I’ve been watching the excellent Game of Thrones which, among other things, is about the Starks, the strong, dark-haired northerners versus the Lannisters, the manipulative, fair-haired southerners. This got me thinking about blondes in pop culture and it seems as though, particularly in movies, they are often the bad or evil characters. Here are some notable blonde bastards. (read the rest)

After seeing commercials for Will Ferrell’s new film I started thinking about foreign language films. I haven’t seen a ton of them – certainly not as many as I’d like – but for the most part the ones I have seen have been really good or bizarre and interesting, or lacking that, at least showcasing a lot of nudity. So, let’s take a trip around the world to showcase some interesting foreign flicks. (read the rest)

I just watched two recent alien films – SUPER 8 and PAUL – and thought I would do my favorite thing from fourth grade social studies and compare and contrast. On the surface it would appear that these two don’t have a lot in common. While they’re both sci-fi, one is a comedy while the other is considered a mystery/thriller. But they do have some similarities. (read the rest)

So, in case you didn’t know, TITANIC is being re-released in theaters starting April 4. You remember TITANIC, the grossly overrated film that was made for about the cost of Canada that centers around a lame love story, a selfish lying old hag, and a lot of dead bodies? Well, you may be wondering why it’s going back into theaters. Is it some kind of special anniversary? It has been 15 years, but generally that isn’t a terribly big milestone. (THE MATRIX also came out in ’97 and as far as I know they’re not putting that back into theaters.) No, TITANIC is back for one reason: to be whored out for 3D. (read the rest)

With an opening sentence like “The salt of blood, hot sweat, the wide open vagina,” I can see why my colleague Matt was reluctant to delve into this book of short fiction. I, on the other hand, never one to back down from a challenge (or a vagina for that matter), trudged forward. And I’m glad I did. Human Resources, the debut book from Josh Goldfaden, is well written, at times funny, and often thought-provoking. (read the rest)

First, let me say that the imagery in Geronimo G. Tagatac’s The Weight of the Sun is wonderful. That didn’t really mean to come out all Paula Abdul-ish — “You look fabulous in that dress, you really do.” Or maybe it did. I started off enjoying this book, but the more I read, the more that enjoyment waned. And I can’t exactly pinpoint why. Have you ever seen a movie that you didn’t really like but when questioned, you couldn’t put into words why you didn’t like it? That’s how this collection of short stories made me feel. (read the rest)

The middle-aged woman nodded, a polite smile on her face. The teenage boy next to her – Greg assumed she was her son – looked a little confused and frankly Greg didn’t blame him. Here he was, sitting at his desk in his usual work apparel – dirty t-shirt and boxer shorts – having to talk about his “art” with strangers.

“And what kind of stuff do you write, Mr. Allen?” the woman asked.

“Well, last year I published a collection of fairy tales.” Greg pointed to a few copies of his book sitting on a shelf.

“So you write for children?” she asked.

“No,” Greg said. “They’re not like regular fairy tales, more like adult fairy tales.”

She frowned and suddenly her son looked interested.

“Not adult adult fairy tales,” Greg tried to explain. “More like more for adults than, you know, Little Red Riding Hood, and, uh, those kind of stories.”

He felt his facing getting hot and suddenly wished he was wearing much more clothing.

“Well, we should probably be going,” the woman said. “Thanks for, uh, having us.” She pushed Junior towards the door and a minute later Greg heard their car leaving his driveway.

“Writers are artists. Writing is an art, as much as painting or sculpting or anything else.” There was a little applause and Greg blushed.

From the podium Harriet Grafton smiled, a smile that said “you poor, misguided man.”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps you are right, Mr. Allen. After all, the term ‘artist’ can mean almost anything. In fact, just the other day I was over at Subway and a sign on their window said they were looking to hire more sandwich artists.”

This got some laughter from the crowd and Greg sat down. His wife Rebecca frowned at Harriet and rubbed his hand. Greg felt the back of his neck get hot and again he wondered why they were there. Was getting into the local artist’s union that important anyway?

