Mister Faded Glory | www.misterfadedglory.com

On the heels of our recent film-inspired douche test (Remember? Synecdoche, NY? I rest.), I delve into further minutiae of pretentiousness. Today: one of the more obvious signs of a douchebag – the Keurig coffee pot.

For those unfamiliar with the Keurig drip-pod or K-Cup or whatever system; it’s the sleek, chic, super-expensive coffee pot that brews one tiny cup at a time. Instead of sifting through beans or grounds, you just drop in this pod, and the machine loudly unfurls nearly a tablespoon of tepid coffee.

I won’t confess to being a coffee snob, but I do like my sludge, and the stronger the better. I drink at least a travel mug every morning. Coffee fuels me, before I enter the soul-crushing world of corporate America. Yep. I’m like you.

But the Keurig thumbs its nose at that nonsense. With the Keurig, you can safely turn your nose up at breakroom or lunchroom coffee. Whereas us serfs will not eschew a cup from the cafeteria machine, even with stray grounds in the bottom, you can safely pass. Bully for you!

Now, again, I’m not a snob. Maybe I’m a purist? I don’t drink lattes or frappucinos or any of the stuff that makes you demonstrably fatter or poorer. I require only that my coffee be black as night – with a tangible bite, taste, and kick – and that it flows like the Nile. My coffee need be plentiful. With the Keurig, I get none of that.

How would I know? Well, I’ve got one. Yes, I do. But not only is your cup of Joe tiny and unfulfilling, once you’re a Keurig owner, you have the luxury of shopping for boxes of these K-Cup pod-thingys, made from the dregs of various coffee conglomerates’ beans or grounds. Green Mountain, Caribou, Tully’s, you name it – they all eagerly charge you thirty bucks for twenty thimbles of coffee, with a watery cup weaker than your standard Maxwell House scoop.

That’s right, Keurigs make weak coffee, and they don’t make enough coffee. Two settings exist on my model – puny and punier. Apparently I’m supposed to decide whether I want an espresso or a swallow. Which, I suppose, is fine in some instances – but it’s not fine when you can’t regulate the coffee amount. You drop in a pod, and you’re at the pod’s mercy. The pod controls the strength. Your role, as a coffee purist or gourmand, is finished!

But John, you say. You can buy one of those Keurig attachments that convert grounds into K-Cups! And that is true. For twenty dollars (NOTE: You can buy a full-fledged Hamilton Beach coffee maker for twenty dollars) I can have my Keurig converter. And, again, I do. I won’t bore you with the gory details – but just try and use one of these things. When your entire kitchen is covered in the converter’s wreckage, thousands of stray, messy coffee grounds, and you’ve got a sludge-filled half a cup, you’ll nod along with me.

So that’s the Keurig. If you like your coffee like a scalding cup of Aquafina FlavorSplash, I implore you – shell out your 200 bucks for the Keurig. Basically, it’s coffee drinking for those who want to convey an impression of coffee drinking, rather than your serious caffeine addict. Enjoy.

Though I can’t honestly believe you didn’t watch the Oscars simultaneously alongside Mister Faded Glory’s ultrafab feed on your Twitter machine, you can check us just in case you missed all the fun. Trust me, it was totally hilarious. And Avatar sucks.

@MrFadedGlory

I’ll spare you a drum roll. It’s Synecdoche, N.Y.

Ebert called it the best movie of the decade. The AV Club‘s Scott Tobias bestows it cult status this week. My stomach turns.

Synecdoche, New York is horrid. It is exactly the type of pretentious tripe prompting critics to unleash elitist admonishments. You didn’t get Synecdoche? Well, let me explain it to you. Reviews lauding a dead-in-the-water story like this should result in confiscation of the critic’s laptop. Which, by the way, I’m sure is a Mac.

