Birthday Letdown

I turn 41 this week and so far, the anticipation has been anticlimactic. It’s not that I dread getting more lines on my face and more gray in my hair. To the contrary; my life has gotten better every year since graduating college. I am in the best shape of my life, more successful than I could imagine, and live in a terrific town. And while I’ve achieved a lot at this point in my life, I look forward to accomplishing much more.

When I was 30, I wrote some goals down for myself. Still a young man, I found that by fixating what I wanted to accomplish on paper, my goals became more real, giving me a sense of urgency. Some goals were simplistic but important to me, others were close to unattainable but I figured that if I didn’t at least try, why bother having goals in the first place. I wanted to be more successful in radio, although I didn’t know talk radio in my future and my true passion. I also wanted to lead a healthier life, since I had gained 30 pounds. Other goals, like traveling to Europe and touring the great museums, have not come to fruition, but I am working on them.

Turning 40 was a scary, wonderfully rewarding experience. People made a big deal, sending cards and calling me to share their birthday wishes and good will. Since the big 4-0 is the midpoint of an average man’s lifespan, you can really gauge how you’ve done in your career and personal life, what goals have been accomplished, and what lies ahead.

So far, my 41st birthday feels like catching leprosy. People acknowledge it, but they would rather leave me on the island and just move on to something else, like looking at baby pictures or winning American Idol.

Turning 41 is like a vast, lost, wasteland for birthdays. It’s like turning 26 or 72. I’ve never heard someone say, “You know, when I turned 41, my whole life changed!” Or, “When I was 41? Now that was a great year!” No one asks, “So what’s it like turning 41?” Why? Because it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s just another day in the week of October, as the days get cooler and shorter, and the football season finds itself in mid-season.

I wish I had more to look forward to as I turn 41, but my goals have been laid out for over a decade. Some I have accomplished (like not killing Gaydos; that is still a hard one to keep) and others are still down the path for me. But for now turning 41 feels as important as being on time for work. You know when to expect it and that it’s coming, but what’s there to be excited about?

So if you want to wish me a happy birthday, I have an idea. Save it. Wish me a happy birthday when I turn 42. Maybe that’s the birthday I should be looking forward to. After all, I have a whole year to think about it.

SNL Bomb

A bomb was dropped on the season premiere of Saturday Night Live this past weekend and I am not talking about guest host Meghan Fox’s performance.

During a sketch between two “biker chicks,” newbie cast member Jenny Slate dropped the F word with veteran Kristen Wiig. Censors on the East Coast missed the fleeting F word when it flew, but did bleep it for the West Coast feed. I don’t know if new cast member Slate wanted to make a controversial impression and decided to boldly go where not many cast members have gone before in a performance, but I am always shocked and a little disheartened when people overreact to using a word that has been in the English vernacular since the Middle Ages.

The blogosphere is rife with opinions, some bloggers using the same word Slate dropped on NBC Saturday night, which I find highly ironic. Viewers want NBC and Saturday Night Live to take a strong stand and punish Jenny Slate. Some even say she should be fired for dropping the F word, writing in their screeds that she should be professional enough to know when and how to use coarse language on free television.

I have always had a problem with the perception of the use of curse words. Not because I agree with our collective Puritanical roots. On the contrary – I love curse words; all forms, all functions. Now if you’re one of those sanctimonious, high-horse people who feel that cursing has no place in polite society, this opinion piece is not for you, and I hope you don’t break your neck when you fall off that horse.

No word in the English language can be used so many different ways and for so many situations. You can use the F word as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, even a gerund! It is one of the most widely used words in social circles, yet we deny its monumental impact in broadcasting.

As a society, we are nowhere near eradicating a word that was used as an insult when the Normans invaded the Anglo Saxons in 1066. In fact, the reason we use the same curse words today goes back to the Anglo pride of keeping the most debased, guttural insult(proudly saved), and defiantly hurled back on their Norman conquers. (And notice who had the last laugh in the First and Second World Wars – take that, France, and your polite, sissified language!)

