Two brothers, two takes on The Last Jedi

Brandon’s Take: Please come back, George Lucas

“I predicted that I’d like it and you wouldn’t,” you said to me as we walked out of the theater. You know me well, of course, and were right. Tell your wife…you were right about me…

The triumvirate of fail

I’ll get right to it. The failures of The Last Jedi, for me, are threefold: the uninspiring collection of its new heroes, its seeming indifference to its most interesting questions, and its tedious insistence on familiar, recycled tropes from the series’ previous installments.

Putting the old heroes out to pasture

I’ve thus far resisted reading any criticism of the film, but I’d wager that I can capture one of the most common complaints: the diehard fans of Star Wars justifiably care much more about its old heroes than these new ones. The franchise’s iconic characters cast a shadow too long for the apparently ill-equipped minds at Disney to overcome. Amid its incoherence, the one thing that The Last Jedi actually renders quite clearly is Disney’s objective to, one by one, purge the beloved and iconic heroes and pass the baton to the new ones. All well and good, you might say. Carrie Fisher (RIP) is real life dead. Harrison Ford was too old to believably reprise Han Solo. Imagine a septuagenarian Henry Winkler donning the leather jacket and playing The Fonze again. It wouldn’t work for the same reasons Ford’s portrayal felt so flat and his death seemed so justified.

The tragically unsatisfying subversion of Luke

Mark Hamill, on the other hand, looks just like you’d expect an exiled Jedi master to look. Unfortunately, his role – until the very end of the film – is relegated to that of angsty brooding. The Jedi failed and should extinguish, he says again, for what feels like the tenth time. This is not what I paid to see. No doubt many fans had much higher hopes for his character, especially after his absence from all but the final 70 seconds of The Force Awakens. For all the sins of the prequels, one thing they got right was a smattering of consequential and visually thrilling lightsaber duels featuring its most important characters. Here, we get Luke losing a low stakes stick fight in the rain to Rey.

Make me care, new characters

Taking the spotlight away from the old guard of heroes does make sense for the reasons I’ve detailed above. The chief problem, for me at least, is that I don’t care – or haven’t been made to care – about this new cast of characters, hero and villain alike. Nearly all of Poe Dameron’s distinctive characteristics are negative. He’s arguably more skilled than the First Order when it comes to killing off what’s left of the Resistance. Someone needs to sit the guy down and teach him the basics of cost-benefit analysis. Later, in a pubescent fit because he doesn’t get to know Vice Admiral Holdo’s plans, Poe stages a coup that – if successful – would have doomed the few surviving members of the Resistance. Luckily, the more stable leaders emerge victorious and save us all from the raging, F5 Poenado threatening to destroy everything. Despite all of this, we’re clearly meant to like him, whose brash swagger reminds us ever so little of Han. I don’t get it.

Then there’s Finn. He’s certainly brave and courageous, but I’m struggling to assign him a distinctive quality. What, exactly, is compelling (or essential, even) about his character? That he’s a turncoat who discovered he wasn’t cool with mass murder? With Han, we had the conversion of a loner, self-centered scoundrel to that of a bona fide hero willing to lay down his life for his friends. With Luke, we had a kid with big hopes and dreams who turned out to be the progeny of the second-worst dude in the galaxy, making him one of the most consequential heroes in the annals of Jedi lore. Leia was the undaunted, intrepid leader that the fledgling Alliance needed, and she set the entire saga in motion with her daring ploy to send the Death Star plans to Obi-Wan Kenobi. I can’t tell you why you should care about Finn, though, and that is a problem for a film franchise that has invested so much in him. At least he isn’t as idiotic as Poe, I suppose.

Even Kylo Ren is a swing and a miss for me. Somehow, despite killing his father and being responsible for Luke’s exile, I can’t muster the hatred for him that is intended. For one thing, all of the best Star Wars villains are terrifying to behold. I find it impossible to feel anything close to terror when beholding Adam Driver’s goofy visage. In short, he is the opposite of everything I want to see in a blossoming Sith Lord. And, in case you missed it, Hayden Christensen already did the whole whiny, angsty thing. The last thing we need is more of that. Snoke said it best, “You are no Vader. You are just a child in a mask.” I’d have much preferred someone cut from the cloth of Darth Maul, who didn’t have to say much of anything to achieve the desired effect—his appearance and skills with a lightsaber were more than enough. 

Not the time to introduce even more new characters into the fray

Rose Tico exists to...save Finn from an act of heroic self-sacrifice and say something pithy about love before maybe dying? If she survives, which we’re led to believe will happen, then she may emerge as the love interest for Finn. So that’s something, I guess, in a saga that has thus far steered clear of any overt romantic aspect. (I found myself pining for the mounting tension and suggestive banter between Han and Leia in the Falcon, with all of Ford’s roguish charm on display while Leia tries in vain to rebuff her feelings.)

DJ, played by the inimitable Benicio Del Toro, is little more than a convenient prop to betray the good guys to the bad guys. His presence is the only redeeming aspect to the mostly pointless casino montage.

Just kidding about all that Snoke hype

The Last Jedi provides answers to none of the most interesting questions left in the wake of The Force Awakens. We learn absolutely nothing about Supreme Commander Snoke, beyond how poorly attuned to his apprentice he really was when it mattered the most. We are left still wondering who he was, where he came from, who mentored him and a host of other questions the film does not address. With this death, Snoke usurps Darth Maul for an honor I foolishly thought had been locked up for all eternity: Most Underused Villain.

Aside: Nothing about Snoke’s death made much sense. He demonstrates his mastery of the Force by casually whipping Rey’s body to and fro, and then boasts that he was the one controlling Kylo and Rey’s connection. This was a sobering revelation that might have had an alarming effect for viewers if not for what followed. Somehow, a being of his evidently immense power lacks basic peripheral vision. Count me among those disappointed with his Bond-villain death.

Nick, you predicted that Ren only killed his father Han Solo to gain the complete faith of Snoke in a sort of long-con. A bit like Severus Snape’s prearranged killing of Dumbledore: something that, on the surface, seemed to cement his villainy but ultimately and more importantly served to gain the unquestioned faith of He Who Must Not Be Named. Viewed that way, Snoke’s demise does not seem quite as absurd. Even so, it’s difficult to imagine a Dark Lord of the Sith being so hopelessly naive and trusting.

