American Idol: Weapon of Mass Consumption

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There comes a time when we just have to admit some things in life are completely beyond your control. For instance, if we should ever actually see a mushroom cloud hovering over the horizon ala Jericho or Day 6 of 24, we'd shrug our collective shoulders and mutter something along the lines of, "so much for that debate."

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American Idol is like that. At one end of the spectrum are its rabid fans, who are somehow privy not only to the innermost feelings and fears of the contestants, but also have divined the coronation of the next Messiah of the Music Universe. At the other end are the equally rabid denouncers of the series who decry it as nothing less than one of the last two or three trumpet calls heralding the End of Civilization As We Know It. Then there are those of us seeking sanity in the madness, writing it off as a harmless talent show, and reassuring the radicals on both fringes that planet Earth will preservere regardless of the outcome, despite the ominous signs that it foretells the course of Western Civilization henceforth.

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I'm one of those who precariously straddles the Idol fence, depending on how foul my mood is. My "intellectual" side screams that the future of pop music should be stentorian, something that snakes its way into our consciousness imperceptibly, slowly gaining momentum and energy as it shapes itself into a trend, and eventually, a genre. It's not something that should be decided by a spur of the moment popular votes sponsored by Cingular/AT&T.

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Invariably, my "emotional" side rears its ugly head at this point, and wastes not an instant in whispering its bias into my brain. "If the populace at large doesn't decide the direction of pop music, can it truly be popular music?" it reasons. At that point, the two demons on my shoulders morph into Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul, and I'm left as a bewildered Randy Jackson, shuddering at the implications of it all.

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In the end, it doesn't matter one whit how you, I or anybody else on the face of the planet weigh in on the phenomenon that is American Idol. It's gone beyond that. It's a sentient being, born full-blown replete with gnashing fangs that viciously destroy anything that dares to face it in the ratings field of battle. Other networks shrink in horror at its mere mention, redeploying its schedule to evade its onslaught, and tossing newborn pilots and barely breathing reruns to the monster in a vain attempt to feed its hunger. They dare not send out a champion to righteously oppose it, and we, the viewers, give them no reason to strive more valiantly against the beast.

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In principle, I've never been a huge fan of American Idol. Sure, it puts relative unknowns on a national stage and gives them a once in a lifetime chance to become a recording star, and even more importantly, tabloid fodder. (Kelly Clarkson's beach photos come to mind.) And on very rare occasions, it even succeeds in finding a person worthy of being a star. Carrie Underwood deservedly is a country star. We all knew that from the moment she first stepped on stage. And I do sometimes admire the judges, particularly Simon Cowell, who doesn't mince words about the nature of the music business, and what it take to succeed in it. Randy Jackson has been around long enough to know what it takes to be a star, or more specifically what it takes to make a star, and he often serves as a counterpoint to Simon. In the end, though, both men are to be respected by mere virtue of the fact that they are seasoned music business professionals.

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That leaves Paula Abduhl. For the life of me, I cannot understand what qualifies her to judge what makes up an "American Idol." Her personal track record certainly doesn't. Beyond two MTV videos, one featuring Arsenio Hall, and the other featuring a stereotypically hip, dancing cartoon cat, her subsequent music career has been anything but inspiring. As near as I can tell, she serves as the everyman voice who wants everybody to have a chance. Unfortunately, she more often than not comes across as comedy relief, the drunk chick in the bar who insists it's all good.

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Together, Simon, Randy and Paula are a triumvirate who occasionally offer the viewer a glimpse into the working of the music industry's machinations. Simon, particularly, is unflinching in his criticisms. And that is why he is most hated among the judges. He takes that contestant's dream and neatly folds it into reality. Paula counters with a "you made it your own," and Randy plants it firmly in the middle, with a "yo, dog, I liked it, but. . ." Between the three of them, they act as the fuel for a pop culture weapon of mass consumption.

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They're only the fuel, though. We're the triggering device. It's we who manufacture the next perfect pop star in our own image. And in the world we've created, our fickle tastes have less to do with music than they do with our own peculiar self-images.

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So talk all you want about the minute virtues of American Idol. And don't hesitate to chat about it, pro and con, all through the week. After all, this is what we wanted, isn't it? At least until next season, anyway. . .

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Breakin' it Down in Hip-Hop Town

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I remember the precise instant when rap caught my attention. It was 1982, and my little punk culture magazine was getting a little buzz. I was deluged with promos of every ilk and hue, all of which got my requisite minimum 30 seconds of attention. (The labels were overly generous in those days--times were good,) One day, I received a 12" vinyl single from Sugar Hill, sheathed in a plain white cover. I didn't hold out a lot of hope for it, thinking it would be yet another take on "Rapper's Delight." But I put it on the turntable anyway, since you just never know. It was "The Message", by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.

