Fantastic Doomed?

On a whim on our last night in Disney World, my family and I went to see Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. I’d held out on seeing the film because I figured I’d feel exactly the same about it as I felt about the first film: I’d like most of the scenes that had nothing to do with Dr. Doom.

I was pretty close.

I liked almost all the scenes that had nothing to do with the bad guys.

I’m not such a fanboy that I griped about such things as who were the original X-Men, that Spider-Man has organic web shooters, or that Galactus is a cloud—spoiler alert, by the way, but it’s so late now that I assume everyone has seen the movie or has already had that little bit of news spoiled.

But, I will say this, as with the first film: every scene with Doctor Doom absolutely sucked me out of the movie and made me want to shoot myself in the face. Doom is the premiere villain of the Marvel universe. I mean, when they go and make a universe-spanning videogame (Marvel: Ultimate Alliance—more on that soon) he’s the main baddie for a reason, but the Doom of the film’s continuity is... well, I just can’t get behind the characterization and direction of him in the movies.

The primary problem is this: Doctor Doom is a super genius who takes over a freaking country by himself. He is a master of both technology and the mystic arts. He’s a ruthless bastard who is driven—to the point of insanity, really—to become the most powerful being on planet Earth as an extension of proving himself better than Reed Richards.

In essence, he is one royally bad dude.

But the Doctor Doom in the movie I just saw was a pathetic, whiny sissy. Admittedly, Doom is arrogant to the point of blindness—but the annoying haughtiness of the character (as well as the utterly superfluous lightning powers—what’s going on there?), I assume attempted to reflect this arrogance, comes off more as idiocy. Dr. Doom, a master genius, is stuck hiding in a back room to build a tiny device and then, to try and cover, throws a shirt over it? Every character should have faults, but Dr. Doom, Stan Lee’s professed favorite villain ever, should inspire more fear than that; instead he inspires... derision and mockery.

And that is the underlying fault of Fantastic Four. This movie tries really hard and that’s endearing. It has the right tone for a Fantastic Four movie, it’s corny and it’s fun and that’s good, but without enough explanation or sense of terror for Galactus himself and with Dr. Doom being a joke, it’s very difficult to feel any real danger for these characters, who, particularly in the case of Chris Evans as Johnny Storm (who easily the shining star of the movie—think of him as the anti-Dr. Doom), manage to transcend the mediocre, and at times groan-worthy, script to have genuine moments. Which, in the end, is really unfortunate, because this movie has heart—so I want to really like it—but it's just not enough to make it good, but is enough to keep it from being bad.

Oh, and Stan Lee is in it, too and he’s got a cameo right out of Reed and Sue’s comic book wedding. I liked that.

A story about hats and the future of websites.

I have a very long and very well chronicled love affair with hats. These are not over the top fancy crazy hats or anything. These are straight-forward simple sports-related baseball caps. I have four that I wear on different occasions (I am looking into purchasing a fifth) and they are: a Charlotte Bobcats hat—that off-blue color—but it’s not fitted; a touch-too-small black Carolina Panthers hat with a light blue bill that I’ve had since 1995; a black fitted Carolina Hurricanes hat I got after the playoffs last year when I realized my old hat didn’t fit anymore now that I had a lot of hair. And then there’s the Wake Forest hat.

I love, love, love, love, love my Wake Forest hat. It used to be this light purple-brown color. I don’t know what you’re supposed to call it, but that’s what it was. Over the time I’ve had it it’s become an off-khaki. I wear it every single day whenever I go out anywhere (except on certain fancy dates, but I have worn it with a suit before to school). However, the bill has begun to fray on what is most definitely the best Wake Forest hat—and therefore the best hat—I have owned in my long hat wearing career (a career which has included a number of Star Wars-related hats, other Wake Forest hats—most notably the predecessor to my favorite, which I lost out the window of Jessica’s car after a Ben Folds concert, a story recounted far too many times in my circle of friends—and an assortment of other un-thematically related hats). Thus, as my hat is beginning to fall apart, I decided I would go see if I could find another one, so as when the sad day did come that I would have to move on to a new cap, I’d at least have one to switch to immediately and not have to go through a dreaded hatless period.

