The Dark Knight, or A Bit Batty Returns

After having no luck in my cyberhunt for Killer Croc, Penny whisked me away for Nicholas's Great Birthday Extravaganza. When we returned home from eating that evening, I tried my best to play the attentive father, but my mind wandered to the wreckless reptile--and my family noticed. As I sat in my plush recliner, looking for clues to the criminal mindset in many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, my son, ever the scholar, asked me questions about the biology and [lifestyles] of various aquatic creatures:

"Dad, are sponges smarter than starfish?"

"Riddle me this, Robin--why are fish so smart?"

"Dad! You didn't answer my question!"

"Check the Cray mainframe computer down in the cave, son."

"We don't have a cave!"

"Nicholas," my wife said, "the only cave around here is the big empty spot in your dad's head."

"Alfred," I said to my wife, "would you mind fixing young Master Dick and I some cucumber sandwiches? A well-nourished body leads to a more attuned mind."

"Well then, dear, your must have the most attuned mind in town," said Penny.

"Mom! He called me Master Dick! That's not my name! Why'd he call me that? Who's Master Dick?"

Penny replied, "He is, Nicholas."

"And Mom's name isn't Alfred, Dad! That's what you were going to call me, but mom wouldn't let you. Mom, why was he going to call me Alfred?"

"Because," Penny said, "it's a combination of his father's name--Al, and my father's name--Fred."

"A combination," I mused aloud. "Hmm...half man, half reptile. Selina, if you were half man, half reptile, where might you seclude yourself?"

"Well, my daddy used to tell me that crocogators lived out in Bogue Chitto swamp with Lickum, Thang, and Raw-Headed Bloody Bones."

"That's it!" I said as I jumped from my chair. "And the nearest swampland is behind Canal Place Cinema--which is now showing The Dark Knight."

"Dad," my son said, "everyone knows that all nights are dark. Duh. That's just stupid." I ignored his ignorant insult and ran to the kitchen. I twisted the head on the Pillsbury Dough Boy atop the refrigerator and then slid down the pole now revealed in the hidden sliding panel in the kitchen wall. I emerged in my escape vehicle, and I drove to Canal Place Cinema. Luckily, there was only one guard on duty out back, and I wouldn't have to resort to violence to enter the theater. I merely distracted him by tossing a carton of cigarettes away from the door. He rushed eagerly toward the carton, drool dripping down his chin, and I easily slipped in the back door.

Once inside, I walked unnoticed through the "Employees Only" door and made my way, quietly, up the steps to the labyrinthine tunnels of the projection room. As I expected, the lights were off, and the projectors provided the only illumination--perfect. I peered around the first corner and spotted the projectionist (henceforth known only as JD to protect his true identity). He appeared to be finishing winding the film through the projector. He then walked to a small, dimly lit room, pulled out what appeared to be the movie poster of the film Wanted, Angelina Jolie front and center of the piece. He then put on his headphones, pulled an mp3 device from his pocket, and pressed a button. What I observed next will haunt me for years, but I feel I must divulge the tragic scene I witnessed as JD began singing, in falsetto, "You're beautiful/You're beautiful/It's true/I saw your face/In a crowded place/And I don't know what to do/'Cause I'll never be with you," as he pirouetted around, holding the poster as if holding a dance partner. A single tear descended from his right eye, and my own heart began to ache. I could take no more of this sad scene, so I snuck behind him, put a handkerchief (doused with a liquified sample of my breath, as Stribling's was fresh out of chloroform) over his mouth and nose, and his body slumped to the floor. I hoped his mind was at peace.

I then walked over to the tiny window overlooking the theater in which a throng of moviegoers were watching the beginning of The Dark Knight. I wasn't too late! I watched the entire movie from that perspective, leaning against the small inset window, peering closely for any signs of that repulsive reptile. Despite my stopping the film multiple times (much to the distress of the cinema's patrons, who whined and bellyached each time, even though I disguised my voice and announced "Please remain calm, it's just a mechanical malfunction, so quit staring up here"), I never saw sight of Killer Croc. I did like the movie, though.

It's much broader in scope and more ambitious than Batman Begins, as the filmmakers weaved themes of nihilism, chaos theory, and the duality of man throughout the web of various action-oriented plot machinations. It's a thinking man's action movie, but the filmmakers didn't seem to give the audience much time to think, as the movie doesn't pause long enough for reflection.

This fast pace seemed to hamper Christian Bale's performance, as he didn't have many opportunities to peform, at least not as Bruce Wayne. Whenever he does get a chance to portray Batman's alter ego, Bale shines. As the billionaire playboy, Bale's sharper than he was in the first film: he savors his lines more, his responses more sardonic, his delivery wittier. Alas, Bale spends twice as much time as Batman (with that terribly irritating gruff voice) as he does as Wayne, and this lessens the greater impact the film might have had, as the audience doesn't get the chance to feel Bruce Wayne's pain or anger; we never get to see Wayne seeth. He (Wayne/Batman) seems to be more of supporting character.

