Babies who hate Vince Vaughn

 

The eight biggest media moments of 2007

Hey, everyone else closes out the year with some kind of stupid list. Why shouldn’t I?

On the other hand, this year didn’t exactly lend itself to media listing. For example, as I scanned the critics’ lists of best and worst movies of 2007, I realized that I’d seen almost none of them. That’s due at least in part to changes in my consumption habits: I only went to three movies in theaters this year. So if it didn’t make it to DVD, I pretty much didn’t see it. Likewise, the day job kept me away from trade publications, The Wall Street Journal, and other sources that track what’s really going on in the media world (rather than the Entertainment Tonight packaging of what’s important).

Nonetheless, I managed to eke out eight items that are at least somewhat likely to fill the bill.

The birth of 8sails.com – What could possibly be more important that this?

Celebrity rehabitants – Lindsay Lohan in and out. Britney Spears in and out. Kieffer Sutherland ending the year in the lockup for DUI number four. And so on. Worst of all, Paris Hilton’s foray into the only-mildly-stripy-hole was covered like the Watergate hearings. And that’s the real point here. The celebrities themselves aren’t the media moment of note. Instead, they’re notable as the absence of other media moments. Somewhere people are dying. Laws are being passed that do horrible things to us (and they’re being passed with our consent by the people we elected to protect us from them). Paris Hilton doesn’t want to go to jail? Who gives a crap?

Jesus vegetable fruit snacks – Yeah, I know media merchandising is as old as the hills. But this one really stood out it my mind because I personally fell victim to it. This past summer I needed fruit snacks for some reason (recipe? craving? don’t remember). I’m no great connoisseur of fruit snacks, so I operated under the assumption that they’d all taste pretty much the same. That left me free to make my pick based solely on price. And the cheapest of all were the Veggie Tales version. They were even cheaper than the dinosaur kind, which was odd because I don’t imagine dinosaurs charge much in licensing fees. And for the most part they met expectations: they tasted just like fruit snacks. Except for one: Bob the Tomato. It tasted just like a sweaty armpit. Mrs. Lens wanted to try one, so I gave it to her. Then I handed her a tissue so she could spit it out.

The writers’ strike – At long last, this is the elephant that’s been lurking in the corner of this column for a couple of months now. When they came for the soap operas, I said nothing. When they came for the late night talk shows, again I said nothing (losing Letterman’s top ten lists was a minor annoyance, but the rest of it – especially Leno – was no skin off my backside). Now I’ve lost new 30 Rock and My Name Is Earl episodes, and The Simpsons won’t be too much farther behind. Though I’d prefer that this hadn’t happened, it’s still not exactly turning my world upside down. At the moment this is a prelude to what may be the number one story of 2008. For now it’s an unfortunate fight. But if and when the actors and directors join the fray, things will get interesting. For the time being, however, it merely ranks between nasty-tasting fruit snacks and new whacko religions.

The Secret – I’m not sure exactly when this got started, but it made it into my house in 2007 via the DVD we rented shortly after seeing this on Oprah. The idea here appears to be the mass-marketing of infantile magical thinking: wanting something will make it so. I suppose these people have half a point. If you don’t think you’ll be successful at something, you probably won’t be. But that doesn’t make the opposite true. How many times have we sat through an American Idol wannabe butchering a song and then proudly proclaiming that he’s never had a lesson or really any other rational reason to believe that he could sing? The only thing that brings these pathetic creatures before us so we can feast on their humiliation is their absolute, unshakable conviction that they’re going to be famous and successful solely because they believe that they’re going to be famous and successful. Shame on anyone who encourages this at any level.

The increasing irrelevance of NPR – I didn’t do a content analysis (or at least I haven’t done it yet), so I don’t have any objective evidence of this. But subjectively I’ve noticed NPR doing less real news and more useless crud. How many obscure folk singers is it possible to interview? And don’t even get me started on the time-wasting felony known as the call-in show. The only thing that shoots my hand toward the Jeep radio off button faster than “Let’s go ahead and take a call” is any story that begins with “When I first learned that my mother had cancer” or words to that effect. In the 21st century, the public airwaves are no place for personal axe-grinding or hand-wringing. Get a blog.

