Shotgun Daddy

Mixed, Part II

Last Sunday we drove into Little Tokyo to visit the Japanese American National Museum and view the museum's newest exhibit, a collection of photographs based on Kip Fulbeck's new photo book, Mixed. (Here's what I wrote last week about the book.)

We knew that only a small number of the photos in the book would be included in the museum show, but I had been exchanging emails with Kip's assistant, and she had casually mentioned that she thought we would be excited with the exhibit.  We took this to mean that Alison's photo had made the cut, so we arranged a trip to the museum with Alison's grandmother; her great aunt; and her aunt, uncle, and cousin visiting from Colorado.  Along with our own five-person family, we formed nine-person entourage for Alison as we walked into the museum.

And here's where things got crazy.  Alison's photograph was not technically in the exhibit; it was at the entrance of the show, the first face that visitors see as they walk in.  Alison stood in front of her larger-than-life photograph, smiling proudly -- but she wasn't nearly as proud as I was.

Mixed

When I've written about books or movies on this site in the past, it's usually been because someone has sent me something to review or because I've wanted to share something I found entertaining or interesting.

This time is different.

Photographer Kip Fulbeck has just released Mixed: Portraits of Multiracial Kids, a collection of photos of children who don't fit into the boxes that society (and census forms) used to insist on placing them in.  The photographs are beautiful, and not just because the children are beautiful, resplendent in all colors.  Fulbeck's lens captures the personalities behind the portraits: a boy and his guitar, a girl and her retainer, two twins dancing with joy.  Most importantly, every child is an individual, every child -- save a few who are fussy -- is smiling and happy.

And that's what Fulbeck is trying to tell us.  Sure, these children are all beautiful -- as you turn the pages you will be struck by honey-brown eyes, softly curling hair, and skin tones ranging from café au lait to warm cocoa.  But beneath all of that, these are still just kids.  (But don't just take my word for it, visit Fulbeck's website and click VIDEO to see some of the photographs and listen as Fulbeck describes his project.)

There was no book like this when I was a child.  For much of my youth, the only biracial person in my life was the face looking back at me in the mirror, and I struggled with my cultural identity until I was almost thirty years old.  I even rejected the "mixed" label, simply because I didn't like the way it sounded.  

Because of all this, my wife and I were excited to take Alison, Henry, and Kate to an open call photo shoot for the book about a year ago.  A few dozen families were there, and even though I had never met any of them before, they all seemed somewhat familiar.  A black father would hand a musubi to his hungry child, a white mother would comb the kinks out of her daughter's nappy hair, and the air was filled with conversations describing intricate family trees.  It was a blessing just to be in the room.

The book was released this week, and Alison's photo was included.  (You can also see her in the video mentioned above.)  What a difference a generation makes.  When I was ten years old, I didn't know anyone else like me, but today my ten-year-old daughter's smiling face can be found on the pages of a book celebrating multi-racial children.  

Absolutely amazing.

The Double-Edged Facebook Sword

Okay, here's the thing.  I love Facebook.  I got on board early, about two years ago, and it's been pretty amazing.  My stories probably aren't any different than your stories, but I'll tell them anyway.  

I grew up in four different cities in Michigan, Illinois, and California, and each time we moved I left a group of friends behind, presumably never to be heard from again.  Enter Facebook.  I made contact with my very first best friend, the girl who lived across the street from me in Michigan when I was five years old, and a few months later I found my next best friend, a guy who lived two doors from me in Irvine, California, during my early teens.  I've reconnected with dozens of friends from two different high schools, and even more from college.  In fact, just last year, in a shining example of the magic of Facebook, I was shopping at the mall when I ran into a friend that I hadn't seen for more than twenty-five years.  If we hadn't friended each other earlier that same week, we never would've recognized each other.

I'm in constant touch with countless friends, and even though the news I get from them is about what they had for dinner or how many goals their children scored in the Saturday soccer game, it's still news, and I still feel like I'm in their lives.

I love Facebook.

But I also hate Facebook.  Here's why.

1. The Friend Collector

This is the person who has 874 friends and gains some sort of validation from this number.  Just because our daughters played soccer together four years ago, we do not need to be friends.

