Park Place Cinema

Growing up in the company of the Shawnee Group, I have come to love board games. During that fun-filled summer between high school and college, at least one night of the week (I think it was Mondays) was devoted to sitting in Aaron’s back room or Smith’s basement in a challenge of 2-dimensional competition. Over time, we got to know and dominate anything Hasbro or the Parker Brothers could throw our way, and even modified some games on our own to give them a fresh spin. One of these days, I’ll update Wikipedia on the rules of Double-board Risk, Taboo Mafia, Uberultimate Outburst and Hungry Hungry Steinberg. (One of those I may have made up.)

When we weren’t playing board games, we were often watching movies (that was Tuesdays at Cole’s house.) The two nights had a very different tones to them. One involved shouting at each other in the name of fired up rivalries; the other was a chill evening watching films from the 80’s and eating junk food amidst the finest in jungle prints. But combining the two nights? That’s crazy talk!

Or is it?

Ridley Scott, of the Flying Directing Scott Brothers, has been attached to a rather peculiar film project. Yes, the man who brought the greatness of Gladiator, Blade Runner, and Black Hawk Down has signed on to direct movie based on a board game. Now judging from his greatest successes, you probably have some pretty good guesses as to what game they are trying to create a script around. Risk? Stratego? Of course, games built upon the precept of conquest and battle would make for a sweet war film. Battleship? Axis & Allies? Yes, it could have a strong hero character that lives in a time of adversity and must use his cunning mind and his lucky dice to find greatness. Jedi Duels? William and Mary Duels? Not even close.

Try Monopoly.

(Somewhere in Charlotte, Chris Nordberg is jumping with glee.)

According to the report, Scott has been given the pick of Hollywood to turn the game of deeds, dice, and free parking into a comedic thriller. There will be no swords, no guns, and no knives with which to do battle in this one, folks. After all, there isn’t a real villain in Monopoly, unless you count that pesky cop who hangs out in the corner and sends you to jail without trial by jury, due process of law, or a swing by the bank to pick up a couple hundred bucks in prison yard gambling scratch.

To quote Gladiator, we’re terribly vexed.

Nonetheless, we have faith in Sir Ridley, who has used the finest in Hollywood’s screenwriting stable in the past, to craft an engaging script that won’t feel like being stuck on Baltic Avenue while hotels come out of nowhere all around. However, since this project is so vague, the best we can do to help our the man who brought us both Thelma and Louise is give our tips for casting the blockbuster hit of 2008.

Rich Uncle Pennybags – JON VOIGHT – can play the old, jovial millionaire, in much the same way he played FDR in Pearl Harbor and Nick Cage’s dad in the National Treasure flicks. Since each of the characters will effectively be playing with house money, and therefore his, he can let out a mean streak for when some idiot buys Tennessee Ave with his last $180. And by mean struck, I totally want to see the fire in his eyes of Coach Kilmer. Also, if he agrees to do this, I just might forgive him for Baby Geniuses 2. Maybe.

Go to Jail Cop – SYLVESTER STALLONE – Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the horror in people’s eyes when they overshoot Marvin Gardens by one, but wouldn’t that actual fear seem a lot more real on screen if Stallone was waiting there in the corner for you, dressed as Judge Dredd? There would be little arguing with his ruling. Plus, this cop is the strong, silent type. The less we have to make Sly say, the better.

Car – VIN DIESEL – No one will ever question his speed or furiousness.
Top Hat – SAMUEL L. JACKSON – Forgive him if he updates he character and has it decked out in all things Kangol.
Scottie Dog – SEAN CONNERY – Celebrity Jeopardy version of course.
Weird Looking Shoe – STEVE BUSCEMI - typecast
Thimble – ELIJAH WOOD - Our underdog in this whole crazy mixed-up flick. We hear he’s played this role before. Let’s just hope Gollum doesn’t swallow him.

Tickets go on sale Friday, on the corner of New York and St.James. Parking will be free.

