Maybe you wonder where they rank on the Spielberg spectrum?

With no additional explanation:

• 26. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
• 25. A.I. Artificial Intelligence
• 24. 1941
• 23. Always
• 22. Lost World: Jurassic Park 2
• 21. The Terminal
• 20. Munich
• 19. Minority Report
• 18. Hook
• 17. Amistad
• 16. Empire of the Sun
• 15. War of the Worlds
• 14. The Adventures of Tintin
• 13. Catch Me If You Can
• 12. Jurassic Park
• 11. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
• 10. War Horse
• 9. Schindler’s List
• 8. Saving Private Ryan
• 7. The Color Purple
• 6. E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial
• 5. Duel
  
• 4. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
• 3. Close Encounters of the Third Kind
• 2. Raiders of the Lost Ark
• 1. Jaws

{Update: By coincidence, Slate also published a list of ranked Spielberg movies. Which means, obviously, had I been the least bit intellectual, I shouldn’t have bothered. I mean, the whole exercise is now passé. Just like pie.]

More stuff, just for you. These leftover droppings are too long for Twitter, too short to waste more than a few minutes on, and too good to tuck back inside the stocking.

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Did you get a Kindle for Christmas? Retailers and media everywhere foretell the death of the printed word, but here’s proof of its persistence:

We don’t know exactly how many idiots bought 700 paperback pages of banal column fodder, culled from 800 pages of banal column fodder, and we don’t know further what unlucky bastards are receiving this tome for Christmas. But we’ll take it. Thanks to all of Bill’s mindless minions for propping up publishing another day.

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I can’t explain it. I’m excited to see The Fighter, but I’m a little embarrassed to want to watch another Boston movie. Same with The Town. Same with Gone Baby Gone, which I liked. And this is all because of the stupid Patriots. But I’m glad to know I’m not alone. Fantastic.

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Happy Solstice! However, Slate is not amused by the incoherence of winter’s shortest day!

From the mag: “Winter solstice is the darkest day of 2010. So why isn’t December the coldest month?”

That reminds me. “Campbell’s soup is the cheapest in this aisle. So why doesn’t my Hamburger Helper taste like chicken?”

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Did you read my gift-wrapping Epic Fail? DO IT.It’s so rare I write something actually humorous, instead of ill-tempered. You owe yourself, and more importantly, you owe me.

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Deadspin had some fun with a Hall of Fame voter who chose a poor metaphor. Though it’s a clumsy column, and commentors gleefully derided the poor sap, he’s actually right on.

A Hall of Fame vote is the last chance to hold players’ accountable. It’s not a court of law, it’s a museum of baseball.

If you want to keep players out because they used drugs, cheated, or simply turned out to be douchebags, well, more power to you, Mr. Voter. Do it. How are we ever supposed to deter star players from cheating to go over the top, when a gladhanding media will eagerly dismiss any and all transgressions just ’cause they don’t want to make a choice including any critical thought or analysis.

Hall of Fame criteria includes objective and subjective, that’s just the way it is, and it’s the way it should be. At least someone wrote some form of counterargument to Jayson Stark’s “Well, I didn’t actually see him inject steroids into his thighs, so how could I assume he took drugs?” thesis.

====

Kerry Wood returns to the Cubs, and one malcontent sportswriter is furious: How does this forgettable signing help the Cubs win the World Series, and what are you assholes happy about? (He seems to be saying.)

Kermit delivers the appropriately snarky response to the wet blanket, but, finally, here’s my reaction to Wood’s return.

We don’t care. We don’t care about the cost, we don’t care about his age, we don’t care. We don’t care that moronic sportswriters think a $1.5 million bullpen pitcher makes the difference for the 2011 Cubs one way or another.

Kerry Wood is the Cubs to a generation of thirtysomething Cubs fans, first tormented but now teased by the franchise’s recent successes and near-misses.

The Cubs never failed because of Kerry Wood. In my humble opinion, they succeeded because of him. He worked hard. He unluckily got injured. He grew up. So did we.

Certain Cubs players need to be a different breed. Not all, just a few. And each year in the locker room, the Cubs need a few “Cubs guys.” This sounds stupid to say, but it’s true. Playing for the Cubs is an endurance test – facing a difficult combination of pressure, angst, and rabid fanaticism surrounding the fishbowl. Kerry gets all that, and he still wants to come back, to say thanks, to help, to whatever. We couldn’t be more thrilled. And for Cubs fans, that’s saying something.

