Baseball-Related Linkage

The fine folks over at The Dugout take us behind the scenes in the Jason Bay contract negotiations. (Note - The link does feature some semi-starred-out language).

I Am Racist Jesus

Prelude - This post is a review of the movie Gran Torino, which came out last year. Now, if you're interested in the movie, you've had plenty of time to see it. But in deference to anyone who hasn't while secretly harboring the desire to do so, allow me to warn you that this is going to contain spoilers. In fact, now that I think about it, it's more a short essay on the movie than it is a review. Too bad my delete key is broken.

Gran Torino supposedly is Clint Eastwood's swan song, and the movie shows it. Eastwood is present in every scene, dominating the movie with his craggy visage and the rasp that age has left of his voice (He is officially in contemporary Cohen territory at this point). And while the movie itself is fairly good, it winds up seeming a bit self-indulgent as a result of this. Then there's also the fact that the ending is so over-the-top ridiculous that the phrase 'ham-handed' does not even begin to do it justice. But we'll get to that.

Eastwood plays a man at the end of his life. His wife has died, and he has strained to nonexistent relationships with his children and grandchildren. So what's a man to do? Well, why not sit on the porch with his dog at his side, drinking PBR all day, observing the downfall of the neighborhood? This is how he spends his time, using his personal definition of 'downfall of the neighborhood', which can be nicely translated as Asian people moving in. That's right, Clint plays a racist character, obviously still haunted by his experiences in the Korean war and unwilling to attempt to befriend (Or even acknowledge) his new neighbors. That is, until the presence of a totally non-stereotypical Asian gang sets off a chain of events involving Clint slowly coming out of his shell in a fairly predictable, drawn-out fashion. The movie addresses the sensitive topic of racism with a sense of humor, the highlight of this being two seperate scenes set in a local barbershop featuring Eastwood and the barber hurling ethnic slurs at each other (Maybe if more people had a bit of humor about things our society would be less sensitive and angry, and then rather than dying of heart disease, people would die two years later from type-2 diabetes. I have a dream). There's a running dialogue between Clint and the priest at his local Catholic church based around Eastwood's wife's request that this priest gets Eastwood to go to confession. And that's 90% of the movie. It's fun in a slightly offbeat yet predictable way. Now let's get to a very detailed discussion of how it ends.

By this point the gang violence hits a point where it needs to be stopped. Clint being the local war veteran who has gradually stepped up to become pretty much the neighborhood patriarch by this point (As well as having the coveted title of Guy In Every Scene), it is apparent that this will fall to him. So he goes at night to confront the gang. We are now at the point when I am going to be stating massive spoilers left and right. Let's start with one in a parenthetical, all caps (NOTE TO CINDI: HE DIES). There then is a lengthy confrontation on a front lawn between Eastwood and the gang members that ends when he quickly reaches inside his jacket and is shot approximately 5,000,000 times. He dies, with his hand opening to reveal that he was going for his lighter to fire up a cigarette, and was actually unarmed. The gang is arrested, and the neighborhood is saved. Yay! Heavy-handed ending? A bit. But we haven't got to the best part. After Clint is riddled with enough bullets to supply a third-world military coup, he (Totally coincidentally, I'm sure) falls to the ground in the exact shape of the cross (Yes, he took confession earlier). I AM RACIST JESUS is not proclaimed, but would be about the only thing that could make this more ridiculous.

At least, that's what I thought at the time. Little did I know that the ridiculous factor would shortly be turned to 11. After this we have a scene of the reading of his will, which features some more humor in the form of ethnic slurs (It was funny. That sentence makes it sound like it wasn't. Again, stupid delete key). The titular item is given, not to a family member, but to one of the Asian kids from next door who Clint de facto adopted. And then the movie gradually fades into the credits over a minute-long shot of this kid driving the car, listening to a faux lounge-jazz number on the stereo. But what's that? The vocals! Dear god, it's 956-year-old Clint Eastwood rasping out a lounge number (Dear Heather joke goes here)! And cut to black. Yes, that's the ending. I did not think, upon viewing the climax of the film, that the denouement would be able to up the comedic ante. But dear lord, it certainly did. For a film that attempts to take a serious-yet-light approach to a heavy topic, the fact that I have tears of joy in my eyes remembering it probably is a result the production team would be proud of. However, I'm not so sure they'd be happy about the reason.