I think in certain situations and circumstances they are not only funny, but useful and in some instances, cathartic. There is nothing like letter a few F words fly when you’re upset, angry or frustrated. A recent study even suggests that cursing is good for a person's mental state because there is not only a verbal but physical release when someone vents their frustration in a curse-ladened tirade.

I am not endorsing using the F word during children’s programming or during a church picnic. Did Jenny Slate gratuitously use the F word repeatedly during an episode of Hannah Montana, turning it into a Tarentino script? No. Does SNL always like to push the envelope? Yes, since it’s inception in 1975. So I don’t have a problem with the F word at 10:30 at night. Because I know the dirty little secret that many people use that word during the morning, noon and night as well.

As the bumper sticker says, sometimes S*@# Happens.

Jay Leno's New Show Is An Old Shoe

I was expecting more last night. A lot more.

Jay Leno’s new show on NBC debuted last night to a lot of hype, a lot of expectations and a lot of hand wringing about the future of late night talk shows as well as the fate of primetime shows. All of this based on a man who people thought wouldn’t last a year into his stint as the replacement for Johnny Carson. Those doubts have been erased and now Jay Leno is an iconic television fixture.

But last night I was expecting something more, something different than just a Late Night Redo.

I was shocked when I tuned in that everything was basically the same. Same monologue, same interviews, same bits. The only thing that was different was the set. And by the way, did anyone catch how reminiscent Jay’s new set looks like the set from Later with Bob Costas when he was on late night?

Jay deserves the mammoth, expansive and creative set that Conan now enjoys. It looks like Leno got an Ikea afterthought. Just horrible.

The actual show was too comfortable. I didn’t expect jitters or flop sweat like Conan and Jimmy Fallon had when they debuted, but there should have been some kind of nervous excitement – something to be giddy about whether it’s the new time slot or even if it’s to show off the new set they built Jay. Oh, that’s right…no one could get mildly or feign glee over the new set.

As far as the guest for Jay’s inaugural foray into primetime, Oprah was forced and felt out of place, Jerry Seinfeld was great as always, and Kanye West really proved what an absolute douche bag he is with his lame, inarticulate apology to Taylor Swift and the debacle that was the VMA’s. I understand why Jay decided to bring him to the comfy chair, sitting down and talking a bit, but if there is one skill Jay sorely lacks, it’s how to handle a tough interview. When the giggles and fluff are flying, he’s fine. But when there needs to be some gravity to his interview, Jay turns chicken. And asking about how your late mother would feel about your behavior is just stilted and unnecessary. I would expect that out of Oprah, not Jay Leno.

Jay Leno is a talented guy, but he’s also reached a comfortable place in his career and in his new time slot. Maybe too comfortable.

Ellen Judges AI

Pardon the drool, as I have spent all weekend trying to pick my jaw off the floor.

Now I am a pretty jaded person and nothing really makes my jaw get so slack that my lower mandible finds itself, teeth and all, in a jumble on the tile.

But last week, the announcement that Ellen DeGeneres would replace Paula Abdul on American Idol stunned me more than the news that Michael Jackson’s death was ruled a homicide.

The conventional wisdom behind Ellen joining the Island of Misfit Judges is simple. Ellen is huge with women (no lesbian joke intended). Her daytime talk show has had steady female numbers and Idol producers have noticed a lack of female eyeballs watching would be singers turn into starts for the past couple of seasons.

Also, Ellen is likable and funny without being too saccharine or insipid like Paula. As a side note, I have to admit, one of the reasons I enjoyed AI the last couple of seasons was because you never knew what kind of verbal train wreck would chug forth from Paula’s pert little mouth. Her slurry, confusing non-sequitors were something that drinking games were borne out of. “Take a shot if Paula says anything with the word ‘beautiful!’”

Sure, she was a lighthearted distraction, like a funny Aunt at a reunion that makes you shake you’re head and thank God she doesn’t live with you. That was, for good or bad, Paula Abdul and I, for one, will miss her drug-addled ramblings.

But the main reason that I cannot believe Ellen DeGeneres was picked to be the new judge on AI is that she (and this is tantamount) has no musical background whatsoever.

None. Zip. Nada.