2. The Networker

There was a large girl who lived in the dorm next door during my freshman year of college.  She wasn't overweight, just large.  Warrior princess large.  Since her shoulders were wider than mine, and since we weren't very nice, we started referring to her as the Linebacker.  She and I had lots of friends in common, but I'm fairly positive that we never spoke a single word to each other.  We are now friends on Facebook, and I have no idea why.  The whole thing makes me feel dirty.

3. The Hawker

If I get one more suggestion to buy Girl Scout cookies through Facebook, I think I'll scream.  Come to think of it, I'm really looking forward to the day when I can walk into a grocery store without being accosted by seven-year-olds pushing Thin Mints and Tagalongs, but I digress.

4. The Minutiae Monitor

I don't need to know that you just finished folding your socks.  I don't need to know that you're watering the lawn.  And I really don't need to know that you're bored.  This is painfully obvious.

5. The Complainers

Facebook changes a lot.  Deal with it.

6. The Peer Pressurers

96% of the people reading this will agree with me, but only 22% of them will copy and paste this as their status to spread the word of this cause.  Are you one of the 22%?

7. The Secret Keepers

I don't really care what color your bra is.  Okay, maybe I do.  

8. The Game Players

I have never played, and will never play, Mafia Wars, Bejeweled, or whatever else it is that you might be interested in.  Please don't invite me, and please don't tell me that you've rescued a motherless possum while searching for brass knuckles in the parlor with Colonel Mustard.  Stop it.

9. The Exhibitionists

This is a big one.  If I am related to you, please do not post nude photos of yourself.  Seriously.

So there you have it Facebookers.  If you fall into any of those categories, now you know why you've mysteriously disappeared from my friend list.  Which reminds me of #10.

10. The Rebounders

If we were friends once upon a time, but then you notice that we aren't anymore, please don't send me another friend request.  You were probably removed for a reason.

The Planet 51 Giveaway!

In order to help promote today's DVD and Blu-Ray release of Planet 51, the good folks at Sony Pictures Home Entertainment have asked me to help them out with a giveaway.  So if you've got a PlayStation3 (and if you don't, you really should), all you have to do to get in on the action is leave a comment to this post and be sure to include the number 51 in whatever clever thing you have to say.  Also, be sure to leave your email address so I can get in touch with you when you win!

The contest will close 51 hours from right now -- or 5:00 AM Pacific time on Thursday morning.  Good luck!

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs

 If you have a child under ten, there's a pretty good chance that you've seen this movie.  Here's how things work in our family:

1. A children's movie is released.

2. We see the movie within 12 hours.

3. Before the movie begins we're treated to the coming attractions, advertising more children's movies that will be released in six months.

4. Eventually those movies are released.

5. Return to Step 1, repeat for the next ten years.

The sad truth of the matter is that a lot of these movies are disastrous and end up putting me to sleep within about twenty minutes.  Every once in a while, though, a movie arrives that lives up to my daughter's hype.  Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is just that movie.

Now, I have to admit that I wasn't too excited to see this film.  The previews were full of food falling from the sky, and that just didn't make too much sense to me.  But then a funny thing happened.  It turned out the story wasn't really about meatballs and spaghetti and sardines -- it was about Flint, a young boy recovering from the loss of his mother, yearning for the respect of his father, and searching for his place in the world, all while falling in love with a beautiful girl.  

Isn't that the trick of most good movies, especially good children's movies?  While the kids are busy stuffing their cheeks with popcorn and laughing at giant Jell-O molds falling from the sky, their parents will be identifying with the main character's father issues, remembering when they first fell in love, and reminding themselves always to appreciate the accomplishments of their children, no matter how bizarre.

If you saw the film, you already know all this, but if you didn't (or even if you did), I've got good news for you: the DVD comes out today.  (I was lucky enough to get a copy last week, and the movie was just as good as we remembered it.)  So swing by your local video store and pick up a copy.  Tell 'em ShotgunDaddy sent you, and you just might get a discount!*

* In no way does the mentioning of the possibility of a discount imply a connection between ShotgunDaddy.com and your local video store.  No reasonable person should expect a discount simply for saying the words "ShotgunDaddy sent me!"  It is possible, however, that the employee at your local video store could make a mistake. For example, instead of ringing up $14.99, he or she might hit the 9 only once and charge you $1.49 instead, which would be pretty cool.  On the other hand, he or she might hit the 9 three times, charging you $149.99, which would not be cool.  In this instance, ShotgunDaddy.com is in no way responsible for any additional charges incurred.  We suggest that you pay attention at the register.