“It is, Greg,” Rebecca had said a month earlier. “You’ll have access to grant money and you’ll be more connected to the community.” And although Greg wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be more connected to the community, Rebecca convinced him to try and sign up.

That’s when he had met Harriet Grafton, head of the union, and an artist who primarily used bacon in her work. Greg met her down at the community center; that was where artists could use studio space and also where the union held its meetings. Harriet had informed Greg, in a rather curt tone, that only visual artists were allowed in the union.

“My books aren’t invisible,” Greg had said with a chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

Harriet’s plastered on smile never wavered. “Be that as it may, Mr. Allen, I’m afraid writers don’t qualify. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can’t let my materials get too crispy.”

Greg had wanted to let it go but Rebecca didn’t. He knew that she didn’t like Harriet – there had been some kind of parking lot incident the year before – but Rebecca insisted that had little to do with it. She told him to contact all the writers in town he knew and between them they had assembled a pretty good crowd at the union meeting. Of course no one really wanted to talk – they were writers after all – and Greg became kind of the representative for the group.

“But, since this is a democracy,” Harriet said in a voice that implied she was unhappy with that fact, “we’ll take a vote.” She looked at the other seven members of the board. “All in favor of allowing writers into the union?” Four people raised their hands. Harriet scowled. A small woman at the end with her hand raised met Harriet’s glance and immediately looked the other way. “All against?” Harriet and three others raised their hands. “It’s a tie, I’m afraid the motion fails. Now onto the upcoming events-”

“Wait a second,” a woman in the front row said. She was wearing several brightly colored beaded necklaces. “Remember when we had that vote a few years ago about what color to paint the wall of the new studio and it was a tie between eggshell and ivory? How’d we break that?”

There was a hushed murmuring for a minute and then a bald man wearing paint-splattered coveralls yelled out “Mitchy Brewster decided, remember? Because he was the oldest member.”

“Yeah, Mitchy Brewster,” another person said.

“Mitchy Brewster is dead,” Harriet said loudly, and then quickly added “May he rest in peace.”

“So who’s the oldest member now?”

Nearly everyone turned to look at a woman sitting by the windows. She was 85-year-old Regina Burton, a regal looking woman and an avid watercolor painter. Greg looked at Rebecca and grinned. Regina was her great Aunt.

“So, Regina, whatta ya say?” a man next to her asked.

Regina stood slowly and said in a deep voice reminiscent of Lauren Bacall, “I was married to a writer once.” She paused and looked out over the crowd. “And he was a real son of a bitch.”

Greg’s smile wavered and he peered at a smirking Harriet.

“But,” Regina continued, “I can honestly say that the way that man could put words together on a piece of paper definitely made him an artist. And he wasn’t too shabby in the bedroom either. I say let the writers in.”

A cheer went up from the little group of writers. A man sitting behind Greg slapped him on the back and Rebecca squeezed his hand. Greg smiled. Harriet glared at him as she continued the meeting and about twenty minutes later as everyone was leaving, he swore she was grinning at him, but thought little of it.

Before someone else could walk into his office, Greg quickly went back into the main house. His office was kind of a refurbished studio apartment that was attached to the house and had its own separate entrance.

“Becca!” Greg called. “Where are you?”

“In the kitchen,” he heard her say.

He found her sitting at the little round table drinking tea.

“You’ll never guess who was just in my office?”

“Who?”

Greg stammered for a second and then blurted out “People, that’s who!”

Rebecca was confused.

“Two people – some woman and her kid – just walked in, wanted to know about my ‘art.’”

“What?”

“Exactly. What.”

“Wait,” Rebecca said, rummaging through some papers on the table. “Is today the fifth?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The art tour.”

“What?”

“You know, the artist open house, when people can go see artists in their homes and studios.”

Now Greg looked confused.

“Ah, here it is.” She opened a yellow pamphlet and scanned it for a moment.