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I was blown away. It was a no-nonsense rap that spoke to the desperation of ghetto life and the ignorance of society at large to the plights therein. But mostly, it was about self-determination against all odds. It was, in short, about as punk as you could get. I won't bore you with the details of my evolution as a supporter of hip-hop, from Public Enemy to Jay-Z-- suffice it to say it's a musical idiom that is not going to go away. At its best, it's street poetry without peer. At its worst, its gangbanga silliness. Sadly, the current trend is leaning towards the latter.

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The current installment of Independent Lens, "Hip-Hop: Behind the Beats and Rhymes, " examines the de-evolution of hip-hop from an instrument of social change to its current status as a myth -perpetuating machine of misogyny, homophobia and misanthropy. Filmmaker Byron Hurt, former college quarterback turned activist, and avowed "hip-hop head," gets inside these issues through interviews with artists, fans and social critics in a lively and entertaining discourse.

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It's a fascinating look at gender stereotypes and how they've become the norm in mainstream hip-hop culture. Through interviews with sources as diverse as Chuck D and Spelman College professor and author, Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftahl, as well as wannabe rappers and the women they objectify, "Behind the Beats" poses more questions than it answers. And that's why it succeeds.

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It's not a preachy film-- it celebrates the accomplishments of hip-hop while serving as a cautionary tale of what could be its eventual downfall. It can't be all about the bling , scantily-clad, submissive women and glorification of violence. Nor can it be the surrender to the record industry pandering to an equally misogynistic white male suburban audience.

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"Hip-Hop: Behind the Beats" explores a lot of different issues in an hour, and it does so at a rapid-fire pace that's not only informative, but --well, fun. It's the sort of documentary that leaves you wanting more. It's not a film to be lightly dismissed. By going deep within the mindset of hip-hop, Byron Hurt's documentary forces all of us to look at the issues confronting society at large.

Brutal Violence In a Plea for Peace

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Few images evoke the horrors of war more so than the vision of bloodied hands clawing desperately at barbed wire in a futile attempt to escape impending death. It's the sort of scene that needs no words to carry its message, operating as it does on a subliterate level with a universal resonance. It's just one of the hauntingly stark scenes that make All Quiet on the Western Front as powerful, and as relevant, now as it was when it was released in 1930.

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Based on the 1929 bestselling novel by Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front is an unflinching, often brutal look at war's dehumanizing effects on the psyche. It follows a group of German students who enlist in the German Army during World War I. Inspired initially by the romance of glory in the name of the Fatherland, their patriotic fervor slowly crumbles beneath the realities of war. One by one, they fall, until only the protagonist, Paul Baumer (Lew Ayres) remains.

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The fully restored DVD release, part of the Universal Cinema Classics series, is an essential addition to a serious film library. There aren't any extras here, beyond a brief, (and mostly trivia-laden) introduction by TCM historian Robert Osborne, and a trailer from a reissue release. Chapter selection options are also missing from this release.

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And perhaps it's just as well. This really isn't a film where scenes can be watched out of context and still be relevant to the larger scope of the story. It would be like trying to read a novel from somewhere in the middle. Virtually every scene in this film links directly to what comes before or after in the story, and can seem insignificant on their own. The ongoing theme of the boots being passed on to one owner after the other is a prime example. They're fine boots throughout, only because their wearers don't live long enough to scuff them overmuch.

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From a historical perspective alone, All Quiet on the Western Front is a stunning achievement. It was controversial from the outset, with the left hating it because of supposed aspersions it cast upon the civilian populace, and the right, particularly the rising Nazis in Germany, decrying it as propaganda. It was outright banned in many countries, and the studio made several watered down cuts to placate various populaces. Meanwhile, the Variety critic at the time wrote: "It is recommended that the League of Nations should distribute it in every language to be shown every year until the word War shall have been taken out of the dictionaries."

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Director Lewis Milestone took the Best Director award at the Oscars that year, and the film, not surprisingly garnered the Best Picture Oscar at the 1930 ceremony, giving Universal Studios its first Oscar nod. Even today, it remains a crowning achievement in cinema, technically, visually and its unquavering devotion to its message.

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Given the current global situation, All Quiet on the Western Front may well be the singlemost important film ever made. It plunges deeply into the very heart of the facelessness of war, and pulls from it the face of humanity.

Cold Case: What Goes Around Invariably Comes Around

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I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: Cold Case (CBS, Sundays 9P EST) is probably the most intriguing cop show on network TV. And it's certainly the best thing the Big Four have running on Sunday nights. Airing opposite Donald Trump's ego trip The Apprentice, the fossilized Desperate Housewives and the one trick pony Family Guy, that's not necessarily saying much. But Cold Case has something those other programs don't--an actual, self-contained story.

