At Long Last

I'm eighteen and I like it!

From "Eighteen" by Alice Cooper

My God - I never thought this day would arrive. All the days, months, years of waiting, pining, hoping, and the day of days is finally here! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to report, that today, September 28, 2005, Hilary Duff turns 18-years-old.

As some of my nine readers who have been reading my crap for a while may remember, I first expressed my wildly inappropriate crush on Ms. Duff back in late-2002, when The Lizzie McGuire Movie was released by those fiends at Disney - seeing as I never watched the Disney Channel, I had never heard of this character (nor the fact that she was a Junior High student), nor had I any awareness of the cute-as-pie actress that graced the McGuire billboards on Chicago's Western Avenue. One day, while driving with Michelle, I pointed to the billboard and stated that I thought that the actress, whom I had come to learn was named Hilary Duff, was quite cute. As she recoiled in horror, Michelle barked, "Jason, she's fifteen!!!" My world came crashing down - I was only 28 at the time, but I had already morphed into a vile, dispicable old masher. I felt sick beyond words.

During the next three years, as I sought a wholesome outlet for my mad thoughts, I continually alluded to this unnatural crush in my writings, partly to ridicule myslef, and partly because, well, I thought she was cute! But soon (strike that - IMMEDIATELY) after I learned of her true age, I declared my crush officially dead - when I read that blurb in Us Weekly where Ms. Duff discussed her general disinterest in dating older men (even though I believe that her current boyfriend is 28 - cruel fate, why do you mock me?), I knew I had made the right decision. Plus, having a wife tends to put the kibash on your dating life, so naturally that played a part.

However, today represents the dawning of a new day - Hilary is 18 now, and therefore is considered "legal" in states outside of Georgia and Alabama. Sadly though, her transformation into one of the many overexposed starlet/musician/fashion moguls that continue to haunt the L.A. landscape has turned me off of her intoxicating persona - now that I am legally (although still creepily) able to resume my crush, I find myself unwilling to do so. This is indeed a bittersweet day, as it has been circled in red on my calendar for three years running. However, I thought it an appropriate opportunity to relive some of my favorite Hilary Duff references of the past few years. Please enjoy - and welcome to adulthood, Hilary!

• Damn you, Hollywood! How can you put out ads for The Lizzie McGuire Movie without first telling me that Hilary Duff is only 15?!?!?! Oh, the humanity! (It’s the slowest web page ever, even slower than Hilary’s excruciatingly slow crawl to age 18: www.Hilaryduff.com). Lucky for me, I cannot be jailed for signing up for Hilary’s mailing list, complete with hot news, special offers and more! I will be sure to bring you all the breaking Hilary news, once I have screened it for content of course.

• Another great thing about those loveable programmers over at Fox – immediately following American Juniors, a show featuring fresh-faced children performing wholesome bubblegum tunes for pre-teens all over America, is the warm and fuzzy Paradise Hotel. I mean, no sooner have we faded to black on Ryan Seacrest telling us to tune in to see which 11-year-old will become the next Hilary Duff (had to sneak that one in there – she’ll be 18 some day…) then we see hot scenes featuring sexy shirtless males flexing their abdominal muscles in yet another bizarre mating ritual while playing Musical Sluts with gorgeous ladies in slinky bikinis while the “Parental Discretion – Strong Sexual Content” disclaimer is thrown in our faces. Having been an 11-year-old myself, I can tell you that this stern warning would have sent me immediately to my parents to ask their permission (thereby forcing them to use their discretion) to watch these sexy singles frolic about in all of their sexiness.

• (Talking about DeGrassi: The Next Generation): It’s strange that I get so entertained when I hear cracking male and falsetto female adolescent voices speak with that cute Canadian accent. And there are so many faces from the past! In those collective 7 minutes, I saw Joey Jeremiah (complete with shaved head) and epilepsy-sufferer Caitlin console some poor young soul whose father had died. In addition, I sat jaw agape as I watched Snake, he of the gay basketball-playing brother, and now a balding, heavier teacher, console Emma, the daughter of Spike (whom my brother Greg harbored an unnatural, Hilary Duff-esque crush on back in the early ‘90s), regarding the fact that her father Shane, the acid-head who jumped off a bridge, was now back from the nuthouse or wherever for a visit.