I mean, look at this nonsense from Tobias:

It’s no great slight against the film for me to confess that it’s hard to digest, especially in its second half, when the story-within-a-story and all the doppelgängers within reach a tipping point where they start to lose coherence. And the troubles aren’t alleviated by Kaufman’s directorial style, which mimics Spike Jonze’s unfussy, excessively drab approach to shooting his scripts; this complements the matter-of-fact surrealism that bleeds into his characters’ lives, but in Synecdoche, it can be suffocating, too, to be denied the cinematic grandeur of what Caden is creating. Maybe a more distinctive touch will emerge when (or if) Kaufman directs again, but my sense is that he was so consumed with the practical challenges of making this film (which was independently financed, in addition to being barking mad logistically) that he wanted to keep the shooting as simple as possible.

That, folks, is a paragraph of absolute shit. Written only to stroke the writer’s ego, written only to exert some sort of intellectual superiority, which is, in fact, motive similar to Charlie Kaufman’s entire self-indulgent purpose in creating Synecdoche, N.Y. This movie sucked, and that review sucked worse. Kaufman failed. Don’t bail him out.

Solely a pretentious exercise in flagrant self-importance. Charlie Kaufman spins his lead character’s tale in endless, interminable circles designed to comment on how bleak life is, I guess. Which is totally fine (I like bleakness!) if you care one iota about the characters. Instead, we’re exhausted and disgusted by the time Synecdoche ends, and eager to return to our own bleak lives. I guess in that case it’s the most realistically uplifting movie ever! (Rolls eyes.)

That’s not the point, of course. Instead, it’s Kaufman’s comment on society and the artist’s mind, or something. Fucking please. Kaufman already did this, with Adaptation. He already described haunting pain, in Eternal Sunshine. Those films are good. This one is root canal surgery. Themes and plot devices and swirling character studies are all fine, but at some point your movie has to be a movie. And this fails miserably. It’s the type of film that critics and eggheads are scared to dislike – for doing so means they “missed something” or maybe aren’t quite as intelligent as their brand purports.

If a movie can’t hold attention and doesn’t have any coherent narrative or authentic genuine characters, then it cannot be good. In the end, the writer’s commentary – whatever the fuck it is – is fine. But if there’s no story, there is precisely no reason to watch. Underline that, dipshit critics.

I’m not saying movies and stories should all be popcorn escapism. But story, hook and entertainment are each important. Synecdoche prefers to refute all that; and its defenders would cite its rebuff of all storytelling as some sort of jumbled commentary on the futility of life. Gag me with a fucking spoon.

At some point, the movie needs to be consumable. Not necessarily enjoyable (Examples – Requiem for a Dream and Closer are fantastic, painful movies), but worth the audience’s time. In Requiem, it’s drug dealer verite. In Closer, it’s the futility and selfishness of love. Synecdoche has not one – NOT ONE – reason for you to invest your time and brain power.

What would make you want to sit through three hours of overindulgence, of bland acting, of stalled narrative, of a story that goes absolutely nowhere? What makes you want to sit through any of this?

What, pray tell?

So you can learn that life doesn’t follow a verse-chorus-verse plotline?

Please. Didn’t you already know?

I keep telling you, there's no such thing as unnecessary White Sox hatred.

Bill’s Twitter feed reports he’s driving to Miami, so in his absence his editors conveniently cherry-picked several readers’ poor imitations of Bill responses to his “Most Tortured Teams” list from last Friday. Of course, Bill chose the Cubs No. 1, and of course, that’s totally justified. You can argue, I suppose, but it’s justified. It doesn’t matter if they’re more popular than your sorry team, we Cubs fans are tortured. Believe it or not.

However, the editors chose to run only with the dissident White Sox fan mantra; the “look at me” little-brother inferiority complex that theorizes, time and again, stuff like:

“Full disclosure: I’m a White Sox fan. I’ve lived around Cubs fans my whole life, and lemme tell ya something — Cubs fans are NOT tortured. First off, they aren’t even baseball fans. They care more about being at Wrigley and remembering where they parked their BMWs.”
- JB, Munster, Ind.

