Dear Generations X & Y,

Remember me? My name is Samba Classic, and I used to own you. I know you thought you owned me— and, well, technically I suppose you did—but in actuality, it was I calling the shots. Because, as you will remember, your level of coolness in school was wholly contingent upon whether you were wearing me, and, of course, whether you were rocking my tongue flipped up or down.

Remember?

Yeah, that’s right; I thought you would.

Okay, so here’s the deal: I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines.

Don’t they say that fads recycle themselves every fifteen to twenty years?

Well, yoo hoo… twenty years and counting. Still waiting.

I mean, let’s just run through the nauseating parade of fads I have watched cycle back through of late. Those plain-Jane New Balances? Yeah, they came back. Those god-awful jelly shoes? Yep, those, too (I know, I couldn’t believe it either). Heck, I’ve even seen kids rocking slap bracelets again.

But me? Oh noooooo. No love for the Samba Classic.

It’s an outrage, really. In my day, I was far more popular than all of those ridiculous fads put together. And, what’s more—I’m still far more aesthetically pleasing.

So what gives?

I’m tired of it, and this is my official notice: stop forgetting the little guy who made you who you are today. That’s right. Me. I made you. Don’t try to deny it; you never would have gotten that first girlfriend or boyfriend if I hadn’t been on your feet. Every other relationship you have had since was built on the confidence from that one. And I made it happen.

So get out there and make it happen for me now. It’s payback time. Go buy a pair of me for your kids, or something. I can’t sit here on the sporting good store’s shelf much longer; I belong in cafeterias and gymnasiums and school dances. You used to know this. It is my hope that this letter will jog your memory.

Until then, I remain…

Your old friend,

Samba Classic

PS… My cousin, Burdette Jacket, and my brother, Gazelle, told me to say “ditto” for both of them, as well.

When we were in high school, while attending a concert by one of our favorite local bands, Far Too Jones, my friend Brentley stumbled upon the band’s lead singer in the bathroom before their set was about to begin. Brentley said hello to the singer and inquired about why the group had re-released and re-produced a song (“Close to You,” for those familiar with the band) from their previous album.

FTJ’s lead singer kindly told Brentley that they had done it at the request of a movie studio for placement in a motion picture.

At which point Brentley said, “Ah, man. Really? Why would you sell out like that?”

To which, as Brentley told me, the lead singer was not pleased. He said goodbye to Brentley, and that was that.

I got to thinking of that exchange last night as I was watching football and saw the Enterprise rental car commercial featuring Rusted Root’s “Send Me On My Way.”

When I was in high school, no band had more credibility than the Pittsburg-based Rusted Root. Everything about them seemed (was) authentic. Listening to their music made me, at fifteen, feel far more worldly and cultured and artsy and hip than I really was.

I remember my friends and I mocking the people who were “fans” of the group, but really only knew their most popular song, “Send Me on My Way.”

Now, when I say “Send Me on My Way” was popular, I mean it in the way I say “Murder in the City” is popular by The Avett Brothers— a casual fan knows it, and only it, but the song never plays on the radio.

And, since “Send Me on My Way” didn’t even receive radio play when it was current and popular, it startles me to now see it playing in a television commercial—a commercial for Enterprise rental car, no less.

Now, am I saying Rusted Root “sold out?”

No, I don’t think so. And if I am, I don’t mean it in a derogatory way. I’m an adult now, and I understand that it is necessary to occasionally make professional decisions based on money rather than idealism. In fact, I am also now able to look back on Brentley’s conversation with FTJ’s lead singer and understand where the guy was coming from.

However, this doesn’t change the fact that it alters my perception of a band, though.

When a credible band’s music begins playing in a non-credible medium, they no longer retain the authenticity I once ascribed to them. As far as I’m concerned, Rusted Root’s lead singer may as well cut the long, dirty locks he’s worn for two decades and start blow-drying and coiffing his hair. He’s a businessman now; and this doesn’t make him bad, just inauthentic.

Now, contrast that with a preview I saw Friday night for the film adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer’s brilliant book, Everything is Illuminated. In it, as the boy protagonist runs through NYC, U2’s “Streets Have No Name” lends emotional punch to the moment.

It is beautiful and it fits and it is not “selling out,” because it’s a tasteful film based on a hugely credible book. Unlike Rusted Root sticking “Send Me on My Way” underneath a rental car commercial, this, by U2, is art.

And it makes me realize: I will never, ever, see or hear a U2 song in a cheesy commercial or movie.

