The eye of the beholder

Just the other night, while I was watching “The Sound of Music” (Yeah? What of it bud? You got something to say?) I got to thinking just exactly how beautiful Julie Andrews was/is. During the scene where Captain von Trapp expresses his love for the former nun in the gazebo, the two-time nanny (eh, remember her turn around the rooftops of London with Dick Van Dyke in “Mary Poppins”?) looked so beautiful it got me to thinking about other beautiful women.

Then, yesterday, Vanity Fair announced the results of its poll and named Angelina Jolie “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World.” She was, in fact, the overwhelming winner, taking 58 percent of the vote and the only person on the list to make it into double digits percentage-wise (Gisele Bundchen – 9 percent, and Halle Berry, 4 percent, were second and third).

Now, don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Pitt is a beautiful woman, but she and pretty much all of her contemporaries in the moving pictures today can’t hold a candle to the silver screen’s leading ladies of yesteryear. With that in mind, I got to thinking even more. What I needed was a list. A list of women who's beauty transcends time and space.

And here it is, my list of the Top 3 Most Beautiful Women in Cinema History, and a few of their credits in case you want to look them up. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.

Grace Kelly
To Catch a Thief and Rear Window

I saw “Rear Window” in a film class my sophomore or junior year. The first time Grace Kelly came into the frame she took my breath away.

Ingrid Bergman
Casablanca and Notorious

Forever famous for asking Sam to play “As Time Goes By” Ingrid Bergman’s beauty makes it easy to understand why Rick was so destroyed when she missed the train and left him standing in the rain in Paris.

Audrey Hepburn

Roman Holiday, Sabrina, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and My Fair Lady

Sometimes one picture is just not enough. So here's a couple more.

“I ain't dirty! I washed me face and hands before I come, I did.” No amount of dirt smudging her face could disguise her beauty.

I know there’s some actress out there I missed who may be as luminescent as the three mentioned above and for that I am truly sorry. One thing I’m sure of is Grace, Ingrid and Audrey would still be leading ladies today. Not in their current form, of course, since all are dead, but at their prime their beauty easily eclipses any of today’s stars.

Jack Sparrow gets one between the running lights

I guess crime really doesn’t pay.

Instead of paying the Somali pirates who’d taken a U.S. sea captain hostage the $2 million they asked for – like many governments have done lately to recover their own sailors – the U.S. Navy chose a much cheaper solution: three bullets.

Even counting the cost of the fuel oil burned by the flotilla of ships surrounding the lifeboat carrying Capt. Richard Phillips of the Maersk Alabama and the three now, very, very much dead pirates, I’d say they chose the better alternative.

All in all, a very pleasing outcome to the situation. For more, read the NYT’s article.

The article does bring up a couple of interesting points in my mind, chief among them is this: Why the hell did the Navy have to get permission from the president to shoot these fuckers? Does it really take executive authority of that nature to kill foreign pirates actually in the act of piracy?

Or, the less desirable option in my mind, someone in the administration told them they couldn’t shoot without executive permission.

Actually, both of these choices are pretty distasteful. One the right hand you have military leaders unwilling to take a clearly military action without political coverage from above, making them unworthy of their commands. Seriously, how hard is it to order SEALs to shoot three guys? Or, on the left hand, you have political officials who’ve told the military they’re cops now (no offense to the cops out there, but your job is different from the military) and they can’t just kill the bad guys.

[Note: Upon further reading about this situation in other news sources, it seems the actual shoot order came from the ship's captain under the White House's guidance of "all necessary measures" to recover Phillips safely. While the NYT's description was not inaccurate, it could have been a little clearer. My bad. The situations I described above, however, are not unknown in military/political decision-making process, unfortunately.]

This is a situation, the whole “Somali pirates in the Gulf of Aden” thing, requires only one order from the president: Shoot to kill on sight. Use missiles if you like and send us the strike footage, we’ll make popcorn and host a screening on the Mall.

See, one of the things the NYT got right in its article was this line: “The pirates threatened to kill Captain Phillips if attacked, and the result was tragicomic: the world’s most powerful navy vs. a lifeboat.”

I can understand our diplomatic restraint when dealing with Iran, Germany, Syria, France Venezuela, Canada, hell, even North Korea. They’re nation-states and a different set of rules apply. (I’m kidding about Canada and Germany. OK, France too, though they do so try my patience sometimes.)