“Okay,” Greg said, sitting down at the table. “I guess there must have been some mistake, maybe they got the addresses mixed up.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Nope. You’re in here.”

“What, where am I?”

Rebecca held out the pamphlet for him to see.

“‘Greg Allen welcomes you into his studio to see how his unique art is crafted.’” He gazed at Rebecca, a befuddled expression on his face.

“Harriet,” she said.

“What?”

“Harriet set this up.”

“Harriet?” Greg said. “Why would she do this? She doesn’t even think I’m an artist.”

“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “You saw how pissed she was last month when we got writers into the union. This is her revenge. Let me see.” She grabbed the pamphlet again. “Nope, no other writers, just you.”

“But how would people know where we live, it’s not listed in there.”

Rebecca stood and walked over to the window. She glanced out at a square yellow sign that was sticking out of the lawn near the street.

“She took care of that too.”

Greg groaned and was just about to say something when a “Hello?” came calling from the direction of his office.

“Looks like you got another customer, hon,” Rebecca said with a smile. Greg slowly got up and headed back to the office. “Oh, Greg, you might want to put some pants on.”

Greg looked down at his bare legs, sighed, and headed for the stairs.

Over the next few hours, various people streamed into Greg’s office. It didn’t matter that he removed the sign from the lawn, they just kept coming. (When he inquired he discovered Harriet had sent out all the addresses in an email with a highlighted map). Of course they didn’t stay very long; once they saw what kind of art Greg did, most politely left. Greg himself tried to remain polite, even when an old man wearing thick glasses knocked over a stack of papers.

But then a funny thing happened. Greg actually began to enjoy himself. He started chatting with people and making light of the fact that he was very different from the other artists on the tour. He talked about where he got his ideas from and his writing process and his favorite authors.

And then another funny thing happened: people began to stay. Rebecca started making batches of cinnamon roles and pots of hot chocolate and the smells filled the house. The office became kind of a book club with everyone chiming in about their favorite books.

When Rebecca came back with some more roles, she noticed a group of bored-looking kids and nudged Greg who had been talking with an older couple. “Look, can’t you get them involved somehow?”

Greg glanced at the kids. “What can I do?” He and Rebecca didn’t have any children of their own – yet, as Rebecca always added when asked – and Greg was usually a little unsure around kids.

“I don’t know, think of something.”

Greg thought for a moment and then suddenly had an idea.

“Okay, everyone, listen. I know it might not be as exciting as watching someone paint or make a sculpture, but I’d like to share my art with you now. I’m going to write a story.”

There was a murmur of approval around the room.

“But I’m gonna need some help. It’s a fairy tale so kids, I’ll expect the most help from you.”

He could see the kids were curious and said “Ok, who can tell me how fairy tales are suppose to start?”

A tiny girl with pink ribbons in her hair raised her hand and Greg pointed at her. “Once upon a time?” she squeaked.

Greg smiled. “That’s exactly right.” He quickly spun around in his chair and typed the words. “Okay, now we’re cooking. The next thing we need is a hero…”

Over the next hour or so, Greg and the children wrote a story. It was about a handsome prince who could breathe underwater (that part suggested by a boy wearing an Aquaman t-shirt) who had to save a beautiful maiden who was half vampire from an evil ogre named Harriet (Greg recommended the name).

“Alright, this is great!” Greg said with a laugh. “Now all we need is-”

“What’s going on here?” an angry voice said suddenly.

Everyone turned to see a red-faced Harriet Grafton standing in the doorway.

“Hello, Harriet,” Greg said.

At the mention of her name, all the children booed and the tiny girl with the pink ribbons clutched her mother’s leg.

“What…why is everyone here?” Harriet stammered. “I’ve gotten calls from the other, I mean, from the artists. No one has been to their homes for hours.”

“They got cinnamon rolls here!” a large woman said, raising her half-eaten roll.

“This is the best house,” a young boy said. “We helped write a story!”

