That Mitchell and Webb Look: The Pitch (by johnjflynn006)
should I laugh or cry?
In a much-linked-to article this week, Roger Ebert sets out several reasons why box office figures are down this year – most of which can be summed up by saying that the moviegoing experience has deteriorated. I can’t disagree with that.
At the same time, he heaps part of the blame on young people and technology:
“Moviegoers above 30 are weary of noisy fanboys and girls. The annoyance of talkers has been joined by the plague of cell-phone users, whose bright screens are a distraction. Worse, some texting addicts get mad when told they can’t use their cell phones.”
In my recent experience, there is definitely a plague of people who talk and text and ruin a movie theater’s atmosphere. But they are never the easy-to-blame under-30s.
They are almost universally over 50.
Almost every movie I’ve been to in the past year has been disrupted by older people talking at high volumes, fumbling with their devices and generally being disruptive with no awareness of the people around them.
On one occasion, I had to twice ask a man sitting behind me to be quiet, only to be met with a string of curses and threats.
Over the past few years I have definitely noticed that as the average age of a movie crowd increases, so does the likelihood of a disruption.
But by all means, go on and keep blaming “these kids today” and their “crazy new-fangled devices” as the problem. It’s the Boomer’s world. We just live in it.
(via No Mora – Amazin’ Avenue)
Farewell, Melvin Mora.
Mora in the 1999 playoffs gave one of the most clutch performances I’ve ever seen.
In an alternate universe, Mora wasn’t traded the next year, and it was he – not Kurt Abbot – playing shortstop in the 2000 World Series.
Oh read this. Oh the wonderful.
BARTLET: It says here in a briefing paper hastily written by Deputy Josh Lyman that in the ’60s, when the Madison Superintendent of Schools banned Twelfth Night for reasons passing understanding, a Mrs. Molly Morello had students over to her house on Saturdays to read it.
DONNA: I didn’t know that, sir. Josh wrote you a memo on Molly Morello?
BARTLET: Yeah, ‘cause all I had tonight was a nuclear spill in Idaho. It says she came in two hours early to teach an AP English class she developed herself because the school didn’t offer one.
DONNA: I was in that class.
BARTLET: Sounds like she deserves a proclamation. I wish I could give her one, but I can’t.
DONNA: I totally understand.
BARTLET: It’s just too much inside baseball, you know?
DONNA: You’re very nice to even talk to me about it.
BARTLET: Charlie, I’ve been tapping my finger on the desk for about a minute now.
BARTLET: The magic man thing works a lot better when you pick up on the signals, Tonto. What’s that you say? There’s a phone call for Donna? [Donna looks shocked as Bartlet hits the speakerphone.] Good evening, this is the White House, for whom are you holding?
MRS. MORELLO: [on the phone] I’m holding for Donna Moss. This is Mrs. Morello.
DONNA: [whispering] Oh my God.
MRS. MORELLO: Donna?
DONNA: Mrs. Morello, it’s me.
MRS. MORELLO: Is everything all right?
DONNA: Everything’s fine.
MRS. MORELLO: I hadn’t heard from you in such a long time so I thought…
DONNA: No, everything’s fine. Sally Seidelman told me you were retiring.
MRS. MORELLO: At the end of this year.
DONNA: Well, I… I just wanted to say. I don’t know, I just… I just wanted to say… I don’t know.
MRS. MORELLO: Are — are you sure everything’s all right?
BARTLET: [whispering] Tell her where you are.
DONNA: Mrs. Morello, I’m in the Oval Office with the President of the United States and it’s because of you.
– The West Wing, 3×18 “Stirred”
“Mrs. Morello, I’m in the Oval Office with the President of the United States and it’s because of you.”
Just watched this scene. The tears on my face are making it hard to type.
Even just reading the transcript this scene gives me chills
Such a sweet and lovely scene.
Fine then, I’m drinking coffee and rolling cigarettes and looking out at the hot baked street and a lady just walked by wiggling it in tight white pants, and we are not dead yet.
…and we are not dead yet.
On Jan. 3 she’ll take her case to Small Claims Court in Torrance, where California law prohibits Honda from bringing an attorney. She’s asking for the maximum of $10,000 to compensate her for spending much more on gasoline than expected. Honda said the Civic would get about 50 miles per gallon, but because of technical problems the car gets closer to 30 mpg.
What’s more, Peters is using urging Honda owners across the country to do the same. Peters’ DontSettleWithHonda.org website and a DontSettleWithHonda Twitter account include a link to state-by-state instructions for filing these lawsuits, which have low fees and minimal paperwork. Honda sold about 200,000 of the hybrids over a six-year period, and because of resales, as many as 500,000 people are eligible to file claims against Honda.
“I want them to know they can file in Small Claims Court and that it is not so scary,” Peters said.
If she’s successful in getting others to follow her example, Peters could inspire a whole new litigation strategy in the auto industry and other businesses. Working together but filing lawsuits independently, consumers could force companies to go mano a mano with individual plaintiffs in far-flung courtrooms nationwide.
Call it a small-claims flash mob.
This. Is. So. Awesome.
When the great day comes, Wall Street will pray for another Pecora, because compared with the rough beast now beginning to strain at the leash, Pecora will look like Phil Gramm. Humiliation and ridicule, even financial penalties, will be the least of the Street’s tribulations. There will be prosecutions and show trials. There will be violence, mark my words. Houses burnt, property defaced. I just hope that this time the mob targets the right people in Wall Street and in Washington. (How does a right-thinking Christian go about asking Santa for Mitch McConnell’s head under the Christmas tree?) There will be kleptocrats who threaten to take themselves elsewhere if their demands on jurisdictions and tax breaks aren’t met, and I say let ’em go!
At the end of the day, the convulsion to come won’t really be about Wall Street’s derivatives malefactions, or its subprime fun and games, or rogue trading, or the folly of banks. It will be about this society’s final opportunity to rip away the paralyzing shackles of corruption or else dwell forever in a neofeudal social order. You might say that 1384 has replaced 1984 as our worst-case scenario. I have lived what now, at 75, is starting to feel like a long life. If anyone asks me what has been the great American story of my lifetime, I have a ready answer. It is the corruption, money-based, that has settled like some all-enveloping excremental mist on the landscape of our hopes, that has permeated every nook of any institution or being that has real influence on the way we live now. Sixty years ago, if you had asked me, on the basis of all that I had been taught, whether I thought this condition of general rot was possible in this country, I would have told you that you were nuts. And I would have been very wrong. What has happened in this country has made a lie of my boyhood.