A little more from the NYT:

In Somalia itself, other pirates reacted angrily to the news that Captain Phillips had been rescued, and some said they would avenge the deaths of their colleagues by killing Americans in sea hijackings to come.

' "Every country will be treated the way it treats us," Abdullahi Lami, one of the pirates holding a Greek ship anchored in the pirate den of Gaan, a central Somali town, was quoted by The Associated Press as saying in a telephone interview. "In the future, America will be the one mourning and crying." '

Two words jackass: Get bent. Somewhere out there, there’s a SEAL, Ranger, Marine or Delta sniper with your name on a bullet.

Here’s a nice little mission for the world’s most powerful navy: blockade the “pirate den” of Gaan with a couple of destroyers (or half the U.S. Fifth Fleet for that matter) and then hunt down the pirates and kill them. They try to leave port: shoot ‘em. They threaten to kill any of the 200 or so hostages they’ve taken off of the 12 ships they’re holding, shoot them some more. They actually shoot any of the hostages, shoot them even more. In a situation like this, power comes straight from the barrel of a gun or, in our case, lots and lots of guns. Lots and lots of really big fucking guns.

Does anyone really think these guys are ever going to go back to fishing? No? Didn’t think so, so we’re going to have to kill them anyway at some point so why not now?

Sean Connery said it best as Officer Jim Malone in The Untouchables: “They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. That's the Chicago way!”

What the hell fun is it being a great power if you can’t kill a bunch of pirates? Seriously, it’s not like anyone (worth mentioning) is going to complain. This would also have the beneficial side-effect of making some of the other nations that annoy us just a bit scared of what we might do to them if they fuck with us.

A little known historical fact: The United States’ very, very first expression of power overseas was dealing with the Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean. Instead of paying tribute to the pirates (which is exactly what is happening now), the U.S. decided to build a navy and take the fight to the pirates. (If you want, you can still see one of these ships, USS Constitution – “Old Ironsides” – in Boston Harbor.)

It took a little while, but in the end the United States was the first major power to stop paying tribute to the Barbary pirates. The exploits of some even ended up in a song:

“From the Halls of Montezuma, To the shores of Tripoli. We have fought our country’s battles in the air, on land and sea.”

Step away from the pillow and put your hands up!

This past weekend after a lovely brunch of waffles and home fries (for me) and Eggs Neptune (for my wonderful friend Shannon) I dropped her off at the Metro. (Yes, I know I’m a bit behind the times, I plead the combination of a new, and still unfamiliar job, and the Heels’ national championship on Monday.) Her destination was a Bed, Bath and Beyond where she planned to purchase a pillow.

For a pillow fight.

In Dupont Circle.


The event in Dupont was, apparently, part of a planned, spontaneous international pillow fight taking place in cities around the world. Along with the feathery antics being a bit of performance art, it also seemed like a great way for folks everywhere to have some fun and blow off some steam in what talking heads have been calling “trying times.”

Everywhere, that is, except Detroit.

In Detroit, it seems, you now need permission from the government to carry a pillow in public. I direct you to this story by The Associated Press.

For those not motivated enough to click over, here’s the highlights:

“Police in Detroit have ruffled some feathers after they cracked down on an organized pillow fight at a downtown park. The Detroit News reports that police at Campus Martius Park prevented the feathery fight Saturday by disarming pillow-toting participants.

“Michael Davis of Hamtramck, Mich., said police confiscated the 32-year-old man's pillows but returned their cases. He said he was told that he needed a permit. Detroit police spokesman James Tate said the issue wasn't about the bout but the mess it would have created.”

There are so many elements of humor in this story I hardly know where to begin. But, for argument’s sake, let’s start with the police actually taking the time to root out the perpetrators so as to short-stop any pillow-related antics.

We’re talking about Detroit here, not only was the Final Four going on there (Go Tar Heels! Number 1 Baby!), which I think might tend to incite some problems more worthy of police attention, but we are TALKING ABOUT DETROIT! According to numbers I was able to find, 344 people were murdered in Detroit in 2008 (a 13 percent decrease from the 396 in 2007 – woohoo!).

That's about a murder a day for those keeping score at home. You never know if one of the pillow fighters might have gotten carried away and beat someone to death with a feather/poly-filled sack.

Next, we’ll move on to the police confiscating the pillows, but taking the time to return the pillow cases. Isn’t that kind of like confiscating the bullets, but giving the guns back? People, those pillow cases can be reloaded virtually anywhere!! Bed, Bath and Beyond, Sears, JC Penny, Target (Target, for god’s sake) and the Saturday Night Special dealer of pillow outlets, Wal-Mart.