The writer, Dan Mitchell, is a little frustrated with the public reaction to Starbucks’ mammoth announcement. He’s ticked off at Gawker’s snarky indictment of Starbucks. He’s presumably not amused by any assertion that Starbucks is preparing to control the world. He defends the coffee chain thusly:

“… Several people have [noted] that McDonald’s has been offering free Wi-Fi in its stores for a while now. But here’s the thing: Would you rather work or read Facebook in a McDonald’s, with its too-bright lights, its noise, its often-obnoxious clientele, and its burning-cow-flesh stench, or in the much friendlier environs of a Starbucks? Sure, Starbucks can seem a bit ersatz (again, thanks mostly to its ubiquity rather than to anything specific), but, still. Starbucks is usually fairly quiet and comfortable—the lighting is mellow, and it smells like coffee, not cow flesh. McDonald’s now offers coffee that’s about good as Starbucks’ … but that doesn’t make sitting in a McDonald’s much less unpleasant. McDonald’s is just fine for quickly wolfing down some fried, greasy meat on a bun. It’s not so great for lingering over a nice cuppa.

Another thing: Unlike McDonald’s, Starbucks’ free Wi-Fi will include free access to the Wall Street Journal. This is ingenuous for both Starbucks and the Journal. And it’s something that further illustrates Starbucks’ appeal: It’s for more literate people, and it knows it.”

Off topic, but I do wonder if either McDonald’s or Starbucks is a corporate sponsor of The World Cup, and exactly which one would infuriate phony soccer purists more. And sure, I think Starbucks’ decision and its publicity is a good move.

But Mitchell clearly doesn’t comprehend the McDonalds WiFi strategy. Worse yet, he relies on the wrong generalizations of the two WiFi audiences to compare the two chains. (For example, I’d argue that Starbucks’ clientele is just as “often-obnoxious” as McDonald’s. In my opinion, a lack of pompous Slate writers catching up on their Wall Street Journal feed is a point in Mac’s favor.) And instead, he proves his marketing ignorance.

Think about all the business travel you do. Even if you don’t travel for work – whether by plane, train, or auto, chances are you know someone who does. You know a lot of people who do. Think, also, about the number of ways you’re plugged in at all times when you (or someone else) hits on the road. Cell phone, Blackberry, iPhone, Android, IPad, you name it.

It’s enormously easy to stay in touch with your desktop while traveling. But still, failing all these devices, there are still some occasions when you absolutely need a laptop and a WiFi signal. And, on the heels of a successful branding campaign, just where do you think you might go?

Well, you might very well go to McDonalds. After all, they’re everywhere. And you know you’ve got WiFi. You might duck into an airport store. You might pull off the interstate and fire up your laptop. You might even research your road trip beforehand – knowing precisely when and where you can exit the freeway and dash off a necessary email or memo. I know, because I’ve done exactly that.

And when this happens, you don’t care about the clientele. You don’t care about fat content. You don’t care if McCafe coffee resembles Starbucks in any way, shape, or form. You care only that Mickey D’s has free Wifi, you need it, and you can use it in a pinch.

McDonalds WiFi doesn’t appeal to people who want to eat or spend any time at McDonalds. It appeals to the consumer who knows they might need Wifi at a moment’s notice. By positioning for those consumers, McDonald’s has backed into a market previously off their radar. And backed into a market, I’m guessing, that has exponentially increased in recent years. And despite the scoffs of Slate or Mitchell, I would also bet that McDonalds’ brand equity has increased similarly.

Plus, their fries are awesome. Bet you can’t get those at Starbucks!

By now, hopefully you’ve told your friends that Mister Faded Glory is back, he’s here to stay, and if this were 2001 – he’d be on the cutting-fucking-edge of blogging.  It would also be nice if you mentioned I’m brilliant.

A few other topics bounded through my brain this week, didn’t make it to Twitter, and weren’t quite up to the task of dampening my ever-souring mood. Now that you’re on the edge of your seat, here you go.

• From our contrarian friends at Slate: American beer sales are flat because the beer is terrible.

