Widget Wars

I briefly mentioned in my April 30, 2014 post (The Tom Tom Thumper) that I worked at Olsen Tool Company, a Richfield tool and die shop, for two summers during my college years.  (I also worked there during my two-week Christmas break sophomore year.)  Having been either a student or a teacher for many years, I had a plethora of summer jobs, but none was more physically demanding than my esteemed position as a plastic injection molding press operator at Olsen.  It also was the scene of a cautionary tale about cutting corners.

Olsen was located in the 7400 block of Logan Avenue, a few blocks north of what is now the Best Buy corporate campus on Penn & I-494.  I worked the second shift, which meant reporting for duty at 3:00 in the afternoon and clocking out at 11:00 p.m.  Olsen Tool was a manufacturing enterprise whose main business was the production of small plastic parts which were used in a variety of medical devices and other equipment of various sizes and functions.  We employees referred to those parts as "widgets," because one could not tell by simply looking at the finished product what possible purpose it would serve or what kind of apparatus it would someday be incorporated into.  Business was so good that Kenny Olsen, the owner, employed three shifts of workers, and nary a beat was skipped as one shift ended and another began.  It was almost like the passing of the baton between relay race teammates for each machine at shift change time.
 

The usual process was that the engineers would determine the requirements of the job, based on the specifications of the customer.  This included designing the mold which would be inserted into the press and into which the molten plastic would be injected.  The temperatures of the presses would typically be set at somewhere around 740 degrees, enough to make the sweat drop off of the worker bees like me even if we were merely sitting on the adjacent bench.  (As I will elaborate below, we were never merely sitting.)
 

Olsen Tool used two types of injection molding machines.  The larger ones were about the size of a small bus. They appeared extremely dangerous because the huge metal plates inside the press closed against each other automatically when the operator removed his arm (after inserting the mold) from the machine's interior and slid the protective front glass door closed.  What if those plates didn't wait for the glass door to close? The operator's arm would be obliterated by the crashing red hot steel.  Thankfully, that never happened, and equally thankfully, my job was to operate the smaller, manual machines.

The smaller injection molders resembled a heavy metal rectangular box, approximately 30 inches long, six inches wide and four inches high.  The right half of the box slid on a metal track, which in turn was affixed to a table three feet off the ground.  The left half of the box was stationary at the end of the track  The operator sat sideways at a bench next to the table, with his left elbow facing it.  For eight straight hours he went through the routine of attaching a plastic insert (the mold) through the box's top aperture onto the back (left-hand) wall of the box's interior, then closing the aperture by tugging on a long rubber-coated handle which slid the right side of the box backwards (toward the operator) several inches until it collided with the left side.  When the left and right walls came together, an extra stiff yank on the handle clicked the box into a locked position.  This routine was very similar to using both hands to pull the port side oar of a row boat.

There were two devices, besides the press itself, which the press operator manually controlled.  One was a timer, the other a counter.  At the beginning of each shift, the foreman would advise the press operators exactly how long the press needed to stay in the locked position for each widget.  This amount of time varied anywhere from thirty seconds to, say, sixty seconds, depending on the widget being created inside the press.  The necessity of precision timing was drilled into our little noggins, even if we had been making the same product all week.  If you had to leave your machine for any reason, you never left it in the locked position.  Once the designated time elapsed, the operator would pop open the press from its locked position by delivering an open-handed hard punch to the handle.  This unlocking method did not come easily.  Even with a thick work glove, the heal of my right hand would be bruised half-way through most shifts.
 

Once the press was unlocked, we would slide the right half of the box back on the track to its original position, extract the finished product from the interior of the left side, toss the product into a basket near our feet, click the counter once to record completion of the part, and then start all over again.  It is hard to say which was the toughest part of the job, the mental fatigue from the monotony of the work, the physical drain of sitting next to a machine set at an extraordinarily hot temperature in a small non-air-conditioned factory, or the straining to lock and unlock the box time after time throughout the shift.  One benefit, besides the pay which was very good, is that I could eat and drink like a horse all summer long.  I could get away with doing so because I lost anywhere from six to nine pounds almost every day on the job.
 

Before I conclude with the cautionary tale to which I alluded in the first paragraph, I must write a few sentences about our second shift foreman, John Damon.  John was in his late thirties, a big guy with dark curly hair.  I'm sure he was under a lot of pressure from the demands of the job, including order deadlines. He knew how to read the complicated designs issued by the engineers, and how to operate every piece of equipment in the shop.  He had a surprisingly good sense of humor, all things considered, but he was at his funniest when he wasn't intending to be.  John had a favorite saying whenever he was demonstrating to a newbie how to work a particular machine.  He would say, "Do you see what I mean? Do you get what I'm driving at?"  Sometimes he'd replace that with, "Do you follow my drift?"  Of course we all picked up on that, so throughout the day my fellow laborers and I would ask each other, "Do you see what I mean...?"  (I have found those expressions to be useful in parenting.  My kids can attest to that.)  Whatever glimmer of fun we had on the job, almost all of it was either directly or indirectly attributed to Big John.
 

