Roast Me, Baby

I was supposed to be at a combination birthday party/birthday roast last night, but a district gymnastics meet I was covering lasted much, much longer than one would ever expect a gymnastics meet to last. Between the events and figuring out who qualified for a regional meet next weekend, it took a computer, a calculator and a couple slide rules working overtime.

My brother, B, the cop, is getting married in a couple months, and the party was for his fiancé, C, who turns 50 – 50 Years Old -- today, and my brother brought together family and friends to share some food, some wine, and some embarrassing memories, not necessarily in that order. All in a most loving way, of course.

I feel bad that I missed it, but I warned them ahead of time that sporting events have a wonderful way of expanding to fill every available second between the scheduled start time and my deadline. That's my Sporting Event Theory of Relativity.

Before I share what would have been my roast, I must give you some background.

C is one of the nicest people I know. She's a former Navy nurse who has traveled throughout the Pacific Rim at a number of bases. She's a former deputy coroner for Spokane County. Now she works as a nurse at the local hospital for the mentally disturbed – working in the criminal wing, where bad people are sent for psychiatric evaluation before trial. That means she works with a lot of not nice people. Which makes for a very interesting contrast.

B is my younger brother (if you're counting, and we both know you are, that means he's marrying an older woman). He started out managing a credit union and decided that it was interesting enough work for him, so he joined the Sheriff's Department. After a stint in a patrol car, he went to work in the K-9 Division, where had a beautiful German shepherd as a partner. The dog was imported from Czechoslovakia, apparently downwind from Chernobyl, and he died young from canine leukemia about four years ago – two years later he divorced.

My brother loved his dog, who was named Dick. Yes, my brother caught a lot of shit from his coworkers about having a dog named Dick, and I, for the most part, tried to avoid passing along every joke about it – knowing that he'd already heard them all.

But, considering the situation, I thought it might be a good warning to all of these people, who, for the most part, were just getting to know my brother.

Herewith is the essence of my ``Roast.''

So, C, here you are – 50 years old and getting married for the first time to my baby brother. That's a little like saving up for a lifetime to go on a Hawaiian cruise and then boarding the S.S. Minnow.

For those of you who don't know, the guy you're marrying wasn't always a D.A.R.E. officer and a budding detective. He used to work with a real dog. No – I mean a REAL Dog – Dick. You've seen the picture – he shows it to everyone. He even carries it in his wallet – it's the picture right in front of yours, sweetheart.

As some of you know, Dick died a few years ago and that was a sad time for little brother, there.

However, I think it's only fitting that, at this time, I bring you up to speed a little bit on the relationship between my brother and his former partner. I give you: Things You Should Know About My Brother's Dick:

1. He used to take it out every night at work;
   
   
2. He used to keep it on a leash;
   
   
3. It was always up and ready for work;
   
   
4. It was always ravenous after a good night's work;
   
   
5. The thing it liked best at the end of the day was a bowl of kibble and to sleep on top of the house.
   
   
6. It would definitely bite;
   
   
7. He never took it on vacation;
   
   
8. It was trained to come on command;
   
   
9. It drooled;
   
   
10. Shockingly – he used to love going to schools and showing it to all the little children;
    
    
11. It would only respond if you spoke to it in Czech – so if, in the middle of the night, you hear him yell `Poost, poost damnit, phoey'' you know who he's talking to;
    
    
12. And most importantly to you, it's dead.
    
    

More soon.

It was, like, deep

It threatens my status as a total un-Type A personality, but I do keep a few lists, updated regularly. Not To-Do lists, mind you. No, no. These are more important lists.

One of the biggest is People I Can Do Without. I like to think it's self-explanatory. As are some of its subsets: People I Wish Would Dry Up and Blow Away and People Who Should Just Get Over Themselves.

