Today I’m going to introduce you to a new genre of film, Nature Porn. It isn’t really new. It’s existed at least back to 1993′s Alive and was seen in last year’s 127 Hours and The Way Back, but the latest example is in the newest Liam Neeson action movie The Grey.

Nature Porn is not a simple man versus nature movie. In that genre there is some romance between man and the wild. Nor is this the type of movie that shows a person fornicating with a tree, that would be tree porn. 

Nature Porn is a movie where nature coldly and calculatingly screws man. As an audience member it makes you want to have nothing to do with nature. Nature porn terrifies you with the perils of the great outdoors, so much that you won’t feel safe taking a walk in your local park without a fleece jacket, a sharp knife, and Liam Neeson by your side.

Liam Neeson in his old age has become cinema’s top action star. Like Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson before him this is not due to bulging muscles, but the ability to speak the most ridiculous tough guy dialogue without the hint of a smile or a sense of irony. The Grey shows Neeson leading a group of plane crash survivors through the bitter freezing cold, down a hundred foot cliff, and into fights with a ferocious pack of wolves. Neeson gives his directions with such conviction that you think his castmates would be fools not to listen to him, even though in hindsight his leadership only gets them into more trouble.

And what trouble he gets them into. The characters in The Grey find themselves in some of the most horrific situations you can imagine, being eaten alive by a hungry wolf, falling into a freezing cold river, and bonding over vulnerabilities with their fellow man. The Grey thus fulfills the requirements of Nature Porn by putting the audience on the edge of their seats while causing a sick, nauseating feeling in the pits of stomachs. The Grey turns man so much against nature that on the next beautiful day instead of going outside, you will instead close the blinds and watch a double feature of Cast Away and Jeremiah Johnson.

How drunk and lonely must seamen of yore have been to have confused manatees for mermaids? I suppose being out at sea for months on end, high with scurvy and desperate for female accompaniment would make even the dread pirate Bloodbeard look downright feminine. But the manatee, an animal affectionately known as the sea cow, does not look like Daryl Hannah at all to me.

Manatees are probably nature’s most gentle creatures. So perhaps the old mariners weren’t as superficial as I am. They were searching for a nurturing mermaid, not necessarily a shapely one. And I for one am always excited to see the big gray marshmallow of a marine animal. As a child this was a regular event, but just the other day as I ran along the Key Biscayne beach I could see one peering out of the water ten yards from the shore.

The manatee brings people together. A crowd stood on this weekday afternoon to watch the water behemoth not do much at all. Their presence alone brings smiles to anyone’s face and seem like a monumental enough event so that when someone asks you, “What did you do today?” and you answer “I saw a manatee.” It kind of blows the story they wanted to tell you of their day into the realm of insignificance.

But manatees aren’t all sunshine and rainbows to me. They also bring back traumatic memories. Public service announcements that played during cartoons in the eighties on Miami local television stations warned you to watch out for manatees when you were on your boat. Apparently there was an epidemic of boat propellers mutilating the backs of swimming manatees. But were Scooby Doo episodes the right time to advertise this important message? As a six year old I did not have the keys to a motor boat, but I did have a traumatized subconscious littered with images of manatee scar tissue floating to the surface.

As my favorite NBA team The Miami Heat got off to a blistering fast 8-1 start there wasn’t much bad I could say about their head coach Erik Spoelstra. He instituted a fast break offense where the Heat could take advantage of their athleticism. He moved LeBron James into the post where he could back down or shoot over smaller opponents while still being able to track down his teammates with his precision passing. And in close games Spoelstra even drew up smart plays that provided the winning baskets in back to back games.

But then came a lull. The Heat went out west and lost three games in a row to inferior opponents. A friend mocked me that he couldn’t believe I hadn’t been advertising my Spo’s Gotta Go mantra, but this losing streak wasn’t really the coach’s fault. Sure I would have liked him to play James Jones in one of those games as Jones has been on fire from three point range, and I’ll take it as a coincidence that the Heat did not have a single practice all season until the day preceding their losing streak (where I’ll assume Spoelstra didn’t infuse them with a loser mentality).  But if the Heat would have made a couple more free throws they still would have won two of the three games, and you can’t blame the coach for that. And now Miami has trounced the Lakers and Spurs in back to back home games.

So have I at long last grown comfortable with the idea that Spoelstra is the coach of the Miami Heat?

No. No. No. A thousand times no.

This is a special team and even if Spoelstra is a basketball savant (which I’ll assume he is because other than incriminating photographs he has of his employers I can’t imagine how else he has kept his job) I can’t accept a guy who looks more at ease in a cubicle, being at the reins of this pony. If for no other reason than entertainment purposes I want a coach with personality. Someone who will throw a chair at a referee for a bad call. A coach who would occasionally be quoted saying something insightful or controversial that might move the players and maybe even the fan base.