Speaking of supporting characters, the filmmakers made a mistake in choosing Maggie Gyllenhaal to replace Katie Holmes as Wayne's soulmate Rachel Dawes. As much as Holmes was criticized for being a bit lightweight in Batman Begins, Gyllenhaal here, perhaps trying to add a bit more depth by being more somber, takes the film's serious nature too far, because she's too gloomy, from her posture to her sunken facial expressions. There's no joy evident, even when there should be. I could see no reason for either of her two male beaus to be attracted to her...and I think Gyllenhaal is a beautiful woman. Holmes had charm, and she provided a contrast, a bright glimmer of hope in Bruce Wayne's rotten world in the first film. Gyllenhaal, though, just fades into the movie's somber palette.

Those flaws aside (oh...and one more: a few of the action scenes were clumsy and confusing; I'd have love to have seen a more competent action-movie craftsman (Spielberg, perhaps) direct those), I really enjoyed the movie (though leaning against a window for close to three hours is perhaps not the best way to view it); it was epic, action filmmaking with nary a bit of bloat or fat to be found. I thought all the actors (other than the above-mentioned Gyllenhaal) performed superbly, especially Ledger, who commands the screen like no villain since Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects. The movie is long (especially when interspersed with occasional pausing while looking for Croc clues), but it doesn't feel stretched or decompressed. The film starts with a bang and doesn't slow down (though I often wished it would have--my legs grew so tired standing for so long). I thought Nolan showcased some bravura filmmaking, as it's not easy to make a two-and-a-half hour movie that's both complex and action packed without letting the pace slag for the entire length of the running time. And Nolan should be lauded for allowing Ledger to take a non-traditional approach to a worldwide-known character, thus creating a performance for the ages.

Still, though, no Killer Croc. As the credits began rolling, JD began to regain consciousness, muttering "Angie," so I left the projection tunnels and exited the building. I hopped in my truck and drove home. I walked in the house, shoulders slumped, disappointed. My wife was asleep in the recliner with Georgia in her lap, and Nicholas was dozing in front of the television. My heavy thoughts must have roused her, as she raised her head and half-opened one eye. "How was it?" she asked.

"I didn't find him. No clues," I said.

"What? Wait--I thought you went to the movie."

"I did," I replied.

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I didn't find anything!" I said.

I believe my tone must have somehow startled her, for she sat up straight, her eyelids pulled back. "Well you can find something now!" she shouted.

"What?" I asked.

"You can go find our bed. Here take Georgia, put her to bed--if you can find it--and then come back and get Nicholas." I began to respond, but she interrupted. "And any more mention of Killer Croc, and I'm going to drag you to Bogue Chitto, through you in the swamp, and feed you to the alligators."

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #324

#324: "Perfume de Gardenias" (2003) - Ibrahim Ferrer

Well, this Friday begins the last weekend of my summer vacation, and I'd like to spend it--as I've already spent much of it--relaxing, perhaps reflecting on how fine a summer it's been at the Hardy household. My family is happy and healthy; we were able to spend a wonderful weekend up in Oxford; we swam at Maw-Maw's house; Nicholas had fun sitting in the summer school classes Penny and I taught in Meridian; both my children enjoyed their birthdays (and the presents that came with them); we all played tennis a few times; we were able to clean out massive amounts of junk and clutter from the house; we visited the oldest existing convenience store in the state (and my children managed not to break any of the priceless antiques therein); my son and I saw several movies together; we all visited with friends from nearby Starkville and not-quite-so-nearby Pennsylvania; and for the first summer in years, no family, friends, or acquaitances passed away. It's been as fine a summer as we have ever spent.

As I'm typing, my son is up in the house playing with some of his birthday presents, my wife (who's now happy that--even though I was unable to find the drill--I finally hung the hat rack in the closet) and daughter are playing with the cats, and I'm at peace, and--for us--all is right with the world. I'm not trying to gloat, and I'm not trying to pretend that our life is perfect, and I'm not trying to ignore the numerous problems facing our country and our world, and I'm not trying to be insensitive to the lives of those who aren't as fortunate as we. I'm just trying to appreciate the happiness I'm lucky to have--while I still have it, for I know that hard times will surely come. My life will not always be as good as it is now. Unresolvable conflict, sickness, and death will one day rain down upon me and those I love.

This past summer, though, they did not, and for that I'm grateful. Thursday, July 24, 2008 will not last, but today will. This past summer may have passed by, but it's with me now, and it always shall be. To commorate this eternal moment, I've been listening, over and over, to one of the most beautiful records I've ever heard, late Cuban singer Ibrahim Ferrer's and producer Ry Cooder's rendition of "Perfume de Gardenias." I--and most of America--first became aware of Ferrer with the release of Ry Cooder's breakthrough Buena Vista Social Club in 1997. Ferrer's next album (his solo debut, in fact), Buena Vista Social Club Presents Ibrahim Ferrer was my favorite record of 1999. His aged voice is supple, tender, and passionate, and it conveys well the simple and sweet lyric.

The tune itself is a traditional romantic bolero, and Cooder's arrangement respects the Cuban style, but he adds a surprising element that--along with Ferrer's voice--transforms this bolero from mundane to magnificent: he eschewed Cuban background singers in favor of the Blind Boys of Alabama, the multiple Grammy-award winning gospel group (who released a sparkling record of traditional gospel songs and hymns this year). The Boys add a soulful, ethereal quality that both elevates the music and keeps it earthbound whenever the jazz accompaniment threatens to float away. These two disparate musical genres (Cuban jazz and American gospel)--and the heavenly voices exemplifying each--combine to create a record that transcends both genres, transcends space and time, and elevates the every day into something special. The two gardenias Ferrer sings of may one day die, but at this moment, their beauty is true, and when old age shall these gardenias--and this summer--and this day--waste, then this song shall remain (with apologies to Mr. Keats).