Aqua Teen Hunger Terrorism – Here’s an odd note sounding in the early bars of the advertising industry’s funeral march. Though the world isn’t completely ready to give up on the notion that ads work, the logic is starting to fray at the edges. In particular, the world’s largest media conglomerate seems to have little interest in traditional marketing for movies spawned by the Cartoon Network. Stands to reason, though. Why should Time Warner pay a ton to promote a movie when the whole point behind it (and the TV show that spawned it) was that it cost nearly nothing to produce? So they get some boxes bedecked with LED versions of one of the characters and stash them in visible spots in a handful of cities. Then for some damn reason the Boston authorities decide one of the boxes may be a bomb, so they shut down half the city while they investigate. I don’t mind that the network paid out $2 million for the misunderstanding, because I’m sure it got its money’s worth in free publicity. However, the payment was also an admission of responsibility for the cops’ inability to tell a bomb from a Lite Brite. The words “bad precedent” spring to mind.

The death of my local video store – This one’s rounding out the list because I have to assume personal responsibility for it. I mean, obviously I didn’t single-handedly run the Hollywood Video corporation out of business. I probably didn’t even have all that big an effect on the store I used to go to on Johnson Drive. But as I look back on my movie-watching habits for 2007, I note that I went for more than six months without renting anything from the place I used to go to all the time. Between Netflix and our DVR/dish combination, we just weren’t renting stuff from the store anymore. And apparently we weren’t the only ones. I didn’t think I’d miss it, especially since – as I already mentioned – I wasn’t spending much time there. But now I kinda do. Every once in awhile I get a craving to watch a mess of lowbrow new releases in a single evening (or weekend), and my main channels don’t fill that bill. Plus I felt like a ghoul picking through the store’s dwindling supply of discs when it finally declared that it was going under.

Review – The Planet of the Apes

Here’s the barrel of monkeys that started it all (including four sequels, a short-lived TV series, and a reboot). Charlton Heston turns in one of the most furiously over-wrought performances of his career (which is saying something) as Taylor, an astronaut thrown off course and forced to crash-land on a planet ruled by apes. The main menu item of the day is social allegory, with ham-handed pontificating about everything from race relations to animal cruelty falling left and right. Still, that’s to be expected – or at least tolerated – in a movie from 1968. Though the apes are stylized and distinctly un-ape-like, their look and feel actually turned out to be more culturally iconic than the more realistic simians of the Tim Burton remake. Overall the end is still the best part. “Beware the beast man!” Mildly amusing

Review – Spetters

Coming of age was a popular theme back in the late 70s and early 80s. So popular, in fact, that Saturday Night Fever and Breaking Away managed to leap across the Atlantic and wedge themselves in this early Paul Verhoeven production. However, as one might expect from a European production, the sex is a lot more graphic in this picture than in its American counterparts. That aside, however, this is a familiar tale of young men coming to grips (or failing to do so, as the case may be) with their new roles in adult society. Mildly amusing

Review – My Neighbor Totoro

How wonderfully refreshing to watch a children’s movie that’s genuinely designed for children. The main characters are kids. They have imaginary (or are they?) forest friends who aren’t smarmy or gross or vicious or unlovable in any way. There’s some minor peril, but it’s kept to a minimum, used only to keep the plot moving, and never exceeds what children might normally be expected to deal with. Though it may not be noisy or flashy enough for most kids brought up on a steady diet of Pixar and Nickelodeon, brighter kids (and adults) should thoroughly enjoy this picture. Buy the disc

Review – The Star Chamber

Apparently the only thing in the world worse than too little justice is too much of the stuff. The idea here is that a small cabal of judges grow weary of watching criminal defendants walk free on technicalities. So they set up a “star chamber.” Anyone found guilty by the group – after escaping punishment by the regular legal system – is murdered by specially-hired hit men. It’s an intriguing concept. Unfortunately it gets mired in a lot of stiff sentimentality. The father of a murdered child is one of the most prominent supporting characters. And the conspiracy doesn’t go south until the protagonist (Michael Douglas) determines that a couple of guys he brought before the chamber were actually innocent (at least of the crime for which the group sentenced them). I know that moral ambiguity isn’t one of Hollywood’s strong points, but a little less simple-minded approach would have done this picture a world of good. Mildly amusing

Review – Julius Caesar (1953)