Any hopes of learning Rey’s past were also disappointed. Gazing into the Mirror of Erised, Rey sees only her own reflection. To make matters even worse, Kylo Ren later reveals to Rey that she is no person of consequence. Perhaps this isn’t actually true and we should learn by now not to take Erstwhile Ben at his word. If the two were somehow related, though, one would think the conniving Kylo Ren would attempt to use that information to his advantage. I’ll allow for the possibility that more information on Rey is forthcoming.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away … TEDIUM

For all of its dizzying action sequences, the film is marked by pointless tedium. Several scenes are devoted to Rey unsuccessfully beseeching Luke to rejoin the Alliance. Everyone knows he will eventually show Rey a thing or two about the Force and perform at least one more heroic deed, so what’s the point of delaying the obvious for what seemed like half an hour? We understand almost immediately that Luke is wrought with grief because of his supposed mishandling of Ben. Indeed, this is conveyed in the previous film and by the mere fact that he’s gone into hiding, but the writers insist on making sure we really, really get it.

Moreover, nearly the entire movie is spent showing the good guys fleeing from the bad guys in outer space. We are constantly and painstakingly reminded of the fact that the ship is running out of fuel.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

Then there’s all of the recycled material. Rey is brought before Snoke ala Luke before Palpatine in The Return of the Jedi. In both instances, the hero’s escort is a villain wrestling with whatever small bit of good remains in him. And in both instances, said villain slays his big bad master. Granted, in Vader’s case we hear genuine words of contrition and regret, whereas Ren hasn’t exactly seen the light. Killing Snoke was about seizing his ambitions, and, perhaps, attempting to gain the trust of Rey, whom he courts for the esteemed role of co-ruler of the galaxy.

The Last Jedi saves its best derivation for last. The Resistance finally land on a planet that looks an awful lot like Hoth and are almost immediately besieged by a host of AT-ATs. I’m sure that I’ve seen this somewhere before. Surprise! Chewie and the Falcon swoop in just in time to save some of our heroes from being mowed down in a vision that hearkens back to Han’s timely arrival in the battle of Yavin. Then we are treated to the eerily familiar sight of the Falcon navigating tight quarters while several TIE fighters give chase. It’s impossible to not see visions of the Falcon narrowly escaping the second Death Star—the clear inspiration for this new sequence. So, the writers manage to recycle material from all three of the original films in one fell swoop. That’s so wizard, Ani!

Porgs are, of course, the new ewoks—a shameless ploy to sell Star Wars toys and a decent bet for most popular Halloween costume of 2018. At least the ewoks served a purpose in the plot of their film.

Weeding through the snark

Here’s what it comes down to, Nick. I had specific hopes and expectations for the film that were unmet. I wanted more Luke, especially a showcase of his Force mastery. I thought his legacy was cheapened by the dreary monotony on Ahch-To and found his sendoff unsatisfying. Fair or unfair, I’ve yet to buy in on Finn, Rey or Poe. Assuming you have, you’re probably scratching your head at all of my criticism. Likewise, if you did not really care so much about the mysterious Sith Lord or the lineage of Rey, you don’t mind that certain questions were left unanswered. Finally, I hoped for more originality in the unspooling of the plot. In shoving more banality down my throat, instead, Disney did little to dissuade me of my belief that most sequels are bantha poodoo. 

Thanks for reading. Now, read my brother Nick's take, "The Star Wars I Saw."

The Last Jedi trailer

“When I first saw you,” a deep, gravelly voice begins, “I saw raw, untamed power…”

This, presumably, is the mysterious Supreme Leader Snoke, who I desperately hope is the Darth Plagueis The Wise alluded to by then-Senator Palpatine amid his less than subtle – but not yet cat out of the bag – courtship of Anakin Skywalker.

The scene opens with Father Slayer Kylo Ren silently observing the mass production of familiar imperial machines of mass destruction. White-clad troopers march in his wake as the Sith colors red and black feature with increasing prominence.

“…And beyond that, something truly special!” Snoke concludes, most forebodingly. 

Speaking of special, here’s Jedi-in-training heroin Rey brandishing a lightsaber of familiar hue and handle on scenic and remote Skywalker Island.

“Something inside me has always been there,” she says.

Here we get a good look at the forlorn, haggard and grizzly Luke Skywalker — a far cry from the idealistic, womp rat shooting, sister kissing days of yore.

As Rey’s strength with the Force is displayed for us and culminates with the ground literally quaking beneath the strain of her telekinetic strength, Luke speaks for the first time, his voice shockingly hoarse and untold octaves lower than that of his pre-hermit self.

“I’ve seen this raw strength before,” he says. “It didn’t scare me enough then. It does now.”

Our hero’s words represent a marked contrast between the two mentors of the Force. Snoke, on one hand, intoxicated by the potential he sees in Kylo Ren. On the other end of the spectrum is a wide-eyed Luke, somber and alarmed in the presence of Rey’s blossoming power, which he knows can be made to serve either good or ill. Significantly, both Luke and Snoke characterize their respective pupils’ abilities as “raw,” though each obviously views that trait through different lenses. Luke’s anxiety and circumspection are consistent with the philosophy of his Good Guy predecessors, who (wisely) balked at Anakin Skywalker’s training. And even, for a brief moment, his own. Snoke, much like former dark lords of the Sith, likely sees raw, unadulterated ability – bereft of a basic sense of right and wrong – as an indispensable ingredient to intergalactic domination.

Next we have the apparently fully actualized sociopath Kylo Ren — scarred both literally and figuratively. Evidently unsatisfied by his feat of patricide in The Force Awakens, Ren contemplates a two-fer as his mother (RIP, Carrie) wears a grim look of what might be resignation.

The Falcon roars into view, chased as ever by TIE fighters in a visage hearkening back to its narrow escape from the second Death Star. Chewbacca growls something that seems to convey “Not this again” while the camera pans over to a penguin copilot (?), who squeaks his own utterance of dismay.

Intense images of outer space conflict follow as the Rebellion’s new generation of heroes emerge, including Finn locked in combat with a New Order foe.

