Calling Bulls**t on Iron Man 3 by Johnny DiLoretto

First let me say that Iron Man 3 is a lot of fun. Robert Downey, Jr. maintains a headlock on Tony Stark – he’s incorrigibly charming and still giving his all to the role, committing to the serious stuff just as wholeheartedly as he dives into the smartass, billionaire playboy stuff, at which he excels.

But RDJ gets dealt a shitty hand here. I’d like to think he’s smart enough to catch the BS flaw in this movie but maybe not.

There are two things this movie gets right: Downey, Jr., who, I’ve mentioned, proves he is the undisputed leader of the Marvel superhero pack; and the marketing. They sold this movie like it was going to be the Iron Man version of the Dark Knight with Oscar winner Ben Kingsley as Iron Man’s comic book arch nemesis, The Mandarin.

The trailer campaigns made it look like Iron Man 3 was going to be a long, dark pull on a crisp, cold, light beer. I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds good.

It looked like they were taking the character to a grim place where he needed to reassess who he is as a man and a hero and then exact butt-kicking, chest-blasting revenge on a ruthless terrorist. Turns out, it’s not that at all. The movie surprisingly pushes hard on the comedy  but the fact that – BIG OL’ SPOILER – Kingsley’s Mandarin turns out not to be the magic ring-wielding fiend of the comics, but a drunken, drug-addled simpleton actor playing the role of his life is a lame smack to the face.

This might have worked at an earlier stage of the Iron Man evolution, back before Thor and Loki and the alien menace of The Avengers, back before Marvel thought mainstream audiences wouldn’t buy the more ridiculous, otherworldly aspects of the comic book universe.  But  now that’s all changed since Iron Man teamed up with the Hulk and Thor in The Avengers and fought Loki and an army of speeder-bike riding extraterrestrials.

It’s safe to say, I think audiences might have bought the magic ring-wearing version of the Mandarin.

 

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Yes, Ben Kingsley is hilarious. Yes, it’s a surprise twist. But it’s jackass stupid. And it’s a nutless move.

But that’s not my biggest problem with the movie.

There’s a scene where nearly a dozen staffers get sucked out of a gaping hole torn in the fuselage of Air Force One and Iron Man flies out to save them, taking them by the hand one by one and forming a sky diving chain. With nearly a dozen people in tow,  he gently lowers into the bay below. It’s a stunning set piece – thrilling, inventive, and – heroic. Until, that is, the filmmakers reveal that Tony Stark is safely in the plane above remotely operating his suit of armor.

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From the start of Downey’s turn as Stark, his journey has been one of a narcissistic hedonist who has found a path, through his technology, to a meaningful life. This all culminates at the end of The Avengers when he takes a nuclear missile up through a worm hole to save New York City.  As far as Stark knows, this is suicide. He is willing to sacrifice his life to save the lives of others. Once in space, he passes out and falls back through the worm hole before it closes up.

In Iron Man 3, Tony is haunted by his Avengers battle, you know, having faced down Asgardian evil and everything.

But this remote-controlled saving of the Air Force One passengers is a sign of sloppy writing and betrays the character’s arc. Maybe the old Tony Stark would have remote controlled his suit when human lives were at stake, but certainly not the post-Avengers Stark who has finally become a superhero by putting his life on the line for a greater cause.

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In short, this is bullshit. This is how the glorification of video games is sneaking into our concept of heroism. So, now, people who fly drones are going to be considered as heroic as the soldiers on the ground?

Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I don’t want my superheroes to be superheroes just because they’re awesome at video games.

Johnny DiLoretto is a man of many talents. Click here to learn more on our contributor page.

Your Life Is Closer To Over: The Week That Was by Brian Phillips

The best from my random facebook musings in the past week.   

News

This week I said nothing about Benghazi. What's the point. You either believe the president all but hired Al Qaida to attack the embassy (and if I cared to look I could find people who believe he did) or there's nothing worth discussing. I fall somewhere in between which is hardly fashionable. ​I'm pretty sure someone screwed up, but I don't believe anyone would do so on purpose. Bottom line for me? The people pushing this the hardest lack credibility and more to the point irritate the shit out of me. 