Blatant Space-Filler

So I have places to be this morning. Maybe I'll get a ridiculously long evaluation of the value of defense in later. Until then, here's a wonderful internet phenomenon that I found late, Auto Tune the News. Auto Tune is a program used to fix the vocal melodies of people like myself and Ashlee Simpson who can't actually sing, but look pretty while trying. When over-applied, it makes people sound rather robotic. But after years of it being used solely for this, some snide Brooklynites have discovered its true calling: Turning the nightly news into a music video. And it is wonderful. the sixth one is below (It's from a while ago, if you're wondering why the news in question isn't current). For any sensitive viewers out there, this video does feature some mild language from representative John Boener, R-OH. Party of family values my rear end. If this interests you, I also strongly recommend #5. It features a C-Span debate on the drawbacks of smoking lettuce.

Actual Good Music

I know it might be occasionally hard to remember that such a thing exists if you read only my various rantings from the last month (Which, let's be honest, is all anyone ever needs to read). Here is a fine example of it, provided by New Zealand's finest, complete with a sexy dance:



Just as a warning, while the lyrics contain no naughty words, they are about adult themes. Also, they are wonderful.

Why Odalis Perez Does Not Equal Brad Penny

Yes, for those of you paying attention, this is a response to a comment I received on the Odalis Perez post a little while back. I was going to reply in kind, but I had a bit too much to say, and I have the option of replying this way. It's like power, but worthless. And I know that things can also get a bit chippy between Red Sox fans and Yankees fans, so I will do my part to elevate the discourse. I only hope that others follow suit. Here we go.

Bob you ignorant slut. Comparing Odalis Perez to Brad Penny is like comparing yourself to someone with the ability to put down the crackpipe for upwards of five minutes. They throw with different hands. I know that your addled wits cannot get themselves around a concept more difficult than where your next meal will come from, but I suspect that this fact is simple enough that it can penetrate through that dense material that serves as your skull. Beyond that even (And this is where you'll have to give up and wander off somewhere to drool on the closest piece of available furniture), the strategy employed by the Red Sox in signing Penny is in fact the absolute opposite of that which I recommend the Dodgers use w/r/t Perez, much like you are the exact opposite of a human being with a functional brain. As I stated in words that were incomprehensible to you (By which I mean polysyllabic), I advocated the Dodgers sign Perez for his reliable innings-eating, as their fifth starter currently consists of Jason Schmidt, with no prospect or serviceable minor leaguer ready to take his place when the inevitable happens and his arm falls off at the shoulder (They do have James McDonald, I suppose, but I'm not all that impressed with him). In much the same way you misinterpret any pity-filled smile as a sign of friendship, you decided this was the same thing as the Red Sox grabbing a good pitcher coming off an injury-plagued season, knowing that if he failed they have a talent-rich farm system they can dip into so that they don't have to play him anymore, the same way your eighth grade coach recruited players from the girls basketball team to keep you glued to the bench. You see, the Sox have one of the best farm systems in the game, with Justin Masterson, Clay Buchholz and Michael Bowden all repesenting pitchers who could immediately step in and provide value comparable to that expected from Odalis Perez (But much, much greater than that provided to the world at large by your mother's decision to not consider abortion). A pitcher like him makes no sense for the Red Sox. But Brad Penny, that is a different story entirely. Penny's win values from 2003 to 2007, in order, read as follows: 3.0, 2.7, 3.2, 3.4, 4.3. All much higher than your GPA. He fell off a cliff this past year due to injury, much the same way you continually fall off court-imposed wagons. This allowed the Red Sox to sign him to a one-year contract. In the worst possible case, he is more ineffective at pitching than you are at life in general, at which point the Sox simply pay him lump-sum and have him go away, knowing they have capable replacements. With a lack of other options, the Dodgers need someone durable so that they do not have to do the same. This is not an opinion, it's the way it is. If your feeble little pea-brain still disagrees with me, then you are an idiot. And I hope that you will keep the debate civil, you moron.

I Hope That For Once, People Will Hear The Message