Of course, this shouldn’t be shocking : the guys are worth close to a bajillion dollars, so their backs will never be against a wall and therefore face the temptation to “sell out.”

So, thinking about all of this has me wondering: what other bands/singers have, over the years, “sold out” when, at the height of their popularity, it seemed this would never happen? And what “credible” bands of today do you think will, ten years from now, allow their music to play in the equivalent of an Enterprise Rental Car commercial?

Yesterday, in my post on marijuana’s effect on a movie’s posterity, I wrote about how, as a teacher, I overhear quite a few conversations to which I’m not supposed to be privy.

This got me thinking about other things I tend to overhear.

After some consideration, I have concluded that there is only one thing that is more often discussed by students than alcohol, drugs, and sex:  fighting– I can’t tell you how often I overhear students arguing about who could “beat” whom in a fight.

And, seeing as I view the world through the prism of 90’s pop culture, this got me wondering:

Who would win in a fight between Zach Morris and Brandon Walsh?

Morris, ostensibly the coolest kid at Bayside High, and Walsh, ostensibly the coolest kid at West Beverly, were, admittedly, not known as fighters. In fact, their foils, A.C. Slater and Dylan McKay, were considered to be the “tough” members in their respective crews.

Now, it could conceivably be argued that 90210 positioned Luke Perry’s McKay as the “cooler” character, but it is undeniable that both Morris (about whom no one could argue Slater’s superior coolness) and Walsh were the two characters around whom their respective shows revolved– they were the stars, and thus, were the central focus of their fictional high schools.

That said, considering how high schoolers love to discuss fighting, it becomes culturally noteworthy for us to settle who would win this fictional battle.

So, let’s consider the facts leading into this inter90s-teensoap tossdown:

Morris was clearly the more charismatic of the two, but he seldom exemplified an ability to manufacture legitimate anger. In fact, seeing as the subtext to the entire show was that he and Slater were competing for Kelly’s affection, Morris’s lack of physical and verbal aggressiveness toward Slater suggests a passive physical nature.

Contrast that with Walsh. As I remember it, early in 90210’s run, not long after the Walsh’s moved to Beverly Hills from Minnesota, Walsh physically challenged McKay for his ill treatment of his sister, Brenda. In fact, I am pretty certain these two came to fisticuffs several times throughout the show’s run. Meanwhile, as best I can remember, McKay—the supposed tough character—never got the best of Walsh in any of these fracases.

Meanwhile, I do remember Morris and Slater coming to blows in an episode, though I don’t remember a punch being thrown in this fight. The only mental picture I retain of this edpisode is Zach having a torn shirt. Admittedly, this is weak evidence, but the fact remains: Morris never truly got the best of Slater in a fight, nor did his character ever demonstrate an implicit equity of physical toughness with Slater as did Walsh’s with McKay.

In fact, when they were on good terms—which they often were—Morris would demure to Slater, referencing to others how tough Slater was.

To me, this speaks volumes. It reminds me of an article in Grantland during last year’s NBA finals where a writer compared Lebron unfavorably to Jordan, saying that Jordan would never have allowed Pippen to publically berate him on the court the way James had allowed Wade.  

The same goes for Morris and Walsh. Walsh would never, even when they were on good terms, have spoken of McKay in language suggesting McKay was tougher than him, but Morris would about Slater. In fact, he did.

Therefore, taking all of this into account, I have to concede that, while I believe Morris was “cooler,” Walsh would whip him in a fight.

You tell me; am I wrong?

I am not breaking new ground when I say that, generally speaking, high school students have always been fond of marijuana. As a high school teacher, I overhear many conversations, and, lest anyone doubt, I can attest that Mary Jane remains the same temptress to teens today that she has been to all generations previous.

That said, I have learned something new this year regarding teens and toking, and it’s a lesson to which Hollywood executives ought to pay attention.

I began this school year by asking my students to tell me their favorite books and movies. Unsurprisingly, 90 percent of the students said they didn’t like to read and, therefore, didn’t have a favorite book.

However, when it came time to cite their favorite movies, they became energized, and they began naming titles that ranged across all genres and went as far back as, oh, about 2002.

Of the movies cited by my 140 students, only two movies from the 90s were mentioned. Ironically though, those two movies were cited more than any other.

I suppose at first glance this shouldn’t be shocking– the 90s saw the release of some truly great films. That said, the two films in question are not films like Forrest Gump or Braveheart or Pulp Fiction or The Shawshank Redemption.

Instead, the two films mentioned– and, lest you forget: the two films most cited– were Friday and Half Baked.