Boston Robbery

If you watch any of the reality televison competition shows, you know that the attraction isn’t the competition so much as the outsized personalities and the drama they create. We watch the Bachelor because we wonder who in the world would be willing to choose a wife over the course of several weeks, and we puzzle over the women who would allow themselves to be chosen. We tune in to the Apprentice not because we want to gain insight into big business, but because we can’t wait to watch the junior businessmen and women cut each other up in the board room. And so if you watch these shows, you probably know the reigning King and Queen of Reality, Rob and Amber. If you’ve been living under a rock (or more accurately, if you’ve been living a normal, well-adjusted life free from the addictions of television), here’s a short course: Boston Rob first appeared on Survivor: Marquesas where his abrasive personality and cocky attitude made him a star. Amber showed up on Survivor: Australia a few years later. Neither won, but both were interesting enough to earn an invitation to Survivor:All-Stars, where they formed an alliance, controlled every aspect of the game, and fell in love. Having ridden their romance to the final two, Rob proposed to Ambah on the final episode, moments before the votes were read. (Amber won the million, but it hardly mattered; the Robfather got the girl and her money, too.) The power couple then did exactly what you might expect -- they continued riding the wave. They got married on national television and then jumped at the chance to compete on another show, the Amazing Race. They lost. Next they produced their own reality show, Rob and Amber: Against the Odds, in which Rob convinces Amber to move to Las Vegas so he can pursue his dream of becoming a professional poker player. In the final episode of that show, the couple received a call inviting them to take yet another shot at a million dollars on the Amazing Race: All-Stars. And that’s where I came in. It’s ironic that Rob wears his Red Sox cap wherever he goes (he even had Amber wear a matching one on Amazing Race), because the two of them are really more like the Yankees: you either love them or you hate them. Not surprizngly, I love them, so I packed my TiVo with their Against the Odds show and the Amazing Race. Against the Odds falls into that genre of reality TV that makes you wonder two things: one, just how hard is it to get your own show? and two, why exactly am I watching this? There are no games, no one is voted off the island, and nothing really happens -- but I watched and loved every episode. Whether I was watching them pick out cars (Rob: convertible Porsche, Amber: sensible SUV) or furniture, I simply couldn’t tear myself away. There was a downside, though. Whenever you look this closely at someone, you can’t help but see the warts. As much as I love Rob, he’s kind of a neandrethal. When he chooses not to answer his phone while playing poker, he explains it away: “My cell phone kept ringing, and I knew it was Ambah, but I was working!” And as clever as Amber appeared on Survivor, here she seems sadly vapid, saying things like, “I’m really excited that Rob wants me to come watch his tournament!” Truth be told, I liked them a lot better when they were playing the role of Mr. and Mrs. Puppetmaster in the jungles of Borneo. But like I said, I couldn’t get enough, even with the warts, so I jumped into the Amazing Race with both feet. Predictably, all of the other competing pairs hated the Chosen Ones, but Rob and Amber still managed to dominate the early stages, smirking all the while. But sadly, just as they were threatening to turn the race into a victory tour, their tragic flaws did them in. To their credit, though, they even managed to lose with the smirks firmly in place. Consistently cocky to the end. All of this, of course, begs one question: why do Rob and Amber do this? There’s a big financial incentive (million dollar prizes, a free wedding, etc.), but is that it? Fame is a powerful drug, and these two are clearly addicted. I can’t blame them, though. My wife and I appeared on a reality show several years ago, and although we had other motives, I like when we’re recognized, even though it rarely happens. Rob and Amber are certainly recognized every single day, but I bet they still like it. But don’t judge. Afterall, what’s worse, the addicts like Rob and Amber, or the people like us who are addicted to them?