And now to the promised cautionary tale.  Some parts orders were for a small quantity, requiring production during only a shift or two.  But most of the time we dealt with huge orders, which found us cranking out the same pieces on every shift for the better part of a week, or longer.  Since Olsen Tool ran three shifts, there was a lot of competition among the workers of those shifts as to which operator on a given press could produce the most widgets.  Most of the people working the first shift were veteran adults who set the production bar high.  The folks on my second shift were younger, so what we lacked in experience we made up with being (generally) more energetic and in better condition.  The third shifters were kind of a combination of the two groups, although as I recall there was much more turnover there than on the first two shifts.

One of the first things I would do when I arrived at the shop would be to check the production numbers on "my" machine for the guys who ran it on the first and third shifts.  That gave me an idea of how my output stacked up against my colleagues'.  Some factors beyond our control, such as maintenance, repairs and the productivity of our break time replacements, affected our numbers, but if you looked at a large enough sample size, it was clear who was pulling their weight.  Most of the time the numbers for the three shifts were fairly close.  But then, about two-thirds of the way through the summer, a new third-shifter, "Darrell," arrived, and his numbers left me and my first shift counterpart in the dust.  That's when we had Darrellgate.
 

Darrell was about my age (late teens/early 20's) who worked my press on the third shift.  He was a lanky, laid back dude who strongly resembled Peter Fonda.  The only times I'd see him would be at 11:00, when my shift ended and his began.  As mentioned above, we did not miss a beat on the hand-off of the press between shifts.  As soon as Darrell took my place on the bench, I was outta there.
 

One afternoon at the end of a week during which we'd been making the same product throughout, I reported for work shortly before 3:00, and there was a lot of commotion in the front office.  Kenny and the office manager (Sylvia?), along with John Damon, another foreman and an engineer, were huddled around several boxes of widgets.  It was clear from their agitation that there was a problem.  Of course I was not invited to participate in the discussion, but by the middle of my shift that day the scuttlebutt was all over the shop. What allegedly happened was that Darrell, presumably in a misguided effort to beef up his production tally, had intentionally been "cooking" the widgets for less than the instructed time for that particular product.  For example, if our instructions were to keep the press in the locked position for 45 seconds, he was only keeping it locked for, say, 25 seconds.  Obviously by doing this, he was able to produce significantly more finished goods in an eight hour day than the rest of us.  His methods also enabled him to take longer breaks, and when he wasn't on break, he didn't have to work as hard; he'd still end up with an acceptable (if not splendid) number of finished units.  He probably never figured that finished products would be weighed and measured with a caliper to ensure they met the customer's specifications.  The upshot for Olsen Tool was that all the product produced by Darrell that week (and maybe previous weeks) had to be scrapped.  Bye bye, Darrell.   

Arbitrary And Capricious Traditions

The eighty-fifth All-Star Game is now in the books, and Major League Baseball is taking a two-day break until tomorrow.  How to fill the void?  Easy peasy; you write about it.

It strikes me as ironic that the sport which has been statistics-driven for the longest time is baseball, and yet some of the rules which govern how those statistics are compiled and calculated don't always make the most sense.  What follows below are five examples of typical situations where you have to question the logic of the rules makers.  I believe what is often the case is that the only reason for keeping a rule, versus modifying it, is that "we've always done it this way!"  As Tevye from Fiddler On The Roof exclaimed, "Tradition!"

Consider this Scenario # 1.  The Twins are batting in the bottom of the fourth inning in a scoreless game versus Detroit.  Brian Dozier leads off by hitting a gapper and ends up on second base with a double.  The next batter, Joe Mauer, lofts a deep fly to right field, caught by Tigers' right fielder Torii Hunter.  Even though Hunter still (at age 38) has a cannon for an arm, Mauer's fly ball out is deep enough to allow Dozier to tag up at second and move to third after the catch.  The third batter of the inning, Trevor Plouffe, sends a medium deep fly ball to left field.  Dozier tags, and beats the throw home by Tigers' left fielder Rajai Davis for the first run of the game.  The next man to bat, Josh Willingham, gets called out on strikes to end the inning.
 