• Welcome to Disney MGM Studios! Enjoy the many exhibits and shows! Observe the plentiful advertisements for Disney films and quality ABC-produced television entertainment! On a wholly unrelated topic, were you aware that Disney owns ABC? No? Well, go to Disney MGM Studios and they’ll cram that fact so far down your throat that you’ll shit it out in a scant 20 minutes. Posters for According to Jim, The George Lopez Show, NYPD Blue, Alias, My Wife and Kids, The Practice – if it’s on ABC, it’s on a wall somewhere in this theme park. More ABC/Disney fun: Drew Carey is featured in a horrible sound demonstration show, Ellen “Alan” Degeneres is in the Energy exhibit in EPCOT (with Bill Nye the Science Guy, no less), song and dance funnyman Wayne Brady was on hand to film his variety Christmas special (a formula that never gets old) and I spotted an ad for former Disney Channel wonder Hilary Duff‘s new album Metamorphosis on the back lot tour (sorry, old habits die hard).

• (Talking about The Ashlee Simpson Show): In the episode I was lucky enough to witness, a scene where Ashleeeeeeee talks about how she doesn’t want to be compared to teen celebrity sensation Hilary Duff was brilliantly followed up by a scene of Ashleeeee and her friends at lunch (probably at a hot celeb hangout frequented by big sis Jessica!) being approached by a young fan who mentioned to Ashleeeeee that her favorite singer was Hilary Duff. Meow! I’m sure there are even bigger things to come from Ashleeeeee Simpson – keep your eyes peeled for her appearance in a Cinemax B-grade soft porn flick sometime around 2009.

• Does anyone else realize that we’re only a month and a half away from Hilary Duff’s 18th birthday? It warrants mentioning.

• I am coming to you LIVE from flight 160 with service from San Francisco to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport and, wouldn’t you know it, we’re only scheduled to be 40 minutes late! I love landing at 12:45 AM, don’t you? I wonder if that captain will break his arm patting himself on the back as he tells us about United’s #1 on-time rating? Until I get the answer to that question, maybe I’ll enjoy my fourth-consecutive viewing of Bringing Down the House, which does a wonderful job of rehashing the good old days of the Jim Crow Laws. However, before I could relive the madcap stereotypical humor (oh look, an old lady is smoking pot and getting the munchies!), I must sit on the tarmac in an un-air-conditioned plane and flip through the thrilling articles of Hemispheres (which actually had a fine “Perfect 3 Days” vacation article featuring The Great City of Chicago – the activities and accommodations they suggested would probably only run you about $1,500 for the weekend). Much to my delight, while perusing the musical selections, I come to realize that channel 12 the in-flight entertainment network is featuring songs from the film Lizzie McGuire, which stars, you guessed it, my former unnatural crush Hilary Duff! Well, apparently Ms. Duff dabbles in both acting and singing, so as the crack staff at SFO struggled to fix the plane’s hydraulic system, I took a listen to her latest smash hit tune entitled Why Not. A sampling:

Why not (why not)
Take a crazy chance?
Why not (why not)
Do a crazy dance?

Maybe the title should have been Why Try and Come Up With Clever Rhymes. There were also lines about wearing yellow when you want to wear gold and discussing how you can’t get to heaven, or even L.A., without desire or some crap. It made my head spin, and it was almost enough to make me stop wishing that I were 15 again. Almost.

Until next time...

Broom Corn: Nothing Else Compares

It makes me very proud to report to the nine of you that I am now World Famous.

For what has to be the last 11 years or so, my good friend O’Hal has been lobbying me in an effort to convince me to march with the World Famous Lawn Rangers. For the uneducated, the following is the briefest of brief history lessons regarding the Lawn Rangers:

Twenty Five years ago, a handful (13) of Arcola area citizens decided it was time to be part of Arcola’s (IL) Famous Broom Corn Festival Parade, instead of hecklers and observers. They took a talent inventory and came to the conclusion that pushing mowers and twirling brooms was probably the best they could do. But they did it with gusto. Soon after, invitations to appear in other festival parades poured in and the Rangers went on tour. The rest is history.

Over 1,000 individuals have marched with the Rangers, drawing their members from ages 21 to 80 and from all walks of life. These lost souls come together bound only by a sense of humor and the great bond of “fellership”. Their ranks include their team press agent, noted Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, Dave Barry. Ranger Dave has appeared in 5 parades, written 5 columns featuring the Rangers, and sponsored a TV production starring himself and the Rangers. In addition to Ranger Dave’s fine work, the Rangers have appeared in specials by Bob Wallace of CBS Chicago, the Coors house video magazine, a production by Arcola’s own Van King for PM Magazine, and many local TV specials. The area press has also been kind to us with multiple fine stories on the adventures of the Rangers, as well as nice work by Ranger columnist, Tom Kacich.