“This is not going to go…the way you think,” Luke warns.

And indeed, things seem bleak with Finn walking in the custody of New Order troops, the imperial armada looking every bit as vast and potent as it did before the Empire’s defeat, and Rey enduring what looks like the Cruciatus curse courtesy of the physically deformed Snoke. As an aside, I definitely think there’s something to the Star Wars’ universe in terms of outward ugliness matching inward ugliness, and Ren’s facial scar likely serves as merely a starting point in his physical and spiritual transformation.

Most chilling of all, the montage concludes with Rey stating that “I need someone to show me my place in all of this.” Kylo Ren, against a fire-falling hellscape, extends an inviting hand.

And close! The words “Star Wars” and “December 15” appear in blood red, cementing what promises to be a much darker and hopefully less derivative installment than its predecessor A New Hope The Force Awakens.

There’s a lot to unpack here. The juxtaposition of Snoke and Luke is particularly compelling and effective. Though his words and appearance seem to mirror Sith lords of past, we still know precious little of him. From whence did this Force-sensitive person emerge, and who managed to render his face even more grotesque than Palpatine’s? And despite Luke’s familiarity, this sure doesn’t sound or look anything like the hero we once knew. What circumstances led him to disregard his appearance and choose exile? Surely he still cares more about the plight of the universe he once saved than his defeatist words now suggest.

Of course, this trailer is likely replete with misdirection. If it isn’t, I’m surprised that the filmmakers have elected to tip their hand to such an extent. Luke may not be quite the embittered, Get Off My Island man that his few words in this clip suggest. Rey may not actually be soliciting the help of Kylo Ren, who may not actually be on his way to kill mommy.

Whatever the case, I greatly anticipate answers to at least some of the questions left for us by TFA. That, and more than seventy seconds’ time devoted to the iconic protagonist of the franchise. 

Drilling and Filling: Confessions of a Former Dental Assistant

After earning a Master’s degree in English at Abilene Christian University—something accomplished almost in spite of myself—I count the months following graduation as some of the most illuminating and crucial to my concept of adulthood. Following the completion of my program, I was able to teach an additional semester as an adjunct, but the pay did not justify a prolonged tenure. Some of the faculty in the ACU English Department expressed a desire, but inability, to hire me on in a full-time capacity. My response to this news was illustrative of my mid-20’s self: I refused to plan ahead or formulate alternatives for post-grad life, opting instead to expect things to work out—they always had in the past—as if I could will the world to give me my due. It was the same attitude and approach I had carried before completing my bachelor’s degree. Rather than forging a plan and taking the necessary steps to that plan’s fruition, I was the world’s pin ball—bouncing here and there, without agency or cognition.

As graduation day approached, I learned of (more likely, my mother informed me of) an accelerated teaching certification program in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Not only could I earn certification over the course of a summer, but average starting salaries for the school district ranged from $45-50k. In the eyes of an adjunct professor, this seemed an incomprehensible and vast fortune. Even more importantly, I had no idea what else to do. I made the move to Fort Worth and enrolled in the program.

As a former professor used to say, “That went over like pork at the Passover.” Amid increasing rumors of a hiring freeze in the DFW school district, my apartment was broken into—twice. Though the first ill-fated heist only left me temporarily $21.60 poorer (I recovered all of it after the bandits were apprehended), my analysis of the events at the time was predictably self-defeating: I can’t make it on my own. I did not know how to write a resume and had failed to procure a single interview during that summer in Fort Worth. It felt like surrendering, but I promptly withdrew from the certification program (forfeiting whatever fee I paid), prematurely broke my lease with the apartment complex, tuck tailed and moved home to Lawrence. I left behind a metroplex of 6.5 million in favor of a community of 87,000 with a notoriously slim job market.

Somehow, this decision paid dividends almost immediately. A local bank interviewed me and told me, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but another possibility soon emerged. When Associates in Dentistry called one autumn day, my desperation dictated that I entertain even the most unlikely of opportunities.

“We see that you applied for a front-desk position, but we are currently interviewing for a dental assistant job. Are you interested?”

 I knew nothing about teeth apart from my own unfortunate experience with braces during my adolescence. On the one hand, the thought that my Master’s degree and student loan debt could apparently yield nothing greater than holding Mr. Thirsty struck me as an injustice akin to Carey Mulligan continually cast as an attractive person. On the other hand, I was an adult man living in his parents’ basement, eating nachos in the middle of the night while scanning Match.com and watching reruns of “High Stakes Poker.” It was thus that my sense of entitlement was laid to waste like a meth-addled molar.  The first interview beget a second one, after which the company graciously hired me because they—unlike many other would-be employers—were impressed enough with my education that they overlooked my lack of skills. They assumed that I would learn on the fly because I was “smart.” Accepting the position, though terrifying at the time, marked the beginning of an adulthood and character turning point with far-reaching implications.

As an adjunct professor, I had grown accustomed to doing work when I felt like it. In the semester that I taught following my graduation, I no longer had classes or comprehensive exams to worry about.  So, apart from the actual sessions I taught and the few required office hours, I did what I wanted when I wanted, essentially answering to no one. When I put on that white dental jacket and climbed into the chair across from Dr. Kincaid, though, the relative nonchalance of my academic life seemed a distant memory. Suddenly, many things depended on me and demanded my unwavering focus. The dentist performs the important work, certainly, but the assistants serve as the oil that makes the machine operate smoothly and efficiently. They speak to the patients about their symptoms, take x-rays, document every procedure (noting every solution and bonding agent used), hand the doctor whatever he needs when he needs it, and—of course—hold the suction device in the patient’s mouth to ensure he/she doesn't choke on blood, spit, or tooth fragments. When not assisting with a procedure, I was constantly moving: acquiring items needed for the next appointment, sterilizing the room/instruments, or retrieving another patient from the waiting room. Of course, I had no idea how to do any of this at the beginning: It was a baptism by fire.

