Hawaii-5-0.
Great show from the 70s. Cool as you can get. Cops in Hawaiian shirts, pissa theme song and lots of great scenery and chicks in bikinis. I’m glad they waited for a generation to pass who had never seen the original.
The chance you take on rebooting a show is that it ultimately pales in comparison to the original.
Jean Smart appears as the Hawaiian Governor and Minister of Exposition who explains that Steve McGarrett is her first choice to lead an elite, Untouchables-like team that is above reproach.
She explains she’s read his file and was impressed with his six years with the Navy SEALS, five years in Naval Intelligence, a tour of duty in Vietnam while still in the womb, and his record of once bludgeoning a man to death using only his engorged penis.
Instead of showing respect to the governor, he blows her off and says she’s out of her league, until he finds out that taking the job is the only way he’ll get to avenge his father’s death.
Naturally, instead of reviewing files, past records and conducting interviews, the best way to put together an elite team is to just walk around and recruit whoever you tend to run into.
“Hey, guy from LOST!” McGarrett seems to say. “You seem generically Asian, come join our merry band/task force.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a hot chick relative who wears bikinis a lot do you? Actually, lets hold off on that until after the third commercial break when people start to lose interest because they have to work the next day.”
Scott “Yep, James Caan is my dad.” Caan steps into the role of Danno,a natural partner for Steve McGarrett since they have that great alpha-dog-mine-is-bigger-than-yours competitive thing that passes for macho camaraderie on TV.
The show might turn out to be one of my favorites.
It’s got all the great stuff the original show had, they’re just going through the complicated setup. Every show does it the first time out of the shoot.
Time will tell.
Oh yeah. One other thing, Jack Lord had better hair than Alex O'Loughlin.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Hack Diaries: Tales of Adventure
So I was faced with an ethical dilemma Saturday. I’d picked up a fare at 1000 Southern Artery, which is usually populated with the elderly and occasionally the variously trouble. So when this guys showed up wearing tan Dockers and a tee shirt, pretty much how I’d be dressed if I was allowed to be a bit more casual, I hopped out and popped the trunk and placed his suitcase into the cab’s trunk.
We made the small talk one usually makes with a cab driver once feels comfortable with.
"Yes the weather is nice," he said. It was sunny and around the mid 70s so I agreed.
We observed it was Sept 11.
“Man, hard to believe that was nine years ago.”
“Isn’t it,"I agreed. "It’s a different world since then."
And sports.
“I’ll tell you," he said, the closest he'd come to controversy, but I was still on his side. "Steroids have because as part of the game as a bat and a ball. They know they’re using them, and they’re lying if they say they didn’t know it."
A pleasant enough conversation over the ten minutes to the T station, I popped the trunk and took his bag out for him while he ran the credit card machine and gave me a $2 tip.
I finished up logging the trip in the front seat, then I looked to the right and saw him walking up the T station with a huge split down the back of his pants. If he'd ripped them getting out of the cab, he would have, and worse, I would have heard it. It wasn’t so much a split as it was like he was wearing a pair of assless Dockers.
He’d seemed pleasant, perhaps I should go tell him? He was on his way to the T, so he’d be sitting down, maybe no one would notice. No, the crowd was already pointing and giggling.
Fortunately. I was lucky enough to get another call so I could be off without wrestling my conscience any further.
Which brings up an important point. Crazy people seem to like me. I’m not sure if they perceive me to be a good listener or if they are just able to smell one of their own. One pickup needed a ride from a local drug store to a rental apartment complex. I can’t say which one, because he seems to believe he is a marked man and that members of both the Taliban and the Mossad have his photo on the wall of their Honeycomb hideout and use it for target practice with their Kalashnikovs. A veteran of Desert Storm, I thanked him immediately for his service before he even began to open up on his further exploits of having dropped C4 in the cocaine stores hidden beneath Manuel Noriega’s command bunker several stories beneath the Panama Canal and spitting in the face of Muammar al-Gaddafi1 after his fetishistic assassination, which he'd confessed was something of a pet project for some time, was cancelled for some reason or another. Despite, this deep black ops, special service work., my fare is getting special medication and renting an apartment. Damn system. Just ain't fair.
We made the small talk one usually makes with a cab driver once feels comfortable with.
"Yes the weather is nice," he said. It was sunny and around the mid 70s so I agreed.
We observed it was Sept 11.
“Man, hard to believe that was nine years ago.”
“Isn’t it,"I agreed. "It’s a different world since then."
And sports.