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #325

#325: "Hey!" (2007) - Home Blitz

Tonight, my band Calico will play a full show, live--with a drum set--with all its core members again intact, for the first time in five years. We--for various reasons, like most other bands--have had our set of problems. Members have been kicked out, members have dropped out, we've broken up, we've gone on hiatus, we've practiced for months on end to play in front of completely empty houses, and we've even thrown picks out into a (sparse) crowd only to have them returned to us ("Sorry--I think you dropped this"). After all this, I've often asked myself, "why try?" It's not for the time spent away from home. It's not for the packing and hauling. It's definately not for the money ('cause there's been none). I think I continue to persevere, to continue to practice with the band two/three times a month (even though we rarely play anywhere) because every now-and-then we create a spark of sublimity. We'll reach a moment while playing where all the right elements seem to coalesce at just the right time; sometimes that moment lasts just a second or two, sometimes it lasts for several minutes. It washes over me in waves, and I know the others feel it as well, though we don't speak of it as it's happening. We know, after we've finished playing, that we've created something not of use, not of purpose, but of meaning--we've created art, however briefly it lasted.

I get the same feeling when I listen to "Hey!" by Home Blitz, Daniel DiMaggio's own personal recording project. Recording project? Yeah, well, kind of. Sort of. A few years ago, Daniel DiMaggio (who's been recording privately in his bedroom since he was three) wrote the songs, named the band, then recorded the songs all by himself, playing every instrument. He made a couple of seven-inch singles, and he shopped them around the old-fashioned way, sending them to this journalist, that radio-station. He soon began garnering enough attention that he realized he'd need some additional musicians so that he could play live. A couple of his buddies asked if they could play with him, and he agreed (though I think he still hasn't officially let them be in the band yet). Somehow, he convinced a record label (Gulcher, a tiny independent label) to buy, distribute, and promote his CDs, and soon he saw his band name-dropped in a couple of brief, positive reviews in Spin and Rolling Stone. He got his CD (whose cover depicts DiMaggio's drawing) on iTunes...and he (surely) produced it all himself.

It sounds like it, too, but the home/garage low-fi (someone termed it "no-fi") production gives the album a sense of innocence, a go-for-broke naivete'. In "Hey!" (which, originally, was the B side to the Home Blitz's first seven-inch single), the poor production values help hide the band's obvious limitations. The record's gloriously distorted, and the overdubs are mis-timed, all of which distract (somewhat) from the band's instrumental ineptness. What shines through the sludgy sound are DiMaggio's shaky, vulnerable, yet excited vocals; the rugged yet sweet and pretty guitar solo; and the best complete in-the-middle-of-a-song halt since Elvis Presly told
Scotty, Bill, and D.J. to get real, real gone for a change (and DiMaggio does it just so he can get some gum). When the band comes back from the mid-song break, they amp up the speed and energy, and they light into the performance, and it's transcendent--it's art.

Plus, listening to "Hey!" (and the other songs on the Home Blitz album) reminds me of listening to tapes of my band from when we first started seven years ago. I discovered these last week while stumbling around in my office (I think I saw a rat kick 'em to the curb). My, how we good we thought (and said) we were; and my, how we were wrong. I spent several late-night hours hearing us miss notes, rush tempo, sing off-key, recite inane lyrics, and thrash around like we were creating something magical. Ooh, boy. But you know what? In a sense, we were creating ar... whoa--I gotta get some gum.

A Bit Batty Begins

Last week, I read a news article about hundreds of manhole covers stolen from the streets of Flint, Michigan (more details here), and immediately two words came to my mind: Killer Croc.

Killer Croc is one of Batman's (relatively recent) villains (created in '83), and he's analagous to Spider-Man's enemy The Lizard, but Croc was never a scientist (as The Lizard's alter ego is), and he spends much of his time living in the sewers; thus, with the The Dark Knight approaching so soon, I imagined the manhole thefts to be part of the movie's clever marketing campaign. I checked for updates on that story multiple times a day, listening for the next shoe to drop, for some report of a civilian who thought he observed a reptilian hand emerging from one of the holes.

Alas, Friday (the day The Dark Knight debuted) morning arrived, and no such report was ever filed. I sunk down in my chair, disappointed, and I viewed the original report one last time, and then it hit me: the incident took place in Flint, Michigan--not in Gotham City. Of course! That was it! This revelation ignited my imagination, re-piqued my interest, and I started researching. Penny knocked and called, telling me it was time to take Georgia to day care, so we could then take Nicholas to Meridian for the beginning of his Great Birthday Extravaganza, but I now had work to do! I had to find Killer Croc!

I told my wife just to take Georgia to day care herself and then to ride around and look for any signs of any missing manhole covers; she responded with a few choice words and some incendiary invectives, but I understood and forgave her, for I realized she was just masking her fear with shows of anger and spite (it happens to the best of us). She flipped me the Batsign, strapped Georgia into the sidecar of PennyCycle, and spun out of the driveway, anxious to investigate.