Then there were the visuals. When you assist fillings, root canals, crown preps, and extractions all day, you will see things that cannot be unseen. Things worse than the Bridesmaids food poisoning scene, if you can imagine it. Learning dentistry presented a daunting enough task, but the gradual desensitization to tooth decimation was something else altogether. A memorable procedure involved the extraction of every single drug-rotted tooth in this patient’s mouth. Inches away from the carnage, I sat dutifully by with my suction device and watched the dentist plunge, contort, and finesse his elevator and forceps into the patients’ gums. Some teeth gave way like the French; others did not. He calmly placed each newly homeless tooth on a nearby tray. These experiences prepared me to one day watch “The Walking Dead” without losing my biscuits.

Initially, the stark contrast between my former career path and dentistry was almost too much for me. Where I had once attempted to mold minds, now I watched someone else mold mouths. I reflected with dismay that I now held a plastic cup into which people spit, when months earlier I stood before a classroom and discussed the philosophical undertones of The Dark Knight.  The assistant who initially trained me was younger than my college students. Fridays included a 7:00 a.m. appointment, which meant that I needed to arrive by 6:40 to make preparations. Something important happened during the course of my assimilation, though. I developed a work ethic. My every motion became purposeful and efficient. I knew what the dentist needed before he spoke it aloud. I learned how to make and mold temporaries (fake, aluminum teeth) on my own. In short, I became quite good at the job and took great pride in the fact—particularly since I was not sure I could do it at all when I started. The sink or swim environment, while uncomfortable at first, served as the perfect antidote for my sense of entitlement and immaturity.

When I was hired, the job was above me—not beneath me. They gave me a chance when so many others had not. The world does not owe us anything, I had finally learned, and the people closest to me began to marvel at the positive changes the job imparted, in addition to it helping me repay a debt and purchase the first vehicle I’ve ever owned. The world does not care how smart you think you are, only what value you bring to the table.

Sometime during those eight or nine months, I became an adult. 

Power Rankings: Most Embarrassing Hobbies and Phases

My high school years were fraught with unrefined tastes. Four of the five hobbies and phases detailed herein occurred during the Pre-Book Brandon era—that is, the time spanning from birth to when I first willingly read a book (age 19).  I can make no better argument for the importance of reading than the horror that you, brave reader, are apparently poised to confront.

5) Linkin Park

Linkin Park released Hybrid Theory fourteen years ago, and this album’s presence in my cache of CDs serves as my personal warning against tattoos. In other words, what I consider cool, refined, or exemplary of me will eventually be dishonorable, brutish and antithetical to Future Brandon.

While working for my university’s newspaper staff one night, a fellow editor denounced my musical taste as “average,” alluding to the chorus of “Crawling” as evidence:

Crawling in my skin

These wounds they will not heal

Fear is how I fall

Confusing what is real

Not exactly Shakespeare, I granted him. My friend seized the opportunity, suggesting that liking Linkin Park and being snobby about literature was a form of cognitive dissonance.  While I did not care for that person at the time and have since contented myself with the subjective nature of my own musical taste, the encounter devastated me. He had deftly exposed that my very core featured a rube and a faux-intellectual failing miserably to coexist. And a Brandon divided against itself cannot stand.

4) Phog.net

A common interest forum for fans of KU athletics, this site contains separate forums for different sports, as well as for politics and the aptly named Ape Room (religion, pop culture, movies, Kate Upton, etc.).  I spend nearly every waking minute with Phog.net up on my browser. Even now, in the waning minutes of the work week, the tab is there, beckoning and tantalizing me like the lights of Las Vegas. I am mesmerized and compulsively drawn to it, like those who take their social security checks straight to the slot machines.

The understandable aspect of the hobby is the thirst for knowledge. Since KU basketball viewing is unabashedly my primary hobby, I wish to be abreast of any development or piece of information affecting the team. Are there any injuries? What is the spread for Saturday’s game? Is Doug Gottlieb trolling us on Twitter again?

Unfortunately, my crippling addiction to this site also owes to the omnipresence of debate. As a younger man, I avoided conflict—even virtual conflict—at any and all cost. These days, I exchange verbal fisticuffs with faceless strangers on all of, but not limited to, the following subjects: gun control, The Walking Dead, soccer, the JFK assassination, Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a source of empathy, and whether Perry Ellis is a deserving whipping boy for the board on the heels of a KU loss.

The realm is further appealing because typing things from behind a computer screen is easier than actually speaking to other people who happen to share my interests. (It’s both a warm memory and a harsh reminder of my gutlessness that I first approached my wife on Facebook.) And though there’s no mute button for people you’d like to ignore in real life, Phog.net extends the handy Ignore feature for those posters who reek suspiciously of K-State trolls. When I reflect with dismay on my diminishing social skills, I don’t have far to look for the culprit.

At this moment, my go-to time waster “is temporarily unavailable” due to scheduled maintenance. I feel like I’m missing a limb.

3) “A blind disregard for things other people liked until you somehow discovered their merit on your own” –Nick Sayre

Somewhere amid the tragic-comedy that was high school, I inexplicably developed a contrarian nature. That is, I willfully resisted anything that was wildly popular, perhaps as an unconscious attempt at recompense for some of the regrettable dalliances yet to come in this post. If I clearly could not trust others to tell me what was cool or worth my time, I would categorically reject anything and everything that attained mass appeal. Beneath the veneer of a Pro Cuts fade and GAP clothing beat the heart of a burgeoning hipster before hipsters existed. I was anti for the sake of being anti.

And so it was that I refused to read Harry Potter until the summer of the final book’s release. I also insulted my brother’s favorite band with the witless epithet “Jimmy Eat Poop.” Those who know me at all don’t need help in appreciating the irony, so I will only impart the following: One of the best and most memorable nights of my life included both a Jimmy Eat World concert in downtown Lawrence and the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. I sang along, word for word, to every song. I devoured all 759 pages of the book the next day. 

2) Dragon Ball Z

Commonly abbreviated DBZ, Dragon Ball Z is a Japanese anime television series that was eventually dubbed into English. The show follows the affable and casually powerful Goku, his son Gohan and the rest of the ragtag “Z team”—defenders of a world that is unaware of their existence or the various alien tyrants threatening to Alderaan the planet. The most appealing aspect of the show is that the characters possess otherworldly powers: They can fly (sometimes through mountains), move faster than agents in the Matrix, and shoot balls of energy through their hands. In this respect, at least, the show is not unlike many of the science fiction and fantasy films that have captured the imaginations of dorks across time and cultures.