Ranger Co-Founder Pat Monahan says it best “Never have so many done so much with so little”

But this short history does little justice to the phenomenon – it is one that I can now say must be experienced to be fully appreciated. As mentioned, O’Hal rode me good and hard the last decade or so about joining the ranks of the Rangers. “Are you coming to Arcola this year?” “The St. Patrick’s Day parade (downtown Chicago) should be a blast, maybe you should march.” “It’s Broom Corn time again.” “You won’t regret it.” Given that he is the son of one of the founding members and has marched in at least 40 parades, I truly believed that this was an experience not to be missed. Yet I always found some excuse why I could not participate; to be frank, these excuses were indeed like assholes – they all stunk. But for one reason or another I missed parade after parade after parade – and now I realized I missed out on a lot more than that.

As recently as this summer, O’Hal worked Arcola into the conversation again. “J, Broom Corn time is almost upon us – what say you?” Now, given that Michelle is expecting the spawn of my seed in November, this has given me much cause to reevaluate my priorities in life. After much soul-searching, I decided that, since I am not Hindu, I had to apply the “you only live once” corollary to this situation. So when O’Hal brought the subject up one fateful evening, I committed to marching in Broom Corn without haste. In almost an instant, I had convinced my brother Greg that it was imperative for him to join me on this quest for drunken madness. So it is with this spirit that I open the door and invite you to experience Amazing Arcola’s Broom Corn Festival 2005 with the World Famous Lawn Rangers:

• The first thing you must know about being a Lawn Ranger is the required gear: At minimum you are expected to sport a Lone Ranger mask, a hat (typically of the Western variety) and a lawn mower decorated in a manner that best suits your personality. If you choose to go nude after that, more power to you. Having secured a mower from my brother-in-law and being a big fan of Halloween, I chose a fake tombstone and pumpkin bucket filled with candy. I also make a trip to buy our masks at Party City, which was a depressing affair as Air Supply’s “Air that I breathe” boomed through the speakers, which of course made me wish that every bit of oxygen around me was sucked out of the building, causing me to die and sparing me from further exposure to Air Supply.

• Friday was spent trading emails and barbs with O’Hal in great anticipation of the good times to come. At one point we speculated whether the Amish Rake Fights would live up to their lofty expectations.

• On Saturday morning I arrive at Greg’s around 8:30. He has decorated his manual mower (the only one in the parade incidentally) with a sticker expressing his pride in being a Union member, as well as various flags saluting our heritage. We set out for adventure around 9:00, fueled my adrenaline and far too much coffee.

• As Arcola lies approximately 45 minutes south of Champaign, we head toward I-57. Ah, I-57 – it’s been much too long, old friend.

• Hunger strikes around 10:30 and we stop at the Gilman/Chatsworth exit for some McDonald’s. I am to the point where I only allow myself to indulge in this vice on road/plane trips. After dropping the kids off at the pool (thank you, coffee), I walk up to the register the instant the breakfast menu flips over to lunch, leaving Greg and I to order identical two cheeseburger meals. It should come as little surprise that shortly after passing Champaign, Greg experiences the always-mysterious Insta-Shit phenomenon. We stop at the Rest Area (whose stalls are strangely devoid of any calls for trucker love, I might add) so Greg can unload. I pop a couple of tablets of Pepto and we’re back on our way.

• After three easy hours of highway hypnosis, we arrive in Arcola, IL. Greg and I are lucky enough to have secured a room at the lovely Arcola Inn. Given the check-in procedure and general disinterest of our Indian clerk, Greg keenly notes that this is just the kind of place where a fugitive from justice could lam out for a few days with great ease. We instantly picture empty food containers, liquor bottles, and Juliette Lewis curled in the corner next to a broken coke mirror.

• Shortly thereafter we meet up with veteran Rangers John “Shak” Akalitis and O’Hal (and their ladies Jenny and Ann, respectively). The ladies go to freshen up while we four marchers get mentally prepared for the task that lies ahead.

• Around 12:30, as temperatures approach 90, we make our way to the Ranger tent, graciously hosted by Arcola resident Terrible Ted. We’re among the first to arrive and immediately head for the multiple kegs & bbq spread.

• While Greg and I have brought our own mowers, I am amazed at the array of mowers that are available to the general public. So creative, so unique, so much time on people’s hands. Shak and O’Hal quickly lay claim to their mowers, meaning the hardest part of the day is now complete.