Sure, Ellen can dance as she’s proven on her successful talk show when she moves her hips like some stuffy tart at a Junior League function, but does she know what pitch is? Can she pick out a warbler versus an actual singer?

Simon and Randy have actually produced world-class singers who have smash hits and gold records. Ellen? We don’t even know if she sings in the shower.

Ellen has that Everyperson quality to her that AI producers are looking for. She says she loves music, but without the one-hit wonder factor or the rehab stints. DeGeneres reminds you of a someone who goes to your church, but without the fashion sense.

Her likeability may have been the “it” factor for Ellen, being huge for test audiences, but remember this cautionary tale. A couple of years back – forever in TV time – Monday Night Football was looking to shake things up in the booth and found someone who they thought would reflect the Everyperson, sitting between the football guy and the announcer guy. He was smart, quick and was a self-avowed “football fanatic.” His name was Dennis Miller. And he sucked so bad, he was replaced after two seasons…by a man who knew a lot about football. His name was John Madden.

Ellen, you ain’t John Madden; you’re Dennis Miller. And that’s not a compliment.

Summer Television Disappointment

The summer television season is here. And it stinks.

Every fall when the network television season starts, it’s a frenzied thrill ride of plotline twists and turns, great characters and stellar shows. Whether it’s who is going to win the Amazing Race on CBS, or will Liz Lemon find true love (or something close to it without stalkers being involved) on 30 Rock on NBC, or can Mike and Susan every really stay together on Desperate Housewives on ABC? One thing is an assured constant: each week brings a steady stream of good, and sometimes great, television.

Spring is when the television schedule starts to sputter. Some shows take two weeks off, which the networks coyly call a “hiatus” starting in February, or the networks aggravatingly space the rest of the season schedule in between insipid and pedestrian specials, or pompous, navel-gazing awards shows. And before you know it, season finales come way too soon in mid-April, or, (if a series can pace itself longer than 13 original eps) the show wraps up in May leaving a TV addict like myself to wander the desolate arid wasteland that is network and basic cable throughout the summer.

But this particular summer has been brutal. Not just because I live in Phoenix and the temperatures like to hover around 100 degrees at night, (see my Five Stages of Summer Heat blog posted on 7/21/09) but the shows that the networks have held off because of last year’s writer strike and waited to dump them on the airwaves over the summer, (a pathetic link to what was great in the spring and an optimistically looking fall) have been poor. Really poor.

Rescue Me has been on a roller coaster ride of late. The show that has been critically acclaimed and well received by the public has fallen on hard times lately. Denis Leary has been the creator, the driving force and the main character since its debut on F/X five seasons ago, but it lost its way last year, ultimately ending up with a WTF ending that left you scratching your head and questioning why you were watching the show in the first place. This season has been like the monsoon season here in the Valley: hailed as one of the biggest and the best, but actually being spotty, all wind and dust, no lightning and thunder, no torrential downpours flooding viewers with great plot lines and emotionally sweeping viewers like myself away, looking forward to next week.

Entourage is all about fluff. But it’s good, not always clean, fluff on HBO. Unfortunately this season, we are left without any kind of compelling story lines because the show has become formulaic, grinding itself into a predictable story arc every episode. E.g.: The boys get into some kind of trouble, Ari yells, Vinnie sleeps with a gorgeous woman, Drama kvetches, Turtle is…Turtle, and E desperately wants to be taken seriously. At the end, trouble is averted and all is good in Hollywood. Yawn. Roll credits.

Because of my utterly crippling disappointment and strained relationships with the new but uninspired summer season of shows, I have been put in an awkward position. I have been looking elsewhere for summer escapes. That’s right, I’ve been cheating on my TV shows. And I am not proud.

I have been watching Next Food Network Star on Food Network and ashamed to admit that it’s got more drama and more unexpected twists and turns than Entourage, while packing more passion and hubris (without the alcoholism) than Rescue Me. I have also been absolutely hooked (no pun intended) on Deadliest Catch on Discovery Channel. Watching one episode of these fishermen makes any guy with a desk job and an expensive car look like a teat-sucking, sissy-Mary.