Vehicular Revolutions

Take 2 on My Vehicular Revolution:

Yeah, I tried this once before. The rationale behind it is that while driving can be fun, it can also be boring. And outside of having interesting passengers, good tunes on the radio, or the never-ending quest to perfect in-car climate control, driving can also be tedious and boring. When I first became a motorist, I did so in the Garden State Warrior, a ’90 Volvo that was business in the front, and well, business also in the back. It wasn’t a party vehicle, it drove to places I needed it to. It wasn’t fawned over by other high school students – it did not have that laidback feel of “cool.”

In other words, it wasn’t a Jeep.

Joe Brescia drove a Jeep, and he made it look cool. (Strike that, the Jeep made Joe Brescia look cool. Fixed,) And without knowing it, Joe Brescia entered an unwritten brotherhood of cool. Jeep Drivers (Wranglers, not Grand Cherokeers) maintained a laidback fraternity of people who got from Point A to Point B in style. However, they did so without pledging allegiance to any series of Greek letters, secret handshakes, or keg-infested houses. Their acknowledgement was simple. Anytime one Jeep passed another Jeep, their respective drivers would wave. It was their simple way of saying, “Hey man, I’ve got your back, even if our vehicles lack roofs or doors.”

Why not Volvos?

For a good year of high school, I incessantly tried to become the initial pledge class to a similar Volvo Brotherhood. Everytime I passed a Swedish tank, I would wave. Sure, the first time one of my Shermanian bretheren encountered me, they’d be a bit confused, but I was sure they’d eventually come around. However, I soon found that the lack of convertability of my car strongly hindered my ability to wave in all meteorological conditions, and my desire to be a Volvo Revolutionary was quelled. Sure, there was that one time on Robin Hood Drive that a fellow Tanker DID wave back, but that could have been a fluke. While this revolution showed initiative, it goes down in my history as nothing more than a building block.

That was Take 1.

Take 2 occurred this morning, and reflecting, my motives remain bizarre. 260 days a year, I drive the same 9 miles through downtown Vienna to work. Sure, it’s given me a few good angles for the Funny (let’s single out this, this, and this as Exhibits A-C), but it’s still as boring as According to Jim. Maybe it was Clara being especially cute this morning. Maybe it was the fact I actually got up early enough to make my lunch before I left the house. Maybe it’s Casual Friday, and I’m wearing jeans. Who really knows, one thing is clear – I was in a good mood, and willing to drive “outside the box.”

(Not literally. My God, that would be a disaster.)

The catalyst to all of this? Flipping stations during a commercial break for both Elliott and the Junkies, I happened across the classic rock station.

“I Wanna Rock!”

Yes, Twisted Sister’s ode to rock, made recently relevant thanks to Road Trip and some rental car commercial, was blaring over the airwaves and I was taken aback. Normally I happen across this spot on the dial to find some crap from Foreigner or the ‘Wagon.. But today was different. And to show how it was different, I did the least logical thing possible.

I opened the sun roof and threw up my rock hand.

For the next 2 miles.

With an average speed of about 19 mph, I rocked my way up Route 123, long after Twisted Sister had finished rocking. I rocked my way through the traffic report, that annoying Jerry’s Subs commercial, and anything else that crossed my audio path. My hand to the sky, motionless, I stared straight ahead throught my shades to garner the reaction of my vehicular comrades.

They, too, wanted to rock.

While I garnered a collection of odd stares, heads shaking, and laughs from pedestrians, those in the motor brigade knew it was Friday and it was time to rock. Over the parade route of rock, I got four other rock hands in return. As I pulled into the parking garage, this ultimately meant little.

Except that my commute rocked harder than yours.

Dramastic Slackitude

I’m currently sitting at the end of an extremely long conference table, waiting for a delightful (read: soul-crushingly boring) 2 hour presentation to commence. I’m prepared to sit at the end of a table – growing up a lefty in a right-handed world often dictated chair assignment. But I wasn’t prepared to spend the next 120 minutes engrossed in a Power Point presentation that is promising no less than 14 bullet points.