So I turned my attention to the internet. On the bill of my hat was the maker’s website address and so I typed it in and went over to the site and I see my most dreaded enemy: a Macromedia Flash load bar.

Now, I do not have a problem with Flash. I love the application. It’s an amazing tool for the development of animation... but for the life of me I can’t figure out why anybody in the world would want to make a website using Flash.

To me, a Flash website signals a need to be something bigger than a website. You’re a locale, with fancy flashing lights and load screens. You’ve got imbedded music and elaborate animated buttons. These things are often used as a replacement for actual content. Of all the websites I visit on a daily basis exactly none of them are built using Flash.

I do not believe for an instant that these two tidbits are unrelated.

In trying to determine the best angle for writing this, I talked to the guys and Tony brought up some valid points that I’ll concede: Flash websites should be the sexiest thing on the internet. They have the potential to be—and this is a quote—“more interactive, and artistically expressive [than a ‘regular’ site]. They are capable of always looking dynamic, and not just a static image cut up into links.”

And all of a sudden it made sense to me.

The inherent flaw with these websites is in their inability to properly attain their potential. The hat website is made significantly uglier and more cumbersome because of the underlying realization that it could be awesome, because those of us that are familiar with Flash know the things it is capable of. Therefore, here is the big payoff: there is a connection between expectation and associated emotional response.

Yes, I realize we all know this and that’s not a big payoff, but the difference is that here the discussion is centered around an application and its capabilities and the proper usage of an application—an item which is, in theory, easily remedied. So what do you do?

First, as Tony suggested to me, access to Flash (or some present or future equivalent) is imperative. Having to download a reader is a major deterrent to site producers. Second, the barrier has to be broken. For instance, the Donnie Darko movie website from years ago created an internet experience, but its convoluted nature is obviously not what is called for when it comes to a simpler, information-driven website. A beautiful, “dynamic” information experience—devoid of lag and load times—by a heavily trafficked website—the Star Wars of websites?—is needed to open the door to the kind of website we all want to see.

And so there is my call to arms, inspired by Tony’s words and my frustration in trying to buy a hat. The tools are there, but are we ready to properly use them?

A Sad Day for Sports?

I’d not wanted to do two sports articles in a row, for variety’s sake, but after the events of last night I felt pressed to comment.

My favorite basketball player of all time—Tim Duncan—won his fourth NBA Championship ring with the San Antonio Spurs roughly twelve hours prior to my writing this post. I watched the game sitting on our living room couch, my Dad was asleep for most of the game—it’d been a long few days at work—but he was there to watch it with me as always. His sleeping had more to do with his exhaustion than the fact that the Finals this year were atrocious.

But this post is not going to be about the Spurs or Tim Duncan or LeBron James or how bad the Finals were. Rather, this post is going to be about the aftermath.

Obviously pleased by the turn of events that I had just witnessed on ABC, I didn’t go straight to bed. I went to ESPN.com and saw a link to their “conversation” page about the Spurs winning their fourth championship this decade and joining the Celtics, Lakers, and Bulls as the only teams to win more than three NBA Championships.

Now, I am not your typical sports fan. I attempt to approach sports with an air of rationalism and an analytical mind; I like the thinking parts of the game. The reason I like to watch games with my Dad is that the two of us banter back and forth and break down what we’re watching—why can’t Tim Duncan make a shot? Why haven’t the Cavaliers picked up the tempo and tried to force the issue, because grinding it out isn’t working? Why aren’t the Cavaliers putting James back on Parker, the only person who almost slowed down the soon-to-be Finals MVP? So while we most certainly have a rooting interest—Tim Duncan has been my favorite basketball player since he came to Wake Forest and as the Bobcats aren’t a contender yet, nothing pleases me more than Tim Duncan amassing a large ring collection—we try and approach the game for what it is, a simple game of basketball, for it’s a game that we love.