In fact, 13 of my 140 students told me that Friday was their favorite film.

I mean, really? Friday? Friday would have barely made my own top twenty list as a high school freshman when it came out, let alone would I have expected it to resonate with kids twenty years later.

But, it has.

This week alone, while teaching, I have referenced and/or quoted Jerry Maguire, A Few Good Men, Goodwill Hunting, and A River Runs Through It, and not one of them has known what I was talking about.

These were hugely popular movies from the exact same era, and yet… nothing.

However, if I mention Chris Tucker and Ice Cube in Friday, or Dave Chappelle in Half Baked, all the heads pop up and smiles stretch across their faces.

This, of course, adds further evidence to the already solid thesis that teenagers like pot, but it also proves something that, as far as I know, has not yet been considered and is something Hollywood should take note of:

When it comes to movie immortality, pot is posterity.

(Note: This is not an endorsement of marijuana or of movies about marijuana. Rather, it is simply a strange observation based on my experience with today’s teenagers.)

Today is the second post in a weekly series I’m calling “Thursday’s Top 5 List.” Last week I focused on sodas.

This week, as a follow up to my post on Brad Pitt and his criticism of his own performances in two of my top five films, I thought it fitting to offer my top 5 list in its entirety.

So, with no further ado, here is the list:  

1.    1. A River Runs Through It
2.    2. The Shawshank Redemption
3.    3. Legends of the Fall
4.    4. Forrest Gump
5.    5. Braveheart

Yes, clearly I am a sucker for sentimentality. 

That said, you tell me: what classics am I overlooking here?

With the race for the Republican presidential nomination heating up, and with economic uncertainty dominating the national discourse, it is becoming more and more prevalent across the blogosphere to see political posts popping up.

This is, of course, completely natural on political blogs. But I’ve been seeing politics appearing more frequently on religious blogs, as well.

Meanwhile, yesterday, controversial televangelist Pat Robertson announced his retirement from politics, saying he will no longer endorse any political figures.

Many argue that people such as Robertson have no business opining on politics in the first place; these critcs suggest that religious leaders should divorce their religious ideas from their political ideas.

All of this makes me wonder: how much attention will Christian bloggers give to politics in the coming year?

As a Christian writer, I have been counseled many times (and by many managers) not to let politics seep into my writing.

 You see, a Christian writer has much to lose if he pledges allegiance to a specific political party (or even blatantly backs any of that party’s ideas). And despite popular opinion, this is the case for a Christian who leans either liberal or conservative.

A neocon can be blackballed from important progressive Christian gatherings just as quickly as a liberal can be blackballed from the Southern Baptist Convention.

So, in essence, logic would suggest that all Christian bloggers would stay miles away from the upcoming election.

However, like C.S. Lewis said in The Great Divorce, artists who write about God, if not for his grace, quickly become more interested in their own ideas and in what they have to say about God than in actually using their art to glorify Him. And there is nothing more seductive—nothing that makes one feel smarter, nothing that makes one feel his words wield more authority— than to opine on politics.

In Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, his eponymous narrator asks, “Could politics ever be an expression of love?”

And I suppose that’s what I’m asking in this post.

Is it possible—for any writer, not only a Christian writer— to truly approach political writing from a place of love?

Meanwhile, for a Christian writer, is it possible to write about politics while maintaining fidelity to God? Or do we inevitably throw our own egos into the mix as soon as we begin spreading ideas on what is best for our community, our country, and our world?

Yesterday afternoon I found myself thinking about the day I first learned I hadn’t made the A-honor roll in elementary school. It was 5^th grade, and after having made all A’s through 4^th grade, I imagined I would likewise cruise through 5^th.

I remember the shock and pain I experienced when opening the envelope to find my first B.

(Rest assured, there were plenty more of those—along with some C’s, D’s, and F’s—to come in the not too distant future).

I also remember that, despite my hurt and despair, I was—though I didn’t realize it in the moment—looking forward to showing my parents. Not because I knew they would be okay with it, but because I knew they would feel sorry for me.

As best I can remember, this is my first active experience with something I have since learned to be true of human nature: we find pleasure in sharing our pain.

This got me thinking about the nameless narrator in Dostoevsky’s Notes From The Underground and how, in the beginning of the story, he speaks (for two full pages!) about the pleasure one can receive from a toothache. He doesn’t find pleasure because the toothache feels good, of course, but because there is something deliciously sweet in complaining to others about how badly it hurts.

The older I get, the more I see this strange propensity in both myself and in those around me. We anticipate and enjoy the effect our own misfortune has on others.