I’m paraphrasing of course, but that’s the gist of The Big Money’s assertion, also doffing a cap to the continued expansion and relative strength of “blue-collar” (or blue-collar-poseur) brands PBR and Yuengling. TBM cites their growing market share due to becoming veritable “hipster” beers (and wouldn’t Slate know…) simply by staying true to bursting flavor, chewable  aftertaste, thudding hangovers, and tried-and-true formula. (I remember one year my local college liquor store was liquidating its Pabst Light. Three bucks for a case, and one could easily drink 30 cans in a night. It tasted like pickle juice. Ah, memories.)

Anyway, it’s kind of nice to imagine the crappy brands of American beer suffering as the public grows (gasp!) some taste. (Also, The Big Lead only drinks Coors Light. Judge if you must.)

But it’s even more fun to imagine the Slate eggheads writing this evaluation of the beer market, attempting to snidely choose which brand to turn their noses up.

• “Ugh…Pabst. Disgusting. But I can’t wait to have one. It’s so lame, it’s cool.”
• “I only drink lagers brewed in the west end of Prague. Budweiser? What am I, a Republican?
  
• “I prefer Miller Red, when was the last time you saw anyone drinking that? Exactly.”
• “Samuel Adams would turn in his grave if he (a) drank his tepid lager, or (b) knew that the state of Massachusetts features a governor like Mitt Romney. Bah!”
• “I found a place on the upper west side that serves only two beers: Red Dog in a tin can or Nebraska’s own Hopluia - served out of a Derby hat. Phenomenal!”

• The inimitable John Feinstein, who might even be more cantankerous than me. (Of course, he can easily afford to be more cantankerous than me.) eloquently and pointedly responded to the perfect-game and bad-call circumstances that blew up Twitter earlier this week. Allow me to sum up my thoughts:

The perfect game and bad-call in Detroit turned my stomach. I wasn’t mad; I felt pity for both the no-name pitcher, Armando Galarraga, and Jim Joyce, the Ulysses-writing umpire. The pitcher lost his (probably only) day in the sun, and the umpire gained a day in the sun he couldn’t have wanted. And normally, I roll my eyes at the Twitterati (BOO) and the knee jerk sports talkers, who claimed the Commish needs to STEP IN NOW WHERE’S THE OUTRAGE RIGHT THIS WRONG FIX THIS PROBLEM BUD BRING IN INSTANT REPLAY AND MAKE THIS SHIT MORE LIKE THE NFL.

It was downright exhausting. The commentary and idiocracy made the whole situation more untenable than it really was, which actually served as an uplifting portrait of human nature. Read Pos’ fantastic post if you don’t believe me.

Enter Feinstein, who argues for the best solution in points so eloquent and incisive that it deserves reprint:

“There is NO reasonable argument against this. To those who say Selig is setting a dangerous precedent I say this: fine. Let him declare that at any time in the future if a pitcher gets the first 26 outs of a game and then fails to get the 27th on a clearly blown call by an umpire who instantly says he blew the call, he will do the same thing. There’s your precedent. Now let’s sit back and wait for it to happen again.

Last night, Ken Burns, the noted baseball historian, was on Keith Olbermann’s show. He started going on about ‘unraveling the sweater,’ by reversing this call. He brought up Bucky Dent’s home run [and corked bat] … He mentioned the Giants stealing signs prior to the Bobby Thomson home run and Mark McGwire’s steroid-induced home runs.

Oh please. Those are ridiculous analogies. For one thing, they involve cheating, not an out-and-out honest mistake that has been confessed to by the person who made the mistake.”

He goes on, and it’s worth your time. As for me, I totally agree. John failed to mention, however, that whatever decision “Baseball purists” would make, we should always do the opposite.

I love baseball. But I cannot stand the traditionalist pomp, circumstance and poetry that the self-righteous protectors of the game (like Burns, above) continually quote in order to preserve tradition or soliloquys or baseball sonnets or days of yore. You won’t find a slice of fanhood more pretentious. Not until the World Cup begins, anyway.

• I was going to link to this Procrastination Test (h/t Lifehacker), as sort of a public service. I would take it first, and then inform you all whether or not it delivered an accurate assessment.

However, once I got to the test, it looked sort of long and arduous. So I minimized the window, put it aside, and announced I’d do it later.

(looks around.)

THUD.

Oh, come on. HUMOR LIKE THIS is why you come back to Mister Faded Glory. ADMIT IT.

(Up next from Slate: 9/11 – Was it really all that bad?)