And so when I click on the link to go to the conversation page—I’m not going to use any direct quotes—but I find every third post is in all caps, while others are mere insults to other posters or one of the two teams. Quite frankly, I was embarrassed to be a basketball fan at that moment. These were my peers. These were the individuals that, like me, had stayed up until midnight to watch the game, and instead of appreciating a gutsy win by a great team, they took all of their time explaining how the Suns were the best team in the league, how LeBron James is awful, and how bad the Finals were. No one said anything remotely constructive. The only talk was that “LeBron has to learn to shoot,” “Robert Horry won the Finals two rounds ago,” and “basketballposter111 that doesn’t make up for the fact that you’re gay.” Of course, it really looked more like: “LeBrick lrn 2 ****ING SHOOT!” and “ROBERT HORRY 1 THE FINALS 2 RNDS AGO!!!!!!” and “bbp111 ur still GAY!!!!” and other equally painful sentences.

Up until last night, I’d never really gotten why so many people hate sports, but I think I get it now. I realize now that this is the culture. It’s a culture of generalizations, hate, and fickleness; where whoever shouts the loudest inherently wins—it’s not a matter of enjoying basketball on any level. Admittedly, the NBA Finals were awful this year and something has to be done—David Stern himself is pondering this, if you’ll believe his appearances on two podcasts yesterday—but basketball is basketball and we should be celebrating it, not tearing each other to shreds. I don’t know this for a fact, but I guess I’m the minority. I guess nobody cares that two teams played great defense and competed and some shots didn’t fall here and there, so the games were ugly. I guess nobody cared to look beyond that, to try and find something within the competition of two good basketball teams with good basketball players.

And all I wonder is: when did that stop being enough?

Thus Angered the Sports Gods

If you’d be willing to go and time travel for a bit, I’d like to take you back to May 12, 2007 to a baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Cincinnati Reds.

It is the bottom of the fourth inning; the score is tied one to one. The Dodgers are at bat and Kyle Lohse is on the mound for the Reds. Jeff Kent has gotten onto base with a walk and Luis Gonzalez blooped an infield single. Lohse then pulled himself together and struck out the next two batters, Russell Martin and Andre Ethier. So that’d be two on, two out, 1-1 ballgame.

Andy LaRoche, the call-up third baseman playing in just his third series, is up next as the eighth batter in the order; behind him is Brady Penny, known more for his—at the time—1.39 ERA than his hitting abilities.

Lohse intentionally walks LaRoche, loading the bases.

Lohse walks Penny.

Jeff Kent is forced home.

Dodgers take the lead.

The next three Dodgers batters—Furcal, Pierre, and Nomar—hit three singles to drive in four runs. It is now 6-1, Dodgers. The game, with Penny and his 1.39 ERA still at the mound, is over.

You will call me out, of course, and remind me that walking the pitcher is inexcusable, not the decision to throw at him. Cincinnati’s manager was quite vehement in making that comment. Penny, too, in the post-game (and this is a direct quote from the recap): “Even without the bases loaded, walking the pitcher is the worst thing you can do in baseball as a pitcher,” which is very true. This is from the pitcher who started in the All-Star game last year for the NL. So, admittedly, much of the blame is on Lohse.

But it seems to me that sports karma bit Cincinnati in the ass.

Gregg Easterbrook—the Tuesday Morning Quarterback at ESPN.com—has written numerous articles on the subject in regards to football, particularly as it pertains to punts. Most of the time he gives the same argument: Team A punted the ball on short distance X in opposing territory resulting in them getting their asses handed to them by Team B which didn’t punt the ball on short distance Y in opposing territory.

He claims the Football Gods do not smile fondly upon such foolish displays of cowardice.

I argue to one-up Easterbrook: the Sports Gods do not smile fondly upon such foolish displays of cowardice and disrespect.