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Now in its fourth season, Cold Case has always maintained a respectable niche in the ratings, even in the glory days of Desperate Housewives. While the latter jumped the shark some time ago, Cold Case continues to quietly offer compelling storylines that value substance over style. Even in the time-worn realm of cop shows, it goes against the grain of the formula. This is not an action-adventure series by any means--I don't think I've ever seen any of the principals even draw their weapons.

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Like virtually any TV series, it by necessity adheres to a formula, here being solving murders comitted years, sometimes decades ago. That premise alone provides an almost inexhaustible well of plotlines from which to draw. But Cold Case takes it a step further, utilizing flashbacks and period music to carry the story and immerse the viewer in the plot details. By using different actors to portray the same character in the then and now sequences, an air of authenticity is established as we see personal perspectives shift through the years. The soundtrack music adds another layer to the notion that the past never dies, and that restless spirits still cry out for justice.

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Last night's episode, "Blood on the Tracks," was a perfect example of the show's "hook." It follows the events leading to the 1981 murder of a first generation yuppie couple. At the time, it was dismissed as an accidental gas explosion in their home, but newly discovered evidence indicates that it was a bomb that killed them. Det. Lily Rush (Kathryn Morris) and her team piece together the couple's past and find that they were members of a radical antiwar group in the early seventies not opposed to planting small bombs in government facilities to make their point. Once the war was over, they and their associates traded in their misplaced idealism for suburban lifestyles and corporate jobs.

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Once it's established that the gas explosion that killed the couple was no accident, the surviving members of the group are all under suspicion. This is the part of the storyline where Cold Case epsodes work best. In this particular instance, we see all the suspects as they are now--well-respected members of corporate society, and as they were then--radical students militant in their opposition to the Vietnam war. The only disappointing aspect is we never see exactly how they got from point A to point B. However, considering the story is played out through the memories of the characters, this isn't that surprising. Memories are prone to picking and choosing details.

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It's a taut mystery that moves effortlessly between 1971, 1981 and 2007, making subtle comments about the shifts in American mores along the way. The seamless integration of the time frames is aided tremendously with a soundtrack consisting of eight Bob Dylan song snippets, punctuating various issues and plot points at key times. They're never obtrusive, but serve to enhance the story.

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If you've never seen Cold Case, you owe it to yourself to check it out. Granted, you won't see a lot of frenetic action or hear a passle of snappy one-liners, all forgotten by morning. What you will experience is more akin to a novel wherein the detective calmly pieces together the fingerprints of the past.

A Harrowing Glimpse Into "Motherland Afghanistan"

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Things are not nearly as cozy in Afghanistan as some quarters would have you believe. Current American military efforts there, though touted by the Administration as a breakthrough for democracy, have done little to better the populace on a day to basis. It's a country that's seen the ravages of war and invasions for more than thirty years, besides being torn by internal cultural divides. And for all the rhetoric about the great strides being made there, precious little has been done to aid its impoverished populace.

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The Independent Lens installment "Motherland Afghanistan", currently airing on PBS, offers a penetrating look into one of the country's most disturbing medical crises. One in seven women in Afghanistan die as a result of complications from childbirth, and the infant mortality rate is the second highest in the world as well, second only to Sierra Leone. This documentary focuses on that disturbing statistic, and the small steps being taken to remedy its tragic implications.

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Afghan-American filmmaker Sedika Mojadidi documents her father, Dr. Qudrat Mohadidi, and his efforts to stem this crisis one small difference at a time. In 2003, nearly two years after the Taliban's fall, Dr. Mohadidi was invited by the U.S. government to help rehabilitate the maternity ward at Rabia Balkhi, in Kabul,. now renamed the Laura Bush Maternity Ward.

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Once there, though, he finds no financial support from the HSS--he gets lots of letters from Tommy Thompson gladhanding his efforts, but that's about it.Promised supplies never come from the U.S. Still, he tries his best to preservere, working with Afghan doctors who are woefully untrained, and in deplorable unsanitary conditions. He eventually leaves in frustration, a victim of beuracracy and apathy on the Afghans' part.

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He returns two years later, this time under the sponsorship of Shuhada, a non-governmental organization (NGO), this time under more proactive, but nonetheless deplorable conditions. Stillborn births, doomed preemis and mothers doomed by ancient cultural practices still take their toll. Progress is being made, but it comes in laborious steps, punctuated with quiet despair and death.

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"Motherland Afghanistan" is an unflinching look at U.S. policy failures at the most fundamental level of its populace, as seen through the eyes of Dr. Mohadidi. Not overtly political, it also examines the cultural and secular differences that continue to impede a solution to the maternal and infant mortality rate that plague the country on a most base level.

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All that being said, "Motherland Afghanistan" emerges as a positive film, serving up a vision of hope, served up one person at a time. Neither America, nor any coalition, is going to save Afghanistan. It's a largely ignored country, except as a poster child for the so called war on terrorism. What this documentary does is paint a dark vision of the plight of Afghan women in the present, while offering a hope that the future for women there may be the key to solving this ongoing, largely ignored crisis.