Et tu, Brando? Actually he plays Antony, but still … James Mason is fun as Brutus, and John Gielgud is disturbingly young as Cassius. Talent aside, however, this mostly seems like an attempt to ride the wave of critical success trailing in the wake of the Olivier Hamlet without spending much on the production. And though I’m not exactly a Shakespeare connoisseur, I can’t say that I think this one is one of his better offerings. It’s pretty good up through the assassination itself, and of course the speechifying that follows is a boon to every hysterical over-actor who ever had the guts to try Shakespeare. But from then on out it’s pretty dull going. Overall this is was entertaining enough but not exactly groundbreaking. Mildly amusing

Review – Dante's Peak

This is like Volcano only even more poorly paced. Pierce Brosnan stars as a geologist sent to the tiny town of Dante’s Peak to investigate some unusual seismic activity. Naturally it turns out to be the local volcano reactivating itself. And equally naturally, the local townspeople don’t believe it any more than the good folks of Amity Island thought they had a shark problem until it swam up and … well, you know the rest. This thing takes an hour or so for anything interesting to happen, but once the peak blows the movie becomes an unending parade of perils with little let-up. Some of the effects are kinda fun, but most of the rest of it is nerve-grating. See if desperate

Review – Ready to Wear

One of Robert Altman’s obits described him as “beloved by actors, hated by writers.” Why would writers hate him? Did he ever employ any? As is typical with the director’s work, this movie about the fashion industry is packed with celebrities who appear to be improving around situations vaguely woven into a loose structure. Some of them are good at it. Some of them aren’t. This was a novel – maybe even artistic – technique when Altman used it to break ground with movies such as Nashville back in the 70s. Now unfortunately the joke has gotten stale. Mildly amusing

Modern living tip

 

Taking a tumble down Maslow’s hierarchy

Last week I promised you Christmas carols, so it breaks my heart just a bit to be unable to deliver. But events have overtaken me.

Last Tuesday much of the Midwest was hit by a big ice storm. It took out utilities in several areas, including my home (though apparently not the houses across the street from us). We were only without electricity (and thus also without heat) for 24 hours or so. A lot of people had it a lot worse than we did. However, the experience taught me a few important things about my relationship with the media.

The key lesson was just how hard it is to manage the mental acuity necessary to read. Going into the outage, I figured it would be no big deal. We’d just pile on the blankets and read books by flashlight. Good plan, but it didn’t work out. Seems the cold that rapidly set in throughout the house made it impossible to concentrate on the printed word. It also made it difficult to sleep and even more difficult to cook, so hunger and fatigue weren’t exactly helping matters.

In short, consumption of print media is greatly helped by at least a toe-hold on the lower rungs of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

The other lesson was just how sweet television was when the power finally came back on. But let me clarify this point. I didn’t find myself missing the TV at all. We didn’t get several of our regularly-DVR’d programs, and all of it was no big loss. What I was grateful for was something that didn’t require me to think. As our furnace struggled to bring us back to normal and Mrs. Lens gave in to exhaustion, I finished up Tin Man and moved on to the 1953 version of Julius Caesar. Though mentally I had trouble drawing crucial distinctions between Shakespeare and Sci Fi Channel crap, they were both all too easy to enjoy. It wasn’t a sense of “yay, the plug-in drug is back” as much as “this, at long last, is normal.”

It was an unwelcome but important wake-up. I had no idea just how dependent I’d become on things that many people do without. Mind you, I’m not going to be killing the furnace for the sake of some Nietzsche-esque enlightenment experience anytime soon. I’m glad I got the eye-opener, but I’m not anxious to repeat the lesson.

Review – Factory Girl

Once again members of the upper crust of the East Coast art scene turn out to be spectacularly dull. Sienna Miller does a solid job playing the tragic Edie Sedgwick, superstar of the Warhol camp. Less impressive are Guy Pearse as Warhol (every once in awhile his performance lapses into Priscilla Queen of the Desert) and Hayden “Anakin Skywalker” Christiansen as Bob Dylan. I suppose the story of Sedgwick’s self-destruction (largely blamed on Warhol) is sad enough, but it’s just not all that interesting. See if desperate