“I’ll tell you," he said, the closest he'd come to controversy, but I was still on his side. "Steroids have because as part of the game as a bat and a ball. They know they’re using them, and they’re lying if they say they didn’t know it."
A pleasant enough conversation over the ten minutes to the T station, I popped the trunk and took his bag out for him while he ran the credit card machine and gave me a $2 tip.
I finished up logging the trip in the front seat, then I looked to the right and saw him walking up the T station with a huge split down the back of his pants. If he'd ripped them getting out of the cab, he would have, and worse, I would have heard it. It wasn’t so much a split as it was like he was wearing a pair of assless Dockers.
He’d seemed pleasant, perhaps I should go tell him? He was on his way to the T, so he’d be sitting down, maybe no one would notice. No, the crowd was already pointing and giggling.
Fortunately. I was lucky enough to get another call so I could be off without wrestling my conscience any further.
Which brings up an important point. Crazy people seem to like me. I’m not sure if they perceive me to be a good listener or if they are just able to smell one of their own. One pickup needed a ride from a local drug store to a rental apartment complex. I can’t say which one, because he seems to believe he is a marked man and that members of both the Taliban and the Mossad have his photo on the wall of their Honeycomb hideout and use it for target practice with their Kalashnikovs. A veteran of Desert Storm, I thanked him immediately for his service before he even began to open up on his further exploits of having dropped C4 in the cocaine stores hidden beneath Manuel Noriega’s command bunker several stories beneath the Panama Canal and spitting in the face of Muammar al-Gaddafi1 after his fetishistic assassination, which he'd confessed was something of a pet project for some time, was cancelled for some reason or another. Despite, this deep black ops, special service work., my fare is getting special medication and renting an apartment. Damn system. Just ain't fair.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
School Days
This is a week that was always full of anxiety for me when I was a kid.
Summer ended with Jerry Lewis singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Usually meant I'd walk alone through Holbrook High the next day.
I'd frequently begin vomiting right after the song ended. Weeping would frequently follow and my mother would begin the pep talk/words ofconsolation shortly thereafter. One night Father Joseph Power had to come over to talk me down from an anxiety attack and twice I spent an hour on the phone with Samaritans.
For years afterward, I'd get sick on the day after Labor Day as though it were part of a biological clock.
In my day there were no news stories or outrage about harrassment or bullying. There was no Trenchcoat Mafia. I was all taken as part of a rite of passage as a student at a piece of shit school called Holbrook High.
My son has none of this. I like to think it's because he has a father who had been there and sometimes shows him how to fight and sometimes how to walk without fighting and how and when to acknowledge the bugs who inhabit his world. I like to think between me and my wife, we've instilled enough confidence that it shows in his walk and that keeps away the prepubescent predators as well as if he were wearing armor. That's what I like to think. I sometimes think it skips a generation. I've also walked behind him and acted like a skinheaded 200 pound bodyguard at his school. My mom once showed me this poem, just before the start of school one year. For a single Mom, she hoped it would instill something. This is for you, Ma.
Dear World
Author:
Dan Valentine
My young son starts to school today...It's going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he's been king of the roost...He's been boss of the backyard...His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings. But now things are going to be different. This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure...It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans...It's an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow...To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage. So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him...Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know. But do it gently, if you can. He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero...that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader...Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend. Steer him away from envy, if you can...and teach him the secret of quiet laughter. In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat...Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong...Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...Teach him to listen to all men - but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through. Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he's sad...Teach him there is no shame in tears...Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success. Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don't coddle him...Because only the test of fire makes fine steel...Let him have the courage to be impatient...Let him have the patience to be brave. Let him be no other man's man...Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself. Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind. This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do...He's such a nice little fellow, my son!
Summer ended with Jerry Lewis singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Usually meant I'd walk alone through Holbrook High the next day.
I'd frequently begin vomiting right after the song ended. Weeping would frequently follow and my mother would begin the pep talk/words ofconsolation shortly thereafter. One night Father Joseph Power had to come over to talk me down from an anxiety attack and twice I spent an hour on the phone with Samaritans.
For years afterward, I'd get sick on the day after Labor Day as though it were part of a biological clock.
In my day there were no news stories or outrage about harrassment or bullying. There was no Trenchcoat Mafia. I was all taken as part of a rite of passage as a student at a piece of shit school called Holbrook High.
My son has none of this. I like to think it's because he has a father who had been there and sometimes shows him how to fight and sometimes how to walk without fighting and how and when to acknowledge the bugs who inhabit his world. I like to think between me and my wife, we've instilled enough confidence that it shows in his walk and that keeps away the prepubescent predators as well as if he were wearing armor. That's what I like to think. I sometimes think it skips a generation. I've also walked behind him and acted like a skinheaded 200 pound bodyguard at his school. My mom once showed me this poem, just before the start of school one year. For a single Mom, she hoped it would instill something. This is for you, Ma.