“Yeah,” another man said. “This I actually get, not like some of that other stuff. I even heard there’s one place where somebody makes art out of bacon. I mean, what the hell is that?”

“It’s actually been really fun, Harriet,” said a small woman who Greg recognized as one of the union committee members. “Mr. Allen has been great and-”

Harriet’s scowl immediately silenced her.

“Oh, I see,” she said, “Mr. Allen was showing you his art, was he? Well, Mr. Allen, the point of these tours is to demonstrate creation – molding clay, painting a canvas, for example. All I see you doing is talking.” She glared at Greg and grinned. “Can you demonstrate your art for me?”

Greg thought for a moment and then smiled. “Surely.” He slid his chair back to his desk. “I think we were almost done anyway, weren’t we, kids? Let me just add the finishing touch.” As he typed he spoke aloud. “And the evil old ogre, having been defeated, was sent away, never to return. And they all lived happily ever after. The end.” He struck those last seven keys with force and all the kids cheered and the adults applauded.

Even though I was only six, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I was with my Dad and two older brothers at Madison Square Garden. And although I had been there before to see the Knicks or Rangers, this would prove to be something quite different. On this visit we were there to see people pummel each other inside a roped ring. No, it wasn’t a boxing match, it was something much more exciting: professional wrestling. The WWF to be exact, when it still was the WWF, before the World Wildlife people threw a hissy fit over their acronym. And although I’m sure it was a long night of body slams and clotheslines, the only match I really remember was the one between Sgt. Slaughter and the Iron Sheik.

Growing up my brothers and I were big wrestling fans. We had the action figures and stickers, and always tried to catch that Saturday morning wrestling cartoon. But while Russ was a Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka fan and Matt had his own varying personal favorites, I was always partial to Slaughter.

And that night at the Garden had a lot to do with that. I’m sure all the greats were there – Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, etc. – but for me the Slaughter-Sheik match was the premiere event. Of course the Sarge was the crowd favorite, how could he not be? Here was a military man fighting someone in a white robe and headdress with a thick black mustache (but a foreign one, not like the Sarge’s purely American ‘stache). The political connotations were lost on me but I still knew the match was about good versus evil.

I can’t say I remember too much of their battle (I do recall at one point the Sheik just getting pounded against the ropes), and I don’t even remember who won, though I’m pretty sure the Sarge did, but the energy from the crowd, and particularly the presence of Sgt. Slaughter lingered with me.

Professional wrestling in the 1980’s was great. With characters like Captain Lou Albano, Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and King Kong Bundy, it was fun and didn’t take itself nearly as seriously as it seems to today.

My brothers would have their own “matches” in our backyard, moving down to the damp basement when it rained. Their friends would come over and everybody would be somebody (I remember “Rowdy Roddy Piper” using a towel as a kilt) and the battles, complete with figure-four leg locks, full-nelsons, and the sleeper hold would commence. I was too young to join in – or so my brothers told me – but they let me watch. Once someone brought over some fake blood and I can recall it all over his mouth and shirt. Often these matches would end in harsh words or real injuries (both Matt and Russ say they were bitten by each other, and once the lone girl in the group was hit over the head by a piece of sheet rock), but those who might have been offended or hurt would inevitably return for more.

And then it happened, an event that would change my life: a chance to meet Sgt. Slaughter. We found out that he would be making an appearance at Blue Star, a mall in my town in central New Jersey. Why he would be there still remains a mystery as this wasn’t a typical shopping mall with name-brand shops and big department stores. I’m not even sure there were regular stores; vendors just seemed to set up their (mostly cheap) wares in various alcoves and corners of the large building.

My Mom really disliked Blue Star Mall and looking back I can see why. The only word I can think of to describe it is skeezy, the delightful combination of “sleazy” and “skuzzy.” Questionable people hung out there. One time in the parking lot we saw a woman try to get into a car only to have the man behind the wheel quickly drive away, causing her to fall to the pavement.