I’ve also rekindled my interest in Major League Baseball, watching games on ESPN and Fox Sports. Too bad the Diamondbacks are finding ways to lose instead of winning games. Note to Arizona Diamondback President Derrick Hall: this makes it incredibly hard to root for the home team. Enough said.

So where does that leave me for this summer? I have been patiently, almost forbearingly waiting for one of the best dramas on television to start on August 16th on AMC. Mad Men is on its third season with Don Draper at a crossroads. Season two was one of the best culminations of style, substance, and plot I’ve seen since The Wire.

Unfortunately, the way my summer’s been going, I am hesitant to get overly excited. The summer malaise has hit so many of the shows I used to watch. But something tells me that creator and producer Matt Weiner isn’t going to rest on his laurels and shouldn’t let Don or anyone at Sterling Cooper coast on their retro good looks and suave (and sometimes lurid) behavior.

I just want my summer malaise to be washed away like a good monsoon storm in the middle of a hot summer in Phoenix. So, I am putting my trust into a guy who drinks like a fish, smokes like a fiend, recklessly cheats on his wife while always looks dashingly dapper in a grey flannel suit. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I hope it’s not too much pressure.

Steve McNair, RIP

When the crawl at the bottom of the screen read, “Former Titans QB Steve McNair found dead of multiple gun shot wounds in Nashville apartment,” I was in absolute denial. Steve McNair wasn’t that guy. He couldn’t be THAT guy.

McNair’s story is as American as they come: a small college guy, with an incredible arm and toughness and determination not seen on the gridiron since Johnny Unitas, Bobby Lane or Joe Montana. Most people don’t even know where McNair played ball (it was Alcorn State in Mississippi) or that he was a Heisman Trophy candidate. Players and coaches respected him, communities and towns embraced him. He had poise and a natural likeability factor that many players in the NFL lack or simple don’t care about.

Steve McNair had poise and control on the field as well, taking the Tennessee Titans on an 87-yard march down the field to almost beat the St. Louis Rams in 2000. If only the field were 98 yards instead of 100, we would be talking about a Super Bowl champ cut down at the age of 36.

We have heard repeatedly of how people like Plaxico Burris and other NFL players (and even coaches) have been charged with illegal firearm possession, illegal weapon discharge, illegal sale of firearms, etc. Players will say it’s a necessity to be armed in the NFL, fearing for their and their families' safety. Players fear being robbed, and arming themselves is a necessary evil of the seedy underbelly of making guaranteed millions in the NFL. Players recall how Sean Taylor of the Redskins was fatally shot during a robbery attempt at his home in 2007.

But Steve McNair didn’t fit the mold of someone who hung out in questionable company, didn’t go clubbing and get into brushes with the law like Pacman Jones, Tank Johnson or Dante Stallworth. But as the investigation into his death deepens and more is learned about Steve McNair’s death, questions bubble up about his character.

The Associated Press reported that, “the death of former NFL quarterback Steve McNair raised questions Sunday about his relationship with the 20-year-old woman whose body was found alongside him in his downtown condominium.

McNair…who was married with four children, was found Saturday with multiple gunshot wounds on a sofa in his living room. The woman was killed by a single gunshot wound and a pistol was discovered near her, police said.
Authorities didn't immediately say who was to blame for the killings, but they weren't looking for any suspects.”

Steve McNair was an all-American story, tragically cut down on an all-American holiday – July 4th, 2009.

May he rest in peace as authorities search for answers that many of us have surrounding his tragic death.

This Isn't About Chris Brown

Singer Chris Brown, who was accused of assaulting fellow singer Rihanna, pled guilty and was sentenced in Los Angeles Criminal Court yesterday.

Good.

Under the terms, Brown will serve five years probation and must serve 180 days in jail or the equivalent – which is about 1,400 house of community, labor-intensive service. He must also attend domestic violence classes for a year.

Even better.

But this isn’t about Brown, this is about Rihanna and women like her who think that this kind of relationship won’t and can’t happen to them again. Unfortunately that’s just not the case.

Brown previously pleaded not guilty to one count of assault with intent to harm when he and Rihanna argued in a car in February in Hollywood and we saw the horrific pictures of Rihanna’s battered and bruised face on Internet sites and gossip shows.

