six or more. We each ordered two (or even three) things that sounded good and passed them all around.
Standing out especially was a combination of a jumbo shrimp, sausage, bread and a sort of Spanish bar-b-que sauce. While a single shrimp may not seem like a very good portion, it’s indicative of the size of a plate brought to the table. The prawn was the largest I’d ever seen and all six of us got at least one good sized bit (to the person who ordered went the leftovers). When you order a skewer beef, you get a single skewer of beef. Delicious beef. The lamb dish was three small chops (only slightly overcooked). We would have liked a little more sauce with the cod cakes and I thought the duck was a touch overcooked as well. And yet, every dish was a bit of a discovery.
Shared desserts yielded one of the best Creme Brulee ever tasted, a remarkably well balanced chocolate brownie and an amazing Three Milk Cake with Caramel sauce. All quite simple in concept and way above average on the tongue.
The service was good, especially the host/front of house manager who checked in with us often. The eager waiter was a good sport with our naive approach and ribbing. We even got a visit from the Executive Chef (visiting from their flagship restaurant in St. Louis) who brought us two extra plates of off-the-menu items. Late in the meal we joked with the manager that we would like to become secret shoppers for the place and he revealed he thought we already were (we weren’t). Perhaps that garnered the extra attention, but maybe we were having such a great time we attracted good things!
We didn’t keep track of everything we ordered, so I was concerned the tab might be running away from us. In the end, the price was on par with an upscale, but not unreasonable, establishment.
On the corner of Ohio and Delaware streets downtown. Open seven days a week. Reservations recommended. www.barcelonatapas.com
Not A Better Mousetrap (or: Keep It Simple Stupid)
I don’t really even have to write a review of the new Schwinn bike pump I purchased. Just google “schwinn airdriver 1100″ and you’ll get the picture. You won’t even have to click beyond the google search, because the cussing starts right in the little preview paragraphs that google provides. Bottom line, this thing sucks.
Okay – you can go to this one if you’d like. It’ll save me thinking about it anymore. http://www.somecrankyguy.com/