Here are some of my latest entries:

1. Britney Spears. I don't know about you, but I think if I hear one more word about how broken up Britney and Justin are over their breakup, who they're currently boffing or how they're writing message songs to one another, I think I'll scream. The latest last straw was the news of her appearance at the Sundance Film Festival. The pop diva showed up for a screening of a Holly Hunter film, complete with entourage (which is a French phrase meaning `people I pay to kiss my ass'). They played with their cell phones and talked over the film, then walked out in a huff. Her comment to the New York Post: ``Sundance is weird. The movies are weird. You actually have to think about them when you watch them.'' Whatever is the world coming to? Think? At a movie?
   
   
2. Whitney Houston. Excuse me. Crack is too cheap? Does that mean she prefers designer drugs? Has Versace come out with a new, expensive high?
   
   
3. Trista Rehn. The Bachelorette. Please. She reminds me too much of those girls in junior high that I always wanted to date, but were busy checking boys off her dance card and basking in the accumulated glow of excessive adoration.
   
   
4. Jimmy Kimmel. I always knew there was a place to go if you were terminally unfunny. I just didn't know it was replacing Bill Maher.
   
   
5. George Will. Just because you can spell erudite doesn't mean you are. Bending facts to meet your twisted agenda is one thing – ignoring them is quite another. Unforgivable.
   
   
6. Anyone who has ever had anything to do with Jackass. 'Nuff said.
   
   
7. Ann Coulter. It used to be that they put you away for being stark-raving mad. Now they give you a column and let you publish the most vile drivel. What a country.
   
   
8. Christopher Hitchens. Let the man just drown himself in his scotch bottle and go away. He's already sold off any integrity he ever had, which is debatable, and his friends, all for a chance to kiss up to Richard Mellon Scaife, et al. Let him live out his Leaving Las Vegas fantasy in peace.
   
   
9. Joe Millionaire. He's poor. He's rich. Whatever. He's D-U-L-L.
   
   
10. The guy that needs an in-depth explanation of the Swiss Water decaffeination process at the Starbucks drive-up window while I'm trying to just get my venti vanilla latte so I can be on my way. There's a separate ring of Hell reserved for this guy.
    

More soon.

Chicago

I finally got the chance I needed to sneak off and watch Chicago – and guess what!?! It's a musical! Who knew?

Sorry. I couldn't resist.

I love a good musical, and this was a good musical. However . . .

In my mind, the bar was set really, REALLY high, and I really, REALLY wanted this movie to be great. And it wasn't quite what I had hoped to see. This is the one musical I desperately wanted to see on Broadway – with the revival cast that I had heard about. The revival cast that blew me away on the Tony Awards show. The revival cast that knocked the New York critics on their ass. I love Bob Fosse's choreography – the style and flair that he brought to all of his dance numbers.

My problem with this movie is that it didn't really have that Fosse stamp to it. It had occasional flashes of it. In the beginning – especially in the opening production staring Catherine Zeta-Jones. The editing was tight and Fossesque, and the dancers had some of that signature style. But the longer the film went on, the less it had.

This is nitpicking, but here are some more things that I didn't like:

Rob Marshall lifted Catherine Zeta-Jones costuming straight off of Bebe Neuwirth's dressing room from her run on Broadway. And while CZJ did a very, very – surprisingly very – good job in the role, it always looked like Bebe had put on weight and lost a bit of zing off her dancing. It would have been so simple to give her a style of her own, while maintaining the period –that Roaring 20s Chicago.

Richard Gere is excellent in the role of Billy Flynn – but it seemed to me his characterization came right out of Roy Scheider's turn in Fosse's autobiographical All That Jazz. This made it ironic – since it felt like the opening dance number, the previously mentioned star turn by CZJ, had a tiny bit of that Fosse flair because it was integral to, wow – All That Jazz.

The finale was terrific – it had great pace, it had style, it had sex appeal. But it was missing that signature Fosse thing with the hands. If you watch anything choreographed by Bob Fosse, you notice the hands. Just like hula dancers – the hands tell a big part of the story.

As a musical, this was terrific. But as a movie version of a Bob Fosse musical, it was lacking.

Would I see it again? Yes.

Was I surprised at how good Rene Zellwhatever was? Very.

Was John C. Reilly a gem as Amos, the cuckolded husband? Completely.

But was it Bob Fosse? Nope. And that was disappointing.

More soon.