Yesterday, Rihanna was in the courtroom, but only after Chris Brown had left. She listened to the judge’s issuance of the “stay away” order that Brown must follow. Shockingly, through her attorney, Rihanna had requested that no such order be put in place.

And that’s the truly sad part of this story. The judge did the right thing in sentencing Chris Brown, but Judge Patricia Schnegg should’ve sentenced Rihanna to court-appointed counseling for her own well-being.

Too many times we have seen victims of physical and verbal abuse repeat the same pattern of behavior. We have seen women fall into bad, abusive relationships with men who are violent and verbally abusive. Countless women, who are victims of abuse, will say that they don’t see the signs until it’s too late or can’t figure out why they can’t find a healthy relationship. It’s not about finding the right person, it’s recognizing why you choose to be with someone who doesn’t respect you and thinks that abuse is acceptable.

If Rihanna doesn’t get the counseling she needs, she will wind up in another abusive relationship and worse; another statistic of violence against women.

What Chris Brown did was horrific and should not be tolerated. He needs mandatory counseling to not only understand, but also un-learn what he thinks is acceptable behavior.

Rihanna needs to un-learn what an unhealthy relationship is before it’s too late.

It's Called Kharma

After watching Bret Michaels of Poison get clothes-lined by a piece of scenery on Youtube for more than a dozen times, only one thing keeps running through my head.

Now I understand two polar opposite but interconnecting things: Schadenfreude and Karma.

Schadenfreude is German, loosely translated into "Taking joy is others pain."

Whereas Karma is the force generated by a person's actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence.

They may sound like mutually exclusive ideas that cannot and should not be linked, but this notion was proven false during the Tony Awards on Sunday night.

How else do you explain the confounding popularity of Poison back in the 80's, the train wreck of reality television that is Rock of Love show on VH1, and the utterly unfathomable reunion of Poison that performs at the Tony Awards?

You can't. It's a philosophical dilemma wrapped in a syllogism that defies explanation, until at the very end of the video clip, when the band has gathered on that tiny stage and Bret is still on the floor, swaggering in the spotlight, lingering a bit too long, and BAM! You see him get smacked by a cosmic bitch slap.

I am still laughing.

Bret suffered a broken nose and a bruised ego, but for the majority of us who have had to endure Poison, Rock of Love and other annoying projects by Bret, this was God standing up for the little man and saying, "Enough!"

Like the little boy in the scene from the seminal movie Animal House when a Playboy Bunny flies through his window and lands on his bed, I kept looking skyward and repeating, "THANK YOU, GOD!"

Jay's Last Tonight Show

Last Friday Night was Jay Leno’s last show as host of the Tonight Show. He is leaving the show, but not leaving television.

He will host his own talk show in the fall on NBC as part of their prime time lineup.

For most of the show, it was his usual tepid, but funny performance. It didn’t have anywhere near the sadness and poignancy like Johnny Carson’s last show. It was a faux goodbye and that made the show underwhelming to me. Jay reminisced, had some jokes that missed and did a total suck up job to Conan O’Brien who will replace Jay on Monday night.

The Tonight Show has long been a staple of television going all the way back to the first host, Steve Allen. Steve and Conan have a lot in common. That’s why I don’t think Conan will do a stellar job with the franchise. Cue the Letterman music: Dave, you’re kharma prayers have been answered since they passed you up, picking Conan to succeed you.

Steve Allen was an intellectual, a musician and a brilliantly funny person. But he wasn’t an Everyman. Conan O’Brien is Harvard educated, got his start as a comedy writer and ultimately produced the Simpson’s cartoon show before being thrown on NBC as Letterman’s replacement. He has done well, but Jay Leno has consistently beaten Letterman because of an innate quality that regular people, Middle America relates to.

Jay Leno is real. He’s a real person, not an intellectual, not upper-crust. He likes collecting cars. Not just old cars but muscle cars. He loves to tinker with mechanical things.

He’s got a blue-collar work ethic that is legendary. He loves working and writing, trying out material in front of an audience at a comedy club BEFORE the next Tonight Show.