I continued my investigation by researching the archives of the online edition of The Gotham Times; however, my search revealed no clues to the manhole mystery, which led me to think: could this possibly be a cover-up? Could Killer Croc's criminal corruption extend even to the media? How high up the political ladder did it go? I realized then that official documentation could not be trusted; no, I'd have to use more subversive measures to discover the truth. How so? I decided to use the trusty forums of the internet.

I returned to the Michigan Manhole report and joined in the on the discussion therein (note--all of my posts there have since been deleted--further evidence of the conspiracy, ya think???). I asked several questions and posted my theories, but the members there challenged my credibility, maturity, and sanity! They called me names! They asked silly questions, too, like "How would Killer Croc be able to travel the sewers from Michigan to Gotham in just five days?", "Have you renewed your prescriptions to the psychotropic drugs you're taking?", and "Why would Killer Croc steal manhole covers?"

I had an answer for the last query, though, and it comes from personal experience--Killer Croc wants to destroy the Batman by stealing that which he values most. That simple. How do I know this? Back in the spring of 1989, Philadelphia High School's Beta Club officers traveled to the National Beta Club convention in Orlando, Florida to watch one of our members (Mark Michalovic) compete in the Quiz Bowl finals. Ads for the upcoming Batman motion picture (the first one helmed by Tim Burton) abounded, much like they are now for the new Batman flick. Twenty years ago, though, the advertisements seemed to be more physically prominent (as the internet was still in its formative stages) than they are now, with the Bat logo plastered seemingly everywhere, including my own neighboorhood, where some creative soul took a yellow double-arrowed street sign and transformed it into the familiar icon.We (the Beta Club officers), as ambassadors from the state of Mississippi, wanted to show that we Mississippians were as hip as any of our Betabrethren from other parts of America, so we created a sign that represented how cool we were. We made our own BatSignal, and we secured the sign to the spare-tire cover on the back of the automoblie that transported us to Orlando; thus, we created...the Bat-Van. Everywhere we stopped along the way, we received plaudits for our artwork; every vehicle that passed us on the highway (and there were many, as we were traveling slowly, in BatStealth mode) shouted and cheered, rolling down their windows as they drove by, shouting, "Bat-Van! Yay!"

We arrived at the convention-center parking lot to rousing applause. We parked, emerged from the Bat-Van, and our Betabrethren converged upon us, patting us on our backs, asking for autographs, even proffering money to be able to touch the Bat-Van (and, as heroes we were, we let them touch the van for free--though we charged a buck-and-a-quarter for touching the sign, for you've got to draw the line somewhere). After an hour of adoration, we told our Bat-Van fans that the convention was starting, so it was time to go. The crowd separated into two single-file lines, stretching from the convention doors to the Bat-Van, creating an improptu walkway for us, clapping as we walked down the concrete runway, a choir of voices singing to us, "Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da/Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da/Bat-Van!"

After the general meet-and-greet and the subsequent key-note speech delivered by former National Beta Club president Rick Moranis, everyone was dismissed to go to their hotel rooms and ready themselves for that night's dance (with a special performance by another former National Beta Club president--Debbie Gibson). We walked back to the Bat-Van, eagerly anticipating the chance to display our choreographed Batdance in front of our new-found friends, when we discovered, to our horror, that our sign had been stolen! We looked atop the van, underneath it, inside it, and even peered into every car in the parking lot, all to no avail. We returned to the van, our spirits sunk, till our sponsor Wanda Waddell asked us, "Guys--what would Batman do if he were in this situation? Would he give up so easily? Would he slump back to the Batcave, defeated? No! He's the Darknight Detective! He would solve this crime!" Her words inspired us. We began searching for clues--and we found one.

After closely inspecting the spare-tire cover, Beta Club officer Emily Hicks discovered a pale green, slimy residue coating two spots--at ten and two--on the fabric-covered wheel. Another member of our team, Johnny Sandhu used his Bat-Penlight to shine upon pale-green footprints leading to and away from the van. "What does all this mean?" asked Beta neophyte Heather Wood.

"Use deductive reasoning," Mark told her. She did. She discerned that the residue found on the tire cover and the footprints must have not only come from the same individual, but also that the residue was indigenous to Floridian swampland, and that whoever stole the sign must live somewhere in a nearby marshy area. "Quite correct," Mark replied. We asked Mrs. Waddell if we could go investigate, and she said sure...but we'd miss the dance. We huddled together, discussed the matter, and told our fearless leader that we'd rather party like it's 1989.