This country is awash in cheap and easily available pillows. Hell, I need to show my license just to buy some allergy meds, but just anyone can walk into Wal-Mart and walk out with a dozen pillows with no questions asked.

And, finally, I know for a fact my friend carried her newly purchased pillow to Dupont in her back pack. My question to Detroit’s law enforcement community is this: Were there any attempts made to curtail the activities of those scofflaws carrying concealed pillows without a permit? This, my friends, these concealed pillow carriers, are a grave and growing problem plaguing our cities.

Imagine the innocent people - office workers enjoying their lunch breaks, families with young children patronizing their city’s public areas, lovers rendezvousing for a nooner - strolling peacefully through our parks when BAM! Suddenly, and from out of no where, someone reaches into a backpack, snatches out a 300-thread count pillow case stuffed with a big, fluffy white pillow and begins whacking away at you or, worse, your loved ones.

Perhaps, someday, when our country has grown beyond this level of frivolity and become more civilized, we’ll look back on this weekend as the start of a new age.

Personally, I hope that day never comes.

Vive la revolution!!

Hark the Sound of an Ass Kicking

First off, see this logo? Yeah, this one:

Yep, my beloved North Carolina Tar Heels are the 2009 NCAA Men’s Basketball National Champions baby!

I’m not going to get into the team’s accomplishments here except to mention the boys in Carolina Blue (not “baby” blue you ESPN jackass) went through their tournament opponents this year like a plasma cutter through plate steel. Not only did they win every game by at least 12 points, they had a double-digit lead for something like 150 of the 240 minutes they played during the past three weeks.

Absolutely dominating.

But yet…

Just before midnight last night my college roommate gave me a call and we reminisced for a few moments on the events of the evening and shared our joy in watching our Heels win their second championship in five years. Not too shabby.

But…

My old roommate, The Prez, commented, “Never did a 14-point lead seem so flimsy.” And I agreed. For some reason, in our heads it didn’t matter the Heels were winning by 15 points with five minutes to go. It just didn’t seem like enough. This veteran team never, and I mean never, ever, gave us any reason (except the Maryland game earlier this year) to doubt its skill and determination.

What I think it was is this: Although the Heels have won it all twice in the past two years, during the time me and The Prez and our friends Sarita, Kris, Liz, Mark, Derrick, John and all the rest spent in Chapel Hill, the teams we cheered for were great. They made it to three Final Fours in four years…and lost in each one.

But not this year. This year the Tar Heels exceeded their fans’ expectations (except maybe for the one or two loonies out there expecting an undefeated season, pshaw!)

This year, this wonderful team filled with seniors walked off the court in Detroit their head held high as National Champions! Yeah Baby!

All I can say is I wish I were still there today, in Chapel Hill, instead of at the office. Nursing a hangover and checking to make sure my shoes (and other parts of me) didn't melt too too badly while dancing around, through and in the fires on Franklin Street (seriously, check out this video, it's a time-lapse of the celebration) is a far, far finer place for a Tar Heel to be today.

I’m a Tar Heel born,
I’m a Tar Heel bred,
And when I die,
I’m a Tar Heel dead.
So it’s Rah-rah, Car’lina-lina
Rah-rah Car’lina-lina
Rah-rah Car’lina-lina
Go to Hell Dook!

A Walk Among the Flowers

Along with the first robin of Spring, D.C. has its own little "Hey-Winter-is-over-it's-time-to-break-out-the-sundresses" signal: the blossoming of almost 4,000 Japanese cherry trees. 

Since I moved to area, I've made it down to the Tidal Basin each year to take in the blooms and snap a picture or two (or 200). I've also learned a lesson or two about when to visit, namely not on the second weekend of the Cherry Blossom Festival. A weeknight stroll is a much better choice.

For those of you from out of town, this weekend in D.C. the tourist hoards descended upon our fair capital. In the millions. 

Friday night was a bit blustery with a bit of wind and some overcast, but nothing too terrible. Anyway, here are a couple from my 2009 Cherry Blossom album. Enjoy.

Some of the prettiest blossoms hang right down over the

paths and into the water.

Sunset over the Tidal Basin.

Two of the more famous icons of the District.

When the wind blows, and it was blowing Friday,

it's almost like standing in a sweet smelling blizzard.