Why the embarrassment, then? The first reason is self-evident: Dragon Ball Z is geared toward children. Though ostensibly a violent show—even the weakest characters pack more punch than all of Pakistan’s WMDs—viewers only occasionally wrestle with the concept of death. When a main character does die, he can be revived by a reptilian genie who can only be summoned when all of his “balls” have been located. The second reason is that the show sacrifices everything for suspense.  Entire episodes pass with characters hunched over, balling their fists and “powering up.” Between constipated grunts, heroes and foes may exchange some terse dialogue. Though there are plenty of titanic bouts between wild-haired combatants with powers that put the Twelve Olympians to shame, the show’s creators devote most of their attention in building up the importance of a given fight. In revisiting the epic Cell and Gohan tilt, I discovered that seven minutes and forty seconds of show-time pass before the two exchange a single blow.

Then there are the transformations. Once a character reaches a certain plateau in his training, and looks sufficiently constipated, he manages to transform. For Goku, Gohan, and the other Saiyans (did I mention that the show’s main protagonists are aliens, themselves?) this involves a change in hair color and eye color along with a substantial upgrade in strength and speed. The result is always a sight to behold, but you could listen to Don McLean’s “American Pie” and deep clean the bathroom before anything happens.

I’m only going to say this once, but my teenage brothers and I owned the following DBZ items:

•  Actions figures
• Wall scrolls
•  A Vegeta button-up shirt (mine)
• Most of the seasons on VHS cassettes

Also, for my film class’s final project, I constructed a DBZ music video to the timeless P.O.D. hit “Boom.” You may mock accordingly.

Though hardly a source of pride, I’m retrospectively pleased that I did not latch onto the show because of its popularity. My brother introduced me to Japanese animation and this show struck some chord¹ with me. I only later learned—much to my astonishment—that other people my age watched the show. During one fateful basketball practice, my shoes squeaked so badly that my teammate quipped, “You sound like Cell from Dragon Ball Z.” My eyes widened in astonishment. “You watch Dragon Ball Z?” His reply serves as one of my favorite memories from high school (which should tell you quite a bit about my high school experience): “Man, EVERYBODY be watchin’ Dragon Ball Z.”

As great as that moment was, it was later tarnished to some degree when I realized that some of my teammates used “Let’s go watch some Dragon Ball Z” as their code for “Let’s go smoke weed.”

1) WWF

During my junior high years, everybody who was anybody watched the World Wrestling Federation. It was as indispensable to late 90’s coolness as wearing Abercrombie and Fitch. The only excuse I can offer up for the following paragraphs would be that conformity is essential to social survival when you’re a teenager. If left to view Wrestle Mania in a social strata vacuum, without the tastes of Southwest Junior High’s crème de la crème impinging upon me, I may never have developed a passing adoration for a beer swilling redneck giving people the bird and yelling monosyllabic words into a microphone. But that’s not a luxury you have when you’re 15. 

The essence of professional wrestling lies in the spectacle of two mammoth humans pretending to fight one another in front of a live audience. Prior to that, though, each participant waits for the cue of his distinctive theme song before emerging from behind the curtains, fixing the audience with a basilisk stare, and dramatically making his way to the ring where, depending on whether he’s a Heel or a Face, he’s cascaded with boos or applause. If the show were this simple, though, my dabbling would not serve as such a source of lasting shame. You see, televised wrestling attempts to combine its easily understood hand-to-hand combat element with actual story lines and drama. There’s endless plotting, ever-shifting alliances, and near-naked women occasionally tussling in a pool filled with some sort of lubricant. In short, it’s a poor man’s Game of Thrones.²

The fact that I watched the show—to say nothing of the time that passed before realizing every episode was fundamentally the same—should be reason enough for deep regret. But alas, I dug a deeper hole. Here, I’m forced to reflect upon and lament just how oppressive an elder sibling I was during my adolescence. Not only did I obsessively watch Monday Night Raw and incorporate Dwayne Johnson’s tired catch phrases³ into my daily speech, but I forcibly dragged my brother Nick into the muck.

My family used to own a trampoline—an omnipresent mowing headache in the backyard—that served as the confluence of my Neanderthal comportment and my brother’s passivity. Rather than filling his free time with any number of constructive and enjoyable pastimes, Nick endured countless hours of receiving The People’s Elbow and the Stone Cold Stunner. He became quite adept at feigning the appropriate reaction to whichever move I performed. I even made him play my theme song on a portable CD player as I emerged through the screen door and onto the deck. Van Halen’s “Right Now” filled Biltmore Drive’s summer air as I pounded a can of caffeine free Pepsi ala Stone Cold Steve Austin.

And since I’m so fond of mocking the linguistic choices of others, I’d be remiss to neglect mentioning one of the most embarrassing items to ever exist in my own lexicon, thanks in equal parts to this wrestling phase and a certain friend I had at the time: “Beasted” (verb). My friend would boast of “beasting” his sister into the family room couch with a Powerbomb or German suplex. Such stories and elaborate descriptions, unfortunately, only inspired me to up the ante with the backyard brawls. It was thus with much trepidation that Nick granted assent to me launching him off the deck and onto the trampoline below. I can only imagine the deluge of spite and terror filling his mind while on the receiving end of these airborne beastings. When I informed him of my intention to write on this subject, his response was a rather incisive commentary of our adolescent relationship: “There were times I didn’t like you very much, but we’re cool now. This is where I cross you off the to-kill list and relax with my guns and lipstick.”

Did not make the list on account of awesomeness: 

Being at the Lake, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, Reading, Viewing Sports, Playing Sports.

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1 Likely nothing more than that it sparked a desire to blast my teenage foes into oblivion with balls of energy—I remember actively fantasizing about this.

2 I'm talking Eddie Murphy in "Trading Places" poor.

3 The most famous of which involved telling other adults that "it doesn't matter what your name is" and threatening to turn an eclectic array of items "sideways" before shoving them up the victim's "candy ass."