• I am honored to meet the patriarch of the Rangers, Mr. Pat Monahan, as well as reacquaint w/John O’Halloran Sr. (AKA the Candyman). Given their status with the Rangers as well as the event we are about to participate in, this is the equivalent of hanging out with George Halas and Curly Lambeau at a Bear-Packer game.

• There happens to be a documentary being filmed about the Rangers. I start to feel that I am in the presence of greatness.

• Tom “Shakes” Powers arrives (another long-standing Ranger veteran), as does Jon “Nacho Man” Bruner, his wife Jen and their 8-month-old son Sam. Our clique for the day is hereby complete.

• It’s amazing how good cold beer tastes in the 90+ heat. I decide not to chance it with the bbq spread given the precariousness of my intestinal situation after ingesting my quarterly McDonald’s meal.

• Our picnic area is becoming quite full with Rangers and some family and friends. Later I will learn that 93 stout men marched with the Rangers that day.

• The festivities truly begin as we gear up for the march with the various “Ranger Reports” (i.e. excuses for hilarious vulgarity). Father Tourette leads us in benediction (“Goddammit, it’s great to be here!”) and several hilarious altar boy jokes. I quietly thank my parents for attending a parish free of child molesters.

• Next we have what can best be described as a cornucopia of dick and butt jokes. The donation to the gism bank. The guy who moons the crowd to music. The Champaign Ranger contingent, whose “report” consisted of holding out big, fake dicks and singing Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling”. I assume by ding-a-ling, they meant penis. There was one brave gent who, I believe on an alcohol-fueled whim, decided to show the group how he could stick his testicles outside of his pants and pull them back in without touching them. Yes, the women and children were warned of the nature of the humor, but come on. On the upside, when I ran into him later and said “Hey, great trick with your balls” he seemed genuinely ashamed. Probably wasn’t such a good idea after all.

• Finally, the moment of truth – the parade. Now I must say that O’Hal had been warning me of the rigors of Ranger Rookie Camp, where I would learn my maneuvers and be subjected to brutal, humiliating hazing. Yet here we were marching two-wide towards the parade route (Greg being my partner) with nary a lesson to be had or insult to be absorbed. Thankfully, Shak and Bruner, who are marching ahead of us, give us a “here’s all you need to know” lesson – we learn to “Walk the Dog” (turn your mower toward the curb and move in a circle, followed by two sweeps of the broom) and do the “Cross and Toss” (man on the left crosses under the man on the right, brooms are tossed to your partner, followed by two sweeps of the broom). We are now sufficiently trained.

• Greg and I have our rookie mistakes (dropped brooms; walked the dog when we should have crossed and tossed), but we soon get in the flow.

• The crowd loves us – we get cheered every time we complete a maneuver. It helps that we bribe the crowd with candy and Mardi Gras beads (however, seeing as there are Amish in this community, we require no lewd “payment” for said beads).

• Downtown Arcola is strikingly similar to Main St USA at Disney – I make note of the various food stands along the route (pork chop on a stick; walleye sandwich) that we will no doubt hit later that night. My mouth waters, yet I remain on task like a dutiful Rookie.

• After about 40 minutes walking, crossing, tossing and sweating through the streets of Arcola, we have completed our journey – Greg and I have successfully completed our first Ranger march. O’Hal beams with bride as we head back to tent for more beer, more food and some unbelievably refreshing dips of our heads into a cooler full of ice water.

• One of the Champaign Rangers passes out on the lawn, and another one of his contingent jumps on top of him and they pretend to engage in coitus. Our clique sits in stunned horror.

• After bleeding the kegs dry, we head back to the hotel for some R&R before the evening’s events. A catnap, a few beers and cold shower later we are all ready for some more action. On to downtown Arcola!

• The pork chop on a stick proves to be everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Ditto the walleye sandwich that Greg inhales (Shak eats two). The others have opted for gyros, so I grab one of them for myself – great move on my part, I must say.

• Shakes, Greg and I go ahead to the beer tent – we secure our beer mugs for the evening (mine is from Broom Corn ’97) and ready ourselves for some crappy keg beer poured from dirty tap lines.

• We fill up on beer, meet up with the rest of the group in the tent and listen to the smooth sounds of Captain Rat and the Blind Ribbits. They fit your typical small town festival band stereotype: they played lots of cheesy-yet-fun oldies covers and talked to the crowd and amongst each other way more than they actually sang.

• The beers are going down like nobody’s business, which could spell trouble. I quickly forget to heed the warnings about the perils of drinking crappy keg beer from dirty tap lines.