Review – A Good Year

Russell Crowe was not made for romantic comedy. But even if a more suitable leading man had been cast, this still would have been a pretty dreadful movie. The protagonist is a jerk from London’s world of high finance. His estranged uncle passes on and leaves a French chateau and vineyard to him, dragging him away from his wheeling and dealing and dropping him into the bucolic world of Provence. The ensuing antics may have been intended to evoke a feeling similar to Local Hero, but while Forsythe’s classic was witty and charming this go-around is mostly just smarmy and crude. Further, our hero spent his care-free childhood at the estate cavorting with his quirky uncle, so every time the guy turns around he sees something else that triggers an extended flashback sequence. See if desperate

Review – Death of a President

Most of the mockumentaries I’ve seen lately have been comedies, but this one is deadly serious. The central thesis is that in October 2007 George W. Bush was assassinated, and this is a documentary made in the wake of the event and its aftermath. The main conclusion appears to be that the government would use such an event as an excuse to blame Islamic terrorists (whether or not they were actually responsible) and take away even more of our freedom. In other words, as bad as Bush is, things could always be worse. They should have just called this “President Cheney” and left it at that. Mildly amusing

Review – Tin Man

This is like The Wizard of Oz with some kind of horrible cancer that makes it swell to three times its regular size and grow into all sorts of bizarre, mutated forms. The characters, the plot lines, even some of the small details, are all familiar yet alien, transformed from beloved family classic to action-oriented graphic novel. It also has that distinctive Sci Fi Channel look and feel to it, though the production is at least a bit more expensive than the channel’s usual fare. Mildly amusing

Making the holidays special (part two)

Last time I devoted the bulk of the column to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the shiniest jewel in the crown of Rankin-Bass holiday specials. As crowns go, it’s mostly paste and tinfoil. But two of the studio’s other efforts deserve at least passing mention.

My clearest childhood memories aren’t of Rudolph. Instead, the one I recall as my original favorite was “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Looking back now I can only conclude that I must have been a fairly stupid kid. In my defense, I was really into the whole “origins” thing at the time. I collected the books Marvel and DC were putting out at the time anthologizing the comic books that told how super heroes first got their powers.

And the main focus of this special was the origin of Santa. We find out why reindeer can fly, why kids hang stockings for Santa, why he gives a crap about present distribution to begin with, and so on. I remember liking the Winter Warlock, except after he lost his evil powers he mostly just turned into a drag. Then of course there was the Burgermeister Meisterburger, the great hater of toys. He was scary in a grumpy-old-man-who-keeps-your-Frisbee-if-it-lands-in-his-yard kind of way. But he isn’t likely to take a prominent seat in the Villains Hall of Fame.

The only other Rankin Bass masterpiece I recall at all (except for some vague memories about an Easter Bunny thing) was “The Year Without a Santa Claus.” And even then to say that I remember it is a bit of an exaggeration. What I vividly recall are the legendary “Miser Brothers” musical numbers. The rest of it is just a misty mush in my mind.

Clearly that leaves a lot of Christmas special ground uncovered, but in the spirit of the holidays I’m going to try to keep this on the positive side. Last week I noted my affection for the Charlie Brown Christmas. Now I should admit that it’s only my second favorite special. Top honors go to the Grinch.

To be sure, it’s close. But “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” has just a couple of edges. First, it’s a bit more timeless. The moment when Linus takes the stage leaves nary a dry eye in the house, but the rest of the show is … well, let’s stick with the nice theme and just describe it as “dated.” The other big difference is a bit more important, but I’ll get to it in a minute.

First, let me sing the praises of the Grinch. This special brings together two amazing talents: Dr. Seuss and Chuck Jones. Better writing is hard to come by, as is better animation (particularly in a world without huge staffs and computer assistance). Add the voice talents of Boris Karloff, Tony the Tiger and Rocket J. Squirrel, and you’ve got a mix that’s hard to beat.

But really, am I the only person who noticed a more than slight resemblance between the Grinch and former senator from Kansas Robert Dole? Especially when he grins his grinchy grin, it isn’t too hard to imagine him contemplating not only Christmas doom for Whoville but also an extra round of tax cuts for the wealthy just for good measure. Seasick crocodile indeed.

Of course that leads naturally to speculation about whether or not the Grinch also shares Dole’s … um … medicinal needs. Thank goodness Dr. Seuss decided not to share that aspect of the character’s life with us. “He lived at the top of his grinchy grinch hill, with a small nervous dog and a little blue pill.” After all, sometimes a guy wants something besides his heart to grow three sizes by the end of the show.