Oh, how I love quantity over quality. [/sarcasm]

However, while I’d prefer to be at my desk typing this rather than in my notebook scribing this, you have to figure that this could be a far more unfavorable scenario. Sitting quietly basking the muted hues of the overhead projector could be way worse for any of the following reasons:

1. The presentation could be in French, and the presenter could be Gerard Depardieu.
2. The refreshments tray could be out of bagels.
3. I could be sitting in the middle of the table and forced to write this right-handed.
4. I could be the one presenting.

Regarding, Numero 4, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Most presentations command a large amount of practice, preparation, and attention to detail. Oftentimes, note cards, a professional wardrobe choice, and a time expected duration are all devised beforehand. If given the opportunity to prep, this legwork can make your presentation more of a sure thing than $28 million for Roger Clemens.

Notice I said “if.”

Senior year of high school, our AP English class was assigned a phone-it-in project that had little to do with either literature or poetry. It was a simple premise; learn something new and then present it to the class. Some of our class’ ideas included yoga, maritime cartography, acoustic guitar, and how to construct a big-ass subwoofer so loud it would blow women’s clothes off. (Or at the very least, torture the unfortunate souls who rode backseat in a certain Swedish automobile.)

As for me, I opted to play through.

My venture to learn the sport of golf was a lot of fun, if not necessarily educational. A foursome of the Senior Slack Pack hit the links, armed with four bags of clubs, a video camera, and a dry sense of humor. But hey, no windows were broken, and no Caddyshack lines were beaten to death. So we’ve got that going for us.

With the learning part all done, I could sit back and wait until my turn to present. We had drawn straws, and I drew an enviable 19th out of 21. Sure, there was a minor catch that even though there would be only two presentations each day, the on-deck presenter for the following day had to be ready if his predecessor was absent, but what are the odds of that??

Oh.

For the first 8 days of presentations, things ran silky smooth. 8 pairs of presenters presented, precisely as the schedule had dictated. I could sit comfortably while my classmates got up and invented new words. (Note the title of this post.) Still a day out, I walked into class on Day 9, ready to watch Presenters 17 and 19 in action –

Wait. Where’s Anatoli Semenov?

Number 17, as lore will remember it, wasn’t finished with her presentation, and opted to come in after 3rd period that day. Newman (not Wayne Knight) directed her icy death stare my way. “Chris, you’re up.”

Of course, she underestimated by slackitude. Newman didn’t anticipate my lazy self not taking the golf clubs out of my car yet. She couldn’t have guessed that Chris Smith would have randomly brought the VHS-transferred golf footage on that day to class. Armed with a 5-iron and a deep breath, I delivered everything I had learned about golf.

Best damn presentation I’ve ever made.

Revenge on the Mac

I got a call from Katie Friday concerning our self-destructive apartment. Apparently, what she thought was a routine quest to grab a coffee mug turned hazardous, as the cabinet door that protects our coffeeware from the elements nearly came crashing down in her hands. Upon further inspection, the screws that affix the hinge to the cabinet proved to be too much metal for the particle board that serves as the cabinet wall. Best of luck, apartment maintenance guys – this one’s going to need a full replacement. We’ve started to notice over the last month or so that our brand new apartment, which finished construction some 2 weeks prior to move-in, may have not been built by proper pros.

Certainly you’ve written a paper at some point in your academic career where you spent so much time making it read perfectly, only to realize it is ten minutes to class and you don’t have a conclusion yet. The conclusion you end up turning in? Probably not your finest work. Probably not altogether coherent.

Hopefully legible.

The revelation is this; the finishing touches of our apartment – things that don’t involve walls, ceilings, and floors – may have been put together in those last ten minutes. It’s shoddy craftsmanship at its best. Or expert craftsmanship at its worst. Maybe both. For some things, speed is not an option. If you want a job done right, just take a deep breath and take your time. Don’t believe me? Well then, maybe you’ll believe what my flashback machine has to say. And here we GO!

Time: March, 1998
Location: Orlando, Florida
Event: Senior Class Trip, Disneyworld

There are many fondly-remembered stories that came out of my SHS class’ descent upon the Magic Kingdom – midnight pillow fights, the origins of Jeremiah the Kullfrog, Daytona Joe, and the Lampost from Hell – but these were all stand-alone tales. What I am about to recount was more of a saga – and as my into suggests – the culmination of which required me to take my time and have a steady hand.