• I quickly forget a lot more as we all grow exceedingly inebriated by the minute.

• The last photo I snapped is time stamped at 11:02 PM. Two hours magically pass, and at 1:00 AM, Arcola veteran Shakes escorts Arcola novices Greg and J back to the Arcola Inn. Greg passes out immediately upon entering the room. For all intents and purposes, I have already passed out on the walk back.

• At 4:30 I wake up and take out my contacts. Greg wakes up shortly thereafter and places his contacts directly into the sink.

• At 7:30, I understand why I’ve been warned against drinking keg beer out of dirty tap lines. I coax one more hour of sleep out of my pounding head.

• We wake up, stumble about, shower, and head north about 9:00 or so, leaving behind one of the best times we’ve ever had.

With that, all I can say is – Broom Corn 2006!!!!

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 8

The Greatest

College life brings with it an abundance of leisure time. The typical college freshmen spends approximately 3-4 hours in class per day and another 2-3 doing homework and studying, leaving them with plenty of time on their hands to do important things like eat healthy meals, exercise regularly, get involved with student government, and volunteer in the community. After all is said and done, this typical college freshman might even have a few hours left over that week to meet some friends for a pizza, some soda, and some meaningful conversation about the exciting future that lies ahead.

Of course, I was not your typical college freshman. And given that this was the vision of college as described to myself and others by my high school guidance counselor, I suspect that those that fit the mold were far outnumbered by misfits like yours truly. Let’s break it down, shall we?

• Class: That depends – what’s the attendance policy again?

• Homework and studying: Sorry, I’m in the middle of a game of Nintendo Wrestling - when you’ve got an epic match on your hands like The Amazon vs. King Korn Karn, who has time for studying?

• Healthy meals: Unless you’d consider Matt the Cook's specialty meal of crab legs and shitty cheese pizza healthy, then no.

• Exercise: Do 200 forced pushups after midnight on a weeknight count?

• Extracurricular activities: Huh?

• Pizza and soda: Well, yes lots of pizza, and if by soda you mean beer, then yes on that one.

• Meaningful conversation: Sure, we had some of those – “Who’s packing that bowl?” “What time are we going out?” “Don’t take my fucking seat.” “Are we seriously out of pot already?”

Yes, the world was our oyster; the problem was that no one had the gumption to shuck that son of a bitch.

As one can plainly see, my friends and I often found ourselves with oodles of leisure time on our hands during the Lost Semester. Most of us had an affinity for skipping class, none of us were training for a triathlon, and we all enjoyed a good evening of not studying. However, as strange as this may sound, there were those times when merely sitting around, getting stoned and watching two of our friends play each other in Super Tecmo Bowl while listening to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here just didn’t meet our demanding entertainment requirements. Sure, we had the TV to fall back on, but being that this was 1993 there were only 35 channels or so that we could tune to for a satisfactory diversion (I know, it’s almost inconceivable), and most of it was crap (some things never change). Thankfully, Room 23 was equipped with a fully functional VCR, so on those evenings when regular TV and video games weren’t doing it for us we could pop in a movie and have something other than actual schoolwork to focus on, at least for a few hours.

The trouble was that while one of us Room 23 dwellers had the foresight to bring a VCR to school with us, we neglected to also make sure we had plenty of movies and/or other shows we’d actually want to watch in tow – what’s the sense in that, right? That meant that if we decided to gather together for a viewing, we’d need to find something worth watching before settling in. However, this concept required a sharp mind and some critical thinking, and given that our brains were all rendered a tad cloudy by the constant pot smoking we did, it should come as no surprise to the reader that one fine evening, when the mood to be entertained struck (i.e. we were all pretty fried), my friends and I were left sitting around Room 23 with absolutely nothing to watch. A clear-thinking group of people would likely have come up with a logical plan like, “let’s go ask someone else in the house if they have anything to watch” or “why don’t we decide what we want to watch and have a few of us go to the video store and rent it?” Again, we failed in this department.

I’m not sure whose brilliant idea this was, but we finally decided that we would select one individual (using the “Who Gets the Green Hit?” methodology) who would then be responsible for walking 7 blocks (one way) by themselves to campus video store That’s Rentertainment to pick out a movie that the whole group could enjoy. The tension mounted as we prepared to assign this unpleasant task out to the group – who would be the pariah of the herd, forced into the cold, dark night to forage for entertainment? Would the selection meet the lofty standards of this discerning group of individuals? Would the person selected be so stoned that they’d forget the way to the video store? Needless to say, I was nervous. We all threw out our odds or evens and tallied up the total. Then, CS started at a previously agreed upon point and counted off around the room. Who would be saddled with this most perilous assignment? The anxiety in the room was palatable. After what seemed like an eternity, the final count passed me, passed CS, passed Reggie, passed Phelps, passed Pops...and landed squarely on Sadahara.