Plus he was recently hospitalized for an undisclosed illness. The reason he was in the hospital is because he doesn’t have a doctor. The man is a machine and just works. He’s never in the tabloids; he’s not fodder for the gossip sites, he’s just Jay.

Letterman is a dork-who-made good and his sarcasm has a petulant and pretentious tone. O’Brien uses obscure references and is willing to go highbrow more often than not.

Here’s the dirty little secret about late night talk shows. Johnny made it look easy. And it ain’t about being funny… it’s about being the most relatable.

Jay is just Jay, and people like that.

And that’s why he will do well in his new time slot on NBC.

Caveat Emptor: Michael Vick

When released from a federal prison on May 20th, Michael Vick will go to a half way house and use his body to earn a living, but it won’t be as an athlete; he will finish out the rest of his prison sentence for operating an illegal dog fighting ring back home in Hampton Roads, Virginia working a construction job for 10 bucks an hour.

There will be no one to cheer him when he drives a nail straight, no accolades for safely using a circular saw, no one asking him how he will handle next week’s game plan of pouring concrete.

Vick will be an average guy; a far cry from someone who was paid millions of dollars because of his unbelievable preternatural ability for throwing a football.

Vick wants badly to come back to the NFL. He will be relatively young; a little out of shape and will need some time to flex the rust off of his arm.

And if you’re an owner even mildly entertaining the idea of asking him to play for you, I offer you some free advice: Don’t do it.

Not because Michael Vick isn’t talented or will be too old to play.

If Roger Goodell thinks he is contrite and sincere about truly learning from his previous mistakes, then he will allow Vick back into the league as soon as this season.

But if you are a desperate team looking for an agile, scrambling quarterback who can make plays on the run, I offer you some free advice: don’t take him. In fact, don’t even talk to his agent. Vick comes with not only enough baggage to get a Samsonite endorsement, he will also come with an unlikely entourage.

Back when we first started learning about what an inhumane and cruel operation Bad Newz Kennels was, and read the news reports of how many dead dogs were buried on Vick’s Surry County, Virginia property, (the rape stands, the dog pits, and the thousands of dollars that were bet on this senseless sport), People For The Ethical Treatment Of Animals made a promise.

It’s a promise they are still more than willing to keep and your franchise doesn’t need the head ache and the ticked off fan base.

If any team decides to pay Michael Vick to play, PETA has vowed to show up and protest. In a day when people protest everything and anything, when television news outlets have their pick of what group is protesting where, this may just sound like an empty threat or cacophonous din and nothing more.

But PETA will not just protesting outside of the stadium of the team Vick plays for on any given Sunday. They have vowed to go on the road and protest at the opposing teams stadiums. PETA has vowed to show up at any camp, appearance or event that is directly or indirectly involved with Vick or the team.

They say that the NFL has a short memory when it comes to talent. Just ask the Dallas Cowboys last year when they hired Adam “Pac Mac” Jones, as well as a host of other teams.

But if you’re an NFL owner, do you really want that kind of entourage following your team around? Just because you’ve “conveniently” forgotten what Michael Vick did?

It’s just not worth the headache.

This Film Will Live Long And Prosper

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have long been a Star Trek fan. I would not go so far as to label myself as a “trekkie” (what people on the outside call rabid fans) or “trekker” (what rabid fans call themselves when not in the company of bullies).

I have never dressed up as a Star Trek character and I thought the Star Trek movies were a lame attempt to breathe life into a by-gone franchise. Ricardo Montalban rocking the mullet and William Shatner yelling “KHAN!!!!!” was, for my money, the apex of the Trek movies. But then they just got silly and insipid, finally being put to rest with the abysmal Nemesis.

On television, Star Trek was reinvented and the franchise was reinvigorated with The Next Generation, with Captain Picard as Super Ego juxtaposing James T. Kirk’s Id.

Star Trek: Voyager even had a politically correct, and for some fans, the best commander on the con, in Captain Janeway.

But then there was a lull in the franchise; sure the conventions still happened and rumors of other movies and TV shows percolated on blogs and chat sites. But where to you take a franchise that has boldly gone where no sci-fi drama had gone before?