Give them a hand. While we waited for the phony revolutionaries of the reactionary to again roll their eyes and bag on the latest fad ranging from the genius to the sublime (Slate Explainer: Cuddly Kittens Are Evil!), they decide differently, and pony up 2000 words of schlocky praise for the worst band of all fucking time, who no one cares about or likes or even considered since 1997. Horrific.

In other news, I apologize, it’s been somewhat sparse around here lately. Believe it or not, Mister Faded Glory is busy with other things in the traditional media/publishing world. Not that you care. And don’t think we didn’t notice, Entertainment Weekly, that you rated Batman No. 18 on the list of Coolest All-Time Heroes in Pop Culture. Right behind Nancy Drew? Eighteenth? Excuse me, I feel faint.

Also, we’d be remiss if we did not wish a happy birthday to Pearl Jam. Nineteen today. Wow, I guess we’re all getting old. Luckily we all still rock harder than ever.

I see you laughing.

It’s enough to make you detest America’s Birthday summer’s annual celebration of excess. But not as much as our friends at Slate. Sigh. I’m betting on June of 2011 for the “Puppies Suck” article.

Speaking of which, why does anyone ask ‘What did you do on your vacation?’ only to recoil when you claim, ‘nothing.’ Isn’t that the point of a vacation?. Oh, whatever. Notably, I made friends with a giraffe.

His completely unoriginal name is Jeffrey.

Also, in case you’re concerned, a smartmouth bird nearly bit my hand off at a petting zoo. He’s right here.

I don’t know his name, but he’s still at large. At least my hand is miraculously intact.

Oh, what, you really don’t care? So people must ask about vacations simply as a rhetorical device, right? (Laughs uproariously at ridiculous pun.)  But, really, how could anyone possibly care? I mean, with all the stuff that’s happened while I was away? Quickly, onto the hopelessly catty commentary:

Tony Dungy, gone. Everyone saw it coming, everyone is a tad melancholy, and just like the vanilla Dungy, commentary dissipated with nary a blink of an eye. Colts fans will miss him. As long as the new guy focuses on the O- and D-Line, we’ll be happy.

Herm Edwards, gone. The NFL is a peculiar league. Its postseason disappears in the blink of an eye, and the ubiquitous league is irrelevant for most diehard fans who have no playoff team to follow. As such, the heaviest commentary, reporting, speculation, and web hits surround dismissals of coaches. I guess that’s OK, it’s just fairly weird. And Herm Edwards sucked. And we love Joe Poz, but his Pollyanna act is ridiculous. Herm will live.

JD and Elliot, back together. Who didn’t see this coming? Also, Scrubs is in a weird, season-fattening loop owing to last year’s writer’s strike and ABC’s desire to fill airtime. Each hour of Scrubs features one viable episode and one ridiculous episode (Tonight’s features the Muppets, of all things.) Normally I’d pick apart JD and Elliot’s relationship further, but it’s also perhaps a sign the show is well past its prime that I’m simply ambivalent. But the tongue-in-cheek references to early episodes? Nice touch for us sex buddies. (trumpets) I mean, us diehards.

Oh, almost forgot, Jon Gruden, also gone. Speaking of the peculiar NFL, it’s almost as though coaches’ accountability is rendered moot with increasing pompousness, bombasticity (?) and sneering. Until this happened, let alone to the NFL’s hardest working coach, to hear each of his sycophantic reporters tell it (he gets up at 3 a.m.!).

Slumdog Millionaire was surprisingly good. In a year filled with flawed pictures, I wouldn’t be disappointed if Slumdog earned best picture. It’s not as good as last year’s power-pack of No Country For Old Men or There Will Be Blood, nor as good as, ahem, The Dark Knight. But its sly tale wrapped in the coalescence of chance, fate, offhand knowledge and destiny is an enjoyable ride. You’ll never guess who doesn’t like it.

As a pet owner, we enjoyed Bill Simmons’ recent column. Bill obviously is angling for some future ESPN radio spot by podcasting every day for umpteen hours. So who’s going to break it to him that his voice is way too grating for a massive audience? Occasionally, between phoned-in columns, he pens a column that reminds you why you started reading him in the first place. As a pet owner, this ode to the late Dooze made it, shall we say, a bit dusty in here.

KSK’s Peter King. Nothing in the universe is funnier than Drew’s weekly excoriation of Peter King’s ridiculous MMQB. Nothing at all. I know not why I even try blogging, let alone why I craft a predictable first-draft list column reminiscent of the bubbly King. I’ll shut up.