I didn't, though. I wanted to catch our thief, for I was sure it was Croc. I mentioned this to Johnny, and he told me that though that might be the case, it was possible that I'd search and search and never find him, and I'd miss a chance at showing everyone at the dance how we Mississipians were truly the Electric Youth. He was probably right, too. I'd always wanted to be a hero like the Batman, but--up to that point in my life--it was only in my dreams.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #326

#326 - "Like a Feather" (2001) - Nikka Costa

The first single from the Aussie lady's excellent album Everybody's Got Their Something , "Like a Feather" begins with a guitar lick that sounds like a chopped-off, slowed-down version of the bass line from Sly & the Family Stone's "Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin," the funkiest bass line ever created--and this song comes close to creating that level of molasses-drenched funk. Co-producers Justin Stanley (Costa's husband) and Mark Ronson (we'll see much more of him--and a bit of Stanley--later) prove themselves funk classmen on the level of Stone himself, giving the song space to let the rhythm hit 'em, separating the disparate elements into private components and then dropping 'em on the one and three (like James Brown taught everyone to do) and letting the backbeat hit on the two and four, thereby accentuating it, so that you can feel the snare reverberate in your chest. The production and arrangement here have a decidedly old-school feel, but the record remains fresh.

Part of that freshness comes from the singer (and the twenty-first century filtered effects on her voice). Costa (who's been releasing records and garning international acclaim since she was nine) brings a sultry slur to her vocals, focusing more on the sound of the words rather than the enunciation of the words themselves. She shows great range, too, but she doesn't show off. She knows when to play it cool, laid back, hard to get, singing in her lower register; and when to rise to ecstatic glee, climbing up to high mezzo-soprano range. Her vocals tease, echoing the push and pull of the music, and ultimately--like the music in toto--deliver.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #327

#327: "A Garage Dayz Nite" (2001) - Beatallica

Last year, my brother asked my band to play at his wedding reception. We gladly accepted, for we'd been on hiatus for a year or so, and we had only recently started practicing again, hoping to play somewhere. He gave us a list of about fifty songs that he'd like for us to play, none of which we already knew, but that didn't bother us, for we decided to tell him that we'd try to play them all, but really only learn about four or five, and we'd later tell him we just didn't have time to get to the rest ('cause I mean, really, who wants to hear "Tom Sawyer" at a wedding reception?). Perusing over the list, I realized that he hadn't included a slow song to which he and his bride could dance. The rest of the band didn't see that as a problem; heck, who needs to slow dance with a woman when you can rock?!! My buddies eventually acquiesced to my superior sense of judgment, and I asked my brother for a ballad. He responded: "Who needs to slow dance with a woman when you can rock?!!

At the next band rehearsal, I told my bandmates that my brother said that he thought his wife-to-be* would want us to play the song named after her: Barry Manilow's "Mandy." Since they didn't respond, I asked them if they had heard the song. They just shook their heads. "I know, I know," I said, "but listen to this." I played them "Mandy" as recorded by Me First and Gimme Gimmes** (a band that plays punk-rock covers of pop songs from various genres). They looked around at each other and started to smile. The guitar player and bass player started asking each other about chords, and, within an hour, we had mastered the song.

The band loved the punk version of "Mandy," but this wasn't surprising; I knew they'd love it. Before any of us had ever heard of the band, we'd performed similar transformative surgery to songs, adding a punk-rock edge to records as un-punk (in sound) as, for example, Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" and Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." We weren't the first band to do this, either, as cover songs have existed almost as long as songs have existed.

What Beatallica do, though, is a bit different. They don't cover just a song; they cover a catalog of songs by just one artist (the Beatles), and they change the lyrics (ala Weird Al Yankovic's song spoofs), vocals, and sound to mimic that of just one band (Metallica)--and they perform their magic not only over the course of one album, but also over the course of their career (seven years and running). It's an ingenius concept (though I believe Dread Zeppelin used it first, and they still record, but I believe they made their best records in the early '90s), and Beatallica executes it brilliantly. The band mimics Metallica's sound so well, that if one wasn't familiar with the Beatles' songs being, uh, covered, that one might mistake the band for Metallica itself. James Lennfield's words are sublimely witty, not only parodying Metallica's lyrical tropes and song titles, but also subtly skewering Metallica's fans, taking a few well-meaning (as Beatallica are huge Metallica fans) potshots at headbanger slang and culture.

All those aspects are exemplified in "A Garage Dayz Nite," the hard-driving, rocking title track from Beatallica's 2001 debut EP, which the band made available as a free download. The band released their next EP (also available for free download ) Beatallica (also called The Grey Album because of the color of the sleeve, itself a mash of the Beatles' White Album--whose actual title was The Beatles--and Metallica's Black Album--whose actual title was Metallica), in 2004. The next year, Sony sent them a cease-and-desist letter, and the band was in danger of even further legal wrangling, when no other than Lars Ulrich, Metallica's drummer, stepped in to help, using Metallica's own lawyer to lessen Sony's worries. Sony eventually reached an agreement with Beatallica, and the group has since recorded two full-length records (the first of which includes re-recorded and/or re-mastered versions of the songs on the two EPs), both now available on iTunes (which means neither of which are free--I wonder who receives the majority of the money...).

NOTES
*Alas, my brother's bride-to-be became the bride-that-never-was, breaking up with my brother over the phone the week of the wedding. Oh, Mandy--she came and she left his heart breaking. Oh, she sent him away. Oh, Mandy.