Freckles and Tea

In the waning days of the summer of 1983 I attended my first concert ever, and it was a doozy. There were many tours that summer -- Talking Heads, Tom Petty, Tears for Fears, Steve Miller -- but the biggest by far was the Police’s Synchronicity Tour. Sting, Stewart Copeland, and Andy Summers were on top of the world, and they headed into the Hollywood Park racetrack with three opening acts: Berlin, the Fixx, and the Thompson Twins. (Yes, this was the 80s...) What makes this story interesting, though, is that since I was only thirteen and my step-brother Peter only twelve, we would not be allowed to go alone. My mother took us. In case you’re only thirteen years old and you’re thinking about asking your mom to take you to a concert, you can use this story as a case study of what not to do. Here’s how it went... The first thing you need to know is that September is probably the hottest month in Southern California, and this was a typical September day. The Thompson Twins were scheduled to start things off in the early afternoon, so we arrived for the general admission show at about noon, which gave us plenty of time to bake in the sun. Coincidentally, there was a group of teenage girls sitting directly in front of us who were getting baked while baking in the sun. (Their mothers were not in attendance.) There was one particular girl, probably about fifteen or so, who spent an awful lot of time with the pipe in her mouth. Her brown hair was cut daringly short, just like all the cool kids of the day, and freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, souvenirs, no doubt, of countless summer days spent lounging on the beach. If ever there was a teachable moment, this was it, and my mom took full advantage. As Freckles drifted further and further into her purple haze, my mom became more and more disgusted. "Just look at her," she said. "She's here with her friends at this big concert, and she's not going to remember any of it!" For years it was the image of Freckles trying to keep her eyelids open that served as my own personal anti-drug campaign. But there were other interesting aspects of the day, like when Pete and I went to buy some soda and missed the Thompson Twins' entire set. Or when I had the pleasure of sitting next to my mother while Terri Nunn writhed around on the stage screaming "I'm a slut!" Or when alcohol mixed with pounding sun and boredom between sets to produce the biggest melee I've ever seen. (It was at about this time, I would later learn, that a young Gwen Stefani had the pleasure of shaking Sting's hand, a meeting which -- no doubt -- propelled her to a career in music.) When the Police finally took the stage the sun had finally retreated behind the grandstand and given way to a much cooler evening, but the damage could be seen everywhere. Shirtless men showed off bright red backs, and Freckles and her friends looked like they were waiting to be tucked in. Sadly, the music itself doesn't hold as strong a place in my memory as all the rest of it. In fact, there are only two things that I remember for certain about the performance. First, when they played "King of Pain," I remember wondering why the crowd insisted on singing "it's the same old SHIT as yesterday," when the lyric was clearly supposed to be "same old thing." Second, instead of taking an intermission, Sting imposed his British will and the band retreated to their dressing room for a tea break which was broadcast on jumbo screens for all to see. It was all quite civilized until Sting and Stewart staged a fight and flipped over the tea table. Definitely, an omen of things to come... As soon as the show was over, my mom gathered us up and headed to the parking lot, oblivious to our assurances that there would be an encore. The day had already been much more than she had bargained for. As we were searching in the dark for the family car, we heard the crowd roar in the distance, and then the music started again. We had been right about the encore, but it hardly mattered. On that night the Police became my favorite band. I wore the tour t-shirt proudly on the first day of school later that week, and almost every Friday for the rest of that year. The following year I would find myself in a new school far from my old friends, but it was the Police who came to my rescue. I fell in with a group of tenth graders who spent much of July and August -- and by that I mean every single day -- swimming in my backyard pool. The soundtrack of that summer was Outlandos D'Amour. We listened to it hundreds of times until we owned each of Steward Copeland's drum riffs, anticipated every lilt of Sting's voice, and memorized every aspect of Andy Summers's guitar solos. I cannot listen to any of those songs without feeling the sting of chlorine in my eyes. Eventually I would have all of their albums and follow Sting deep into his solo career, but there was always a regret. If I had seen that concert after becoming a fan, how much better would it have been? Thankfully, I'll finally be able to get an answer this summer. In celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of "Roxanne," the boys have mended the fences well enough to plan what should be the biggest tour of the summer. They'll be playing Dodger Stadium in June, and I'll be there. Tickets went on sale on Monday morning at 10:00 AM, and even though I was teaching class at the time, I was still able to sneak onto my computer long enough to buy two tickets before they sold out at 10:30. The price really didn't matter, because there was no price I wouldn't have paid. I'll finally get to see the encore I've been waiting twenty-four years to hear. And who knows -- maybe I'll even see Freckles again.