The Cubs now have a new owner. You try and figure out if the Cubs were better off with the incompetent Chicago Tribune, psychopathic Sam Zell, or the mysteriously devious Tom Rickets pulling the strings. We just hope they can survive the Kevin Gregg era. AND WHAT THE HELL WAS CARLOS MARMOL DOING PITCHING IN THE D.R. OVER THE OFFSEASON? Last year his arm almost fell off at midseason, and he’s coming off two years of overwork. How could the Cubs permit this? You’d think the Cubs didn’t know what they were doing. Shocking, I know.

Finally, the uninspiring Super Bowl is upon us, as we mentioned, on the heels of an uninspiring college bowl season. Both postseasons turned out so forgettable they inspired some normally rational Football Outsiders, and some normally rational college football writers to postulate whether the regular season in the NFL is rendered meaningless either by parity or a third “surprise team” to make the title game in the last three seasons.

These types of comments are totally self-interested, offered out of fear the writer may not know more than his audience: If the Super Bowl doesn’t represent the two best teams in PFP, clearly it doesn’t reflect the best quality teams overall. Call me crazy, but the NFL’s season doesn’t exist to rubber-stamp FO’s publications. In fact, it’s completely ludicrous when college football fanatics – or any writers, fans, talking heads, for that matter – whine that “the best team doesn’t always win” in other sports.

Because, yes, of course they fucking do.

In the NCAA, they win six games in a row. In baseball, teams survive a double-elimination tournament, or three rounds of elimination baseball. In the NFL, even the Indianapolis Colts, and New York Giants earn the right to be champions by winning four games in a row. I’m sorry, but in any of those leagues, if you make it through the denoted gauntlet, you deserve to win; and to be called the best.

It’s paramount arrogance that a web site assumes its stats, logic or analysis superior to the results on the field. That may not be a direct statement, but it’s the implication, it’s perpetually unfounded, and it indicates myopia at best and ignorance at worst.

No one watches sports hoping for an endorsement of anyone’s preseason web prognostications, no matter how complete and data-driven the predictions may be. We watch in suspense, hoping and waiting to find out who can emerge from the pack. And that’s who the best is. Period.

That said, Mister Faded Glory has called Pittsburgh the best team all year. So we expect them to win. See, complete hypocrisy, mixed tenses, hopelessly long posts, catty diatribes, unnecessary fucking cursing; you’re glad I’m back. Admit it.

Or perhaps for further commentary on the exodus of Jason Marquis. Or a wrap on last night’s Syracuse win over DePaul. Or preview of Cuse-Rutgers. Or simple wondering how they drew the absolute easiest Big East teams to start the year.

Perhaps a review of Tuesday’s double-edged return of Scrubs? (A solid ‘meh.’ But the intern who likes chubs was funny.)

Maybe even a gloat, for I have stared into the belly of some weird sinus infection-cold plaguing the Midwest and recalling The Stand, and I am about to win. (/coughs.)

Perhaps you’ve chosen MFG for some commiseration – no doubt you’ve glanced at Slate‘s ultra-pretentious movie club to learn (shocking) that the snotty fanzine approves of absolute dreck you wouldn’t see in a million years, and is just now (upon further review!) panning The Dark Knight.  Oh, Slate. How much smarter than us are ye?

(Ahem. The Dark Knight is by far the year’s best film. Not the plodding Ben Button. Not the unintentionally comedic Gran Torino. Not the insufferable Man on Wire. Not even Definitely Maybe. In the  last month you’ve no doubt noticed critics racing to outdo each other in their ten-best lists. It’s The Dark Knight. It’s not close.)

But nope, MFG will be going dark for nearly two weeks. We wish this was because of noble work pursuits, but in fact, it’s time for a vacation. Along with the suntanned Ms. Faded Glory, we’re heading to beautiful Puerto Vallarta for a week of R-and-R. Since corporate America makes you pay for playing, I’ll be snowed under with phony work upon our return.  So hold my calls. Talk to you then.

Yesterday, noted Boston sportswriter Charley Pierce (somewhat of a renegade; the Manny of Boston sportswriting, if you will) piped up in Slate, his sage voice of reason detailing last week’s bizarre trade and resulting saga.  It’s a fantastic read, Pierce perfectly encapsulating the nuances, perspective and sheer lunacy surrounding the Red Sox’ recent, misguided propaganda campaign. Pierce favorably compares Ramirez to Yaz and Teddy Ballgame, two other Boston baseball players celebrated for their quirks, rather than demeaned.