Instead of Benghazi I bring you Fugazi, protesting the First Gulf War, which is where we really went off the rails in that region anyway.​

And besides Benghazi is a useful distraction while Congress sold you out a bit more this week. ​

Along with Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi, Greg Palast is a favorite muckraker of mine. The Boston bombings sent him running to his filing cabinet and then to a plane for Kazakhstan. Was Boston random and isolated or more blow back? I'll leave it to you. ​

In related news, the CIA once tried to implant a microphone in a cat. ​

We were all thankful the Cleveland kidnapping victims were rescued. The conditions they left behind were as horrific as you can imagine. ​

From the No Shit Desk: Study indicates racists are stupid.  ​

A British study meanwhile says men carrying guitars are 31% more likely to get a phone number. Ladies at least make him whip out the damned thing and play it. ​

A small town in New York has been terrorized by a sort of Ice Cream man mafia. ​

Sports

Sad to report Duncan Oughton is leaving the Crew coaching staff and TV booth to join the staff at Toronto FC. The one time Crew midfielder and New Zealand international is a hell of a guy and we will miss him. Of course the Crew will see him in a few days as they travel north for a Saturday match there. Cheers Duncan!​

If you're a fellow baseball nerd check out Alex Cobb's performance against San Diego Friday. Cobb became the only pitcher in big league history to strike out 13 batters in less than five innings of work. His night included the rare four strike out inning, and in that frame he allowed a run without a hit. The whole thing was one big oddity. 

And if you still harbor your inner 13 year old boy you'll find this slideshow of the most unfortunate names in sports history as amusing as I did. ​

History

It was once a fad to make everything radioactive. ​

And Finally Tonight

​A man who shot and wounded his nine year old cousin dressed as a skunk for Halloween gets probation. Why? He thought she was a real skunk. Shockingly drugs and alcohol were not involved. 

'Searching For Sugar Man' this Wednesday @ the Gateway Film Center. Seriously, Don't Miss This Movie.

Unlike other websites that shall remain nameless**, we here at Pencilstorm don't just clack around on keyboards in our parents basement. No sir, on occasion we actually get off our ass and go do things with real live human beings. One of those things is our movie series, Reelin' and Rockin" at the Gateway Film Center. It is the brainchild of CD1025 DJ Brian Phillips and myself.  The 3rd Wednesday of the month we feature a rock n roll themed moving picture for your pleasure. This Wednesday May 15th we are proud to be showing the Acadamy Award winning documentary "Searching For Sugar Man". Hardcore music nerds like Brian and myself meet at the upstairs bar around 7pm and the movie starts at 8pm. Admission is only $5 and all proceeds benefit CD1025 for the kids.

 

This September will be the two year anniversary of Reelin' and Rockin' and we thank everybody who has made it possible. Hope to see you this Wednesday for 'Searching For Sugar Man' and at future Reelin' and Rockin' events. 

 

Click here for the link to Reelin and Rockin facebook page with all you need to know about all you need to know.

Click here if you need more convincing to read Ricki C's glowing review for 'Searching For Sugar Man' 

 

** - Grantland

 

 

 

A Blog About Losing a Mom, Trying to Become a Mom

          "I Should Have Had Ten of You"​

My sister Kellie has been writing this blog since August 2012 and it has gained quite a dedicated following. As a successful paralegal working in Atlanta, I have no idea how she churns out as much material as she does, but she updates constantly. In short, the blog concerns her struggling to overcome the death of her (and my) Mother from cancer while attempting, and often failing at becoming a mother herself. The writing at times is painfully personal and not for the weak of heart. But If you stick it out, it is a powerful testimonial that for some, Mother's Day isn't just May 12th, it is everyday of the year.

Click here for a link to the very first post where Kellie explains where has she came up with the title and what the blog is all about. ​

Colin Gawel is the brother of Kellie Caldwell and plays in the band Watershed and writes for Pencilstorm.  www.colingawel.com

Your Life Is Closer To Over: The Week That Was by Brian Phillips

In case you missed the first in our series last week, this is essentially a digest of various things I found interesting enough to pollute my Facebook feed with last week. Don't worry though, no Farm House game invites or whatever the hell that is. Farm House isn't correct. That was an ag major frat at Washington State. The only thing I can recall about Farm House was the Farm House Rodeo. I heard they put hay bales in the front yard and members would sit on the them and drink until they fell over. Last man on his bale won the rodeo. Sounds about right.​

News

​Speaking of bales.... The President Of The Graveyard of Empires says "hey America, thanks for the bales of cash!" In fairness Afghan President Karzai called the payments a "small amount," which is probably horseshit. What do we get for our C.I.A. funneled cash payments? I'm sure some of the money ended up with people who used the funds to kill American soldiers. And I can't imagine all that dough sloshing around Godforesaken Afghanistan without some of it washing up against the heroin trade, but I'm just spitballin' here.  

I found this backgrounder on the Boston Bomber's family interesting. ​Meanwhile The Daily Mail reports the Saudis warned the U.S. about the elder brother after they refused him entrance for a pilgrimage to Mecca. As we learned with 9-11 the Saudis like Jihadis best when their someone else's problem. We'll see if we ever get any satisfactory answers as to why this clown wasn't kicked out of the country. Also, what friends young brother had!