Infrequently Asked Questions

What's a Mellow Hut?

Isn't it self-explanatory? It's a place where you can hang out and relax while talking about cool stuff. Picture a grass hut on a Tahitian beach, like in a Gauguin painting. That's a mellow hut. Wouldn't you like to hang out in a mellow hut?

Why another web site?

The reason for starting a site, I suppose, is to save your friends and families from whatever it is you normally rant about when sending e-mails, dominating dinner discussions, or talking in your sleep. The site, then, serves a dual purpose. You have the opportunity to send your opinions out into the great beyond, and your loved ones have the opportunity to live their lives in peace. And so it shall be with this site.

What are you writing about now?

I’m sure the answer to this one will be ever-evolving, but for now I’ll be writing about all things media related. I’ll review movies, discuss books, ramble about gadgets, complain about cancellations, worship the genius box (idiot box + TiVo = genius box), and do my best to convince everyone in the free world to put a TiVo on top of their television.

How often will you post?

At least once a day, probably more.

Are you serious?

No, that would be crazy.

Why would I want to come back?

You’ll come back because, quite simply, you won’t be able to get enough. You listen to music, you watch TV, you're willing to pay ten or eleven bucks to go to the movies, and you love to read. You're addicted to flickering images and the satisfaction that comes with turning a page of printed text. Most importantly, though, you know you can turn off the TV about as easily as you can turn off the sun. Welcome home.

Is media really that important?

You bet your ass. For most people of my generation, all of life’s major signposts are marked by some form of media, and it is no different for me. Devo's "Whip It," sends me directly back to the sixth grade; when I hear Louis Armstrong's "A Kiss to Build a Dream On" I’m suddenly transported to my wedding day, my wife in my arms. In fact, when my wife and I were falling in love, we took it as a sign of our shared destiny when we discovered a shared love of an old Christopher Guest/Martin Short SNL sketch, laughing hysterically as we pointed at each other saying, "Hey, you -- I know you!" Clearly, we were meant to be. For me, though, it goes deeper. Take today for instance. I stood in front of my class reading a play with my students when I came across this line: "Mr. Dussel is standing at the window, looking down fixedly at the street below." And because of that I had a line from an obscure Cure song running through my head for the rest of the day: "...all six eyes stared fixedly on you." Because of one word. But that’s just the beginning. When I think protest movements, I don’t think Susan B. Anthony, I think "Donna Martin graduates!" When the temperature climbs into the nineties, I inevitably tell someone that it’s "Africa hot," parroting a line from a play I’ve never read, a movie I’ve never seen. If that’s not good enough, I’ll invoke Eddie Murphy doing James Brown: "It’s hot in the hot tub!" Speaking of Murphy, whenever I find a shoe I’ve been looking for I have to shout out "My shoe!", thanks to all the time I spent listening to his Delirious record in the ninth grade. Sometimes these references are made purely for my own enjoyment. Whenever I meet someone named Carl, I immediately say, "Hey, Carl!" Carl thinks I’m being friendly, but I’m really doing a Judd Nelson line from The Breakfast Club. And even though none of my students were born when Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was in the theaters, I can’t help myself when their vacant stares are the only response to a tricky question. "Anyone? Anyone?"

Again, is media really that important?

Media isn’t really that important in the grand scheme of things, obviously. Books, music, television shows, and movies are meant only as diversions. But in the right situation -- when a lyric falls into the right ear or when the line from a movie finds its way into the vernacular -- these things are important. How else can you explain that every time Charles Barkley had a big game newspapers across the country ran the same headline: "Charles in Charge." Why does everyone in America know the zip code of Beverly Hills? Why will the line "Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout Willis?" get a laugh in any situation?

Enough already. When does the fun begin?

It already has. Enjoy.