** I'm not including any of the numerous fantastic Me First and the Gimme Gimmes records on this list, and it's not because I don't think they're great--I do. I've got three reasons for their omission. One, I wouldn't know what not to include, as I could easily include a dozen--and that's just overkill; two, although I admire the concept behind the records of Me First and the Gimme Gimmes (put a punk spin on a pop song and include a famous punk guitar solo somewhere in each song), I think Beatallica's concept tramples it completely; and three, I think too many great original (though that's a relative term) songs and inspired covers were created in the past eight years to knock them out of this list with multiple same-style spoof songs. So, I belive I'm going to have to give Me First and the Gimme Gimmes an Honorable Mention for their entire oeuvre.

Happy Birthday to Nicholas Hardy, the Three-Star Restaurant Smasher!

My son turned eight this past Friday, and because his birthday fell on a weekend this year--and because all of the camping sites with multiple kiddie activities were booked solid for the rest of the month--we decided against the traditional singular birthday party and instead opted for the Birthday Weekend Extravaganza. We started Nicholas's BWE by taking Georgia to day care, for Penny and I needed to give our attention solely to Nicholas this day.

We then traveled to Meridian, listening to the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark, as Indiana Jones has been Nicholas's character du jour of late, and no more so than this weekend. Once in Meridian, we ate at Nicholas's favorite restaurant, San Marcos. Nicholas ordered the chicken quesadilla, while Penny and I both had the flautas, hers chicken and mine shredded beef, and we exchanged them, mixed and matched, garanimaled them back and forth. "Do you, Penny, take this chicken flauta, to eat for the enjoyment of your taste buds and for the nourishment of your body? Do you promise to keep this chicken flauta in your system, forsaking all other corn tortillas, having this chicken flauta only unto you, so long as your intestinal tract doth will?"

"I do."

"Dad, please, just eat."

We left San Marcos to go to Books-A-Million, where Nicholas found a deck of green Bicycle playing cards, several books about Indiana Jones, and his grandmother Nance. He found her in the entertainment aisle, on the shelf next to a book about Franki Valli and the Four Seasons (She'd come to Meridian to find shoes for a wedding she attended the next day, held in Wayne Manor. The bride's father operates Wayne Transportation International, a subsidiary of the Wayne Foundation). After Nicholas pulled her down from the shelf (spine intact), my mother kept Nicholas's attention while I snuck out of the bookstore to drive to Game Stop, just a couple of miles back down the road. Because of Meridian's convoluted road system, it took me thirty minutes of circuitous routing and re-routing to drive those two miles. I browsed around, found some things I thought he'd enjoy, and waited ten minutes for the retail assistant to help the lady in front of me. When it was my turn, I waited fifteen for him to look, twice, through every drawer behind the counter for the game--they only stock the covers on the shelves--that ultimately he couldn't find. "We ain't got it."

"Why was box on the shelf?"

"How the hell should I know, man? I just work here. You gonna buy that other stuff or not?"

I did. I picked up Penny and Nicholas from the bookstore, and then Penny dropped Nicholas and me at Geoffrey, to find some Indiana Jones birthday cake toppers while she went to the GNC store at the mall to find some ear candles for my father (I guess he didn't think Penny's cake would turn out well, so he'd ready his ears just in case). Nicholas and I found the Indy toys, and "Dad! Come look!" He was pointing to the Indiana Jones Lego boulder scene Lego set. "That's it, Dad--that's it! That's what Mom wanted for the cake!" I looked at the price: $89.99. I told Nicholas that the boulder set was cost prohibitive, and that we'd just use the pieces we already had. "Dad," he said, "that is not cost prohibitive." I asked him if he knew what that term meant. He said, "It means that you're not going to spend money on it because you'd rather spend that money on seeing Batman, which I can't see, and Hellboy, which I don't want to see, and buying popcorn and Mountain Dew and Glo-Worms since I won't be there, so you can't just take mine and eat half of them. Is that what it means, Dad?"

"It means...look, son! There's an Indiana Jones bobble head!"

"Oh, cool!" A little while later, Penny picked us up. We went straight back to Philadelphia, bypassing our house. She dropped us off at the theater to see Space Chimps. Though the trailers for this movie looked cute, I wasn't entering with high expectations. Nicholas was. He'd heard all the talk, seen all the commercials about The Dark Knight, and all he knew was that the Batman Begins sequel was just another movie that happened to be opening on the same day as Space Chimps.

The movie didn't disappoint him. He stayed attentive, and after the first ten/fifteen minutes, he actually stopped asking me questions. I thought the movie was funny and charming, with quite a few verbal zingers, about as many simian puns as one can imagine (and an ingenious way to tell them, too), and a zaftig alien kid that sounds as if she's singing opera when she screams from fright. That kid was a hoot. In the Jeep, on the way home, I tried replicating the alien kid's comic, operatic bellow, and the family told me immediately to stop. I tried the scream again, and they told me to stop again, and I just laughed. Love that alien kid.

As great as she/it was, what I loved most about Space Chimps was the villain Zartog, and here's why: his actions and his vocal declarations made him a dead ringer for my favorite comic book bad guy--Tim Boo Baa.

I first discovered the sheer, raw power of Tim Boo Baa in Marvel Comics' Journey into Mystery # 10. Years later, I discovered that the Tim Boo Baa story (written by Stan Lee and drawn by Steve Ditko) in that comic was a reprint of the same story (with the same cover, though the text differs) in Amazing Adult Fantasy #10 (which did not contain that kind of adult material), the same series that would soon spawn Spider-Man five issues later.