Secondly, Manny Ramirez made his debut last night in Los Angeles. With Walter Alston‘s No. 24 retired at Chavez Ravine,  Manny gleefully departed outside his number box, selecting the hideously ugly No. 99. Petulant, rebellious, unique, ridiculous – Words simply cannot describe how fantastic this is.

Occasionally Newsweek does some solid work, such as dispatching a critical and well-versed fan of The Wire to interview executive producer David Simon. (Newsweek’s corporate partner Slate, for example, dispatches snooty journalists to decry all seasons of the show. Seems to me a real journalist supremely defensive of the medium wouldn’t be writing for an elitist maxi-blog. Zing! Also, that’s me, the pot.)

Simon offers an extreme amount of insight into the final season, and delivers several accurate defenses of his season five themes. Simon’s copy typically reads like a bitter, jaded professor, but he allows vital insight into the careful crafting of the penultimate season, and nicely hints at the coalescence of all his narrative themes.

We can’t print spoilers, but suffice it to say a line at the end of Episode Eight neatly sums up everything about all five seasons. In two more weeks, it will be over, and like a book you can’t wait to finish, can’t bear to put down, and spend full nights immersing yourself, we’ll feel powerfully exhausted, deeply saddened, and somewhat vacant when it’s gone.

“But I bought into it. I bought into it, big time. I’m part of the problem. (smack).” Nick Nolte as Head Coach Pete Bell, Blue Chips*

I’ll admit it, I fell right into their trap. You remember my mea culpa, right? (Actually, it’s the last thing I wrote. Eep.) Well, it stands. But after earnest soul-searching, I’ve discovered the cause of my mistake.

I’ve totally been Slate-d!

I fell right into their trap, and as a holier-than-thou, fully elitist snob, I began an inquisition into the folly of The Wire’s Season Five bend, specifically its Baltimore Sun story arc, pointing out even the most minimal flaw.

Now, after episode 6 and 7, it’s plainly clear that The Wire isn’t fully epitomatic of the exact minutiae of all the institutions it covers. Instead, it relies on story – and remarkably so on symmetry, themes, character duplicity, archetypes, stereotypes, and conflict. Duly noted – it’s not an expose, it’s a novel, or a TV show. And, if you consider it one of the greats (as we do), then it’s best to enjoy it instead of nitpicking each intricacy. It’s impossible to fully appreciate or even accurately review a show while looking down your nose squarely at readers. But that’s become Slate’s critique of The Wire. This is nothing new, however.

• Remember? Slate’s hard-hitting evisceration of Fletch? Not funny!
• How about their whine or opine about Mr. Obama’s presidential candidacy? He’ll fail!
• Scoffing at writers’ strike results? Not enough!
• Enjoy delicious chocolate? You’re gonna die!
• Seriously, dude. French wine – and french sommeliers – are so passe.
• Pfft. We knew the Patriots were bad. But you snark sharks are so worse.
• Did you hear Amy Winehouse was a trainwreck? You’re so uncouth! She’s a genius!
• Still using PC or Mac desktops? Sigh. Loser.

And of course, The Wire, debated ad nauseum, on a tete-a-tete beginning as a lively read and healthy discourse for fans who crave reaction to each and every episode and moment. However, in step with Slate’s consistent attempts to dramatically cast aside the shackles, trends, and zeitgest of all conventional wisdom, it’s turned into petty, bitter sniping about the show. Aaron Barnhart and Tim Goodman are critics of The Wire — these two ninnies from Slate appear increasingly aghast that neither was consulted for each plotline strand and character reaction. And well they should have been, they understand The Wire on so many more levels than us.

Instead of creating some sort of enjoyable, informative, or inquisitive discussion, Slate‘s created a series of elitist articles in step with its mission to thumb its nose at all of society. The end result is exhaustion – we can’t all be perfect in each and every critical, cultural, professional, personal, societal, and emotional choices. Sometimes the media, products, culture we consume is done so simply for enjoyment. Sometimes we consult critics like Roger Ebert or Consumer Reports or The New York Times for further information. Sometimes we don’t, preferring to watch dreck like Saved By The Bell or Con Air. In Slate’s world, that isn’t enough. Each and every choice we make needs to be a total, penultimate, calculated determination of all of our worldviews. Because it’s totally possible to gauge someone’s entire character from their basic childhood enjoyment of Christmas dinner. That’s Slate - Christmas dinners aren’t iconic or kitschy enough.