A coach to me should be motivational, inspirational, and oozing of charisma. A perfect basketball coach is in essence Pat Riley, a snake oil salesman, who could con a coward to dive into a pit of snakes for a loose ball. Riley was such a force of nature that he captured the imagination of Chinatown screenwriter Robert Towne who wrote a movie for Riley to star in. Riley was busy coaching the Lakers and so Towne went with his second choice, Kurt Russell, for the movie Tequila Sunrise. Meanwhile the only role I could see written especially for Spoelstra is to play one of Harry Potter’s wizard friends.

Here’s an idea. Why don’t we hire an actor to be coach of the Heat? If it can happen in politics why not sports? Riley can write the dialogue. We can slide Spoelstra over to the assistant coaching position where his middle management demeanor is more fitting. Then we can get a firebrand as coach. My first pick is Kyle Chandler, the guy who played Coach Taylor in the TV show Friday Night Lights. If his compassionate toughness could get a band of misfits to overachieve and win the state title, than I’m sure Coach Taylor could get LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh, Norris Cole, and the rest of the Miami Heat gang to fulfill their destiny and win the NBA championship.

You think the cavemen knew that people thousands of years in the future would travel across the world to see their scribblings? That serious scholars would study their  drawings of horses and buffalo that could also be seen at any local day care center?

I thought of this as I walked down the sidewalk of my youth to see a carving in a sidewalk still existed twenty years after it was written. When that plot of wet cement was set sometime in the early nineties I would have not accepted a bet that the words “Key Rat Rob N” would still stand this deep into the twenty-first century.  Other carvings on the opposite side of the street that said “Dildo Man Strikes” and the years of Kurt Cobain’s birth and death have been restored to pristine condition. But Key Rat Rob N still stands.

I assume there have been people who have walked their dogs or gone for a morning jog every damn day over those words with no idea who Key Rat Rob N was. Do they imagine a story of who he might be or do they give it no more thought then what the word, “Asplundh” means when passing a construction site?

I don’t know what Key Rat Rob N is up to now. He is probably either dead or attending an AA meeting. Or maybe he is running for elective office for when George W Bush was president he reminded me of Key Rat Rob N. 

Key Rat Rob N was the type of guy who when attending a party would urinate in a couple empty bottles of beer, stick them in the fridge and wait for someone to get thirsty. But the greatest story was when he got his comeuppance. I was told he was at a party drinking and being obnoxious wearing some steel plated work boots. When his attention was distracted a lit cigarette was thrown into his boot. The culprits watched with great interest as Key Rat Rob N kept drinking like nothing had changed. He made fart noises, spoke of which girls he’d like to roofie, and then he started looking at his boot. They tried not to laugh when he looked down at his foot again. Then out of nowhere he started shrieking like a teenage Beatles fan. He took off his boot as fast as he could which took a while as there were so many laces on those heavy shoes. When he threw them off the cigarette came out and he screamed, “Who did this?”

The pranksters (and I swear to God I was not one of them though I wish I was there to see it) convinced him it was some guy who had left. Key Rat Rob N grabbed another beer and kept drinking.

Though your foot may be scarred, if you are out there somewhere reading this, Key Rat Rob N, know your legacy on Ocean Lane Drive is intact.

Sometimes when I finish a book I find myself wondering why the writer chose to write it. Ray Bradbury claims to have written Farenheit 451 in a week, but for the most part writing a 200 plus page novel takes a nice sized portion of your lifetime. If you’re going to put that much time into something I reckon the author should have a message or emotion or feeling they’re trying to convey. Chuck Klosterman’s new novel The Visible Man left me clueless.

Klosterman is a hell of a writer, but not a graceful one. He can communicate the most abstract, bizarre ideas in ways that almost make sense and in language that makes you laugh out loud, but his writing isn’t smooth or lyrical. It’s cold, precise, and functional. Because of this I find him a better essayist than a storyteller. His books Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, IV, and Killing Yourself To Live show Klosterman at his best.

Perhaps aware of his strengths and weaknesses Klosterman frames his new novel The Visible Man as a work of non-fiction. A therapist writes down her accounts of her sessions with a new client. This client is a creep who at first only wants to have their sessions over the telephone, but eventually they meet in person. The client’s problem stems from a new technology he has access to. A suit that for all intents and purposes makes him completely invisible. He uses his powers to silently peep on people. He portrays himself as a scientist trying to study the true nature of a person, but comes across as an unreliable voyeuristic jerk.

I remember in an earlier work of Klosterman’s he wrote of a woman who lived in an apartment that he had a direct view of and would observe her at all times of day and night. And so I take this visible man as a substitute for Klosterman and perhaps for all writers in general. Maybe this was written to be a diatribe against writers as being dangerously detached from humanity? If so this might be the last we ever read from him. Or perhaps he will continue to write and loathe himself for what he does.