Want to read a really scary article about fracking? Read it anyway. ​

Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi had yet another dispatch this week. This one is just as depressing as the others. The cleaning up of mortgage malpractice never really happened.

Did you read about this survey? An alarming number of Americans believe we may need an armed revolution soon. There are two problems with this. 1. At some point having a revolution involves effort. 2. What do you think is going to happen when you start said revolution? I know we can become frustrated when things don't seem to be right, but seriously calm the fuck down. Also of note a large minority of those surveyed believe they're being lied to on Sandy Hook. Again, seriously... calm the fuck down.

Sports

​Deadspin has it about right. The NBA is using Seattle just like the NFL uses L.A. Seattle is the league's arena boogeyman! "Build us a new joint or we're going to Seattle!" The Sacramento Kings will likely not be headed north after the NBA's relocation committee voted against recommending a Seattle ownership group. Here's the fun part! The chair of said committee is Oklahoma City Thunder owner and all around creep Clay Bennett. Watch this movie, it's pretty good.

Not to be outdone the owner of the Cubs has threatened to move his shitty team out of Wrigley if he doesn't get a new scoreboard. That's laughable on it's face. What this is really about is the 17% revenue share the Cubs cut with building owners across the street. The proposed scoreboard would kill their business. The Cubbies kind of painted themselves into a corner with this one. ​I smell Oklahoma City Cubs!

Even with Jason Collins dominating the news, perhaps you didn't take the time to read his self-penned Sport Illustrated cover story. Don't miss it. ​Years ago former major league journeyman Billy Bean (not the A's GM) wrote a great book about his life as a closeted athlete. 

Great piece in USA Today last week on the Braves' Evan Gattis. What a road for this 25 year old rookie. Clinically depressed, wandering America working a series a dead end jobs only to make the Braves out of spring training and rake. ​

​I'll be writing more soon on baseball and specifically the weird first month and change of the season. If you're wondering as I am about the collapse of Josh Hamilton read this. Yes it's filled with mind numbing sabermetrics, but the conclusion is unmistakable. Hamilton is swinging his bat like a lab rat pushing the cheese lever. 

Jet fan! Feeling great about Geno Smith? Everything about this kid is screaming head case. Perfect for Rex Ryan's "confused quarterback-centric" offense. ​Tim Tebow got the gas pipe of course and it didn't take the wise acres long to have their fun. 

And lastly in sports why was this kid wandering across an NBA court with his pants down? ​

And Finally Tonight

​A 14 year old Chicago teen learned a valuable life lesson when the prostitute he hired online stole his Ipad and Piggy Bank. She's been arrested. Yes I choose to believe he was going to pay her by cracking open his piggy bank.

Tom and Randy, Pool Detectives

We really were like a couple of mismatched detectives. Randy, a tall, athletic, light-skinned African American dude from Findlay, and me, a pale, scrawny, long-haired kid from Powell. Randy looked most of the time like he was coming from a basketball game but had had time to shower, and I, most of the time, looked like a Third World freedom fighter who had been sniffing glue and needed sleep and was wearing more clothing than the weather called for.

Randy was well-spoken, and I was a bit of a mumbler who didn’t like to look you in the eye. If we were on the trail of the same killer, like most mismatched detectives, I would not have survived the scene where we get into a brawl. But we weren’t on the trail of the same killer – it was just that we met in college, and had found that we had a lot more in common than you’d think. Mostly, what we had in common was icy cold beers, poker, and pool.

See, the way it worked back then was, we didn’t have telephones in our pockets. We had them in our apartments, and there were little boxes attached to the phones which recorded messages on cassette tapes. Right about then, they were coming out with these “answering machines” which did not use tapes, but instead made digital recordings. That was the kind of thing that could flat blow my mind.

So what we’d do was, while we were throwing cards around on a picnic table the night before, we’d compare notes about class schedules, work schedules, and papers due, and we’d determine when we could both stop doing productive things, and we’d say, okay so that’s when we’ll meet at the Drake Union, where they had cheap pool tables, and draft beer for a buck and a quarter.

That particular day, the time we figured we could stop being productive was three o’clock. Yes, it was a Monday – so what?

We’d simply get a table and then play game after game of eight ball, usually balancing out pretty evenly, sometimes slanting over toward an embarrassingly one-sided ass kicking, and then slanting back. We’d play for beers so, that mattered.

Frequently, the money would then slide back over the card table later that night, finding its way home. It was a lot like we drank the same twenty bucks for several years, just rolling back and forth between us.