The tyrannous Tim Boo Baa was greater than Doctor Doom, for Tim Boo Baa showed no mercy; Tim Boo Baa was greater than Magneto, for Tim Boo Baa had no cause for which to fight; Tim Boo Baa was greater than Luthor or the Joker, for Tim Boo Baa had no nemesis that would ever defeat him. Tim Boo Baa conquered not just his land, not just his nation; Tim Boo Baa conquered his entire world, and he held that reign with a harsh hand for years and years, until...but no, I can't divulge the tragic end of the mighty Tim Boo Baa. You must read it for yourselves, as I've not the power now to do so. I just might tear up at the beauty, the truth, the humanity, rendered in the conclusion to the story of the fantastic Tim Boo Baa. If you're wishing to read it, Tim Boo Baa's story has been reprinted a second time, in The Amazing Fantasy Omnibus, which reprints all fifteen issues of Amazing [Adult] Fantasy in bright, luxurious colors in oversized art (which still doesn't measure up to the grand, epic stature of which Tim Boo Baa sorely required). This volume comes highly recommended by me...and Tim Boo Baa.

Once Tim Boo Baa was safely defeated, our family (including, now, my parents and my brother) went to eat at the local restaurant City Limits. Up until this night, City Limits was Nicholas's third favorite restaurant (the second was Old Mexico, also in town, but Nicholas didn't want to eat Mexican two meals in a row). However, while we were waiting on our order, Nicholas decided that this restaurant wasn't worthy of five-star status. While wondering why it was so hot, and why the food was taking so long to get to the table, Nicholas spotted something in the corner. "This is a three-star restaurant," he said. We asked him why, and he said, "I see a fly in the corner." After we finished our meal, my son said, "Next year, I want to eat a classier establishment; I think I deserve fine dining for my birthday." We asked him where he wanted to go eat next year, and before he could answer, George piped in with, "Taco Bell." Nicholas looked at her, looked at us, and he said, "What she said."

Happy Birthday, son.

The 333 Best Pop Songs of the 2000s: #328

#328: "Cougar" (2008) - Silas Bankhead

Last week, I mentioned my dislike of earnest acoustic performances by those without talent. I, however, do appreciate pedestrian plucking when the artist's tone or lyric is informed by a strong sense of humor. Oftimes, these comedic songs, performed with just a small scattering of friends and onlookers gathered 'round the porch, are spirited along with Messrs. Beam, Daniel, and Brooks assisting either the performer, the audience, or--as is usually the case--both, making the bad and vulgar jokes funnier than they would be otherwise. I've observed many of these at the Fair and at other communal gatherings over the years, but rarely have I heard a recording with the same genial, casual, "it's-okay-if-I'm-off-key-'cause-it's-all-in-fun" experience.

Silas Bankhead's "Cougar," however, accurately replicates that type of experience. The song's about an older woman who preys on young men--a cougar. It may not have the funky bassline or slick production values of Hall & Oates' "Maneater," but it's lyrics are more descriptive; it might not have the insight of Ronnie McDowell's "Older Women," but it's wittier; it may not have the tight, beautiful harmonies of the Eagles' "Witch-ay Woman," but it's, uh, less misogynistic. In fact, speaking of the harmonies, "Cougar" happens to be the only song I've ever heard whose vocals seemed inspired by Mark Wahlberg's and John C. Reilly's performance of "Feel the Heat" in the movie Boogie Nights. More than those aspects, though, is Bankhead's carefree and affable attitude that lend "Cougar" it's inescapable charm. It'll get its teeth around you.

You can listen to "Cougar" here.

You can--and should--view the Silas Bankhead story here:

Poot-Tail Cat, or Phoebe's Lament Made Flesh & Fur

Last Wednesday, the missus and I took our two indoor pets, Kit-Cat and Grey, to the Neshoba Animal Clinic to be put to sleep. Oh, it was a sad day. That morning, Penny and I discussed whether or not we were doing the right thing, whether or not we should feel bad about the "procedure" that the cats would soon undergo, reassuring each other, telling ourselves that it was all for the best, that the children would eventually understand. We had been mulling, justifying, and ultimately postponing this decision from almost the moment we discovered the two kittens four months ago.

I had been sitting in my office, nearly napping, pondering over many a quaint and curious etext of how Kool-Aid-dyed hair effects the brain's frontal lobe (even after ten years of first contact), when suddenly there came a meowing, as of someone gently mewing at my sanctum door. "'Tis mearly the missus entreating entrance at my sanctum door--this it is and nothing more," I said. But presently the sound grew stronger, and so, "Dear," said I, "truly your forgiveness I implore; but the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came mewling , and so faintly you came mewling, mewling at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; --stray pieces of stray-cat food there, and nothing more.

Deep into that driveway peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before, but the silence was unbroken, and the driveway gave no token, and the only word there sounded was the shrill sound, "Meow!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Meow!" Merely this and nothing more. This started my suspicions churning, all my soul within me burning, and soon again I heard a mewling somewhat louder than before."Surely,' said I, "surely that is something 'neath my back-deck lattice;Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -"Tis surely my wife and nothing more!"