Coach Vlad first entered my life when he was hired as an assistant for the high school swim team I was coaching. A rotund man of 55 years who got his fashion sense from the Wild and Crazy Guys skit from Saturday Night Live, he showed up for our first swim team meeting in a leisure suit with the top button unbuttoned to show off his gold chain. Despite our communication problems with Vlad’s shaky English and my nonexistent Russian I suppose he considered me a good friend. He would always ask me to drink Vodka with him and he even asked if I would cosign for a lease on his brand new car. I turned him down on that generous offer.

When I left California and the swim team in Vlad’s capable hands I thought that would be the end of us co-starring ever again in this movie called life. But then I received a phone call from Vlad. “David, how you?”

“Good Vlad. How you?” I immediately reverted to a Russian accent as though that would help him understand me better.

“Good. I go to Miami for cruise with wife. You find us place to stay?”

I soon received an email under the subject heading of Vlad Vacation with his itinerary. I found him a hotel on the beach for sixty dollars a night that met his strict Russian requirements of being cheap with no bugs larger than his index finger. I picked him up at the airport and met his wife for the first time. “A pleasure to meet you.” I told her. She pointed at her bags. I obediently put them in the back of my car. 

I did receive a tip of sorts. Vlad had a couple Hannukah presents for me. A pair of sunglasses with yellow tints and a bathing suit I could use if I ever get back into swimming laps. They were tired from their cross country trip and so Vlad reneged on the offer of a drink after checking into the hotel.

The next day I was busy, but Vlad updated me on their travels with a variety of photos messaged to my phone. There was one of Vlad and his wife at the beach. Another had them on a tour bus overlooking the cruise ships. There was even one of Vlad holding a baby alligator. 

The next night I shared a drink with Vlad and his wife. “When you move back to California?”

“I’m not sure. My love interest… did I tell you I got engaged?”

There was confusion. Once I was able to explain what engaged meant Vlad pointed to the waiter. “Vodka. Gray Goose.”

After a couple shots I was in a happy enough mood to agree to pick Vlad and wife up early the next morning to take them to the port for their cruise.

My love interest came along that morning. We picked up Vlad and his wife. His first question to my love interest was, “You cook?”

“I’m learning.” she said.

“What you do for Hannukah, David?” Vlad asked.

“Not much. my parents light the candles every night. How about you? What do you do?”

“Drink vodka.”

“Bullshit.” Vlad’s wife said.

It was the only comment she really made on the drive to the port. We dropped them off, but not before Vlad insisted on  taking a few pictures with us. And off they went on their Caribbean adventure.

I asked my Love Interest what she thought of Vlad. “It’s fun,” she said, “He gives you a chance to talk like a caveman. Ship big look.”

I tend to like movies better when I see them in a theater. There are no distractions to occupy me from paying attention to what is on the screen. And if ever there was a movie that needed to be seen in a  theater it is The Artist. A silent (with a couple crucial exceptions) black and white movie can not compete with the noisy excitement of a phone ringing or a roommate talking to you or a hankering to see what the score is of a game, but in a dark, quiet theater The Artist is a captivating piece of entertainment. 

Film schools often teach their pupils that a true cinematic storyteller will be able to get the point across in their movie even with the volume down. The makers behind The Artist take this homework assignment seriously. They pipe in roaring twenties Ragtime music  and insert between some frames cards of written dialogue (which in the end become unnecessary because over the course of the movie you become adept at reading lips), but for the most part the movie lets the images do the talking.

The Artist is a love story about a silent film star named George Valentin who feels irrelevant with these new “Talkie” pictures invading Hollywood. Young ingenue Peppy Miller is a new breed of star who actually speaks in her movies. She never would have made it in show business if it wasn’t for George and she doesn’t forget it. She does everything she can to help him out, but he’s too proud to accept it.

It’s a simple tale, a cheesy one, but I liked it so much I guess I’ve got to accept I’m simple and cheesy too. You could show this movie to your grandfather or your granddaughter. You could even get in your time machine and show it to an audience back in 1928 or forward to 2028  and I think they’d all be laughing and wiping stray tears at the same moments. If you’re going to see one movie in the theater this year go see the Artist, because I promise you if you wait to see it at home on DVD you will be so bored by the silence I will lose any and all credibility.

They’re always trying to take away our freedoms. I don’t mean the Fox News version of taking away our freedoms which entails not being able to own automatic weapons and having to pay taxes. But the cheap and easy freedoms like hitchhiking.

You stick your thumb out on the side of the road and if you’re lucky enough to get a ride, you might not get to your destination, but you’ll certainly get a story out of it. They’ve fed our minds that all hitchhikers are serial killers and anyone who picks up a hitchhiker is a rapist, so that we can all save up and buy our own cars which completely and utterly destroys any possibility of adventure (unless you use that car for drag racing).