The Rule: Even though Dozier would not have scored had Mauer not hit the ball deep enough to move him from second to third, and even though Plouffe's fly ball out was not hit as well as Mauer's fly, Mauer is charged with a time at bat whereas Plouffe is credited with a sacrifice fly and accordingly is not charged with a time at bat.  Thus, Mauer's batting average sinks but the Plouffer's stays the same.  What is the reason for this (arguably silly) dichotomy?  Tradition reigns!  It has always been thus.  See Baseball Rule # 10.08(d). The only fly ball which can potentially be scored as a sacrifice fly is one which directly enables a base runner to score.

Another scenario (Scenario # 2) involving sacrifices results in more puzzlement brought on by tradition.  Let's say the Twins' Sam Fuld is on second base with nobody out in the third inning of a scoreless game against the White Sox. Chris Parmelee, a left handed batter, steps up to the plate.  Bert Blyleven, the Twins' TV analyst, announces to the viewing audience that "Parmelee's job is to get Fuld over to third base." (Heaven forbid Parmelee should accidentally drive in Fuld with a single!)  Sure enough, Parmelee manages to pull the ball on the ground to Sox second sacker Gordon Beckham, who throws out Parmelee at first while Fuld glides easily into third.  Parmelee, even though he "did his job" and gets attaboys from his mates upon returning to the dugout, is charged with a time at bat.  However, if Parmelee would have bunted the ball to Beckham with the same outcome (Parmelee out at first, Fuld moves to third), he would not have been charged with a time at bat.  Instead, he would have been credited with a sacrifice and therefore not charged with a time at bat.

The Rule:  See baseball Rule # 10.08(a).  Once again, tradition dictates. 

Scenario # 3.  The Twins are playing the Royals, who have runners at the corners and one out.  Phil Hughes is pitching to the Royals' designated hitter, Billy Butler, a fine ball player but probably the slowest guy in Kansas City's lineup.  The Twins need a double play to get out of the inning.  Butler proceeds to hit a tailor-made double play ball to shortstop Danny Santana.  Santana gives second baseman Dozier a perfect feed for the force out at second.  But Dozier, momentarily forgetting that the batter, Butler, runs like he's carrying an anvil on his back, rushes his throw, pulling first baseman Chris Colabello off the bag.  Butler is safe.  Had Dozier delivered a strike to Colabello, Butler would have been out by three steps.  The Twins' failure to complete the double play does not end the inning, thereby allowing the runner from third to score. Surely the run is unearned, right?  Wrong!
 

The Rule:  See Baseball Rule # 10.12(d)(3).  Successful completion of a double play cannot be assumed. Since the out was recorded at second, Dozier's errant toss at the tail end of the potential double play does not constitute an error.  Therefore, the run scored is earned.  If you were Phil Hughes, what would you think about your earned run average going up following a play like that?  (Note: If Dozier's throw was so wild that it enabled Butler to reach second base on the play, that would be an error.) 
 

Scenario # 4.  The Brewers are playing the Cubs in Miller Park.  Right before the first pitch, Wisconsin weather radar shows a storm front heading south toward Eau Claire, so the Milwaukee honchos decide to close the roof.  (That last sentence was a joke, although based on personal experience.  You're supposed to smile, if not laugh.)  In the second inning, Jonathan Lucroy leads off with a double, and speedy Carlos Gomez beats out an infield single as Lucroy takes third.  The next man up, Mark Reynolds, hits a deep drive to left center field.  The ball bounces over the outfield fence for a ground rule double.  Lucroy easily jaunts in from third, but what about Gomez, the fastest guy on the team?  If Reynolds' ball had merely hit the fence but did not bounce over it, Gomez would have easily scored from first on the double, but because the ball bounced over the fence, he is allowed to advance only to third base.  See Baseball Rule # 6.09(e).
 

I find this rule to be ludicrous, especially when there are two outs and thus the runner at first does not have to wait to see if the outfielder is going to catch the fly ball.  All but the slowest runners should be able to score from first on a two-out double. 
 

Scenario # 5.  As someone who enjoys keeping score and as someone who likes to peruse box scores, I have always been annoyed by the manner in which the "Left On Base" ("LOB") statistic is calculated.  In my humble view, LOB should reflect how many runners were on base immediately before the last batter of the inning came to the plate. Unfortunately, that reflection is rendered incorrect when the inning ends with a double play.  As the rule currently reads, LOB is calculated after the third out of the inning is recorded.  The following example illustrates my point.
 