J.J. Abrams had a simple, yet profound idea. He believed Star Trek had to go back to go forward.

But what J.J. Abrams has done for the Star Trek mythology is just plain sick. And by sick, I mean awesome.

The new Star Trek movie hits theaters this weekend and if you’re a casual fan or have no clue what a Romulan is, you will not be disappointed with action sequences and special effects that are riveting but not the focus of the movie.

Speaking to the hard-core, convention-going, stalking William Shatner to ask him if Captain Kirk slept with that woman from Omicron Ceti III, you must let a little of the past go to be fully enveloped by this movie.

There are a few surprises that Abrams brings to the screen that may conflict with what hard-core fans hold sacrosanct to the mythology, but here’s some advice: if you are willing to suspend a little bit of belief, you will be rewarded in the long run.

The casting is superb. From Spock to Kirk to Chekhov to Scotty and especially Bones; everyone captures the essence of Gene Roddenberry’s characters without crossing the line and becoming caricatures.

Chris Pine, who plays the young James Tiberius Kirk, has the swagger and charisma but doesn’t get so caught up in trying to play William Shatner that it comes off as a Priceline.com commercial. We see James T. but cock-sure with everyone and still be a playa with the ladies. (And yes, just like the television series, there are woman of all different shades of the rainbow he gets to be “friendly” with).

If you’re a fan of Spock, you’ll be more than pleased. This movie isn’t just about James T. Kirk and how he managed to be the youngest Star Fleet captain in Federation history. Zachary Quinto does a brilliant job as a young Spock who constantly struggles between his Vulcan upbringing and the deep emotional connection to his human mother played by Winona Ryder. To put on Spock’s ears would be an intimidating role for any actor. Quinto brings a new, but fuller persona to this role that will please the most strident Nimoy fan.

I am usually not a far of “pre-quels,” but this one not only gets it right, it surpasses expectations as a story, and as an action movie. Simply, I want see more.

Space may be the final frontier, but J.J. Abrams has gone where no one has gone before, and I hope he goes back.

Perez Missed the Point

When openly gay Internet blogger and solipsist Perez Hilton asked Miss California that loaded question during the Miss USA Pageant, he missed the point of her answer.

Hilton's question was direct, but not simple like, “Can you wear white after Labor Day?” It was political; it was ideological and had the potential to be inflammatory. And there’s no one that likes everything flaming than Perez. Here was the question he posed to Carrie Prejean: “Vermont recently became the fourth state to legalize same-sex marriage. Do you think every state should follow suit? Why or why not?”

Although the question is totally appropriate for the telecast, the potential for her answer to overshadow the Miss USA contest was undeniable.

And it did just that.

Prejean had a decision to make immediately. Did she compromise her morals and lie with a very PC answer or did she tell the truth without being confrontational and mean-spirited? She chose the latter and I have more respect for her today because of it.

I don’t agree with her on the issue of gay marriage, but I respect her for at least acknowledging that her answer wasn’t going to be popular. It was not a debate on Fox News or CNN; it was a beauty pageant for the love of Bert Parks. (Yes, I know he hosted the Miss America pageant, not Miss USA, but let me make my obscure, pop culture references).

Perez gave her 0 points, a goose egg, zilch for her answer and she plummeted in the contest scoring from being a lock to win the pageant to not even in the Top 5.

But what’s even more egregious to me is that Perez totally missed the point concerning her answer. Sadly, he’s not the only one as beauty contestants from the four states that do allow gay marriage have spoken up saying Miss California should have given more politically correct answer.

Are they serious?

I am tired of a small group of people dictating the rules of engagement. It physically drains me to live in a society where every word, sound bite or press release is packaged, processed and poised so conversations are vapid, opinions are scarce and people do express an opinion; it is (ironically) tantamount to violating someone else's rights.

Perez Hilton is a bully and ironically, the same thing he called Miss California on his web site.

If he doesn’t appreciate the fact that we should stand for what we believe (as he does with the issue of gay marriage and blogs incessantly on his site) then I guess he should just point the finger back at himself with the big fat label DUMB B%^&* on his forehead. Don’t worry, it would fit... with room to spare.