And the Best Rock Song Ever Written Is. . . No! Not That One!

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Maybe it's just that time of the year, what with awards shows of every ilk and hue sprouting like weeds all over the pop culture landscape. Or perhaps the Global Village has given birth to a new mutation that needs to sap the lifeblood of nuance in order to survive. I'm inclined to think it's the latter.

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The other morning, I was at work early, perusing the NY Times, sipping coffee and trying to will myself into another day at a job I'll be leaving in the next few weeks anyway. Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" was wafting through the office sound system, barely noticeable. I was almost convinced I could make it through the workday unscathed by blather.

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Almost.

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Immersed and comfortably numb in my sphere, I first heard the voice as a phantom--"Best song ever or worst song ever?", it asked, sphynx-like. I looked up and realized it was only Rudy from accounts receivable. "What the hell are you talking about?" I greeted him. He grinned and made a sweeping gesture in the air, signifying he was talking about the piped-in tune.

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I made a vain attempt to keep my eyes from going black, as they are wont to do when my blood rushes to my head. I faked a smile, and said, "Neither."

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He persisted. "C'mon--it's Pink Floyd! You know about music--it's gotta be one or the other."

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Taking the high road, I resisted the impulse to throttle him then and there. He was obviously one of those mutations I mentioned, after all. Instead, I took a deep breath, and said, "I don't deal in absolutes like that, and I'll tell you why." He tilted his head like an eager puppy, and if his widening smile could wag, it would have. "As soon as you say something is the worst, you've elevated it to a level it didn't have before. The worst things don't get any mention at all. You say it's the best ever, and you've excluded all possibilities you may have missed. It changes as soon as the next thing happens, but you've closed yourself to the future."

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He looked genuinely hurt, but more confused than anything else. I patted him on the shoulder to reassure him. "It's okay," I said as gently as I could muster. "But you have to realize there is no such animal as the best song ever written. As soon as you name one, you have to think--wait that wouldn't have existed if this hadn't come first. "Bo Diddley" is one of the outstanding riffs, "Louie Louie" established the unintelligible lyric, "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" probably lay the foundation for rebellion-- it goes on and on, and then backtracks to the raw basics--Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" and circles once again to Nine Inch Nails.

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"See, it gets down to this. the best rock song ever written was either never put to paper, since it was created thousands of years ago when Africa was still an arrid land and Man was discovering the power of a good riff-- or, it lies waiting somewhere in the vast expanse of the future.

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"Either way, if and when you ever hear it, you'll know it. The sun will nova immediately afterwards. Now, off with you--and don't worry about such things!"

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Rudy scampered away, and I left with a sense that my work for that day was done.

The Resurrection of Rickie Lee Jones

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There's always been something a bit ethereal about Rickie Lee Jones. In a career spanning nearly thirty years, her music has, by and large, maintained an airy, jazzy quality that spoke of a street level freedom. Bubbling beneath the surface, though, there was an underlying hint of restlessness, of a spirit seeking new vistas. Unfortunately, much of that spirit was stifled in pop-driven albums that rarely showcased her strengths. The pop machinery was quite content with the bohemian pop star they'd created, and she was perhaps too beset with personal demons to completely break free of that image.

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The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard, finds Jones with a new label (New West) and a new sense of conviction. Her first album of original material since 2003's ambitious but hollow The Evening of My Best Days, this latest release is a testament to the power of the spirit. What began as a project to interpret Lee Cantelon's book The Words as a spoken word record was transformed into something more universal once Jones was brought on board. Cantelon's original idea was simple enough--to put the words of Jesus Christ into a modern context outside the conventions of contemporary organized religion and lay those words over a bed of music.

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The project immediately shifted gears when Jones came in to lay down her vocals. Instead of reciting the text before her, she improvised, beat-fashion, a stream of consciousness lyric that would become "I Was There." It's a haunting piece, with only Jones and her guitar summing up the underlying theme of the album-- that the original message of Jesus has been lost in the wranglings of organized religion. "Where have you been that you don't know what's going on here in Jerusalem?" she asks a manifestation. "Haven't you heard about the Nazarene? You know, we thought we were gonna set Israel free." It closes the album on a note of quiet irony, pondering how the message of Christ got lost through the generations.

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Don't expect Sermon to be a chart-topper among the Christian Right, though. And don't think of it as a born again pop collection. If anything, this is a work that takes Christianity away from the bloated pulpits of politics and wealth, and returns it to the streets from whence it sprang. The Jesus here is the universal spirit of man, more apt to turn up in a seedy Culver City bar than a megachurch. If there's a theme to this album, it's the importance of spirituality, not religion. It's no surprise then, that "Elvis Cadillac" finds Elvis, Janis Joplin at his side, cruising heaven in the King's vehicle of choice.