Let's say the Yankees' Derek Jeter comes up with one out and the bases loaded with Pinstripes.  If Jeter bounces into a 6-4-3 double play, the official scorer will rule that two men were left on base, on the theory that the runner on first got wiped out/forced out at second before the throw to get Jeter at first was made. Therefore the only two runners stranded were the ones who were on second base and third base when Jeter began his at bat.  In my little mind, the official scoring should state that three (not two) men were left on base, because that's how many runners occupied the bags when Jeter stepped to the plate.  I know some of the wonks will point me to the difference between an individual's LOBs and a team's LOBs, but I'm not buying it.  The LOBs you see in a box score are team LOBs.  Team LOBs, as currently constructed, do not accurately reflect the clutch hitting of a team --the main purported purpose of keeping LOB stats in the first place -- as well as would my LOB algorithm.  Maybe Commissioner Bud Selig could get that changed before he retires this year.        

Movie Review: "Words And Pictures"

"Words And Pictures": B.  Unlike many romantic comedies, the lead players in Words And Pictures do not "meet cute."  He, Jack Marcus (Clive Owen), is a too-sure-of-himself honors English teacher at Croyden Prep School, a high falutin' institution where the students wear uniforms and address their teachers as peers. The principal's office would make most Fortune 500 execs proud, and the one board member we meet (Amy Brenneman) looks like she came straight from the Lafayette Club.  Marcus' cockiness is not limited to the classroom.  It carries over into the faculty break room, where not all of his colleagues warm to his loud monopolization of the conversation.  He is sharp enough to sense this, which makes him continue the conduct even longer.

She, renown artist Dina Delsanto (Juliette Binoche), is a veteran honors art teacher who is new to Croyden. As she informs her students on her very first day, she is not there to acquire their friendship or become anyone's confidant.  Her sole role is to instruct.  She demands a lot from her students, and none of the prep schoolers object; they are serious scholars with Ivy League college ambitions.

Delsanto's strictly business persona applies equally to her faculty relationships.  It takes Marcus less than a minute to figure that out when Delsanto enters the faculty lounge for the first time.  He tries to engage her in his pet word game, but she will have none of it.  She tells him point blank that she expects to be able to lounge when she's in the lounge, without being inconvenienced or annoyed by small talk.  He does not back off -- ever -- during the entire story.

We know from the trailers, if not the title and movie posters, that a philosophical debate over the relative merits of language compared to art is a key element to the plot.  Before deciding to see this movie, I had my doubts as to how convincing any script purporting to stage such a contest involving an entire high school's student body could be.  Director Fred Schipisi and writer Gerald Di Pego proved me wrong.  Marcus and Delsanto are so passionate about their fields, so dynamic in their classrooms, and so good coaching and inspiring their charges that when dozens of teenagers are wrapped up in the discussion, it does not come off as phony.  The kids' general enthusiasm struck me as real.  Part of their enthusiasm is provoked by Marcus and Delsanto. He tells his students, "Words are your gods."  She counters with, "Words are traps."

Of course this wouldn't be a rom-com if there were no spark between the "warring" adults.  Owen gets the benefit of having the more dynamic character with the better lines.  His wit, humor and charm are endearing to a point, but all are counterbalanced by his alcoholism (which we witness early on) and by a surprise ethical lapse which turns the story on its ear.  As for Binoche, well, she is simply one of my favorite actresses.  I have seen many movies in which the chemistry between the two lead actors was more palpable, but any viewer of Words And Pictures would surely recognize that he was watching two accomplished masters of the silver screen.

In addition to the battles of the sexes and the subjects, there are a few side stories interspersed throughout the film.  Some are more successfully told than others.  For example, many minutes are devoted to the bullying and harrassment of one of the female students, Emily (Valerie Tian), by a male classmate.  This element's main purpose, I believe, is to furnish an opportunity for the usually bickering Marcus and Delsanto to join forces.  While there is no denying that bullying is one of the hottest (and most offensive) issues confronting youngsters today, the film's depiction of the related episodes, as well as the resolution, are poorly done. On the other hand, the scenes involving Marcus and his college age son, Tony (Christian Scheider), are extremely well written and acted.  Scheider is excellent as a young man who loves his father, notwithstanding the latter's worsening alcoholism, while at the same time being careful to protect his own space from intrusion and embarrassment at the hands of his father.

This movie has been playing in a first-run theater, the Edina, for almost two months.  The matinee I attended over the weekend was fairly well attended.  Apparently there are a lot of folks who enjoy rom-coms featuring two fine actors playing very smart characters with sometimes witty and usually clever dialogue. 

Quarterly Cinema Scan - Volume XVI

Last month it became painfully obvious that writing movie reviews on a blog does not qualify me as a member of filmdom's cognoscenti.  If I were, I undoubtedly would have loved, or at least pretended that I loved, Louis Malle's bold filmmaking experiment, My Dinner With Andre.  The late film critic, Roger Ebert, called it the best movie of 1981, and the only film he could think of which was "completely devoid of cliches."