But, no doubt reluctantly, my Mom dropped us off there (just Matt and me, I’m not sure where Russ was) so we could see our hero. We must have arrived late because there was no trace of him. We raced around the mall, desperately searching for a sign, a line of people, anything. But there was nothing. Where was the Sarge?

Resigned to the fact that we’d missed him, Matt and I glumly made our way to the exit. But then a commotion made us turn around, and there coming down the hallway, flanked by a few guys on either side, was Sgt. Slaughter. Unsure of what to do we backed up and out of the way. Just as he approached us, he held out his large hand. We did the same and he slapped them as he went by. It was glorious, and to this day remains one of the most exciting things that has happened to me.

As my brothers and I grew up, we lost interest in pro wrestling and moved on to other things. Truthfully I probably hadn’t given much thought to wrestling in years, but then something occurred that quickly brought all those fun memories back.

Recently I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, (Matt lives here too as well as our parents while Russ remains up in New York) and in late June just happened to pick up a schedule of the local minor league baseball team, the Asheville Tourists. To my joy and amazement I saw that on July 11^th none other than Sgt. Slaughter would be at their game. Of course I immediately cleared my schedule for that night and told anyone who was willing to listen that I would be going to see the Sarge.

My parents are semi-avid Tourists fans and I went to the game with them; Dad and I again reminisced about that night at the Garden. My wife who thought my whole Slaughter obsession was curious joined us later. I was hoping Matt could come so we could recreate our Jersey mall adventure but alas he couldn’t make it. Rain threatened the game and as we sat in the car to wait it out, I became anxious. But finally the sun pushed its way through the clouds and we made our way up to the stadium.

I couldn’t see him as we went in and I immediately felt like that little kid again. Where was he? Did the rain keep him away? But when we went for food a short time later, suddenly there he was, standing under a small blue tent, wearing his usual military garb with the large hat and sunglasses. And although this was over two decades later from the first time I had seen him in person, to me he looked exactly the same. I suddenly got a little nervous though I didn’t think I would. After watching a few people get autographs and pose for pictures, I grabbed a game program and approached him.

As a kid I remember him being massive, but don’t you seem to remember everything that way? But the Sarge was massive. I’m 6’1” and he stood at least a few inches taller and that hat gave him a few more. And he has this huge, jutting jaw (my wife later said he looked like he was all chin and hat).

“Hi, Sarge,” I said.

Without saying anything he held out his hand, the same hand I had slapped-five all those years ago, and I shook it. I handed him the program and he opened it to a page near the back that listed the various theme days at the ballpark. With a marker he drew an arrow from his listing and then signed his name. He put me in a faux headlock for my photo (which sadly didn’t come out), said it was nice to meet me, and that was it. There I was, a man in my thirties, twenty-plus years removed from caring about the WWF, but I have to say it was rather thrilling.

Back in the stands, watching Sgt. Slaughter take pictures with little leaguers out on the field, I was filled with nostalgia. I felt like I could almost be one of those kids playing for the Blue Ridge Funeral Service Yankees. Sitting next to my Mom and Dad and hearing Quiet Riot’s Come on Feel the Noise blaring from the stadium speakers made it feel like the mid-80s all over again.

But it wasn’t long before those pessimistic adult thoughts crept in. I couldn’t help but wonder if those kids on the field knew who they were talking pictures with (I heard a young teen sitting in front of us say his father told him he “used to be a wrestler”). And further, I thought about the Sarge and wondered if he enjoyed what he was doing – making an appearance at a tiny minor league ballpark, and probably scheduled to appear at another one (or mall perhaps) the next day or next week. But his wide grin under that mustache and above that huge chin said, well, he just might.

The Sarge threw out the first pitch, looking a little awkward and bouncing it to the plate (hey, give him a break, he’s a wrestler, not a baseball player), and later on climbed the stairs to the makeshift booth to be interviewed by a broadcaster.

As we headed towards the exit in the seventh inning, Slaughter stepped onto the roof of the dugout while someone answered wrestling trivia questions (what was Brian Heenan’s nickname? Please.), and that was the last I saw of him. It was quite an evening and I walked back to the car – autographed program firmly in hand – with a smile on my face.

I don’t yet have any children, but when I do, perhaps they’ll get into pro wrestling as well. And if one day they ask me to take them to a match, whether I’d really want to go or not (probably just like my Dad), I’m sure I’ll take them. And twenty years from now if I happen to see that Sgt. Slaughter will be making an appearance somewhere nearby, I think I might just take them there too.

It all started with a cupcake.

A few days before I was set to cover the April 8^th Beavers game, I noticed that day happened to be second baseman Matt Antonelli’s birthday. It would be only my third game so I came up with an idea to ingratiate myself to the team a little and hopefully get a good interview. Before I headed to the stadium I went over to a bakery and after much consideration (I took a long look at the cookies in the shape of a bat and ball), finally decided on a nice big cupcake with chocolate frosting and a purple marzipan flower.

In the clubhouse I found Matt and when I told him I had a birthday gift for him he was immediately intrigued. When I opened the small box his face lit up. I wasn’t even sure he’d be able to accept food from someone he didn’t know but the look on his face told me if there was such a policy, it would quickly be ignored. To save myself a little embarrassment I said the cupcake was from my wife and that she thought he was cute (that part was true). Matt blushed slightly and eagerly grabbed the box. A few other players greedily glanced at the cupcake and Matt stashed it at his locker before giving me a nice interview.

The subsequent story I wrote was entitled “Why is This Man Smiling?” and was all about his status as the number two prospect in the Padres organization, his $1.5 million signing bonus and other reasons he had to be as happy as he always seemed to be.

Matt’s batting average the day I gave him the cupcake: .250. On April 15, the day after the story appeared, it was down to .200. And now, 47 games into the season, he’s batting a paltry .180, probably the lowest his average has been this far into a season in his baseball career.

I think that cupcake may have been cursed.

Ridiculous? Maybe. But what else would explain this transformation? Think about it. Two years ago in Single-A Matt hit .273 with an OBP of .412. Last year for Double-A San Antonio the numbers were .298 and .406. Nothing has gone right this season; in addition to his OBP being about 70 points lower than his career average, his errors are way up. This was a guy on the fast track to the majors, someone who seemed to be close to becoming the Padres starting second baseman this season, and now could be in danger of being sent back down.

Sure, it could just be that the pressure has gotten to him. Or maybe he’s pressing too hard or thinking too much or any number of other baseball clichés to explain a prolonged slump. But deep down I really think I cursed him, and the guilt gnaws at me.

I know as a reporter I’m supposed to remain neutral, but I can’t help but root for the guy. I find myself getting nervous when I see him step up to the plate and I pray he gets a good pitch to hit. I silently curse (whoops, perhaps wrong choice of word) the third baseman for making a nice play on a hard-hit grounder or the left fielder for running hard to catch a pop foul. I cringe at every strike three. When I’m not at the games I diligently check the Beavers box score and when I see something in the H column next to his name, even if he’s only had a 1-for-5 day, it makes me feel better.

Perhaps eventually this will all just work itself out; players, even highly-skilled and highly-touted players struggle at times. But I don’t think I should take that chance. I feel like I have to do something and I’ve come up with an idea, a new plan to hopefully change things for the better: I’m going back to that bakery, I’m going to buy a similar-looking cupcake and this time I’m going to eat it myself. Just like that priest in The Exorcist, I’ll attempt to transfer the curse to me.

Ridiculous? Possibly. But if it works I’ll have helped a fine young man turn around what’s been a pretty dreadful season. And if I get the curse, so what? I’m a writer, maybe my spell-check stops working or I get a little writer’s block, I can take it. If nothing else, I get a cupcake out of the deal and, cursed or not, they’re still delicious.