In Defense [and attack] of Vocabulary

In high school, I would make the short drive back home during lunch period. Sure, this was partially inspired by my anti-social constitution, but I also much preferred my mother’s leftover casseroles to whatever greased slop the cafeteria palmed off as food. While microwaving said leftovers, though, I would routinely inhale an ice cream sandwich and a handful of Cheez-Its simultaneously. It never occurred to me that such a habit was strange—I had a limited amount of time and wanted to cram as much variety in those minutes as possible. Enough to offset my mild aversion for eating leftovers, at least. George Steinbrenner may have enjoyed eggplant calzones every single day, but such uniformity in gestation is unconscionable to me. For my birthday lunch, my loving wife presented a spread that included shrimp cocktail, three types of cheese, pistachios, potato chips, and Sour Patch Kids. I was so thrilled that I forgave the kalamata olives for their noted absence. When it comes to eating, I want options and variety.  

When writing or speaking, I also want more options. I enjoy the complexity and variety. Some prefer simplicity and limitations when it comes to language, and Twitter is the best and most salient current example. Verbal or written expression can be very challenging, and I understand opting for whatever makes things easier. At some point in time, unfortunately, having a vocabulary became downright uncool. As a society, we don’t have trouble praising other forms of intelligence or skills with a given craft, but a demonstrated aptitude with words may rub people the wrong way. Groupthink determined at some point that saying words like “banal” was pompous, elitist, gratuitous, or pretentious. Particularly when you’re a teenager, use of elevated vocabulary is as much an act of social suicide as joining the North Shore mathletes.

A lot of times, all that a vocabulary really indicates is that you've done a lot of reading. People have pointedly informed me that I “don’t have to” use big words, but some of us enjoy vocabulary like others might enjoy gardening, knitting, or braining the undead in video games. Incorporating new words into your speech might be as satisfying as throwing a touchdown pass, though some would prefer to liken it more to spinning a basketball—needlessly flashy and pointless.

Instead of accepting the social reprisals I willingly incur (and have in the past)[1] for saying “you slay me” instead of “that’s funny,” I’m here to fight fire with fire. Yes, dear reader, many popular words and expressions – adopted for comic purposes or the sake of simplicity – offend me and are corrosive to society at large. When I feel the push for social dialogue to mirror that exchanged by the vapid characters in “How I Met Your Mother” or “Friends,” I get a bit edgy and have no intention of sitting idly by. A few particular items gained enough cache to transform into memes, and they are forced down our unwilling throats like so many Channing Tatum films.

The terrorists, as it turns out, were craftier than we ever imagined. We’ve been looking for anthrax and WMDs while they’ve slyly waylaid us with a far shrewder incursion. If you use any of the following words and expressions, I’m sorry to tell you that you are a victim and, unfortunately, part of the problem.

The List

Before I begin, I want to acknowledge that many of the items on this list are merely common, stock expressions people use when they want to share something on social media. They represent the freeway that enables your thoughts to reach someone else. Viewed this way, none of the following are inherently inferior to any other available means of expression. All of my criticism is personal and subjective, and the fact that I’m even moved to write about this subject probably makes me a bit crazy. In truth, I feel a bit like this guy. Proceed with all due caution. Probably some undue caution, too.

1. That Awkward Moment

The tour de force of the terrorists’ linguistic jihad, this one has done so much damage that it serves as the namesake for an upcoming movie.[2] If the film stays true to popular use, expect for star Zac Efron to endure the gamut of encountering an ex girlfriend, arriving to a meeting with mismatched socks, and debating a Holocaust denier at a bar mitzvah. The only thing those examples have in common? That each of them can somehow be expressed through TAM.[3] When people invoke the word awkward, they usually mean something else, or something much more specific. While they may merely intend to convey some dramatized form of discomfort, more often they mean to project that a certain situation either a) is amusing or b) evokes a strong emotional response. Awkward somehow morphed into an incredibly flexible catchall word by which people present any experience they find Facebook worthy.

There are other words at your disposal. Use them.  

The above illustrates my point perfectly. This isn’t any more awkward than Florida Gulf Coast advancing to the Sweet 16. It may have seemed wildly improbable at one point in time, but the fact that it happened makes you uncomfortable?

2. Really? Seriously?

Believe it or not, incredulity can be expressed in other ways. I get it, though. This one is meant to serve as a rhetorical question, suggesting that an unfortunate event or someone’s behavior is beneath characterizing with adjectives. And that’s pretty bad.

3. Boss (adj.)

I focus here on “that was pretty boss” as distinct from “How ya doin’, boss?” though both may as well be Nickleback harmonized with babies crying against a chorus of people vomiting. How “boss” emerged from the innumerable corpses of slang words generally meaning “good,” I’ll never understand.  Give me tight, on point, or even noice ahead of boss.[4]

4. That ___, tho.

Here, I must confess that I probably don’t get it. Though (tho) can signify a change in topics or focus (e.g. "I think we should discuss our budget, though") or a counter to something (e.g. “Channing was good in Coach Carter, though”). As a conjunction, though can mean “in spite of the fact.” I’m not sure that this meme necessarily serves any of these functions, however. Mostly, I gather that it means X is good, or I plan to do X.

“That dunk, though.”

“About to eat this rack of ribs, though.”

Both examples are devoid of any context whatsoever, and that may be the entire point—whatever is expressed is apropos of nothing, but apparently good enough to transcend any context. Above any explanation, as it were.  

***

I’m here to liberate you from these star-crossed expressions. In lieu of a wizard’s staff and actual sorcery, I present the following case for a lexicon not confined to 180 characters.

1) Humor 

Unless you get your jollies from some troglodyte like Dane Cook,[5] it’s worth mentioning that much humor results from the gift of gab.

“There are all manner of lesser imps and demons, Pete, but the great Satan hisself is red and scaly with a bifurcated tail, and he carries a hayfork.” [O Brother, Where Art Thou]

Miles: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I'am thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I'm a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.

Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. 'A smudge of excrement... surging out to sea.' [Sideways]

2) Eloquence for eloquence sake 

It can be as pleasing to the ear as a fine melody.

3) A Means to an End

Your stock of words can be employed to attain a certain objective. That’s right—words can help you get what you want! Do you want more or fewer weapons in that arsenal?

Imagine bullets metaphorically here, and I think you’ll get the idea. If you want more moving examples, consult some famous historical speeches. 