The one hundred ten minute movie begins and ends using a first person narrative from the perspective of Broadway playwright and actor Wallace Shawn.  He explains to the viewers that he is headed to a New York City restaurant to dine with a former colleague and friend, theater director Andre Gregory.  Wally has heard, via the grapevine, some disturbing news about Andre's allegedly strange recent behavior.  Wally has not seen Andre in years, so he is curious to see for himself if what he's heard is true.

Once Andre shows up, the two men are quickly seated, and for the next ninety minutes we are "treated" to listening in as they discuss things as deep as the meaning of life, as well as the worth of experimental theater and Andre's exploits as a world traveler and philosopher.  Wally seems truly enraptured by Andre's monologues.  (I hesitate to describe the dinner as a "dialogue" since Andre does 80% or more of the talking.) But, I'm sorry to report, I was bored to tears.  I must have checked the TV clock to see how much time was left every five minutes.  It kind of reminded me of the Minnesota Twins post-game show on FSN, when host Anthony LaPanta asks Roy Smalley a simple question, and Roy prattles on without coming up for air.

When he introduced the film on Turner Classic Movies, Anthony Bourdain, famous for hosting CNN's travel and food program Parts Unknown, cautioned that Malle's film "may not be for everyone."  I can't say I wasn't warned.  Consider this post your warning.

1. The Basketball Diaries (1995 drama; Leonardo DiCaprio is a student and basketball player at a Manhattan Catholic boys high school, and rebels against the system by experimenting with, and becoming addicted to, hard drugs.) B

2. Key Largo (1948 drama; Edward G. Robinson leads a pack of gangsters who hold war hero Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall hostage inside a hurricane-battered hotel owned by Lionel Barrymore.) B+

3. A Man For All Seasons (1966 historical drama; Sir Thomas More (Paul Scofield), an English nobleman and Lord Chancellor, refuses to bless or condone the divorce and proposed new marriage of King Henry VIII (Robert Shaw), whereupon Thomas Cromwell (Leo McKern), the king's chief minister, uses his position and influence to have More tried for treason.) B+

4. The Misfits. (1961 drama; newly divorced Marilyn Monroe pals around with Clark Gable and Eli Wallach, both of whom fall for her in the sticks of Nevada, while she befriends rodeo rider Montgomery Clift.) C

5. My Dinner With Andre (1981 dialogue; Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory have a ninety minute conversation over dinner in a New York City restaurant, weighing in on such topics as the health of the theater and whether one should feel guilty over enjoying simple pleasures such as drinking coffee or reading.) C-

6. Stagecoach (1939 western; John Wayne is an outlaw who gets picked up on the Arizona desert by a stagecoach full of tenderfoots with a sheriff riding shotgun, all of whom are heading for Apache territory.) B+

7. Winchester '73 (1950 western; Jimmy Stewart is a sharpshooter who comes to the aid of the US Cavalry preparing for an Indian shootout, and then goes looking for the varmint who stole the prized rifle Jimmy won back in Dodge City.) B

8. Witness For The Prosecution (1957 courtroom drama; Charles Laughton is a London barrister who, against his cardiologist's directives, defends Tyrone Power in a capital murder case.) A

Album Review: "Ghost Stories" - Coldplay

"Ghost Stories": B+.  Coldplay front man Chris Martin married movie actress Gwenyth Paltrow in December 2002.  Other than Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, Martin and Paltrow have spent most of the last several years as England's most famous couple.  Therefore, when they mutually announced their separation last March, using the euphemism "conscious uncoupling," people who follow celebs were caught off guard.  Coldplay released Ghost Stories, their sixth studio album, less than three months later.  The album is comprised of songs which obviously were inspired by the power pair's breakup. Unlike some song compilations which are labeled as "concept albums" (a structure which I discussed in my March 28, 2012 review of Bruce Springsteen's Wrecking Ball), here there is no quarrel over what the common thread is among the tracks.  Ghost Stories is very personal, from the perspective of one whose world has drastically change by the parting of his mate.

The album's title, Ghost Stories, is clever, because almost all of the songs are addressed in the second person, as if that person was there listening.  Yet, that person is not there, just as one might feel or be aware of the presence of a ghost, even though the tangible entity is not there.  The lead track, Always In My Head, is a good example of how this works.  The singer's woman has vamoosed, but he tells her, anyway, that he can't stop thinking of her.  He lives his life going through the motions, but his heart is fixed on his ex:

My body moves,

Goes where I will, 

But though I try

My heart stays still.

