Wickedly Scouting

First things first and there is nothing currently on the agenda more clearly in First Place than the impending arrival of the Frist Blog Reader. The Cali-Daughter had her latest pre-natal doctor visit yesterday and all signs are reportedly top notch. This is, of course, to be completely expected when you consider the parents involved. The Wingman was around to squire his wife to the appointment and all signs are positive for an announcement in the next couple weeks which will dwarf the mundane reporting on something like upcoming serial birthday pub crawls.

Cali-Growth - Impressive

Reporting something everybody who knows me finds curious is my affinity for schlock cinema. I guess I should be more embarrassed by this proclivity for films on the decidedly less than highbrow level. I could care less because it’s allowed me to enjoy the seemingly inane posturing of characters such as Ash from Army of Darkness and don’t even get me started on Movie 43. Alright, so it’s a fairly deep character flaw, I’ve learned to live with it. My wife’s better taste usually prevents me from seeing the theater of the cinematic absurd but as we all know, she’s out in California waiting to become a gramma, so I was unleashed on the local cinema again last night to see Scout’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse (you were warned). I don’t think this movie will garner any Oscar attention.

It was every bit as ridiculous as hoped. Three socially challenged high school boys are enveloped in a zombie infestation and set out to rescue their town with the help of a local stripper (cocktail waitress). Champ, Ron Burgundy’s sportscaster, shows up as a Dolly Parton worshipping scout leader sporting a zombie proof hairpiece. You get the idea by this time. I just sat back and let the complete absurdity of what I was watching wash over me. I mean who doesn’t want to see a zombified Oscar winner Cloris Leachman gumming high school posteriors. In a huge surprise I had the entire theater to myself. So bad it was funny, which is what I went in expecting. With schlock, you forgive a lot.

To demonstrate I’m not a complete loser, despite the two prior paragraphs’ compelling evidence, I did finish reading my latest Matthew Scudder novel by the incomparable Lawrence Block, Even the Wicked. Use of the term “wicked” to a New Englander opens several avenues of interpretation but Mr. Block went with the dictionary version. Scudder is hired by an attorney who’s been targeted by a serial killer using the press to announce his murders ahead of time. Scudder latches on to the case even after he ostensibly solves it which leads him down another fascinating path. Along the way he cracks another seemingly insoluble murder.

I really like the late life Block has allowed Scudder to establish for himself. He’s now happily married and the last few pages of the books has a heartfelt Christmas with his street smart assistant, TJ, that had even a schlockmiester like I misty eyed. All too often authors feel the need to pillory their main characters, especially those gifted with as many self-destructive tendencies as Scudder, in order to show some growth. Block is so comfortable with Scudder at this point that he just allows him to be who he is, a good man with an innate belief in the power of truth.

Here are some of Block’s words from Even the Wicked. Scudder in interviewing a subject in a NYC topless bar and his observation on the place and casinos rang very true to me:

I don’t know what Bunny’s Topless is like at night. It would almost have to be livelier, with more young women displaying their breasts and more men staring at them. And it’s probably sad at any hour, deeply sad in the manner of most emporia that cater to our less-noble instincts. Gambling casinos are sad in that way, and the glitzier they are the more palpable is their sadness. The air has an ozone-tainted reek of base dreams and broken promises.

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