During our time in Disneyworld, the origins of the Shawnee Group traveled as a pack throughout the theme parks. In the morning phone calls would be made, schedules would be coordinated, meals would be planned, and days would be set so that we could all enjoy this “educational” voyage together.

Someone was tapping the phone lines.

A fellow student of ours, one Chris MacAleer (Misspelled the surname for Googling anonymity) managed to tag along every single day with our pack, and we’re not quite sure why. Chris wasn’t in our classes; he didn’t talk to us in the halls. Maybe he just liked the clapping rhythm from that Car Wash song we repeated ad nauseam. Regardless, the Group decided that somehow I was the magnetic leak to this whole ordeal. Because of that, my plans for the day had to include some sort of AM evasion – so that the Mac wouldn’t be at our back. My personal favorite? Being forced to get the commuter bus to the Park from a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT RESORT. Whose idea was that anyway?

On the second to last day of our trip, we found ourselves killing time, waiting for a bus that would take us to Splash Mountain. The Mac somehow knew of our plan earlier in the day, for he had packed a suit and towel as well (He probably works for the CIA now.) As we waited, the Group laid out on a grassy Disney embankment. After all, we can relax on our way to relaxing, right?

I, for one, had other plans.

I had to find a way to find revenge on the one who was tracking our every move.

For the Mac had also taken to resting, but over on a park bench, lying on his back. So while my accomplice (name ends in -imothy Fischer) chatted up our mark, I ever-so-slowly slid underneath the bench. You see, the Mac chose to keep his wallet dangling via an odd clip that hung off a belt buckle – and as you may guess – just off the side of the bench.

I’ve never been so cat-like in my life.

Of course, this escapade garnered the attention of the dwellers on the Hill, and remarkably none of them blew it. It may have taken a stellar effort of my accomplice to make 10-15 minutes of small talk, but once it was done, revenge was mine. With moves of a ninja, I had unclipped the wallet, slid out from underneath, and joined the peanut gallery on the hill. Revenge was mine.

(You know thieves that steal things for the thrill of the heist? That was me – we gave back our loot like five minutes later.)

Here’s to hoping that my stealth and precision serves as a lesson for future apartment complex construction firms everywhere. Sometimes you need to not heed the need for speed.

Indeed.

The Eastern Snowboard

I think I’ve made it clear that I don’t think too highly of the DC region’s ability to handle snowfall. From school cancellations in case there might be snow, to unimpressive plowing capacity, to neighbors who probably would use a George Foreman Grill to defrost their mirrors, our Nation’s Capital panics, as if they were at a disco. And I’m not saying my hometown was that much better, since a mere 3 inches of snow could allow me to sleep in on a school day. However, both regions can’t compare to my benchmark – Oswego, New York. I have two family members that attended college there, and can speak of the horror stories that come with lake-effect snow (and one of said family members can also tell you he’s never coached a Louis.)

12 feet of snow, people.

(Yes, I know this happened a few weeks ago, but this post isn’t meant to break news. In fact, if we break anything, the Blogger Gods are going to keep our security deposit. Last time I sign a lease while playing Playstation.)

I still get excited when I wake up and it’s snowing. Sure, all it means now is that the commute will be slower and I’ll get to see a Jetta slide into a van or something, but it’s worth it. I never really got into the whole “building a snowman” thing anyway. In my day, we built forts. Glorified, asymmetric igloos that held a clearance of about 2 feet and were completely impenetrable. (Assuming one’s adversary, you know, was afraid of snow or didn’t think of sitting down on it.) On most days that we had off there was so little snow that it would require 2.5 yards of white stuff to build the fort. Needless to say, I haven’t seen 12 feet of snow in my life.

But as I see a mighty 1/8th of an inch accumulate outside my office window, I think back to the 3 Worst Snowstorms of My Life.

3) I-95, VA – February 2003 – Upon leaving my alma mater at 9PM after a full day of action, my old hallmate Justin Moore said to me, “Hey, it’s starting to snow – if you want to crash here, that’s cool with me.” I responded, “No, I think I can get ahead of it, but thanks for the offer.”