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While Sermon does have some mystic overtones about it, it's unfair to compare it to Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, as some advance press has attempted to do. What Rickie Lee Jones and company have done here is infuse the words and ideals of Jesus with a punk sensibility. Most of the music here is much more akin to Lou Reed than Van Morrison. "Circle in the Sand" sounds as if it was channeled from Transformer, and has that same sense of ennui that's the signature of much of Reed's work. That's not to imply this is a derivative work--far from it. It alternates between the playful ("Falling Up") and the foreboding (Donkey Ride", with its chilling refrain "You rode in on a donkey tonight, but you'll be going out on a cross"), but mostly remains true to its vision of private spirituality.

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The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard in some ways is a departure for Rickie Lee Jones. Gone are the bluesy, jazzy arrangements generally associated with her work, replaced with with the gritty, barebones instrumentation that speaks directly to gut instinct. Lyrically, it's her most provocative work yet, with words that can only be dragged from the soul. Yet, it is ultimately a work about the simple release of surrendering to the realms that lie beyond our logic. Never preachy, often amusing and always profound in a basic way, this may be her finest work to date. It's certainly the best album of 2007 thus far.

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A side note: This album is available in two configurations. Go for the Limited Edition Release. It's limited to 35,000 numbered copies, and it's well worth the extra couple of bucks you have to spring for it. It includes a a 40 minute DVD featuring clips from the studio sessions, as well as a fourteen page booklet detailing the origins of the album. As a bonus, the DVD is embedded with an mp3 version of the full album for download to portable players.

Billy Strayhorn: A Lush Life Shrouded in Shadows

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Billy Strayhorn was arguably one of the 20th century's most gifted composers. His body of work, including such titles as "Lush Life" and "Take the 'A' Train," redefined popular jazz in the forties into the fifties. As Duke Ellington's right-hand man for 29 years, he either wrote or co-wrote most of Ellington's signature hits. He was a virtuoso pianist, genius composer and phenomenal arranger. Yet, he spent his life in relative obscurity, content to live in Ellington's shadow.

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The PBS series Independent Lens examines the life of this brilliant man in "Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life." It also offers reasons as to why he chose to live away from the limelight, and looks at the lasting impact of his work.

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It's been speculated that one reason Strayhorn was content to languish in the sidelines while Ellington's career made all the press, was largely due to the fact that Strayhorn was an openly gay black man living in a hugely homophobic, white-dominated society. Director Robert Levy, through interviews and archival footage, challenges this assumption. The documentary looks at the underground nature of gay society in the thirties and forties, and through the early sixties, and concludes that they were dangerous times for homosexuals, particularly gay black men. Still, Strayhorn never shied away from his openness about his sexuality, and it may be partly for that reason that he wasn't mentioned that much in the PR machinery.

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Then again, it may be that Duke Ellington's star power was just too overwhelming.In all the 29 years he worked with Ellington, Strayhorn never had a contract. And the music business being what it was then, it wasn't that unusual for composers to go uncredited in favor of the star's drawing power. Ellington would credit Strayhorn as a "co-writer" during live interviews and performances, but those acknowledgements went largely unnoticed.

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If "Lush Life" focused only on the enigma that was Strayhorn's life, it would stand as a compelling story. But what makes it shine are the musical performances that slink seductively around the story. These are the songs of Billy Strayhorn, and it is through them that his story speaks to us most eloquently. They're understated performances, eloquently rendered by vocalists ranging from Dianne Reeves to Elvis Costello, punctuated by musicians like pianist Hank Jones, saxophonist Joe Lavano and guitarist Russell Malone. The tunes, from "Lush Life" to "Chelsea Bridge" to "Blood Count" point to various phases of Strayhorn's life, and add an extra texture to the story.

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"Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life" could not be more aptly titled. In his 51 years on the planet before falling to esophogeal cancer, Strayhorn transformed the face of jazz in his work with Duke Ellington. It's almost impossible to chart the implications of his influence on music as we know it. This documentary is a good start, though.

Rules of Engagement follows the Rules of Situation Comedy

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Contrary to popular belief, critics are not out to savage everything that comes down the pop culture pike. We don't hate everything-- in fact, it's our love of media that compels us to write about it. We're like loving aunts and uncles in our criticisms--we merely want media to be the best it can be. Unlike parents, we're distanced enough to see the potential flaws in the offspring, but close enough to emphasize their potential strengths.

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When it comes to comedy, my primary-- well, really, my only criterion in judging it is this: did it make me laugh? The Marx Brothers movies, with their non sequiturs and double entendres, make me laugh. The Three Stooges, with their slapstick versions of reality, make me laugh. Woody Allen, with his urbane, neurotic visions of modern life, rarely makes me laugh. Albert Brooks, with his neurotic takes on urban life, almost always does.