Speaking of the network, to this day I remain a little astounded that anyone besides maybe PBS would have or even should have aired this particular story. The upshot of the tale can be summed up in a line that goes something like, “Maybe Christmas, he thought, didn’t come from a store.” But no sooner do we absorb this simple sentiment than we’re confronted with three to four minutes’ worth of rebuttal from some folks who beg to differ. No Christmas is complete without the new Pantooker Mark XII. Roast beast five-for-five.

And that brings me to the key distinction between this production and just about every other Christmas special out there: this one doesn’t fall victim to what I like to call The Pee-wee Herman Magic Wish Fallacy.

The reference is to a joke from the Pee-wee Herman Show (the original comedy stage routine, before he got a TV series). At one point his genie friend grants him a wish, which he gives away to his friend Miss Yvonne so she can wish Captain Carl into liking her. This of course leaves Pee-wee bereft of wishes, leading to an extended lament over his inability to fly. And when Miss Yvonne asks him why he’s so sad, he tells a story about “a boy” who gave his wish away. The upshot: “It’s not like the boy wanted anything in return. But then he didn’t get anything in return.”

The joke uncovers the fundamental fallacy of most Christmas specials. They almost always involve some sort of selfless giving. But before the credits roll whoever does something good is rewarded for it. If right action is its own reward, then it’s downright poisonous (not to mention frankly false) to generate the expectation that good deeds always result in material gain. Even in Charlie Brown, the true meaning of Christmas is defeated if the “homely” tree is magically transformed into something that meets commercial standards. We’re missing the point.

But wait, don’t the Whos get their Christmas stuff back? Yes, but they were already having Christmas without it. The point is clearly stated: Christmas isn’t about stuff. The stuff is nice, but it’s beside the point. Imagine how the production might have been different if the Grinch hadn’t been able to stop the sled-o-stuff from sliding off the mountain, and you’ll see what I mean. Rescuing Christmas is about the Grinch learning compassion, not about the celebration that goes on without it.

But hey, maybe that’s too much philosophy for the Yuletide season. So at this point let’s put specials to rest, and next week we’ll move on to the musical side.

Review – Attack of the Crab Monsters

Being stuck on a desert island with a mess of giant crabs would be bad enough by itself. But apparently these huge, droopy-eyed refugees from a Thanksgiving parade don’t just tear you in two. They also absorb your mind, so after death you become part of the collective crab consciousness. This is one of Roger Corman’s vintage best terrible, low budget horror flicks. See if desperate

Review – From the Earth to the Moon (1958)

I Tivo’d this thinking it was a different movie, but by the time I figured out I wasn’t watching what I thought I was, I’d already sat through enough of it to prompt me to stick through the rest. Overall it was a dull experience, a sad thing to do to Jules Verne. Indeed, the only thing that stood out about the experience was the odd decision to recycle some of the Theremin noise from Forbidden Planet (not exactly that picture’s high point, and certainly unwelcome as leftovers). See if desperate

Review – Monster on the Campus

Important life lesson: if the college where you teach acquires a frozen coelacanth and it thaws out leaving coelacanth drippings everywhere, don’t drink the drippings. Not that I’m saying I thought you were going to do that. But just don’t, okay? Because apparently the immediate side-effect of this unusual craving is an Altered-States-style regression to a more primitive form. The script is bad and the acting worse, but the big rubber fish is kinda cute. See if desperate

Tonight’s sushi special

 

Making the holidays special (part one)

Once again it’s upon us, the annual month-long orgy of avarice and sentimentality commemorating the birth of Our Lord and Savior. The malls clog with anxious merrymakers, and the airwaves clog with the Scylla and Charybdis of Yuletide entertainment: Christmas specials and Christmas carols. Let me get my rant out about the specials first, and then in a week or two maybe I’ll get to the songs.

I should start by admitting that I’ve got a problem with the whole Santa Claus thing. As a kid I was one of those gullible idiots who believed in St. Nick for some time after everyone else in the neighborhood wised up. All these decades later the sense of betrayal still lingers. I believe it’s this very selfsame trauma that first makes children into skeptics and sets the more literate among them on the path to journalism. I’m not sure what similar primal scene leads to lawyers or car salesmen. If I figure that out, I’ll let you know.