Of course, there are other uses for so-called big words, but this really should suffice. If you do not see the clouds peeled back and feel vaguely woozy from your erstwhile lexical enslavement, I’m afraid that you’re beyond elvish medicine. To the rest of you: Breathe the free air, my friends.

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[1] Here’s an admission. It’s on me to determine whether my company and situation will respond favorably or unfavorably to certain lexical items. However, I’d like to mention that I was once mocked for saying “remarkable.” That, my friends, is not on me.

[2] One I won’t be viewing purely on principle, in case you were wondering. You have to stand for something in this world.

[3] I can’t bring myself to type it more than once.

[4] These are some of the worst slang examples for “cool” that I could produce.

[5] Heaven help you. 

The Hater’s Guide to Sports: Volume I

Preface: If you know me well at all, you know that I harbor and express negativity. I possess strong opinions about even the most relatively innocuous of things, ranging from Michael Gambon’s portrayal of Dumbledore...



 to the fact that someone like Robin Thicke is famous. (Is there a more scathing indictment of modern society?) My friend once called me a misanthrope after I took to social media to condemn How I Met Your Mother. It should come as a surprise to no one, then, that sports – while one of my greatest sources of diversion and joy – also stirs my antipathy. If you likewise enjoy sports but prefer to nourish as rosy an outlook on them as possible, I beseech you to read no further. Fellow haters may read on and look forward to future installments. 

When I lived in Abilene, TX, my friends convinced me to venture two hours east one weeknight to attend a Newfound Glory concert. Despite my complete lack of familiarity with the band, the prospect of an evening in Dallas with two good friends was a welcome reprieve from self-inflicted graduate school angst. What I didn’t know, however, was that each of the lead acts could be summarily described as Kill-Yourself Metal. Lots of guttural moaning, wailing, nihilism, oppressive body odor and – sandwiched between it all – me, fending off hordes of moshing teenagers. It felt as though all the world’s Hot Topic patrons had suddenly descended upon me, eager to mate, fight, or possibly both. To say nothing of the hours spent waiting for NFG to take the stage or their subsequent performance, I came to a very important revelation that night: When deciding whether to attend musical events in the future, be selective.

In a similar spirit, I encourage everyone to exercise choice before deciding to engage in a game of pickup basketball, even if that was your sole purpose for going to the gym. Even though I’ve played the game for most of my life, I somehow forgot (until yesterday, apparently) that the basketball court is as much a magnet for punks and narcissists as the casino is for degenerates. Since I’ve already detailed my thoughts on a certain pickup basketball archetype elsewhere, I’ve decided to offer something constructive and accessible rather than singling out any one red flag. Fortunately, a cursory perusal of the game’s participants will reveal whether you should get in on the next game or content yourself with shooting free throws. Yes, this is an exercise of profiling a basketball court, in a manner of speaking. The good news is that the task is seldom difficult.

If you discern one or more of the following, kindly refuse:

• Multiple teenagers – neurology shows that their brains have not fully developed, making them less averse to risks, consequences, and committing felonies. Bear that in mind before engaging these feral life forms in an activity they may view as an opportunity to abandon all decorum and embrace their most base instincts.
  
• Hero ball – one or more players who shoot each and every time they touch the ball. The ripple effect is seen when teammates place hands on hips and remain stationary while our Hero acts as the dementor of the hardwood.
  
• Loud and repeated verbal altercations – these disputes are waged with a very limited range of vocabulary.
  
• A ball-handler consistently ignoring screens set for him – often a byproduct of hero ball in which help from a teammate may be regarded as an affront to Hero's individual scoring ability.
  
• An attempt at anything you've ever seen in an And 1 mixtape
• People who say "And 1" on the court 

Conversely, these are positive signs:

• People smiling – if other people seem to be having a good time while playing, there’s a good chance you will, too.
  
• Three or more passes on multiple possessions – the less dribbling, the better. Straight out of Norman Dale's playbook.
  
• Verbal encouragement – examples include, but are not limited to, “Nice pass!” and “Good D!”
  
• Noticeable and sustained effort – basketball (even in its most amateur expressions) reaches its full potential when everyone plays hard without displaying any of the aforementioned red flags.
  

Of course, my recommendations assume that you value the same things I do. I want to play hard, sweat, make my share of shots, and walk away without vivid fantasies of doing this to people. As you may have guessed, the criteria I have established eliminates many games you will encounter. In those situations, you will have to weigh your desperation to play against the flawless standards provided herein. Can you be satisfied when only rebounds and steals afford you the luxury of touching the ball? Will you risk teenagers throwing the ball at your head if you block their shots? Would you, as I would, deprive teenagers of many privileges if anointed emperor of the world? Such are the questions you must ask yourself. No matter how desperate you may be for competition, try to keep in mind that the game at hand probably won’t be your final opportunity or your only outlet. You, too, can say no to toxic pickup basketball.

In short, you must choose, but choose wisely. The quality pickup game will give you joy. The bad one…will take it from you.

A Chasing After the Wind: The Things I Always Knew, But Found a Way to Justify About Poker

During college, the poker boom swept me up with countless others who were captivated by the film Rounders and ESPN’s World Series of Poker footage. At the time, the game of Texas Hold ‘Em—though previously foreign to most people—gained traction through the colorful characters who played it on television, and through the seven-figure purse for the world champion. When the 33-year-old accountant Chris Moneymaker (a rank amateur) beat Sam Farha—a seasoned professional whom I incidentally met years later at a Houston restaurant—millions of people shared the same reaction: “I can do this, too.” This notion, along with television’s successful romanticizing of the American pastime, produced an obsession I’m ashamed to recall.

After it became obvious ***SPOILER ALERT*** that I was never going to play in the NBA, I sought a competitive outlet elsewhere.  Poker appealed to me instantly. In lieu of besting people physically, perhaps I could do so mentally?[i] In making the transition, I quickly discerned a key difference between athletic forms of competition and sloth-like, degenerate forms of competition.  Money. When it is on the line, many people lose their minds. This is particularly the case when the game displays an utter indifference to your plight and whatever statistical advantage you may have held when the money went into the middle. 