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Comedy is about incongruity-- taking reality and turning it inside out. From its title, one would conclude Rules of Engagement follows that dictum. It's a title that conjures up a spin-off of The Unit. What it is, though, is a comedy about the different phases of male-female relationships, with the marriage proposal being the pivotal point that somehow makes it make sense.

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Adam (Oliver Hudson) confesses to Russell (David Spade) that he's proposed to Jennifer (Bianca Kajlich). Russell, a 40-something swinging single with a penchant for younger women, thinks its a ridiculous idea, of course. Oddly enough, the conversation takes place in the obligatory coffee shop, a mainstay of sitcoms since the earliest days of Friends. Of course, Russell switches gears and bubbles over with feigned happiness for the couple as soon as Jennifer joins them. It's trademark David Spade, and hardly surprising.

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Fortunately, the pilot gains momentum once we're introduced to Jeff (Patrick Warburton) and Audrey (Megyn Price), married for twelve years and settled into the routine of married life. Think of them as a 21st century version of the Kramdens, more upscale than Ralph and Alice, but with a similar sarcastic bent to their relationship. Their bickering about trivialities belies their love for each other, and provides the show's best lines. Warburton, in particular, plays Jeff with deadpan resignation, unfazed and unsurprised by anything going on around him. When Audrey confronts Jeff about his beer consumption after a game of softball, he says in a righteous monotone, "Four beers, and three lights. . . so five beers."

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In its exploration of the evolution of relationships through the eyes of its principals, Rules of Engagement has its moments. While it never strays far from the formula of the sitcom, right down to the annoying laugh track, it offers a light look at the foibles inherent in the mating ritual. It's not a great comedy-- a midseason replacement while The New Adventures of Old Christine is on hiatus--but it has a great deal of potential. Pitted against both 24 and Heroes, it's unlikely to survive in its current time slot.

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Fortunately, CBS is making it available for viewing on its website, as well. It's worth a view.

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Super Bowl Solutions For the Strong of Heart

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I'm pretty sure my disinterest in American football stems from having my collarbone broken cleanly in half when I was running the ball during an eighth grade skirmish. I had no idea that running fast could inspire that kind of aggression from the opposing team. Having gone through that at an early age, it's been a wee bit difficult for me to sympathize with pro players who take off weeks over a sprained pinkie.

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Once a year, though, I join with millions of other Americans to vicariously celebrate our fixation with the art of pummeling a guy who's just trying to make it from point A to point B while carrying a vaguely egg-shaped ball. I'm talking Super Bowl here. And yeah, I tune in mostly for the commercials. I freakin' love seeing the uncut versions of the advertising world's vision of what's going to rock our world in the coming year. It's a perverse pleasure, I admit, since MadAv rarely synchs with its target demographic in these lavish spots. But I like imagining how they pitched them to their clients in the first place.

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Whether you're a couch potato quarterback or a clueless copywriter wannabe is irrelevant. What makes Super Bowl Sunday the most important unofficial national holiday in the calendar is the food. It's the one day of the year that we not only guiltlessly gorge on food and drink, but are actually encouraged to do so. This is not a day for carefully thought out dinners symbolizing thanks or penance. No, on Super Bowl Sunday, silverware is replaced with paper towels, and the only glassware you'll find are beer bottles. It's our annual homage to our baser instincts. We gather together in the dead of winter to feast and boast with wreckless abandon, shouting to the heavens (or at least our neighbors) in praise of warriors who were only weeks ago our rivals. In short, it's a par-tay of the first degree.

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Rites of this magnitude require a bit of attention. Mind you, I said a bit. While ordering in for pizza was ample in earlier days, the Super Bowl has taken on a life that requires at least a hint of a personal touch. It needn't be anything fancy-- in fact, that would be just wrong given the context of the party. Burgers won't work--grilling takes too much time away from the event, and homemade party trays require, for want of a better word, lots of labor. I googled Super Bowl recipes, and found a wealth of totally worthless information-- unless June Cleever is preparing the feast.

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There are two sacraments in the celebration of Super Bowl-- hot wings and guacamole. And in keeping with the spirit of the event, I like to keep it as simple and painless as humanly possible. And that means no frying is involved. Health issues (which I won't debate) aside, frying requires too much attention, and the end result simply doesn't taste right to me. Nothing should be fried beyond bacon or the ocasional egg. There are better, and tastier ways to make hot wings.

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Here's what you do. We'll just go with the basic formula, and you can do the math according to your needs. Here's what you're going to need:

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24-30 chicken wing drumettes

1 cup barbecue sauce

1/2 cup hot sauce

2 one-gallon ZipLoc bags

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Those are the essentials. I use drumettes rather than whole wings for two reasons: firstly, I don't have to spend time cutting the worthless joint off, and secondly, I've convinced myself it's more economically sound. Pat them dry, and lightly dust with kosher salt and black peper. Let them stand.