The Santa thing made holiday television tough on me as a child, because just about every kid-friendly holiday special prominently featured the Jolly Fat Man, or the Jolly Big Fat Lie as I preferred to think of him. I liked the show where the Miser brothers tried to bake and/or freeze everyone, but most of the rest of the classic specials were more than a little too sappy for me.

The exception to the rule was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Mind you, we’re talking about the show. The song upon which it was based drove me nuts, at least until my playmates taught me the Rudolph the Six-Gun Cowboy lyrics. “Rudolph with your gun so bright, won’t you shoot my wife tonight?” That bit of youthful misogyny annoyed my TV-is-corrupting-my-child parents enough to make it worthwhile.

The Rankin-Bass animated special, however, seemed from the outset tailor-made to worm its way into my sour little heart. Its protagonists – a misfit deer with a mock-worthy nose and a misfit elf who wants to be a dentist – were all too easy to identify with. Their vindication in the end didn’t exactly match my own personal experience, but perhaps Christmas could at the very least be about hope.

Sadly, kids nowadays are being forced to grow up without the best part of the whole show: Elf Practice. Everyone in the neighborhood loved doing a lewd little dance to accompany the onscreen action, sort of a “We are Santa’s elves BOOM-BA-BOOM-BOOM” number. But in recent years broadcasters have cut the sequence, either because they were afraid Elf Practice was corrupting the morals of America’s youth or they just needed some more time during the show for commercials.

On the other hand, the part that got under my skin the worst was the dreaded Island of Misfit Toys. The concept as it’s explained to the audience is that there’s an island in the middle of the Arctic Ocean that serves as a refuge for toys with some kind of defect. We’re introduced to a handful of these dour denizens and given a minute’s worth of musical number to feast on their freakishness.

Or are we? Quick show of hands: who can name what was wrong with about half the toys? Sure, there’s a train with square wheels on its caboose. That’s not so good. There’s a bird that swims like a fish. Like penguins don’t. Still, I suppose that too would make a somewhat outré leaving under the ol’ tannenbaum.

But the rest of the crew? Malingerers, at least at first glance. We’ve got a squirt gun that squirts jelly. Squirt it out on some toast or bagels and reload the thing with water for cryin’ out loud. We have a doll and several other random gift-wannabes with absolute zero visible defects. And then we have the jack in the box that insists his name is actually Charlie. “Just keep your doofus mouth shut!” I wanted to scream at the television. “If you don’t tell anyone you’re actually a stupid Charlie in the Box, then you could pass for a real toy and you wouldn’t have to freeze your crank off on that miserable island!” It wasn’t until I got a bit older that I came to understand the whole “don’t ask, don’t tell” thing. He’s here. He’s Charlie. Get used to it.

Before our heroes leave the island, they’re treated to an earnest plea from King Moonracer begging them to tell Santa about the poor, unfortunate citizenry and their pathetic hopes for meaningful relationships with children. There must be kids in the projects somewhere that would be grateful for even the oddest playthings.

Now let’s stay on story here. Where do toys come from? Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. So where do defective toys come from? Think about it. The heartless Jolly Fat Man must already be fully aware of this gulag stuffed with the mutant spawn of elfin malfeasance. But hey, I’ve already admitted that I have it in for Santa. So don’t listen to me.

Then came the scene almost always cut from the broadcast. After the Island of Misfit Toys, the guys cruise over to the Island of Hangover-Victimized Toys. This island is very much like the last one, except all the toys here have two things in common. First, they all make – or at least made – some sort of noise louder than a bee sneeze. Second, they’ve all got big smashed spots just about the size of my dad’s right foot (or his left if he happened to catch one on the off-step). If you watch this scene closely you can catch a fleeting glimpse of my sister’s old Gnip Gnop flying past the backdrop.

But hey, it’s the holidays. So let me end this episode on a happier note. This year ABC appears to be getting copious air-use out of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. Here’s one that gets me every time, even as cynical as I am. When Linus takes the stage and reminds us all of the real meaning of Christmas, there’s nary a dry eye in the house. And Santa doesn’t deliver a single line.

Most of this entry was originally printed as a column in the Kansas City Kansan.