Right then I stepped to the stairs, when, I saw a tiny creature sans lair. Down there lay a runt kitten, whom its mother recently bore. Not the least movement made he; not a minute pawed or clawed he; just mewed, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony cat beguiling my strange fancy into grimacing, by the piteous decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy stature be small and frail, and," I said, "your health not hearty and hale; you ghastly, whiny, and puny feline wandering from your mother's tet--tell me why I should keep you as a pet!" Quoth the kitten, "Nevermore."

Okay, the cat didn't say that, but you get the idea. I hollered up to Penny, "Penny!" She came rushing out the door, peeling one child off her leg and beating the other one off with our handy new dustvac. "Thank you," she said, "I needed that. I swear, Andy, that if you ever even think about having another kid, much less mentioning it to me, that I'm going to take you to the vet to get neutered. I love 'em, God knows I do, but sometimes, sometimes...feeding 'em, cleaning up after their mess, and then having them claw all over me when I try to relax, it's just too...."

"I found an abandoned kitten," I said.

"Ooh! Really? Where? Let me see. I want--we need to take it in and take care of it, Andy."

"But you just said...."

"Where is it?" I tried again, but I was too late. She heard it--and saw it. Sure, she tried to put it next to its mother, but--and I told her this before she took the kitten to the mama cat--that the mother would have nothing to do with it. I was right. The kitten's mother didn't want it; therefore, the kitten had a new mother. Go figure, huh?

The black kitten--soon to be named "Kit-Cat"--was very frail; it had trouble eating, it had trouble seeing, it had trouble walking, and it had trouble going to the bathroom. Oh, my, did it have trouble going to the bathroom. It even shat where it sat--and cat's just don't do that. "It's probably just because he's little and was mistreated." Sounded reasonable to me at the time.

A few days later, we found Kit-Cat's sister--henceforth known as "Grey." Why? Guess.

Grey's early life in the Hardy household weren't as troubled as Kit-Cat's, as Grey seemed to adjust to life and litterbox fairly well and fairly quickly. Grey grew to be the favored feline, and I (who had a soft spot for Kit-Cat) understood why. Grey was fluffy, Grey was cute, and Grey was normal; Kit-Cat was not. Kit-Cat ran into doors and walls, Kit-Cat jumped and grabbed at air, and Kit-Cat thought a quarterback was a refund; yes, Kit-Cat was stupid. Those qualities should have become cute, charming, and enduring--and they would have, except that Kit-Cat stunk. Literally. Kit-Cat used the bathroom in every corner of the house, under tables, behind chairs, in closets, on MY NICEST SUIT, and--most repugnantly--on himself. Kit-Cat, you see, was a Poot-Tail Cat.

I'd long heard terrifying tales of such vile creatures, villains to the olfactory, omens of odious odors, but I'd thought them legendary. I was wrong. The Poot-Tail Cat is no mere myth. It attracts its prey by feigning sweetness, putting on an affectation of adorability, all to lure its unsuspecting victims to take it to its quarry's lair, wherein it can wreak havoc, all under the guise of a cute little kitten. Kit-Cat employed these same strategies, and havoc did he wreak.

The decision to put Kit-Cat (and Grey) to sleep was made (though acting on that decision didn't come, as I mentioned, until a few days ago) about two months ago, when a friend visited our house, and she brought some uninvited company with her. One of our friend's guests walked into the house, sniffed, and whispered to her other friend, "This house reeks of the funk; I can't stay in here. Let's go back outside, sit in the truck, and text each other about how cute we are." The two left, and my wife was left aghast and embarrased.

"The time is coming," she said. "It may not be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but I promise you, Kit-Cat's days are over. As God is my witness, The Poot-Tail Cat will rule my life no more."

I felt sorry for the beasts (Grey was taken, too, though the fault was never his) when I had to trick them (with a can of open 9 Lives) into the cat carrier. I put them in the hatch, and I went and put the children in the Jeep. "Where Kit-Cat go? Where Grey go?" my daughter asked. My wife looked at me, and I believed she was beginning to have regrets. She told Georgia that we had to take them to the doctor. "Okay," Georgia said. She turned her head and said, "Bye Kit-Kat. Bye Grey." I looked over at my son, sitting next to Georgia, and I saw a tear roll down his cheek. He sniffled.

We took Georgia to day-care (for she was too young, just too young to bear any sort of witness to the tragic hand-'em-over), and we went to the vet. "Can I say goodbye," asked my son, "please?" We told him it would be best not to, that he needed to remember Kit-Cat and Grey as they were at home. "At home? They stunk, Dad. He's the Poot-Tail Cat."

We went inside, and we did the deed. I--I'll just leave it at that. We drove around before we went to pick up Georgia, and no one talked during our ride. After Georgia joined us, the bad feelings started to dissipate, and soon, over the course of the past week, the ills that the cats wrought were nigh forgotten. The house smelled now of roses, of elderberries, of fresh. No more stepping out of the shower and having litter stick to wet feet, no more come-home-from-supper surprises in the fireplace, no more funk.

Until...three days ago, when the cats returned. Scarred. Lethargic. The tint of evil gleaming in their eyes. What happened? We called the vet, and they merely cited to us, in whispered tones, the amount of the bill. This we heard and nothing more. And the kittens still are sitting, still are sitting, and their eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming....