At least I had good seats...

I watched it, pondered it, slept on it, and weighed the countless arguments for and against. And despite my love for epic stories, science fiction and elaborate action sequences, my only opinion of the latest (and hopefully last) instalment of the space opera that spawned hollywoodus blockbusteritis can be summed up in the three-letter word left imprinted on my brain:

Meh.

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith – it’s not a great film: sub-par acting and poor dialogue knocks it down a notch. It’s not even a good film: with clear knowledge of who wins (or loses, depending on your inclination), we’re left with a lacklustre story and an anti-climatic ending. At best, this movie was simply OK: its perhaps fitting that the biggest anticipation many had going into the movie was the re-introduction of the bass voice of James Earl Jones, interspersed with the iconic breathing. I may have been entertained for most of the duration, but in the end, this movie lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

A second viewing may redeem the film, but perhaps what irks me the most is the knowledge that there are legions upon legions of movie-goers who will claim that this movie is the greatest ever. As the box office receipts keep piling up, fanatics in full regalia are prostrating themselves before the Temple of Lucas and giving thanks for absolute fulfillment.

This “irrational” behaviour of those on the dork side shares its origin with seemingly unrelated partners in crime. The jihadists who explode themselves in crowded marketplaces, the collective dream of Red Sox nation that lasted 86 years, and theists of all shades and philosophers of all persuasions who deliberate and defend their beliefs – all draw their strength from the same well: faith.

To allude to the performer with the penchant for public penis presentations: you gotta have faith. Without it, life will kick you in the gut, leave you winded and gasping for breath, as the question “why?” circles your head like the stars that spin around the dizzy cartoon character. Whatever tickles your fancy, believe it in. And to my friend (who may or may not read this) - stay strong buddy. I have faith in you.

Lethargy is a not a phase

It’s often the most hideous, despicable and vomit-inspiring phrase that brings a smile to one’s face – automatic or not. I cannot even begin to describe the stares and guffaws that I get when wearing the *proud* slogan of my alma mater’s humour magazine:

“Babies: Fun to Make, Fun To Eat”

Ludicrous indeed, but outrageous statements and actions force the noggin to consider the alternative. The flinging of the human body for example, adhering to Newton’s second (or is that third?) law of motion, challenges the mind. A normal occurence on the gridiron – barring freak accidents that result in the termination of one’s career. Whereas the ragdoll victim flops on the concrete street, a scene I witnessed tonight at the local watering hole with the sweet strains of a Detroit quartet spilling onto the patio, as what may be considered a look of dismay flashed across my companion’s face.

A David and Goliath moment – drunk hobo vs. determined bouncer. Whatever organic material left in my stone cold heart vainly tugs, but to no avail. As Confucius once said (according to the collegiate poster that adorned my Montreal digs): Shit happens.

Two words that sum up what may be considered a watershed moment in Canadian political history, and all we’re left with is an empty bottle of Reisling and the feeling of discontent. The only remedy for my malaise may be one of the celestial quotes favoured by my budding novelist friend, but it’s a line from a Showcase softcore program that best encapsulates my current mood: “Reach for the unknown - touch the stars.”

Stay Tuned

Watching television a singular experience: whatever strands of meaning I extract from the boob tube, whatever arouses my intellect in that desert of the un-real, matters only to me. To defend one’s television habits would be to defend masturbation – only one person derives any pleasure from either activity.

Only in the rarest of circumstances can that pleasure be shared between two, let alone a group. Circle jerks are one thing (as we wait for the juveniles amongst us to fish their minds out of the sewage canal), but I’m referring to the glorious feeling of being entertained.

Throughout human history and in times of extreme boredom, we have searched for ways to shatter that suffocation – the silver screen, the jester, the chamber quartet, the busker. Each medium opens our eyes, minds and hearts to the realm of possibility. In essence, that is what entertainment is – a deluge that bends and buckles the boundaries that dictate our belief structure.

And yet as we continually smack our foreheads at the collective oeuvre that lamely pass itself off as entertainment, we keep harping for more. Perhaps it’s our uncanny ability to be optimistic – somewhere underneath the crap polluting the airwaves, the musical equivalent of the legendary white whale must be swimming around. If we Tivo every legal and illegal satellite feed available, surely some sparkling allotropic show will emerge from the rough.

Those politically astute cynics in the crowd may counter with a theme that has been rehashed in newspapers, theses and drunken discussions: all the entertainment one ever needs lie in the sorry state of worldly affairs. I agree that the majority of slop deemed newsworthy is barely worthy of that moniker, but that requires its own critique.

Nonetheless, we are a strange species – we suffer without our daily fix, relying on the manic imagination of strangers to suppress the last vestiges of our insanity. Consider a world without it – if the rights to that concept haven’t already been sold and pre-production started…

A professor, a rock star and an ambassador walk into a bar...

Another town I’ve left behind, another drink completely blind
Another hotel I can’t find…

While not necessarily breaking one of Professor Kohn’s cardinal rules about historical essays (Never start with a quote unless absolutely necessary), those lyrics, courtesy of Lemmy & Co., paint a perfect picture. A picture that immediately popped into my head when I read the results of an online youth forum poll: according to that bastion of ballot tabulation, Listerine and MuchMusic, the tenth most popular dream job amongst kids is: concert roadie.

Being in a road crew on that never-ending tour might mean being free, but consider the more liberating, but primal experience that violence has to offer. Such an animalistic cathartic expression available to us – whether to relieve tension via a punching bag following a day of being wound up tighter than a fresh inmate’s bunghole, its many eruptions across the globe in the pages of every daily, rag and chronicle, or being the star player and motivating force behind the period of escapism I call: The Weekly Escapades of Bauer et al.

This week’s presentation proved to be a real zinger. Even though the level of ludicrousness was kicked up a notch with a covert attack on the Chinese consulate (woe betide the hapless viewer who launches himself into this thrilling series as it approaches its finale), the spectre of utilitarian morals raised its head and peered over the fourth wall: would you sacrifice the life of one to save the lives of many?

Fancy that – it’s not often that philosophy gets broadcasted to such a large audience. Who knew that dynamic entertainment could be coupled so neatly with moral questions – that’s quite the noggin exercise. Perhaps closing off with the Hetfield version of life on the road will sum things up nicely:

But I'll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind anywhere
And I'll redefine anywhere