Oh, Cubs fans are all rich. Right. After all, that’s why I blog! Somebody tell me, but we’re probably yuppies, too, yes?

“Only one team had a “curse” everyone knew about and tons of yuppie fans signing up to hop on the failure bandwagon. … It’s romantic to go to the North Side and drink beer with rich white people and watch crappy baseball. There is so much “history and ambiance.” It’s a great way to feel like the common man, even though you paid $80 for a bleacher ticket.”

- Brent L., Chicago

Well, thanks, Brent L. It’s true. I never heard of baseball until I followed some dreamboat preppie to Wrigley. He looked just like Zack Morris. Next thing you know, Brent L., you’ll be telling me the 2005 title didn’t have an effect on Chicago.

“What do you think hurts more, suffering along with a cast of thousands in book and song, or getting spit on while you lose? The sick thing is that I’m still scarred, and we got our title.”

- Brent L, again.

Oh, poor you. Your team won a World Series and you can’t enjoy it. You’re right, it’s the fucking Cubs’ fault.

“Plus they wear their failure like a badge of courage, as if choosing this lifestyle makes them noble.”

- Mike K., NY

You know what, Mike fucking K? We don’t. We don’t want any points for nobility. We don’t love losing. We want our team to win the World Series every year, the pennant every year, and every single game. Just like you.

Sure, it’s just as sillly of me to cherry-pick quotes from Sox fan emails, as it was of ESPN editors, who chose only these columns, all White Sox responses. All predictable and annoying.

But honestly, surely a Cardinals fan wrote in and lambasted Cubs nation? (Assuming they could read. HA.) Surely some other city feels worse than the Cubs, worse enough to bag on the North Siders. I mean, the Mariners have never won anything. Ever.

But nope, some editor selected only bitter White Sox fan emails, lumping all Cubs fans into a pot of yuppie. Well, those generalizations are hopelessly played. You wouldn’t expect me to say stuff like, “all Sox fans are meth-addicts who live in trailers outside the Cell. With no day job, it’s easy to obsess about a team that isn’t your own. And no, stealing aluminum pipes doesn’t count as a day job.”

And I would never say that.

See, we’ve also doubled our fun, just like the Oscars!

I should point out that I haven’t seen a flick in the theater since Terminator Salvation, and even with the bulge in nominations for the Academy’s Best Picture, T4 wasn’t making the cut.

Anyway, even though I saw only Adventureland, (500) Days of Summer, and T4 in 2009 (meh, liked, bleah, respectively), that doesn’t preclude me from instinctively realizing which of the nominees is good, and which is evil.

Isn’t that one of the sacred pillars of the Internet? Instead of courteous insight, the medium allows us to baselessly criticize just because we can. Straight from mom’s basement, sometimes. And with cursing. Excuse me. With fucking cursing. That’s better. Let’s get started.

Avatar. I don’t get it. I don’t get you people, and I don’t get blue people. (Ha.) Not only did each and every CGI-filled preview look absolutely retarded, but the entire movie is practically a caricature of every ambitious sci-fi artificial-intel piece that anyone’s ever done (which in turn makes the title kind of genius).

But quite honestly, how much money must a studio invest in any film that it resorts to bombarding the media with bogus “highest-grossing-movie-ever” stories? What? Why, yes, I do have an open mind. Why?

(See, this is fun.)

The Blind Side. Spoiler Alert: The story is terrible, contrived, and phony, and basically a wink and nod from Michael Lewis to his buddy Sean Tuohy (read the acknowledgements!), who circumvented all high school and university standards to ensure underprivileged Michael Oher played for his alma mater, Ole Miss. Lewis, for his part, does his best to excuse all behavior without the slightest illusion of objectivity or even-handedness. (How dare these NCAA bureaucrats impart learning standards on poor, uncultured football players!) The story is as sleazy as college athletics as a whole. No wonder it’s a perfect sudser.

District 9. I can’t hear the words “Peter Jackson” without remembering his beyond-indulgent 765-minute dinosaur fight scene in the atrocious King Kong, and my ritual suicide it nearly inspired. Next!