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Meanwhile, mix the barbecue sauce and hot sauce, along with whatever other spices you might want to sprinkle in (depending on your level of bravery) and whisk vigorously. A word here for best results: do NOT buy bargain brands, particularly on the hot sauce. Louisiana Hot Sauce and Jack Daniels Hickory Smoke barbecue sauce yield the best results--and no, I'm not on their payroll.

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Put half the wings in a ZipLoc Bag, and the other half in another. Guess what comes next? Yep--pour half of the mixture you've just concocted in one bag, then the other. Seal the bags, and shake vigorously. Make sure there are no air pockets, reseal and place in the refreigerator for a minimum of 2 1/2 hours. Overnight is best, but these are trying times.

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Once all that's done, put the little suckers, uncovered, in a shallow baking pan, separated in a single layer, drizzle with one stick of melted butter and bake at 400 degrees for about an hour, turning once. Otherwise, you're done.

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Now I could be all metrosexual PC, and say "serve with celery sticks and blue cheese dressing", but you're not going to do that anyway. You're going to serve them alongside pizza. Fries are better, though. Trust me. First preheat the oven to 400 degrees. All you need to do then is wash and slice the potatoes , dry them with paper towels and toss with vegetable oil until completely coated. Spray a cookie sheet with PAM and add the potatoes in a single layer. Bake for 20 to 30 minutes, then broil on the center oven rack for about 10 minutes or until potatoes are golden brown.

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That's the main event. But the Super Bowl is a day of snacking, and that means chips and dip. In Dallas, that means either salsa or guacamole. Salsa , at least what I serve, is Texas hot, and that encourages more beer drinking, which depletes my finances. Guacamole, on the other hand,has a cool, but spicy flavor. My wife Elke has devised the perfect recipe for guacomole, and it goes a little something like this:

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For the guacamole you mash the flesh of four soft avocados, add two diced Roma tomatoes, juice of one medium lime, and one tablespoon of finely chopped cilantro. Season to taste with salt, pepper and onion powder and a dash of Cayenne pepper if you like it hot.

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It's a quick and simple recipe at the surface. A bit chunkier than commercial versions, it cries out for a worthy chip. It has to be sturdy first and foremost, able to withstand generous dollops of dip without breaking. And it has to be tasty on its own, but without artificial flavors that compete with the dip.

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What you want for a dipping chip comes either from Mexico, at best, or failing that, South Texas. There are no other options. Tostitos, Doritos and all the other mass-marketed -itos don't cut it. You want a good dipping chip, you have to go authentic tortilla chips.

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It's pretty much a given that your beverage of choice for Super Bowl feasts like this is going to be beer. Assuming you've made the hot wings hot, you're going to need it to extinguish the fire in your mouth. Whatever you do, don't buy a light beer-- it's a marketing oxymoron. Budweiser is most in keeping with the theme of the Super Bowl, if for no other reason than their commercials. I've yet to hear anybody mumble complaints when served Bud. If you want to go more uptown, Corona is an excellent choice.

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That pretty much covers it, I think. Oh, one more thing--don't everybody flush at once. It has national consequences.

Living in a Post-Elvis World

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The rumblings began early in 1956. . . subtle shifts in the plates of popular culture, almost imperceptible at the surface, but stentorian in nature, waitng impatiently to change the texture of the landscape. Meanwhile, the American citizenry went about its collective business, somnabolized by a false sense of duck and tuck security. The GI's had returned from Korea, tricking out Chevys and Fords, discovering the freedom Harleys and Indians offered and conspicuously consuming every appliance General Electric had to offer.

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The rumblings just beneath the complacent surface turned into a burp on 27 January 1956, when Elvis Presley released his major label debut single, "Heartbreak Hotel." He was already something of a a cause celebre in the South, having released a handful of cuts on what would now be called "indie" label Sun. But this was major--Elvis was nationwide. The next day, he appeared on the low-rated Dorsey Brothers' Stage Show. It was a less than auspicious debut. It's said they couldn't give tickets away in Times Square. Word spread quickly, though, and within weeks, Elvis was a Hot Property. Milton Berle booked him for two appearances 3 April, and Steve Allen quickly followed suit,having Elvis live 1 July, going mano y mano against the colossal Ed Sullivan Show.

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The rumblings and burps had grown to tremors. They would not be quelled.

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Ed Sullivan was the undisputed ruler of network TV in 1956. His resume as an entertainment reporter dated back to the '30's. He was an iconoclastic Irishman who'd tried his hand at boxing, and brought his pugilistic style to his reportage. A man of strong convictions, an early supporter of civil rights, he was nonetheless perplexed by the idea of the hip-shaking, vaguely adrodgynous Elvis. He had said he'd not have him on his show. That was before Steve Allen pummelled him in the ratings by featuring Elvis.