 

The inability of the singer to focus on something or someone else is examined in A Sky Full Of Stars, which has been called the "magnum opus" of Ghost Stories (just as the title track from the band's 2008 album, Viva la Vida, was) and is the song Coldplay sang on various television network appearances to promote the album.   Even looking at the night sky, the singer thinks he sees his former significant other, as in a constellation.  A deeper interpretation -- and one which I favor -- has been proposed by music commentator Philip Terry Graham, who points out that the light of many stars we see from earth has taken a multitude of years to reach us, and by the time it has traveled that unimaginable distance the originating star may well have burned out.  We think we are seeing a star, but in the present time it may no longer be there.  Such a phenomenon is analogous to "seeing" a ghost.

 

What caused the couple to come apart?  The best song on the album, True Love, doesn't directly answer the question, but the singer does lament that his S.O. kept her unhappiness with him a secret instead of engaging in an honest heart-to-heart.

 

... I wish you could have let me know

What's really going on below.

 

Some of the prettiest vocals in True Love recall lines from A Tender Lie, a country song written by Randy Sharp and covered fabulously by Dolly Partin in 2001:

 

Tell me you love me,

If you don't, then lie,

Lie to me.

 

The song inviting the most discussion may be Another's Arms.  Is the singer accusing his lover of unfaithfulness?  Or is the reference to "another's arms" a hopeful statement that someday the singer will find love again with someone else?  Many of Martin's fans are going with the former angle, claiming that Paltrow had a roving eye.  Try Googling "Kevin Yorn."  Conversely, there are  other songs on the album (besides Another's Arms) in which the singer, even though saddened by the recent romantic dissolution, is not giving up on love.  Two examples follow.

 

In Fly On (the first part of the closing track titled O), Martin sings that love is like a flock of birds.  Even when they land, they don't stay forever.  But when they fly off you know that more birds will arrive at some future point.

 

A flock of birds

Hovering above

Just a flock of birds, 

That's how you think of love.

 

In Magic, one of the album's hit singles, the unhappy termination of the singer's love relationship has not soured him on love itself.

 

... if you were to ask me

After all that we've been through

"Still believe in magic?"

Yes, I do.

Yes, I do.

 

Ironically, the title song of this album is not included on the core CD; instead it is offered as one of the three bonus tracks available exclusively through Target.  (Well, okay, the song is titled Ghost Story as opposed to the plural form of the album title.)  In every song but Ghost Story on the album, the ghost in question is presumed to be the singer's ex.  In Ghost Story, it's clear the ghost is the male singer.

 

Maybe I'm just a ghost,

Disappear when anybody's close.

 

And again:

 

What's the point in feeling love for you

When you don't believe I'm here?

 

One of the knocks on Coldplay is that too many of their songs sound the same.  It is a fair point although, assuming the lyrics cover different ground, the sameness of some melodies does not materially detract from my enjoyment of their offerings.  (I wrote "materially" because the overall pace of the record is a little too languid to suit me.)  One wonders, though, if the band is aware of the criticism.  If so, they are unconcerned, as evidenced by the placement of Magic and Ink, two tunes with similar percussion, back-to-back as the second and third tracks.

 

In my above-cited Wrecking Ball post I wrote that "it is not unusual for [a concept] album, in its totality, to be greater than the sum of its parts."  The same applies to Ghost Stories.  The album tells a story in a manner which is very lyrical, mystic and often beautiful.  Individually, however, only two of the songs, True Love and A Sky Full Of Stars, stand out and belong on a list of the cream of Coldplay's fourteen year long catalogue.  The other songs rely on their respective places within the context of the album's concept.

Dillon Hall Diaries: Personal Prophecies And Yellow Caps

It is my understanding that Facebook members have Throwback Thursday every week.  I do not participate in Facebook, but I do post occasionally on ND Nation, a discussion board for Notre Dame alums and fans. Throwback Thursdays have not made an appearance on NDN.  Instead, we have Confession Fridays.  If a poster feels guilty or embarrassed about something personal, such as liking the Backstreet Boys or drinking foo foo cocktails, he can get it off his chest by coming clean on Fridays with a confessional post.  He may get ridiculed or drilled with some replies that are zingers -- his penance, you might call it -- but he'll go forward with a clear conscience and a sense of relief.

Since today is Friday, I thought I might employ a similar approach for this post.  I hereby confess that, over the years, I have continued to get a kick out of what could be labeled the "Personal Prophecy Game." Hopefully that does not make me a bad person, but if it does, so be it.  No one is perfect, least of all me.

The Genesis: My first exposure to the Personal Prophecy Game was in the winter of my sophomore year at Notre Dame.  Our basketball team had a road game against Michigan State on a weekend night, and five of us decided that the Irish needed our support in that hostile environment.  There was no love lost between ND students and Michigan, only in those days it was the Spartans, not the Wolverines, that got our hackles up.  So, we piled into a friend's car to make the round trip to East Lansing, a distance of approximately one hundred fifty miles from The Bend.  As we were driving through Niles, Dowagiac or some other small burg in southwestern Michigan, we saw a bedraggled guy stumbling along the sidewalk with a bottle of cheap wine in his grasp.  "Hey Sully," one of my companions called out to our friend riding shotgun, "that's you in five years!"  Thus, the Personal Prophecy Game was born; group hilarity ensued.