But the best part of freedom is the first syllable, which means it don’t cost nothing. About a month ago I spent a night at a hostel in  Hawaii. This place was filled with skinflints. I thought I was cheap but when I had to get to the town ten miles away and was going to pay $2.50 to catch a bus, this big German told me not to be silly and wasteful to blow that much money and to stick my thumb out instead.

And so we did. One car passed by and then another and then a hundred others. I was ready to hop on the next bus, but finally a car pulled over. We got in. The driver asked where we were going. We told him the next town. The German specified, “The bank”. 

“I hope you’re not planning to use me as a getaway driver.” the driver joked. He was a laid back guy with his only complaint being the amount of child support he had to pay, but he was very generous with sharing his transportation.

So now, I suppose, I’m due to pay the good deed forward. Not necessarily by picking up the next dirty hippy freeloader looking to bum a ride, but to encourage you, dear reader, to do so.

Nothing signifies having too much time on your hands as having watched every miserable game of a 6-10 season as I have for this season’s Miami Dolphins. One positive aspect of this is it has given me great insight into recognizing mediocrity. A team that can move the ball all the way to the twenty yard line with amazing efficiency and then fails to get in the end zone is mediocre. A player who can catch a ball that is impossible to catch in the first quarter, but drops a crucial perfectly placed toss in the fourth quarter is mediocre. A team that can win when they are up by a large margin, but when the score is close always finds a way to lose is mediocre. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is also mediocre.

But the power to deduct mediocrity also helps you recognize excellence. One of the Miami Dolphins football games I watched was a December contest against the New England Patriots. In the first half Miami could do no wrong. Their quarterback, Matt Moore, fired lasers to all his receivers. Running back Reggie Bush hurdled over tacklers. Miami’s defense  sacked the Patriot quarterback mercilessly.

But then came halftime and in the second half New England justified my preseason forecast that they are the most likely team to win this year’s Super Bowl. Their head coach Bill Belichick (he of the hooded sweatshirt) adjusted the Patriot’s game plan and their quarterback, Tom Brady (he of the Uggs boots), executed the strategy to perfection.

Without much time to get rid of the ball, Brady quickened his release finding the elusive Wes Welker and the hulking tight ends, Aaron Hernandez and Rob Gronkowski, for one first down after another. And while Brady’s passing attempts in the first half kept missing his mark, he never made the colossal mistake of turning the ball over which was something Miami teams are not afraid of doing. And so in the second half the tides turned. The Patriots won 27-24 teaching me that three points are the difference between excellence and mediocrity. One team gets better as the stakes rise, the other withers and dies.

The case against the Patriots winning the Super Bowl lies in the old mantra that defense wins championships and they have the NFL’s worst defense. The Patriots do allow a ton of yards and points, but as their 13-3 record attests, they find a way to steal the ball from their opponent when it matters most.

More likely hurting the Patriots is because of their seeding, they will probably have to defeat both of the twin bruising defenses of the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Baltimore Ravens. It is possible that Tom Brady could take a serious beating in these two contests as he has in past postseasons and without a running game or dominant defense the Patriots will have no weapons at their disposal. But the same case can be made of their toughest competition, the Green Bay Packers and the New Orleans Saints. Their respective quarterbacks, Aaron Rogers and Drew Brees, both had historic seasons, but their offenses are also so quarterback dependent that one brutal hit could knock them out of the playoffs just as Peyton Manning’s absence took his Indianapolis Colts from annual contenders to the worst team in the league.

Knowing that injuries are part of the game I’ll still pick the stylish Tom Brady and the New England Patriots to make the plays when they matter most and take home the Lombardi trophy.

Sometimes I worry that I have too many movie reviews and too much commentary on professional sports on www.pablochiste.com. What writing about such topics signifies to me is that not enough interesting things are happening in my daily life to write about. So instead I take the role of the spectator and critique entertainments that I have no part in.

But there is a fallacy to this train of thought, a dangerous fallacy. Because while it is obvious when watching a movie or a sporting event that you are not part of the action (even though the ultimate goal of a movie is for an audience to completely lose itself in it and when I watch a football game on television I often think where I’m standing in the room has a direct correlation on whether the ball gets kicked through the uprights), when you are writing about events in your life you take yourself out of the action too.

When you write about something, you are no longer part of the moment. You are the observer and therefore no longer the subject. The mind can only be conscious of so much and if you are trying to collect every minute detail for later recording there is a chance you can not see  the forest for the trees. Not to mention that facts change as time passes and the memory creates its own reality.

And so for once society and technology are on the same wavelength as me. If you’re going to bother to write, it is better to just transcribe every thought in 140 characters or less.