Rumors are swirling around the NBA right now that David Stern rigged the NBA Draft Lottery, held on May 28, in which Portland and Seattle won the top two picks over Boston, Memphis, and Milwaukee seemingly as punishment for the alleged tanking that took place in these three organizations.

I say not so much Stern, but rather Sports Gods.

The greatest sin in sports is a lack of willingness to compete. The lowest of the low and the worst of the worst owe it to their legion of fans—particularly in professional sports, where there are no allegiances, other than to history and the dollar—to give their all on the playing field day in and day out. Tanking, punting in opposing territory, and intentionally walking (particularly when you’re not even looking for a double play) are acts of disrespect to the sports in question.

And he who disrespects his sport shall be spurned by the Sports Gods.

Resilience in the face of long odds is often met with great reward. Continued effort and will to compete, the constant striving for success usually heaps great reward. Down eight points early in the first half of Game 3 of the NBA Finals, the San Antonio Spurs can fight back to beat the Cleveland Cavaliers, even with their superstar on the bench in foul trouble, even with their lightning rod off the bench going 0-fer. Despite all that they can go on a 10 to 0 run and take a two point halftime lead, all because the Spurs never show for an instant that they believe they are going to lose.

The moment the Reds walk LaRoche there is a chink in the armor, an unintentional display taken to be fear.

And all of a sudden the game changes.

The fastballs become easier to hit. The basket looks a little bit larger. That hole between the two offensive linemen seems to be open for just a tiny while longer.

By not intentionally walking to face poor batters, by not punting on fourth and short, by believing, whole-heartedly, that you are going to kick the ass of the other team, these are the simple acts that define the psychology of a winning team; they’re the difference that will uneven the playing field. At the highest level of professional sports there is not a talent gap. Everyone can play. The difference between the best and good?

The best just don’t lose.

And the Sports Gods smile.

Here There Be Chips

I believe that I owe a bit of an explanation.

“Tomorrow” apparently means “next weekend” and “the rest of the band” means "Peter" and “fancy mission statements, dystopian visions of the future, and horribly un-funny sarcasm” means "a history lesson of sorts."

Tony—the third member of our eclectic bunch—is from New York. He has a xanga. A few months ago, he was dabbling over the idea of producing a portfolio website for his web design and his artwork and what have you. My response to this declaration on his part: “Dude! We should make a website!”

Or something like that.

And so we now have... this thing.

We have this concept and this idea that now has a tangible existence on the internet—a blog page... thing—and the time has come for an idea to actually figure out for itself what it really is.

Peter signed on rather quickly when I proposed to him that the three of us start some form of blog. We envisioned it as a place where we could sit down and see the world around us and somehow encapsulate our vision and our perspective and convey it in a manner that would be—and this was the major stretch, obviously—if not entertaining, then at least interesting.

Because, admittedly, there’s no reason in the world for you, the non-existent reader, to care about the three of us—Cory (I’m the cartoonist from North Carolina), Peter (he’s the director from Kent), and Tony (he’s the slack blogger from New York)—or what we have to say. And, in part, we’re pretentious enough to think that the fact that we recognize that is enough to make us worthwhile.

So there is our mission statement, if you want to call it that. Three guys, three friends, from three different parts of the English Speaking World sitting down and talking about whatever.

Don’t hold your breath.

For the record, I am currently in Kentucky, writing this on my laptop, while sitting in a hotel room, as today is my grandparents’ 50th Anniversary. My attempts at trying to get all three guys to contribute to this piece (which will now be done as three separate entries, with all three of us chiming in our on perspectives—look forward to that, I guess?) and my being here in Kentucky are the primary reason for the tardiness of this article.

Because I know you care.

This isn’t very funny. I want chips.

And so it begins.

The rest of the band will get here later.

Expect things proper tomorrow.

Things like fancy mission statements, dystopian visions of the future, and horribly un-funny sarcasm.

But for now? Just enjoy the stupid name of the place and the really ugly "I need to actually sit down and edit the template" color scheme.

So there you have it. 3 Guys and a Bag of Chips.