Your Own Personal Jesus Quizo Update

I have said in the past that I am not a particularly religious person. This does not mean that I disdain the beliefs of others, or hold the view popular among the more snobbish of the intellectual upper-crust that religion is some sort of aberration of the prehistoric human brain (hint: if you think that, you are a more obnoxious douchenozzle than Tom Coughlin). There is an important distinction between "not especially religious" and "utterly lacking a spiritual dimension;" the first accurately describes my exceedingly-peculiar worldview, the second does not.

The proliferation of religion across the human experience is a fantastic example of the old Star Trek idea - REALLY old Star Trek, in fact - of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination; the myriad ways of expressing the unexpressable and trying to give meaning to our bewildering existence. The fact that we have so many different ways of telling essentially, the same story - this is where we came from, this is where we're going, and this is why you shouldn't kick your neighbor in the shins along the way - has always astounded me.

The stunning array of messiah figures we as a species have managed to create for ourselves is where I draw the line, though. It is the point where the belief in the divine transcends philosophy and becomes something lesser and sillier. There are so many it's damn near impossible to keep track, really, and frankly as alphas and/or omegas go I have to say the choices are all pretty lackluster. I don't care whether your cardboard bucket in the Baskin Robbins cooler of messiahs is labeled Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, Zeus or Rocky Road. When your personal chips are down, none of these guys are going to come through for you.

No, at the end of the day, when we face the dark night of the soul and all hope seems lost only one being can TRULY save any of us, and that savior is Jack Bauer.

24 is back, and as always it asks us pressing, important questions: how far is going too far in the defense of your country? Do the ends really justify the means? Is it okay to do something bad to prevent something worse? Is every other employee in the federal civil service a terrorist mole, or have we gotten it down to 35% or so? How does someone as blindingly untalented as Janeane Garofalo still get work?

That the show chooses to definitively answer some of these questions (respectively: infinite, yes they do, oh hells yes) and leaves others to the careful consideration of its audience (respectively: departments critical to national security require a bachelors in being a mole or equivalent work experience, blackmail photos of Hollywood executives with transsexual hookers) just speaks that much more firmly to 24's commitment to stimulating intellectual curiosity.

Also to spending 24 hours a year watching Jack Bauer be the absolute baddest motherfucker who ever lived (which, I think, is a quality you want in a messiah). Jack Bauer occupies the number one spot on my list of People to Never Ever Piss Off, and that's AHEAD of Batman and Jason Bourne. Some may argue this point, to which I just laugh and say, "bitch, please." You put the three of them in a room together, and Jack would just look at Jason Bourne, shout "WHERE IS THE BOMB?!" and while Jason was fainting Batman would then cause his own spontaneous death to avoid being questioned by Jack Bauer.

The moment in last night's premiere when Jack says the words "let's have this conversation again," I swear that was the scariest thing I've ever seen.

Much has been written about the stupidly long wait since Season 6, and I have to admit I wasn't really feeling it. Once I started watching I quickly got into a 24 groove (which allows the brain to filter things like the fact that almost all lines not spoken by Kiefer Sutherland are not so much lines of dialogue as lead bricks made of human speech) but I wasn't, like, INTO it for that whole opening sequence. I wasn't into it until the first time the clock appeared and I heard that distinctive C/D diatone "beep... BOOP... beep... BOOP" and this warm, fuzzy feeling rushed into my body and I thought, "this is what it's like when you shoot heroin after going without for a week. This is what being a drug addict is like. [pause] OH MY GOD IT'S GREAT."

Jack is back, and it is about damn time. I would say "thank God," but Jack already kicked your god's ass. Fucker wouldn't tell Jack where the bomb was. Never the smart play, that.

JLK

Your Insomnia-Fueled Quizo Update

I've spent significant parts of the last couple days watching the first season of Friday Night Lights on DVD. I watched the first episode last year and thought it was decent enough and remember reading bushels of stellar reviews, but as I recall I concluded that I didn't really have time to watch it and planned to pick up the inevitable DVD when it became available.

I saw said DVD at Best Buy for a stunning 25 bucks - a remarkably excellent price for a season of television - when I was there to pick up my copy of Transformers. I finally sat down to start watching it Friday afternoon and let me tell you, folks - I am AMAZED at how good this show is. Amazed. I am so amazed, in fact, that I keep staying up until truly ungodly hours of the night in an attempt to burn through the entire season as quickly as possible. We're talking, like, "crap, it's going to be light out soon" staying up late. Wow. If you have a spare 25 dollars I cannot recommend this show enough.

I have also, Dan of Das Boot's earlier ignorant comments notwithstanding, managed to get in four (count them, four) viewings of Transformers this week (well, three of the movie and one of the commentary track). This includes catching the Imax version at the Trop, which I will get to shortly. My admiration for the film continues to grow, especially now that I know that aside from the giant robots very, very little of the effects work was digital; they really blew up all that shit (my friend Ken says the title could have been just "Debris"). Wild.