Since that initial joke went over so well, we kept it up every time we spotted some down-on-his-luck, oddly dressed or erratically acting Michigander.  Sometimes, in the interest of good sportsmanship, I suppose, the jokester would make himself the butt of the wisecrack by proclaiming, "That's me in five years," as he pointed out a clueless target.

That good natured (although certainly unchristian, not to mention juvenile) ribbing reoccurred all the way to the Michigan State campus.  In our defense, it's important to point out that no one outside the confines of the car was aware of our Personal Prophecies.  Of course, that didn't make it right, but we were quite pleased that we were able to entertain ourselves for the duration of what would otherwise have been an uneventful ride.

The Middle Stages: Notre Dame hosts a reunion weekend every year in early June.  The classes that have graduated exactly five years, or a multiple of five years, prior to the reunion year are invited.  The first one I attended was my twenty year reunion in 1989.  The two most memorable things about that weekend were the beer tents stationed on the North Quad until 2:00 in the morning, and Lou Holtz making the rounds to talk to each of the ten or more classes which were separately assembled for their class dinners throughout campus.  This was the year after Lou's football team had won the National Championship in just his third season at the helm.  As Lou spoke he had all of us wrapped around his little finger, and believing that, finally, the gridiron glory days of Fighting Irish football were now permanently restored.

One reunion tradition is that members of the class celebrating its fiftieth year as alums are presented with yellow ND baseball caps.  (Why they are not gold, to be consistent with the university's colors of blue and gold, is an unsolved mystery.)  Thus, another recollection from that twenty year gathering was watching the fifty year guys, who (if my math is correct) graduated in 1939, donning their yellow caps.   Although my classmates and I were in our early forties, far removed from our crazy college years, the fifty year gents seemed borderline ancient.  We thought they certainly appeared to be much more than thirty years older than us.

Even at the second reunion I attended, which was ten years later in 1999, the guys in the yellow caps clearly bore little resemblance to us.  They moved more slowly, had less hair, drank less beer, didn't seem that impassioned about the football team, and went to bed a whole lot earlier than my fellow '69ers.  Many of them never even made an appearance at the beer tents!

Nearing The End:  Earlier this month I attended my forty-fifth year ND reunion.  Although many of my classmates have never missed any of our eight previous reunions, this year's gathering was only the third time for me.  The fifty year "boys" and their spouses were lodged in the Morris Inn.  (An aside: My two "wish list" items regarding campus visits are to stay in the Morris Inn and to watch a football game from the press box. To date, I have done neither.)  The next oldest class, mine, was given the honor of being housed in the newest dorm, Ryan Hall, built in 2009.  Ryan, which happens to be a women's dorm during the school year -- none of the twenty-nine residence halls at ND is coed -- bears little resemblance to the guys' dorms of yesteryear.  Elevators, air conditioning, a beautiful lobby/sitting room, cushy hallway carpets, brightly lit and nicely tiled lavatories, wood paneling in the common areas; this place makes Dillon look like a quonset hut.

Our class Mass was celebrated by a classmate, Father John Sheehan, SJ, in the Ryan Hall Chapel.  After introducing himself, Father John assured us that even though there would be no collection basket making its way through the pews, what followed would, in fact, qualify as a bona fide Mass.  He also thanked the class reunion organizers for deciding to dispense with singing (although we did end up singing the Notre Dame Alma Mater as an ad hoc recessional).

The most sobering moment of the Mass occurred when the list of the names of our deceased classmates was read from the pulpit.  I was expecting maybe a dozen, or at most a couple of dozen.  No; if only we'd been that lucky. Instead, one hundred fifty names were recited.  One hundred fifty!  I was stunned.  That number represented over ten percent of the Class of '69.

Although mortality, especially my own, was the farthest thing from my mind when I'd set foot on campus earlier that Friday afternoon, the litany of our departed mates brought such thoughts to the fore.  Memories of the Personal Prophecy Game crept into my head.  When we were young, the unlikely connections between the game's jokesters and the targets were absurd.  There was a direct correlation between the level of absurdity and the degree of humor. Now a mere five years separated us sixty-niners from the gents in the yellow caps.  Where did the absurdity go?  We could no longer pretend (or hope) that we were so far removed from the museum pieces. Maybe in the eyes of the young alums, we were the museum pieces! Taking a good look at those guys hobbling out of the Morris Inn gave us a reasonable forecast of how we'd look at our next reunion, if, indeed, we make it that far.  I looked at some of them and said to myself, "That's me in five years."      