Dostoevsky’s character, as I remember it, suggests that the only time a miserable toothache is, in fact, completely miserable, is when one has to deal with it alone. It’s not in the ache that he feels true agony; it’s in not being able to share the ache that he feels true agony.

I hate it, but this plays out in my own life far more than I care to admit. As soon as something bad happens, I immediately scroll the through the mental Roladex of people with whom I might find joy in sharing my misery.

Not to let them comfort me, mind you, but to project my misery upon them.

This is true of any bad news, really. When I feel sick. When I don’t get my way. When I’ve had a bad day. You name it. If it’s negative, then I look forward to sharing it. I don’t mean to; I just do.

I sense this is normal, but it doesn’t make it right.

It also makes me wonder, if we were left completely alone (as Dostoevsky’s narrator was), how would we deal with pain? Would we be completely incapable, seeing as our primary coping mechanism would suddenly be stripped away?

It also makes me wonder: is it possible to share misfortunate without projecting it? In other words, is it possible to share misfortune without, whether consciously or unconsciously, anticipating how our news will be received by and will affect the party we are sharing it with?

And finally, how does faith play into all of this? Does this explain why statistics show people are most apt to pray when something bad happens? Does this imply that we often pray with more of a “see-how-hard-I-have-it” agenda than with a “please-comfort-me” agenda?

Or, what’s more, if we are praying with a “please-comfort-me” agenda, are we unconsciously really praying “See-how-hard I-have-it” and just hiding behind different words?

Maybe this is why Watchman Nee says a good prayer should start “Lord, Thou art” rather than “Lord, I want.” Perhaps he means that, anytime we are speaking something other than praise, we are projecting our own misfortune on God so as to transfer our energy onto Him.

I don’t know.

I do know that, like the statistics show, I am most apt to pray when something bad happens. I also know I enjoy projecting my own misfortune.

Whether there is any connection between the two, I simply don’t know. But I’m certainly curious.

I like Ashton Kutcher as much as the next guy. In fact, I probably like Ashton Kutcher more than the next guy. Therefore, it pains me to say this:

I don’t think he can pull this Two and a Half Men thing off.

I think the ship is sinking, and sinking fast.

Meanwhile, I’m not entirely convinced it’s his fault. I think the show was doomed before the first episode aired. And not because Sheen is gone, either.

Instead, I think it’s the role they have Kutcher playing.

The character is a spineless, immature, naive, doofus. In fact, he’s such a bumbling buffoon that he’s not even endearing. Which is surprising, because Kutcher has always had a knack for making his buffonish characters endearing (most notably Kelso).

Now, this leading character could potentially work in the context of another show, but it simply doesn’t fit the void left by Sheen’s character.

After eight years, we are trained to expect Alan Harper to be the doofy brother, and his son Jake to be the brainless kid. Then, there is supposed to be a selfish, incorrigible alpha male serving as the head of the household.

However, instead of this alpha male, we now have a character who is a hybrid of Alan and Jake. In other words, Kutcher’s Walden Schmidt character is a brainless, doofy man-kid.

So the show essentially goes from being Two and a Half Men to Three Hopeless Adolesecents.

Case in point: early in last night’s episode, after having his ex-wife tell him that it’s customary for the man to pick the restaurant, Kutcher asks Jake for a recommendation on a good place to take a woman.

You catch that? He asks Jake— the seventeen-year-old brainless dope.

Then, in preparing for his date, Kutcher asks Alan how he looks, going so far as to ask for tips on how he should present himself.

Give me a break.

Alan’s character was created to be the helpless nimwit asking for dating advice, not giving it. This is the basis for the entire show.

Again, this could potentially be funny in a different show. But not in Men; not in a show built around the premise that a doofus and his son living with a suave playboy is instant humor.

Now, obviously, when creating a new character, the writer’s couldn’t draw the Kutcher character to have the exact character as the departed Charlie Harper, but here’s the problem: he can’t be his polar opposite, either.

That’s what the Kutcher character is, which is why the show won’t work.

And while there’s plenty more evidence I could give, I think it sums it up best that, throughout this piece, I’ve only referred to Kutcher’s character as “Kutcher’s character.” Walden Schmidt is simply too weak to ever crawl out of the shadow of being “Ashton Kutcher.” 

So, ultimately, while it was a fun gimmick, and while I will still remain an Ashton Kutcher fan, it appears those of us who thought this Two and a Half Men stunt might fly have been Punk’d.

On our way home from the mountains last night, April and I caught the tail end of “Time of Your Life” by Green Day.