My big break from all this exhausting tv-and-movie watching was Saturday, when I spent a near-record 16 hours in Atlantic City. Normally I don't actually spend that much time there in one go; I'm usually in and out in a couple hours, save for the actual record from a couple years ago when, after finishing presents and dinner with the family and everything, I went down late on Christmas night and proceeded to play poker for seventeen hours straight. I would have actually stayed longer than I did; I had to leave so as to get home before a gigantic snowstorm came in and trapped me there (or worse, on the road). That session was also notable for the fact that after 17 consecutive hours of play I finished down 8 dollars, which greatly pissed me off at the time. I'd rather go home broke than lose 8 bucks over 17 freaking hours.

But, anyway, this past Saturday my plans were: 1) Watch Chelsea game at the Irish up at the Tropicana and check for suitability of future viewings there, 2) watch Transformers in Imax, and 3) play poker. The pub was nice enough - the place was practically deserted that early in the morning, but the staff accommodated me very graciously (nothing like having the cook let you in through the back door of the bar so you can be the only guy there drinking coffee and watching a football game) - but already being at the Trop at noon and having the movie showing at the Trop at 6 meant I would, unfortunately, have to actually PLAY at the Trop, which is an experience I had never enjoyed previously and still haven't. What a dump. Even in the miserable, desperate world of casinos the Trop is miles more miserable and desperate than any other. I do not plan to return, at least to the casino.

Transformers in Imax was pretty amazing - there's a couple added extra minutes to the film, and the Imax experience, especially for a movie like that, is pretty intense. I also just learned that the lamps in Imax projectors are made of quartz crystal filled with highly pressurized xenon gas and that projectionists have to wear BODY ARMOR to change the bulbs lest they explode and julienne the poor bastards. You know an entertainment experience is awesome when it's actually dangerous to the people who provide it.

After the film I was playing poker (at the Borgata this time, which has far and away the most comfortable chairs in Atlantic City) with Nick of Oprah's Book Club. He and I got involved in a fairly large pot (which I won) and this exchange took place afterward:

Nick: You were faking it.

Me: I was not!

Nick: You bought it! Admit it!

Me: I didn't! I had five-deuce [giving me three fives]. Swear to God.

Nick: That doesn't mean anything coming from you.

Me: Fine, I swear to Captain America.

Nick: Okay, that I believe.

About an hour later Nick would pull himself a Royal Flush and take a good chunk of my cash with it (and a much larger chunk of the rest of the table's). Figures.

It was after all these events that things took the odd turn I have sadly become more and more used to anymore. Nick drove me back to my car, which was at the Trop. If you've never been there the Tropicana has this thing called The Quarter, which is kind of like a shopping mall stuck to the casino, only it's a shopping mall full of lousy restaurants, dance clubs, and stores that sell stupid useless crap. I got there at about 1:30AM and it was obscenely loud - music blaring out of three clubs at once, yay - and ridiculously crowded. My stomach was bothering me from drinking terrible casino coffee all day and all night and I needed to find a bathroom (always an adventure in a casino) before I hit the road back home.

While wandering around this misbegotten retail hellhole I came across something I frankly never expected to see in a casino: a supermarket.

Tucked in one of the back corners of this Quarter place is a little (actually, really, not that little) supermarket. I'm not kidding. They sell bread and milk and groceries and shit. It's so weird. You never expect to be able to buy anything that is actually useful in a casino and here is a whole store full of normal things (and some abnormal things like Turkish taffy, which for some reason my father has drilled into my brain is the most disgusting thing on earth). I found myself a chocolate milk (an excellent late night curative for an upset stomach) and got in line behind this freakishly tall woman in a flower-patterned miniskirt. In addition to being abnormally tall she had calves that were about the size of mine. Perhaps she is a basketball player or something. I thought idly that it was awfully chilly outside for a skirt that short.

I paid an obscene (but not surprising, given the location) 4 bucks for my chocolate milk, and after heading out of the store I noticed that the bathrooms were right next door. How convenient!

After utilizing the facilities I go to wash my hands, and after I turn around I see the woman in the miniskirt at one of the urinals.

I got a good look at the now-revealed "woman" and "her" Adam's Apple when "she" came over to the sinks - I was still standing there, mildly shellshocked - and realized that this was not a case of "oh, it's Saturday night in Atlantic City and we're at an early Halloween party and I went dressed as a chick," but more like a case of "hey, if you need some cheap Depo-Provera I know a guy."

A pre-op transsexual using the urinal in the men's room. Wearing a miniskirt.

I have said before and I will say again, this kind of surreal, psychotic weirdness only exists in Atlantic City.

If it's all the same I think I'll go back to watching Friday Night Lights...

JLK