So I’ve learned. It’s one thing to critically evaluate film, literature, media, music, and sports – which is, basically, what we do here. With The Wire, perhaps, we crossed the line, and turned into one of those douchebags who is so certain they enjoy the subtext of each and every pop culture obsession so much more than you because they enjoy it on so many levels. And reading their email series, however, you’d think they were vindictive, absolutely apoplectic of a show wasting their valuable time. In fact, in their most alarming display of hubris, the fellows exhorted emailers for linking to spoilers – by directly referencing the circumstances of the spoil! I couldn’t look away fast enough. Jerks – it’s one thing to be a critic and become unsatisfied with the product. It’s quite another to assume your readers need to have the rug yanked from under them simply because it happened to you.

I should have read, probably, however, if only to consider myself as informed as they, and able to appreciate the rest of the season (or hate it) rationally and critically. Certainly by enjoying The Wire, I’m not only inferior to the Slate critics, but I’m now wasting my time. Oh, well, I guess I can try watching a DVR’ed Wings. Doubtful Slate dares to ruin my enjoyment of that.

(Next week on Slate – Explainer: Why Mother Love Bone is a horrible inspiration for a blog title. I mean, really.)

*Seriously. It’s on HBO every damn day, its repeated viewings a byproduct of subscribing solely for The Wire.

Read the page, it’s cold and dead, and take me home.Alice In Chains, Don’t Follow

Well, Ms. Faded Glory has gotten to me. The former lit major was just a little unnerved by yesterday’s post which (not intentionally) appeared to castigate any and all works of fiction noted as classics throughout the years. Which wasn’t totally the intention, I merely intended to make fun of authors masquerading as elitists. I do the same thing with foodies – you know fucking Jeffrey Steingarten orders a bucket of extra crispy on his way home from denigrating the Iron Chefs.

However, to prove, conversely, I do have the intent of becoming well-read, I’m poring through old, worn Ms. Faded Glory paperbooks from years past. On an upcoming corporate sojourn to Sin City – which I’m dreading fully, by the way, and more on this later – I will actually begin my quest to stomach five classic works. I don’t know how long this will take, nor if I will actually complete any of these, but here they are:

• Brave New World, Aldous Huxley. I claim ignorance on this work, I know only that it’s tangential to 1984 (which I have read, and liked, in case you needed to know) and also the band Rythm Syndicate considered calling themselves Brave New World in 1990 before recording P.A.S.S.I.O.N. That fucking blew your mind, didn’t it?
• The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner. This stream-of-consciousness novel is the Official Favorite Novel of Ms. Faded Glory, and the title reminds me of a cheesy headline that I wrote for the Kansas City Star once upon a time, after Jim Furyk won the U.S. Open. Let your imagination do the work, it was pure genius.
• The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck. Steinbeck wrote Of Mice and Men, so this might be the sequel. I know it’s not, I’m sorry, I can’t really keep up. My mind just flashed on Chris Farley during his SNL Of Mice and Men lampoon. I’m out on a limb here, but I don’t think this book is about grapes.
• A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens. It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times?! You stupid monkey!
• Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut. I should have read this already, considering Vonnegut’s ties to the greatest public university in the land. It’s tough to pick up Ms. Faded‘s hardcover collector’s edition, however, because of the cover inscription scrawled by an ex-boyfriend. Yes, I’m totally petty. We knew this.

There you have it, America. Soon, I, too, will be a know-it-all elitist author, painstakingly combing my thesaurus like Ian McEwan searching for a perfect synonym to substitute into a perfectly-crafted passage of a plagiarized book. Soon I, too, will be profiled by Slate, asking to embarrassingly disclose any classics I’ve failed to read. Undaunted, I will reply with contempt “Some Harry Potter book,” like nearly every author they talked to.

For you see, I will have read all classics, front to back. And there will be no worthwhile texts anywhere I haven’t conquered. That’s why, you see, I’ve casually dropped Harry Potter and the Flying Dutchmen as my cocksure answer. I know it’s no classic. But we’re beyond that – I’m way, way too smart to NOT have read any classics, and so I can disclose a children’s book as the only popular, tangential-classic piece of fiction I failed to dive into. Ha! I’m too smart for your shit, Slate. Bring your fucking noise.