Ostensibly, the reason the Drake Union on the OSU campus had a pool hall was that you could take billiards classes. There were a few bowling lanes, too, if you were into that sort of thing – which we weren’t. Now, why was there also beer for sale in the OSU building? I have no idea.

I’m not sure, but my guess would be, they probably cut that out by now.

The Drake Union was on the north side of campus, not too far from the Horseshoe. It was a fairly complicated building, and you had to know your way around to find the basement pool hall, cutting through several study rooms – bristling with students who were not there to drink beer in the middle of the afternoon - and then down a quiet, tiled hallway with a couple of bathrooms to one side, and then you’d open a door. There was barely even a sign.

Inside, it was so relaxing that it made us suspicious the first time we found it. A dozen or so decent tables, a sound system that was perfectly adequate but easy to talk over, and a little bar with a bored guy behind it, who only sold draft beer. Was this some kind of trap?

Nope, not a trap. Just tip that bartender a few bucks right off the bat, and buddy, you owned the place.

That afternoon bled into the early evening pretty smoothly, and resulted in a half dozen trips to the bathroom. Both Randy and I clearly noticed each time we went in that there was somebody sitting in one of the stalls, on the toilet. You might think that after six times or so, we’d say, man, there’s always somebody in that same stall, or maybe, gee, I wonder if that’s the same guy sitting in that stall all this time?

Since I can’t smell, I couldn’t tell you if there was an odor, but if there was, Randy didn’t pick it up, or he thought to himself, unpleasant smell in the Men’s Room, not exactly a big news story.

So we rocked in and out of there for several hours, taking leaks, washing hands, and despite our heightened Pool Detective skills – you see things, we observe them – it did not occur to us for a second that there was a dead guy in there, until the cops showed up.

Apparently there an elderly man who had been an usher at every home OSU game for thirty or forty years, who followed the same routine every game. He’d go to the campus McDonald’s, get a breakfast sandwich and coffee, and then he’d walk across campus to the game. He was a remarkable figure, apparently, to the general Horseshoe community; they recognized him and thought of him like a minor folk hero. A true Buckeye, they’d say.

So when he didn’t show up that day, it made the news. The guy had been in the news before, in a little human interest piece – he’d been an usher a really long time and looked like he was going to do it until the day he died, the piece said. A little column, I think, in the Dispatch.

And it was right. Two days before Randy and I cracked the case – well, practically cracked it. I mean, we were there, when it was cracked, and we’d been in the room with the dead body quite a few times, taking a leak, thinking, man, I love playing pool and drinking a few icy cold beers.

So anyway, two days before Randy and I practically cracked the case, the usher came into the Drake Union to use the bathroom, and he died in a stall, and he sat there for two days.

Our investigation later revealed that the cleaning guy had encountered him Saturday night. He’d been wearing a Walkman – which was an iPod the size of a brick that used cassette tapes like the answering machines did – and so when he opened the door, it hit someone’s knee and he just said, “Oh, my bad, sorry dude.”

And since he was wearing his Walkman, he didn’t register that the guy didn’t answer. He certainly didn’t think to himself, better check and see if that guy’s dead.

Eventually, the bartender found him. You probably think that means the bartender cracked the case, but don’t be ridiculous. Bartenders pour beers, they don’t crack cases. To crack a case, you have to be a pool detective. That’s where me and Randy came in.

Sure, our investigation began after the cops arrived, and sure, they hogged the collar. They were all like, we’re cops and you guys are half in the bag and you didn’t even notice he was in here and one of you isn’t even twenty-one.

We were used to it. We knew that cops and pool detectives should be on the same side, but there was always infighting. Posturing. Look at me, I’m an actual law enforcement officer, and you’re a not-very-serious-or-observant college student.

Sometimes you hit the mean streets, we’d found, and sometimes the mean streets hit you back.

But that’s how it is, the life of a couple of pool detectives. No one thanks you, everyone’s out for themselves, everyone’s focused on who actually detected stuff. I mean, sure, our methods were unorthodox. Damn straight, we ruffled some feathers, broke a few rules. Stepped on a few toes, you know what I’m saying?

But we got RESULTS. Or at least, we were frequently hanging around with beers in our hands, when the results showed up.

One time a guy stole Randy’s ID, and then four months later the guy came into the bar I worked in, recognized me, and said, “Hey man, I stole your pal’s ID. Here it is.” Then me and Randy and him sat down and had a few beers and a couple of laughs about it.

That’s kind of like cracking a case, although again, the case did just sort of crack right in front of me, while I was thinking about something else.

You know what, I’m tired of talking about this. We were super duper pool detectives, I’m telling you.

Jeez.