An Education. You know, Pearl Jam has a great song called Education, which should actually have been included as track 3 on Binaural instead of counterpart Evacuation. You often wonder how the better songs sometimes don’t make it out of the same track session.

The Hurt Locker. You left your bookbag on the hook … you adorned me with goofy Jonas Brothers stickers … and instead of locking me fully, you set the combination to slide right open … you scratched the Anarchy symbol into the paint … and your socks on the floor smell … oh the pain (sniffle)

I’ll wait for you to fully realize how poor that joke is.

Go on.

We good? Good.

Inglorious Bastards. I spelled the title correctly, because that’s where we’re headed. Correct spelling, lack of abbreviations, and proper grammar are becoming more rebellious than – ZOMG – slang!!11! Just like tattoos. Ten years ago you got a tattoo to break from the crowd. Now, you’re more original if your skin is clean. Also, Quentin Tarantino sucks.

Precious. I’m either running out of venom, or I loved this adorable little film. (See, I told you 10 nominations was too much.)

A Serious Man. Though I’m more miss than hit with the Coen Brothers (I love No Country, hate Fargo, and I never fell for The Big Lebowski), I wanted to see this movie. Someone described it as similar to Barton Fink, which ruined it for me, because I’ve queued up Barton Fink nearly ten times and never made it past minute 20. But, hey, those 20 minutes …. uh, they’re boring!

Up. Oh, those scamps from Pixar!

Up in the Air. I actually read this book, by Walter Kirn, and it’s fairly great, even though it runs out of steam toward the end. The hook is awesome and the lead character connects, which makes me certain the story, structure, and finished product here will totally disappoint me. I know, you’re shocked.

Yes, of course, Boston and St. Louis earned team non grata status during the interminable NBA MLB playoffs.

But I think I underestimated how fully annoying a Yankees world-series title would be. Supposedly their fans aren’t any worse than anyone else. (Red Sox fan: JETAH SUCKS! St. Louis fan: [Pompous, overwrought clapping.]
Cubs fan: Show us your tits! Show your tits!) But honestly, they are. They TOTALLY are.

Look at this insufferable douchebag, for crying out loud. Look, no one cares if you “bought a championship.” We all know it’s more complex than that.

We care when you use a World Series title as an immediate license to revert into a pompous asshole, lording your number of titles over us and explaining your fandom thusly:

First of all, remember that lots are Yankees fans because, well, they’ve always been Yankees fans. If you decided as an adult to be a Yankees fan in 2000 because, hey, they seemed to be winning the World Series a lot, this post isn’t about you. But the rest of us just happen to root for the team that spends more than others. That doesn’t make our fandom any less sincere.

Read more: Trust Us: A World Series Win Is Just As Sweet If You Buy It — The Sports Section http://nymag.com/daily/sports/2009/11/trust_us_a_world_series_win_is.html#ixzz0W0rIcHPo

Are you kidding? That’s exactly who Yankee fans are. Especially Midwestern fans. Stop defending the bandwagon jumps, most Yankee fans glommed onto this team at various winning points throughout the century – jumping on a bandwagon simply whenever the team was winning, and/or when white sportswriters cultivated mancrushes on Mickey Mantle. We all know this. Stop defending it, enjoy your World Series, and kindly fuck off.

For I am a Cubs fan. And nothing sends me into a rage quite like my facebook news feed, the day after another New York title, whence someone claims:

Yankee Fan. FINALLY! Thank you, Yankees!!! 27th heaven. About time. (thousand exclamation points omitted.)

Yeah, finally. Ten years. You know pain, beat rag.

Kevin Gregg or Mel Rojas, Cubs fans?

You pick. Now we’re done.

No comments

Normally I refrain from poking fun at ESPN Radio’s Colin Cowherd because, really, what’s the point?

Like hundreds of other sports radio denizens, Cowherd is a master at cherry-picking the most banal of callers, then eviscerating the poor soul on air, to a chorus of cheers, I guess.