This is not to say that I arrived at some specious conclusion that the game does not favor the most skilled, or that many people—undoubtedly my intellectual superiors as far as the game is concerned, and very likely in other arenas as well—do not enjoy a profitable living from their abilities.[ii] Merely approaching that level of prowess is about as easy as sneezing with your eyes open, though. To adopt the mindset held by most professionals of this sedentary “sport,” you basically need to shed as much of your humanity as possible. What do I mean by that? You’re supposed to feign—and ultimately condition yourself to adopt—indifference to the result of any given hand and content yourself with the knowledge that you made the correct play (if that was indeed the case). It’s a bit like telling a bespectacled adolescent that he should feel good about being on the receiving end of a swirly because he had the moral high ground in a spat with the school bully. The idea of justice, in other words, needs to be entirely discarded.  As poker pro Phil Laak once said, “There is no ‘deserves’ in poker.”

Rationally, though, the desired stance is beyond reproach: If you’re a more skilled player than your peers, losing one big hand should not raise your blood pressure[iii]—you want people to routinely get all of their money in the middle against you when the numbers are in your favor. You should be willing to take AceKing (a 3:2 favorite, also known as a landslide in poker) against KingJack forever and ever, amen. You should inwardly brim with delight—but not outwardly, remembering that you’re striving for the visage and emotional capacity of Tim Duncan—when you get it in with queens (4:1) against jacks. When you lose in that first scenario, something that will occur four times out of ten, frustration is not the correct response because it is a results-oriented reaction. I say all of this to really say that poker requires a tremendous, almost inhuman capacity to take a beating and blithely move on as if merely dealing with a case of bedhead. Many players, no matter how long they play or how hard they try to purge their emotions like the zombie swine-flu, cannot shake the residue, which—for many of us—lingers and often causes ongoing damage[iv]. Poker players call this human flaw tilt[v], and they examine your response to devastation with a Celestron LCD Deluxe in hopes of exploiting you.

Even if you manage to cull your emotions, become a math savant, and establish a lasting disregard for other human life, the outward appearance needed to be a bona fide poker pro may present other issues. That is, it may present issues if you don’t normally wear sunglasses indoors, disregard personal hygiene for days at a time, and generally present yourself as the world’s biggest douchebag. 

If you find that a dashing look, take up poker. And maybe grow a chinstrap beard.

Two things[vi] ultimately drove me from pursuing a game at which I became fairly adept over time. First is the amount of time and energy one must devote to becoming legitimately good at the game. Josh Arieh, best known for his third place finish in the main event of the 2004 World Series of Poker, recently captured my point perfectly: “Poker has just evolved to a spot where you have to play really, really good to make money, and I don’t.” Reading these words from a poker pro—winner of two WSOP bracelets—certainly cast my own modest chip-flinging endeavors in a rather unflattering light. Moreover, in terms of time spent and lost, I gradually became aware of how many things fell by the wayside as I cultivated a deeper understanding of Stack to Pot Ratio. Like anything else, poker requires practice in order to obtain skill, and any aspiring professional spends incalculable time merely studying the game[vii], to say nothing of actually playing it[viii]. There’s simply too much else I want to do with this life.

Secondly, and most importantly, is the premise and goal of poker. In the opening moments of the iconic film Rounders, Matt Damon’s narrative memorably begins with the words, “If you can’t spot the sucker in your first half hour at the table, you are the sucker.” Poker, while an incredibly elaborate chess-match of mental and psychological acumen, is the only competition in which other participants are routinely characterized and mentally catalogued in pejorative terms.[ix]. It’s also one of the very few endeavors in which your success arrives directly at the expense of someone else. Your glee occurs simultaneously with someone else’s despondency. I’ll never forget the words of yet another poker pro named Phil[x], who said that “The goal is to find the weakest person at the table and brutalize them over and over and over again.”  

Even when I played among friends in a relatively friendly home game, I remember being so intent on mentally accessing everything I knew about the game and my opponents that I viewed the social component of the evening as wholly ancillary. I not only wanted to win, but for my opponents to begrudgingly concede to my superiority. And though it upset me at the time, a friend of mine once unintentionally offered up a lucid commentary of me after someone else at the table had complimented my poker play. “Yeah, and Brandon’s got QUITE the personality,” he said with every ounce of sarcasm he possessed. I later realized that the comment should have bothered me for completely different reasons that it did in the initial moments after its utterance.

While it’s certainly possible to treat the game recreationally and socially, I have seen an untold number of friends, casual acquaintances, and complete strangers waste considerable time and energy in an abject attempt to become better than everyone at a game of cards—or simply good enough to drastically alter their financial realities. Unfortunately, I was among this lot. In fact, the closest I've ever been treated to an intervention occurred during college as a result of just how thoroughly immersed—friendships and academics be damned—I was in Texas Hold ‘Em. My devotion to becoming a skilled poker player adversely affected my college grades, created rifts in my relationships[xi], and absolutely brought out the worst of my personality. I have said things to friends and strangers at a poker table that I never considered or desired to say to anyone on a basketball court, where I spent roughly 83% of my waking hours as an adolescent. The game provides endless opportunities to exercise your mind, but—for me, at least—the cost outweighed the benefits. I can find cerebral stimulation elsewhere.  And even though I sort of enjoy the thought of playing a good-natured game with friends in the future, I would much rather shoot hoops with them.

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[i] Incidentally, this is the overarching appeal to Fantasy Football.

[ii] Although it should be noted that Tiger Woods would beat any professional poker player 100/100 times in 9 holes of golf, whereas the best poker player in the world would beat Tiger Woods far less frequently in a heads-up match of poker.

[iii] Rather, it should not create a dent in your cyborg armor.

[iv] Like banishing Carol from the prison and failing to perceive the real culprit: the budding sociopath Lizzie.

[v] The namesake of a comically stupid television show that aired sometime amid the poker boom.

[vi] Three if you count my abysmal failure to adhere to the aforementioned wardrobe standard.

[vii] If you need some examples, simply Google “Texas Hold Em” resources. You’ll find innumerable books, instructional videos, articles, and interviews.

[viii] A person could watch the extended version of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in the time devoted to a standard session of poker.

[ix] Special thanks to Phil Hellmuth Jr. for his indelible role in sanctioning this sort of behavior as somehow normal or acceptable.

[x] Gordon, as it were.

[xi] Likely some of which I’m not even aware.