As the rest of the group let out a collective sigh, Sadahara, taking his medicine like a man, shook off the cobwebs, pulled himself up, collected a few bucks from the group and set out on his journey. It seems strange to this day that not one of us volunteered to go with Sadahara – I guess being stoned in a warm house/comfortable seat will do that to you. As we waited for whatever treasure of a film Sadahara selected for us, it was business as usual in Room 23 – Nintendo, tunes, Aquapipe, some food. I think half of us were somewhat confused when Sadahara came back to the room what seemed like 2 hours later – either he had agonized long and hard over just which movie to pick up for us or our concept of time was distorted by the mind-altering substances. But no matter – it was movie time. I’m not sure what each one of us was expecting, but I can sure as hell guarantee you that none of us guessed that we would soon bear witness to...The Greatest.

Given recent developments in our contemporary world of entertainment, I suspect that many of the nine of you reading this right now have heard of the Will Smith vehicle Ali, in which the rapper-turned-actor portrays Muhammad Ali, depicting his struggles, the rise of his boxing career, the demons he battled throughout his life, and so on. And I’m sure you also realize that in 1977, Muhammad Ali starred as himself in the biopic (or is it “autobiopic”?) The Greatest. Oh, you didn’t know this? Well, neither did any of us until Sadahara strolled back into the room and proudly announced that this was indeed his selection. Now if it were me, I would have been extremely conservative and gone for something I knew would be well-received – perhaps The Running Man, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, Richard Dawson, Jim Brown and Jesse “The Body” Ventura at their collective best. But Sadahara was too brash, too bold for such a safe choice. He would only be satisfied if he came back with a movie that would knock our socks off, if only because of the sheer absurdity of it.

Absurdity does not adequately describe this film. It starts out with a younger actor (who most certainly is not Muhammad Ali) as the young Cassius Clay – one scene that stands out in my mind to this day is when Clay is working at a country club, gets called boy, and dodges the punches of some old white guy he dares to try and punch him as he bears a scowl that emanates 400 years of anger and oppression. Powerful and bold. Soon, Cassius has grown up, earned gold in Rome and is ready to begin his pro career – or so I think, as I had zoned out for a few minutes there. At this point, Ali steps in to portray himself – I’ve always loved when actors or personalities play themselves; it’s such a stretch. Anyway, we see Ali chasing after some white woman – a prostitute I believe – and as he is following her into a seedy motel, a black man in a plain black suit implores Ali to forget the white she-devil and instead join him at a meeting. For some reason, Ali lets the piece of tail go on her way and he follows this black man, much like a rat following the Pied Piper, into a small meeting hall, where none other than Malcolm X is speaking. Who plays Malcolm X? Why of course, it’s James Earl Jones! Ali sits with the focused, determined look of a man who’s trying not to overact, and he absorbs all of Malcolm X’s words about white folks not being all that great and such. He then basically stands up and says “now I am Muhammad Ali.”

At this point we are approximately 45 minutes into the movie, and to be honest, I don’t recall seeing one boxing scene as of yet. As you can imagine, the lot of us have grown impatient at watching The Greatest play The Greatest, and some of the group begins to unleash on Sadahara.

“What the hell is this shit?”

“This is all you could come up with?”

“Was ever single other movie out?”

Of course, nobody was taking into consideration the fact that Sadahara had just done a 14 block round trip by himself so that the rest of us could sit on our stoned asses and be entertained, so naturally he was a little miffed. “Fuck you guys – go pick the movie your damn selves next time!” As he stormed from the room to the group’s catcalls, I couldn’t help but wonder how Ali fared from that point on – naturally we had stopped the movie and never got through the rest of it (I’m fairly confident that we also incurred a late fee due to our general laziness). Did he remain loyal to the teachings of Malcolm X? Did he ever bed that white hooker? Did he ever actually box? So many unanswered questions, so little desire to find answers. Our That’s Rentertainment experiment having failed miserably, it was back to the status quo of tunes and Tecmo, and I suspect that the lot of us couldn’t have cared less. That was the thing about leisure time during the Lost Semester – it doesn’t matter what you did with it, just as long as there was plenty of it to waste.

Until next time...