A few clouds can't take away from the view.

Finding a break in the clouds, the sun peeked out 

for one last shot before hiding in Rosslyn.

On Saturday, there'd be a line behind this little break 

in blossoms. Friday night I didn't have to wait a second.

Even in black-and-white they're still pretty.

One last shot before the dying of the light.

Batter Up!

Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today!
We’re born again, there’s new grass on the field.
A-roundin’ third, and headed for home, it’s a brown-eyed handsome man;
Anyone can understand the way I feel.

- Centerfield by John Fogerty

The world famous Durham Bull. When he gets hit,

his eyes flare and his nose snorts streams of smoke.

Now I’m not that big of a baseball fan. But, every since my first game at Chicago’s old Comiskey Park, there’s just something about the start of the new baseball season that screams “SPRING” in my ear. [Note: Even though my first game was a White Sox game, my sister quickly rectified any potential fandom for the Southsiders by taking me to the North Side cathedral bounded by Clark and Addison streets and Sheffield and Waveland avenues. And while my first love is and always will be for my dreadful hometown Pirates, the Cubbies are a very close 1A.]

And while you won’t catch me watching more than five or 10 minutes of a game on TV for the next six months, I can think of few things finer than a summer evening at the ballpark. The laughter of friends (including those who couldn’t give a damn about the game) surrounds you as you gaze down toward a field of grass so green it almost hurts your eyes. The pitcher’s wind-up and delivery. The crack of the bat hitting a 94-mph fastball. A player hustling around first, stretching a single into a double and a play at second base.

I’m not a passionate baseball fan, but I am a fan of the time I spend at the ballpark each year with my friends.

And now, two of my favorite baseball movie quotes.

“Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”
- Crash Davis in Bull Durham

And, despite all the times baseball players and owners have disappointed us, I think these words pretty much say what we all feel about baseball:

“Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.”
- Terence Mann in Field of Dreams

Play ball!

TMI Thursday: The Chair

It was late August 1995 and my roommate and I were hosting one of what became a Legen-wait for it-dary string parties during our sophomore year in the warm embrace of Chapel Hill. (And, when I say warm, I mean August in North Carolina warm.)

Morrison Residence Hall - Scene of legendary exploits

and tales too twisted to tell (except here)

Our parties were significantly better than everyone else’s for a couple of very simple reasons. First, due to my six years before the mast in the Marines, I was old enough to legally procure that most valuable of commodities in an underclass dorm: alcohol. And procure it I did. In vast and previously unheard of quantities.

The Prez (my roomie) and I each kicked in 20 bucks at the start of the year to fill the fridges with Rolling Rock for us and the people we knew, and The Beast for those who just wandered in off the streets. All we asked was a small donation from those partaking of our generosity and they were assured of beer-filled mini-fridges and a place free of the tyranny of the RAs to partake in the malted goodness.

The tyranny-free zone was the result of two factors: One, I never let a party get too out of hand and, B) the RA on our floor had a healthy, but totally unfounded, fear of the former Marine in his charge. (Except for one somewhat drunken occasion the day after he busted my girlfriend for underage drinking when I wasn’t around, I was never, ever, anything but a completely loveable teddy bear of a 6’2” 225-pound former Marine rugby player. Like Fezzik said, “It's not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don't even exercise.”)

Anyway, getting back to the story, being the new school year people would wander hither and yon in the 10-storey behemoth that was and is Morrison Residence Hall. After a couple of weeks our den of inequity quickly gained a good rep and the freshmen and, more importantly, freshwomen arrived in droves most Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.

On one evening that sticks out in the collective memory, a trio of particularly comely maidens wandered by, were invited in and provided libations and the best seats in our 1,680-cubic-foot room. Here’s where the problem arises, since our guests were sitting in our finest chairs, I was relegated to one of the standard-issue formed-plastic chairs that came with the room. Ya see what’s coming, don’t ya?

Beer + Dining hall food = Only one possible outcome.

I farted. Loud and long and proud. A real first-class tear-ass gas bomb. And, with the assistance of the standard-issue formed-plastic dorm room chair, I think I even got the rarest of effects: reverb.

Now, amongst men, this action would have been praised and, depending on those present, a heroic ballad may have even been written about the exploit.

But our trio of maidens didn’t quite see things the same way. All conversation stopped dead. Jaws dropped. Beers were quickly chugged or abandon.

We never saw them again.