Dear World
Author:
Dan Valentine
My young son starts to school today...It's going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he's been king of the roost...He's been boss of the backyard...His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings. But now things are going to be different. This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure...It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans...It's an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow...To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage. So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him...Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know. But do it gently, if you can. He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero...that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader...Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend. Steer him away from envy, if you can...and teach him the secret of quiet laughter. In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat...Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong...Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...Teach him to listen to all men - but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through. Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he's sad...Teach him there is no shame in tears...Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success. Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don't coddle him...Because only the test of fire makes fine steel...Let him have the courage to be impatient...Let him have the patience to be brave. Let him be no other man's man...Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself. Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind. This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do...He's such a nice little fellow, my son!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Hack Diaries: Day 1
Saturday morning. 4 AM.
Showed up for my first 12 hours shift with a large Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut and my unsullied ambition. My first cab was a Ford Sedan that had hack saw marks where it's ignition had once been and it wouldn't start so I told the dispatcher and he set me up with a cool mini-van.
Minivans seemed safer and more lucrative to me somehow. Minivans are soccer moms and little league kids heading for pizza, karate teams, cheerleaders and elderly people with lots of groceries.
Not many serial killers tend to favor the Town and Country so I took some comfort in that.In addition, there was a drink holder for my Dunkin Donuts coffee cup and it seemed sturdy. Once I was set and the mileage was set to go and gave the Dispater the "Car 38 Clear" he sent me on my first job.
I set the GPS to Furnace Brook Parkway, which was a long road but familiar and close by.My first fare turned out to be a 22 year old girl who wasn’t going far, but the one mile walk seemed too far to do the walk of shame in Do-Me boots. – 2.20 tip. Fair gratuity for a short enough ride. Her phone looked like it cost more than my watch, but it’s all part of the costume of the young, which I took into account.
After that I cruised around some of the stands to see which one looked empty and in need of cabs despite the earliness of the hour. I sat at the Quincy Center T station for a while, the radio was quiet as I’d expected a Sunday morning to be. I figured I’d shoot the breeze with a couple of other drivers who I’d hope would share a kinship rather than a rivalry. I lucked out and shook a couple of hands.
As I was the first one there, I took the first fare to get off the train in search of a ride. A punkish kid in his mid 20s with a purple streak down the center of his hand and a canvas bag around his acoustic guitar. I didn’t expect much from a busker, but he seemed safe. We talked and shared lots of dudes, mans, and bros. $1 tip. What the hell. I was new enough to be grateful. Have a good one.
The radio was quiet between 7 and 8 until I got a call not too faraway from my spot at the Kam Man Asian Market. It turned out to be a waitress at the local IHOP who knew the value of a tip to hand me a whole $10 for a 6.60 fair.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ventured.
She said, “sure,” no hesitation. Are those cream filled footballs back on the menu at IHOP now that football season is back.
“Absolutely, aren’t those good?” she said enthusiastically. Perhaps she was trying to get that tip back in trade. “They’re part of our featured menu now.”
I told her she’d see me this week.
Driving a cab wasn’t as scary as I’d expect it.
New York City cab drivers tend to get flagged down by people walking. In Quincy, it’s usually someone who calls for a cab to pick them up. Those aren’t as scary as the random types who stick you with a screwdriver if you go to a different church than they do. Besides, more often than not, we have their address to pick up or drop off. We can find them. The violent types don’t tend to give their addresses or destinations.
For example, I picked up a fare from Faxon Commons who needed to getto North Station to catch a train in fifteen minutes. I got her there. I drove faster than I tend to on my own for the reasons that A)it wasn’t my car and B) I had a tip riding on it. She scanned her credit card and it didn’t register. She scanned it again with one foot out the door, then she asked me to come to her apartment to get the $50 fare later that night.I stopped by several times, leaving a note on my business card. She called me and left a voice mail at 10 PM, after I was in deep REM sleep, then the next morning and asked me to come get the fare. The mention I would be calling the police seemed to grease her wheels in making good.Later in the day, I brought my van to help a couple of guys move some equipment, a TV, some computer stuff and a few IKEA artworks about four blocks. At the end of my shift, I found a state of the art laptop in the passenger shotgun seat. I drove to where I’d dropped him off and buzzed every mailbox but no go. His neighbor happened to know him,so I left him a business card. He called me the next morning and I met him at Quincy Center T station while on lunch and he tipped me more than his total fare had been the day before. He has my card, he knows I’m honorable and I expect he’ll be calling back. The tip got me a Nathan’s #4 combo platter lunch.