Whoops.

For those unfamiliar with the route, it’s about 130 miles between Williamsburg and Alexandria. That should take even a cautious driver about 2 and a half hours. Throw in the fact that it’s a Saturday night and there’s no traffic – that may be closer to 2. Throw in 23 inches of blinding snow? Well, that might change things a little.

5 hours later, I was back in Northern Virginia. But not before cleaning out the Fredericksburg Wawa of every bottle of Mountain Dew they owned.

2) Medford, NJ – January 1996 – Ah, the Blizzard of the Century (way to procrastinate there, Mother Nature.) Jersey got 30 inches of snow, forcing the Garden State to close the Turnpike from end to end and Shawnee High School to cancel classes for a week. Why do I remember this so vividly?

Part of my U.S. History I coursework was to do a book report concerning an aspect of our Nation’s Past. However, we didn’t exactly have a surplus of titles to select from. As per the instructions, we had to read a book by James Michener. For those who don’t know, James Michener is Literature’s Peter Jackson. He has never found an anecdote he doesn’t like, and he doesn’t believe in editing. He writes books of epic length and then names them after the geographical setting. I read his book Alaska. Sort of.

It’s 868 pages long, and if it hadn’t been for the Blizzard of ’96, I may have only read 86 of them. Thanks for getting my back and dumping an icy catastrophe on my school district, God.

1) Boston, MA – March 1997 – I accompanied the Morea clan to the city of Boston in order to check out a few potential locales for higher education. It was an ambitious 2 day trip we had planned, hoping to look a 4 schools. The morning at Tufts started innocently enough, and even though there was snow in the forecast, our tour guide proudly boasted, “New England winters are cold, but we have never had to cancel classes an account of snow.” I guess that was her showing us their commitment to academics or something. As we moved on to Harvard in the afternoon, the snow began to fall. It all seemed kind of perfect. You know, it was the oldest university in the country with the sweet architecture and the sparkling reputation – they could probably make it snow on command for prospective students.

We made it back to our hotel after a hot meal and went to bed early – after all, we still had Boston U. and BC to check out tomorrow. However, 36 inches of snow OVERNIGHT changed those plans. We were snowed in for three straight days to that hotel, and were so bored that we brushed off other people’s cars to pass the time. Moral of the story?

Only liars go to Tufts University.

Throwing the Heater

There’s a senior-year tradition, apparently, at my high school called Senior Cut Day. It is supposed to occur when the number of days remaining in the school year matches your graduation year. For me, that means 98 days from graduation, I wasn’t supposed to be in school. I was supposed to be out doing completely non-academic things, like going to the beach, catching a flick, and playing table games at the Max. Wait, I didn’t go to Bayside High. I forgot.

I went to Shawnee, and as my good friends Joe, Dave, and Tim can tell you, on Senior Cut Day you go to WING BOWL. Why can’t I tell you for myself? You must have forgotten. I was a huge dork in high school. I was in class.

The idea of Wing Bowl was invented my Philly’s sports-talk station, 610 WIP some 15 years ago. Since the Eagles never had plans to oh, play football Super Bowl Weekend, the Philly faithful decided it would be a good time to stage another Bowl game, this one involving the competitive eating of mass quantities of single-serving poultry. Wing Bowl was born. And while I’ve never been, I know that it has evolved from a tiny Wing-Off in some lobby of some hotel to a Wachovia Center packed house consumption spectacle.

According to my records, my buddies 3 witnessed the triumph of the 1998 champion, Mark “Big Rig” Vogeding, who polished off 164.wings en route to the victory. Who’s hungry?

(It also should be noted for posterity that the same three hit the beach later our senior year, rather than attending class. This trip was notable for the fact that Tim almost got arrested for getting an extra refill at the Promenade on the O.C. Boardwalk, and Dave missed the playing of Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World” over the morning loudspeaker, much to our dismay. Ok, we now return you to the point we’re eventually going to make theater.)