Movie Review: "Jersey Boys"

"Jersey Boys": A-.  During the eighteen month period immediately preceding the Beatles' first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964, the two biggest music groups on the Billboard Magazine Hot 100 singles chart were, by far, the Beach Boys from Hawthorne, California, and the 4 Seasons from Belleville, New Jersey. The Beach Boys had eight songs in the Top 40 during that stretch, while the 4 Seasons charted with ten. Neither of those two human hit machines was derailed by the British Invasion, as the Beach Boys went on to record twenty-six more Top 40 singles after the Sullivan show, and the Four Seasons nineteen more (plus eight by Frankie Valli).  Other than Elvis Presley, the Beach Boys and the 4 Seasons arguably were the biggest American recording acts during the first two decades of the pop 'n' rock era.  Jersey Boys, directed by Clint Eastwood and derived from the mega hit Broadway play bearing the same name, is the story of the 4 Seasons.

The face of the 4 Seasons was, of course, its lead singer, Frankie Valli, whose real name was Francis Castelluccio.  His falsetto voice was the trademark of the group, easily and instantly recognizable on every 4 Seasons tune.  Actor John Lloyd Young, who won a Tony Award for his role as Valli in the Broadway play, not only hits all the right notes, but also resembles Valli in his youth.  The brains of the outfit was Bob Gaudio (Erich Bergen), who along with the band's usual producer, Bob Crewe (Mike Doyle), wrote the overwhelming majority of the 4 Seasons' catalogue.  It is surprising, therefore, that the central character throughout much of the film is Tommy DeVito (Vincent Piazza), the guitarist and background vocalist who put the singers together when they were teenagers and, in his words, was responsible for "running the group." Director Eastwood uses each of the band members as narrators (talking directly to the camera) at various stages throughout the story.  DeVito is the narrator for most of the first third of the movie, so even though there are many dislikable traits about him, we hang in there with him and see his good side as well.

Piazza is perfect as the talented punk who regularly makes the mistake of seeing himself as being a bigger shot than he is.  Tommy is somewhat of a Rat Pack wannabe, idolizing fellow Jersey celebrity Frank Sinatra. It becomes painfully apparent to all but Tommy that, if Valli or Gaudio should split, the 4 Seasons would be rendered toast.  Tommy really has no leverage.  Yet, somehow he uses his charisma and chutzpa for a long time to control the band's direction.

It seems like almost every movie which takes place in New Jersey instills The Garden State almost as a separate character in and of itself.  Things happen which wouldn't probably otherwise occur if not for the fact that the setting is Jersey.  Thus, the title of the film ( and play) is most apropos.  The characters' backgrounds helped to mold them into the adults they became, whether for better or worse.  There is almost a swinging gate connecting the neighborhood with the Rahway state pen, and the boys in the band find themselves on the wrong end of the law consistently.  The "Jersey Factor" is particularly evident in the relationship between Frankie and Tommy.  Sure, if Tommy hadn't exerted his influence early on, the 4 Seasons may never have formed, but Tommy almost single handedly brings down the group due to his mismanagement of money and his inability to consider points of view other than his own.

This being Jersey, the story has to have a mobster, and in fact the movie features two.  Norm Waxman (Donnie Kehr) is a hood whose job is to put the squeeze on Tommy when the loan repayments on Tommy's debt to the mafia become delinquent.  If Jersey Boys has a scene stealer, it is Christopher Walken playing Gyp DeCarlo, the Godfather of the Newark metropolitan area.  He takes an interest in Valli early on, and impresses on the young man that, should the need arise, Valli should not hesitate to call upon DeCarlo for a favor.  That is a directive which Valli never forgets.

No review of Jersey Boys would be complete without a comment on the music.  Pick any superlative adjective which comes to mind, and it fits the score.  I would have a hard time choosing between "sensational" and "extraordinary."  The songs alone are strong enough to warrant the price of admission. There will never be another band quite like the 4 Seasons.

Finally -- and if you follow this blog and remember my June 7, 2013 review of The Sapphires, you knew this was coming -- a word or two about ensemble films.  One of the best features of Jersey Boys is that all four of the band members' individual stories are revealed, even (albeit to a smaller degree) that of big lovable lug Nick Massi (Michael Lomenda), the bass singer.  This is an essential ingredient for storytelling concerning a small group, and Eastwood comes through.  Having the narration on a rotation helps, but even if there was no narrator at all, congratulations to the script writers, Marshall Brickman and Rick Elice, for resisting the temptation to make this a narrower story of Frankie Valli and three sidemen.  It is much more than that.