Many times, Cowherd uses these opportunities to deliver sanctimonious morality lectures, praising the best in corporate America. Growing agitated with anyone who dares to criticize a media conglomerate or big business behemoth, Cowherd’s whiny chipmunk voice delivers a sermon so predictable you’d swear he read directly from the ESPN Corporate Handbook.

Today, in fact, Cowherd again propped up ESPN – blatant debasement to his bosses; no wonder he has a show. In a usual dime-store free-market rant, he detailed the company’s mission and vision and what it does best. In fact, the mission statement is emblazoned on ESPN business cards and ESPN ID badges. Cowherd explained that ESPN is great, a fantastic product, because it is a sports network, focused on delivering sports, and a few flagship shows sprinkled within. They do it better than anyone else, he admonishes.

Where ESPN gets itself in trouble, Cowherd cautions, is in any deviation from the mission – ventures such as the ill-fated ESPN The Phone and ESPN Hollywood. When it comes to sports, however, ESPN is the best(!), and how dare you criticize.

This is all sort of fine, I suppose. Personally, though I can’t wait until July 6 – for the premiere of ESPN’s Sportsnation! A scintillating blend of sports, news and entertainment – ‘sportsfotainment’ – the Sportsnation TV show takes the pulse of you, the viewers, to blend what you’re talking (or tweeting) about. Best of all, it’s hosted by none other than …

You guessed it.

Colin Cowherd.

You’re wondering how quickly I’m yanking out tufts of my hair – beyond annoyed at the excruciating behavior of the Cubs.

While in Dallas, I neglected to watch the Cubs, who apparently forgot how to hit immediately after Rich Harden’s weird Sunday meltdown against the Astros. Regardless, they’ve been absolutely owned by the Cardinals this season.

I still know not what to think about this team; it’s not as though they played awful against the Cardinals, the pitching has been great. The bats, however, are atrocious. I’m pretty sure the Cubs are now being played off the field by Keyboard Cat. (Thank you, Deadspin.)

In addition, it’s not as though Busch Stadium is the Cubs’ favorite place, nor as if the pitching match-ups were in our favor. Joel Pineiro already has dominated us effortlessly 2009, Cris Carpenter made a holier-than-thou return on Wednesday (Carpenter – neck and neck with Tedy Bruschi for biggest douche in sports history.), and Adam Wainwright toys with us each and every start. Hey, another CG! Fantastic..

However, without Aramis, enduring a Soriano cooldown, watching Derrek Lee age in dog years, seeing Fontenot exposed, Soto prove to be a mirage, and Milton Bradley’s struggles Boggling the mind – the season still doesn’t feel quite right, as we’ve said. As others have said. At any rate, I’m done bitching, I still think they’ll wind up atop this crappy division. If they don’t hit, they won’t win.

How’s that for a triumphant return? Rocket science, I know. But that’s what you get here, at our big-league Cubs blog (If you’re looking for detailed minor league Cubs analysis, however, check out TCR. Those guys can’t wait for 2013!).

Nope, I’m not leading a sing-a-long.

I’ve got Texas on the mind, because tomorrow Mister Faded Glory makes his first-ever journey to the Lone Star State, a quick jaunt to Dallas for a conference-symposium-something-like-that. Can you believe I’ve never been to Texas? I spent all weekend shopping for the perfect ten-gallon hat.

Though I wish I was actually announcing a hilarious live blog detailing my misadventures with the Ewing Clan, I am not. Alas, I am simply announcing a short break. We’ll be back to familiar territory on Wednesday night.

Until then, during graduation season, do yourself a favor and click on Drew’s graduation speech over at Deadspin. I know I’ve linked to Drew before, but I’m incessantly envious of his unparalleled talent to spew venom and rage and not inflame his audience. If I unleashed that type of fury, I’d be pilloried. (By my seven readers.)

Enjoy your week. I’m off, humming the theme to Dallas. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m humming L.A. Law, but I can’t separate the two. See you later.