This year’s Wing Bowl, which for a few years has included professional eaters like that tiny Korean woman who lives in Alexandria, was held this past Friday. Now it is true that the finest Philadelphia regional celebrities have been known to make an appearance, including Pat Croce, the NBC10 news team, and Governor Ed Rendell. But now, it appears that all the stars can just step aside – because we had a supernova attend WB15. Who, you ask?

Mitch “The Wild Thing” Williams.

I’ve been a fan of Philly sports since 1986, and Williams is EASILY the biggest goat of that era for us in the City of Brotherly Love. (Rounding out the podium? Terrell Owens and Eric Lindros) He gave up the gopher ball home run pitch to lose the 1993 World Series to – yes, Canada – the Toronto Blue Jays. And even when the game or world championship was on the line, his erratic, stroke-inducing pitching style probably killed about 40 people during his tenure in Red Pinstripes.

He now manages a bowling alley in South Jersey.

And despite all the criticism and hatred that Philly might have for him, Williams proudly attended Wing Bowl 15. After all, he’s more the Wing Bowl type than current clean-cutters Pat Burrell and Jamie Moyer, right?

Yet, things didn’t turn out so well for Wild Thing. From Philly.com:

Waiting on a friend, he pulled his '06 Chrysler 300 into a parking spot. Soon, "I smelled something kind of burning in my car," Williams says. "I got out, finally, and saw smoke. I was trying to get the hood open, and I couldn't get it open, and I looked underneath." Someone had left a barbecue grill smoldering in the lot, and it ignited the car's engine.

Rumor has it Joe Carter was also in attendance, and he LOVES barbeque chicken.

Things that Make You Go Boom

Well congratulations, Nancy Pelosi. Much to Colbert’s despair, you’ve managed to be elected the first female Speaker of the House. This entitles you wield power, wield influence, wield majority opinions, and most importantly, wield a big honkin’ hammer.

I give thee: GAVEL!

Yes, aside from the whole two steps from the Presidency, there’s not that much to get excited about when it comes to the Speakership other than your new tool. You don’t actually speak that often, what with the rotating moderation for debates and all. And there’s more procedural and administrative tasks that one realizes they’ve signed up for. But you do get underlings – and damn, if they weren’t some seriously cool underlings at that. There’s the Clerk, who isn’t even supposed to be here today. There’s the Sergeant-at-Arms, who we envision being a cross between this guy and this guy. Also, there’s the CAO (not Awesome, but Administrative – dagger.), and the Chaplain. At any time, Pelosi my dismiss any of these people, save the chaplain. Only God can dismiss a chaplain, and our guess is if that happens, they’ll never work in this town (or any town) again. Damn the icy scythe of Death.

But let’s get back to the reason Nancy Pelosi wanted this job. Her new gavel.

Right now, she’s in one of four professions that allow her to literally strike her desk as hard as she can with an implement of distinguished force without “Human Resources” bringing you a “jacket” so that you can go “on a vacation” and never come back. The others?

• Judge: The man behind the bench works in an office where at least one the other people in the room very well be a criminal. Yeah, I’d carry a hammer for protection, too.
• Auctioneer: He uses his gavel to ruin people’s lives. Everyone is in good spirits prior to the final big bang, but once he lays the gavel down, he’s not only sold you this nice yacht, he’s thrown in the bonus prize of “buyer’s remorse.” Good luck explaining that purchase to your wife, Mr. Richpants.
• And the third? The less-celebrated but equally powerful “youth sports association commissioner.” Pay attention to him, or he’ll make sure your kid ends up playing little league for the team sponsored by Rita’s Beauty Salon or some crap like that.

Now it’s a good thing that previous Gavelbangers like Gingrich and Hastert don’t get to keep their special toy at the end of their run, since judging from the fledgling gavel industry, there’s not many cool replacements for the House of Representatives to purchase (with your tax dollars.) (Fun note by the way, Rep. Sam Rayburn served as Speaker of the House for a record 17 different years. Now, he plays football.)

Regardless, Madam Speaker, if you would like it, YAB wouldn’t mind going into the petty cash and purchasing you this way cool crystal gavel and base.

(WE promise that Christina Toms will erase the name from the sample and put yours on it, okay? Sound good, Toms?)