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Sullivan's people put an unheard of 50 grand on the table, and Elvis did not one, but three performances on the vaunted Ed Sullivan Show. The rumblings, the burps, the tremors could not be contained any longer. Something had to blow.

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On a Sunday night 7 PM EST, 9 September 1956, the world changed forever. Elvis exploded onto the national consciousness with a nod and a wink, and we would never be the same.

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Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows chronicles the event the way it really happened, kinescope cameras rolling, presenting it uncut, and providing us a glimpse of the American zeitgeist a half-century ago. Elvis was a novelty at that point, considered a flash in the pan who'd be a passing memory within a year. Charles Laughton emceed that night in September, and he treated the entire affair with the British aplomb one would expect from Captain Blye on a good day. He recited bad poetry, better limericks and generally waltzed gracefully around the entire proceedings of that evening. He was subbing for Sullivan, who was recovering from an auto accident, and he worked the moment for all it was worth, even teasing the television audience about the significance of a Gold Record, sandwiched between acrobats and Mercury commercials.

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Elvis wasn't in the New York studio that night. He was in the big El Lay, shooting his debut movie Love Me Tender. The Sullivan audience in NYC, like the rest of America, at least 72 million glued to their sets at home, had to settle for a remote performance. It didn't matter--thsi was Elvis, and that was all that mattered. His movie debut was still two months away, and the single "Love Me Tender" hadn't been released yet. Elvis debuted it that night, after priming the audience with his major hit of the time, "Don't Be Cruel." It was understated at best. But when he closed the program with his band now visible in the performance, hips shaking as he belted out Little Richard's "Ready Teddy" and sliding right into "Hound Dog", it was obvious that America had been slapped into a new phase of popular culture, and that anything that followed would have to be marked as a "post-Elvis world."

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The mythology machine had been revved up, and Elvis was the fuel that powered it. But Colonel Parker and Ed Sullivan were piloting that machine, and all the surrounding PR and media frenzy were rocketing Elvis to a celebrity Olympus that eclipsed even Sinatra. On 28 October 1956, Elvis returned to The Ed Sullivan Show, live and in New York, face to face with the undisputed ratings king of primetime TV himself, the recuperated Ed Sullivan. After an opening act by the Little Gaelic Singers, and the obligatory Big M '57 Mercury commercial, Elvis came out swinging, relaxed, like a champ, with his band in full view, backing him as he launched into a much more vital version of "Don't Be Cruel," deftly changing the tempo to a vibrant rendition of "Love Me Tender."

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If there had been any doubt before, Elvis lay claim to the hitherto unclaimed crown of rock and roll to the unbelievers of mainstream America. He had usurped the consciousness, enough so that he was burned in effigy in some towns that clung to the past. It didn't matter. The post-Elvis world had arrived.

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By his third appearance, 6 January 1957, Elvis was introduced sans introductory Mercury commercials or novelty dog acts. He had the collar popped, and the formless sportscoat was replaced by a glitter vest, foreshadowing what he would become in his Vegas years. He opened with a medley of his greatest hits, once again foreshadowing what would be Elvis in his later years. He zipped through snippets of "Hound Dog", Heartbreak Hotel" and "Don'tBe Cruel" in a matter of moments, with the camera all focusing on his face. This was the infamous appearance wherein American censors decreed that anything below the waist might hurl civilization into an age of darkness. The strangeness of it all nonetheless worked. It was an oddly surreal night in which Carol Burnett made her national debut, and Sullivan offered boxing legend Sugar Ray Robinson defensive tips. There were clown acts, ventriloquists and dancers, not to mention Mercury commercials that played up the '57 Merc Montclair as a utopian vehicle without peer.

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It was a momentous program in more ways than one. The Sullivan shows were, at heart, the last of the vaudeville revues. But they also ushered in the new medium of television and were the foundation for the direction variety shows would take. Elvis Presley was arguably the first superstar of video and rock and roll. He closed that evening's show with the gospel standard "Peace in the Valley." Suddenly, rock and roll didn't seem all that dangerous, after all. America had its first idol.

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Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows preserves all three performances exactly as they were presented fifty years ago, commercials and all. It's the first time that viewers have been able to see Elvis in such an accurate context, but more importantly, it affords us a glimpse of a culture that was radically different from the world in which we now live. These three discs are essential viewing for anybody with a passing interest in the evolution of pop culture. Besides their purely historical significance, they're vastly entertaining. Special features include Elvis Presley's first film appearance ( a silent 8mm fillm snippet of him performing outside Houston), promos for the shows, reminisces of the times told through interviews with his friends and associates, and an Elvis-only performance option. I don't recommend utilizing that option. To get the full impact of the performances, it's best to see the entire program. I do, however, advise the option of 5.1 Surround Sound. Mono is okay, but digital stereo makes it all the more vivid.

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