On the whole life is good. I feel good. I feel honorable. Looking forward to driving in the driving rain from Hurricane Earl next weekend. Guys named Earl don't scare me. The hurricane has the name of a toothless guy in a trucker cap who works at a Citgo Station. How scary can he be?
Showed up for my first 12 hours shift with a large Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut and my unsullied ambition. My first cab was a Ford Sedan that had hack saw marks where it's ignition had once been and it wouldn't start so I told the dispatcher and he set me up with a cool mini-van.
Minivans seemed safer and more lucrative to me somehow. Minivans are soccer moms and little league kids heading for pizza, karate teams, cheerleaders and elderly people with lots of groceries.
Not many serial killers tend to favor the Town and Country so I took some comfort in that.In addition, there was a drink holder for my Dunkin Donuts coffee cup and it seemed sturdy. Once I was set and the mileage was set to go and gave the Dispater the "Car 38 Clear" he sent me on my first job.
I set the GPS to Furnace Brook Parkway, which was a long road but familiar and close by.My first fare turned out to be a 22 year old girl who wasn’t going far, but the one mile walk seemed too far to do the walk of shame in Do-Me boots. – 2.20 tip. Fair gratuity for a short enough ride. Her phone looked like it cost more than my watch, but it’s all part of the costume of the young, which I took into account.
After that I cruised around some of the stands to see which one looked empty and in need of cabs despite the earliness of the hour. I sat at the Quincy Center T station for a while, the radio was quiet as I’d expected a Sunday morning to be. I figured I’d shoot the breeze with a couple of other drivers who I’d hope would share a kinship rather than a rivalry. I lucked out and shook a couple of hands.
As I was the first one there, I took the first fare to get off the train in search of a ride. A punkish kid in his mid 20s with a purple streak down the center of his hand and a canvas bag around his acoustic guitar. I didn’t expect much from a busker, but he seemed safe. We talked and shared lots of dudes, mans, and bros. $1 tip. What the hell. I was new enough to be grateful. Have a good one.
The radio was quiet between 7 and 8 until I got a call not too faraway from my spot at the Kam Man Asian Market. It turned out to be a waitress at the local IHOP who knew the value of a tip to hand me a whole $10 for a 6.60 fair.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ventured.
She said, “sure,” no hesitation. Are those cream filled footballs back on the menu at IHOP now that football season is back.
“Absolutely, aren’t those good?” she said enthusiastically. Perhaps she was trying to get that tip back in trade. “They’re part of our featured menu now.”
I told her she’d see me this week.
Driving a cab wasn’t as scary as I’d expect it.
New York City cab drivers tend to get flagged down by people walking. In Quincy, it’s usually someone who calls for a cab to pick them up. Those aren’t as scary as the random types who stick you with a screwdriver if you go to a different church than they do. Besides, more often than not, we have their address to pick up or drop off. We can find them. The violent types don’t tend to give their addresses or destinations.
For example, I picked up a fare from Faxon Commons who needed to getto North Station to catch a train in fifteen minutes. I got her there. I drove faster than I tend to on my own for the reasons that A)it wasn’t my car and B) I had a tip riding on it. She scanned her credit card and it didn’t register. She scanned it again with one foot out the door, then she asked me to come to her apartment to get the $50 fare later that night.I stopped by several times, leaving a note on my business card. She called me and left a voice mail at 10 PM, after I was in deep REM sleep, then the next morning and asked me to come get the fare. The mention I would be calling the police seemed to grease her wheels in making good.Later in the day, I brought my van to help a couple of guys move some equipment, a TV, some computer stuff and a few IKEA artworks about four blocks. At the end of my shift, I found a state of the art laptop in the passenger shotgun seat. I drove to where I’d dropped him off and buzzed every mailbox but no go. His neighbor happened to know him,so I left him a business card. He called me the next morning and I met him at Quincy Center T station while on lunch and he tipped me more than his total fare had been the day before. He has my card, he knows I’m honorable and I expect he’ll be calling back. The tip got me a Nathan’s #4 combo platter lunch.
On the whole life is good. I feel good. I feel honorable. Looking forward to driving in the driving rain from Hurricane Earl next weekend. Guys named Earl don't scare me. The hurricane has the name of a toothless guy in a trucker cap who works at a Citgo Station. How scary can he be?
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