And though I didn’t hear more than two lines of the song, I was transported back to the autumn of 1997. I remembered riding in my friend Grant’s Blazer, hearing the tune for the first time and commenting how much I liked the song, only to have Grant tell me that which should have been patently obvious: it was by Green Day, and, duh, it’s a good song. Of course I liked it.

I then remembered how Ben Folds Five released “Brick” around that same time, and I remembered listening to it in Grant’s old Blazer, and I remembered our planning to go to the Ben Folds’ concert in Raleigh a month later (which, as I recollect, Grant ended up attending and I didn’t).

For some reason, both of these songs always take me straight back to Grant’s Blazer, even though I have had countless experiences with these songs spanning the distance of a decade-and-a-half now.

If you read this blog, you know I often come back to this same theme, this idea that certain songs can transport us back in time.

Each time I post about this, I swear to myself it will be the last.

But let’s face it: it won’t.

I’m fascinated by how music has the power to do this.

Moreoever, I submit that, though Billie Joe and the boys (likely) didn’t intend to imbue it with such, there is a strong spiritual element to “Time of Your Life.”

I think it has something to do with the selflessness the song suggests.

It reminds me of this Jon Bon Jovi interview I once heard where he said he wrote that song “Thank You For Loving Me” based off of a scene at the end of Meet Joe Black when Brad Pitt’s “Death” character, just before leaving, says to Claire Forlani, “Thank You For Loving Me.”

Bon Jovi said in the interview that this scene resonated with him, because it showed how much more vulnerable it is for one to say “Thank you for loving me” than to simply say “I love you.”

For some reason, that interview always stuck with me, even though that song’s popularity was short-lived.

And while “Time of Your Life’s” popularity has been anything but short-lived, it will always exist for me in an old Chevy Blazer on an autumn afternoon on Lexington Avenue in 1997.

I am in the mountains with April this weekend, and this morning, while popping in to the local grocery store to pick up coffee, I ducked over to the magazine aisle to see if they, by chance, had the latest issue of Mother Jones.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t. However, they did have the latest Entertainment Weekly, which offers the first– at least, the first I’m aware of– interview with Brad Pitt about his entire career.

Being a big Pitt fan, this was a treat for me. I grabbed the magazine and brought it back to April’s folk’s place with me, and, as of two seconds ago, I’ve now finished the article.

It was a great read for someone who has followed Pitt’s career for two decades and who, more than once, has found himself in arguments defending Pitt’s abilities as an actor.

However, I found the article disconcerting for one major reason: Pitt took to task his performances in two particular movies.

And those two movies happen to be my first and third favorite movies of all time.

Pitt said he, in essence, is not proud of his roles in A River Runs Through It (number one) and Legends of the Fall (number three).

This kills me.

Because, honestly, I think they are two of his best roles. And argue with me if you’d like, but I truly believe I’m right.

I also believe I know why Pitt feels these roles were among his worst: I think he sees himself– at least, the twentysomething version of himself– in the characters of Paul Maclean and Tristan Ludlow.

I also think he sees in them the stereotype of himself that he has now spent the better part of a quarter century trying to run from.

This contention is backed up, I think, by the way the ET piece begins: with Pitt explaining how, when he and the piece’s interviewer first met in 1992 to discuss Pitt’s role in Kalifornia, Pitt was cagey and ducked any questions about himself. Pitt says of this 1992 interview, “Where I grew up– we started out in Oklahoma and then moved to Missouri– it was considered hubris to talk about yourself.”

I think this fear of looking arrogant (i.e. full of “hubris”) is the same reason he fears admitting he likes these movies: in them, he plays a character that I suspect is very similar to who he actually was at the time.

In other words, I imagine that, for a person who grew up with a fear of looking arrogant, it must be rather hard to admit you like watching yourself play the intractable, untameable, highly-likable heartthrob.

Thus, it becomes much easier– and much more acceptable–to say you like your roles in 12 Monkeys and Snatch and Fight Club, because you’re playing characters who are, quite clearly, huge stretches for you as an actor.

So, my point is this: while an actor is clearly going to be proudest of the roles that demand him or her to stretch their boundaries and their craft, it doesn’t make a movie or a performance bad simply because the actor or actress is playing a character very similar to themselves. It just makes it less challenging professionally.

Now, I can understand you taking me to task for putting these movies in my top 5. Especially Legends, as it is an admittedly melodramatic film (but hey, I like melodramatic, so say what you will).

But outside of that, am I wrong? Was Pitt not as good in these movies as I contend?