The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

STAGES AND TRANSFORMATIONS. At work, a couple of my colleagues, in a moment of calm in between the bookends of chaos the job entails, decided to dive in on how I let things unravel so spectacularly in my third marriage. A bit of gossip-y probing, I suppose. They diverted the conversation back to my first marriage and, as I told the tales, one looked at me surprised.

“I can’t imagine you being so docile in these situations. I kinda want to meet that guy but I’m also sort of glad I haven’t.”

“I’m a creature of use. I generally want to be someone who gives whatever I can to my person. Unfortunately, I tend to fall in love with people who are more than happy to take that without feeling compelled to reciprocate. And the best way to keep a mule working is to hit it with a stick.”

SINNERS. Mom and I decided we were going to catch Coogler’s latest film and it was a doozy. Set in Mississippi 1932, the movie takes place in two days as a pair of twins (both played by Michael B. Jordan) come home after serving in WWI and time as lackeys for the Capone organization in Chicago with the singular goal to open a juke joint and throw an epic house party. Remarkably (and in a feat of magic only a supernatural horror film could achieve) they buy an old sawmill, pull in some old friends to come and work the party, build the infrastructure, the BBQ, the bar, ice(?), and a stage all within twelve hours only to have the place crashed by vampires.

At the core is Preacher Boy, a self taught blues guitar player with a voice decades past his own age and the ability to open up generations of spiritual music with a song. The head vampire is drawn to the party by Preacher Boy’s music as he wants to connect with the many generations of his own kind.

It’s a beautiful achievement as Coogler is fully in charge of his own voice and technique, drenched in dark cinematography and long, amazing sequences of music. Jordan has never been a great actor but an amazingly charismatic movie star yet the subtle differences he gives to distinguish both Smoke and Stack are impressive given any other performer might lean into the device and make the two brothers comically distinct.

The musical sequences are extraordinary, especially the first juke joint number evoking musicians from both future and past of several ethnic cultures. It’s a tour de force performance on every level and the centerpiece of an otherwise bloated narrative.

The themes cover a lot of heavy and often conflicting territory including racial injustice, the appropriation of culture, the dangers of assimilation, the oppression of religion, and the voices of the subjugated becoming the cultural force of the population but center primarily on the question of freedom. Does freedom come from the musical legacies of the enslaved or from the everlasting life of the undead and gorgeous vampires?

Given that the lead vampire, played by Jack O’Connell, is distinctly Irish and invokes the past slavery of his people complete with songs that could be viewed as Irish blues, doesn’t devour his prey like an animal but seeks to simply expand his flock, the vampirism is less chaotic and far more intentional, like a religious rite rather than feasting. In one moment, the inhabitants of the juke are told “We’re going to kill you all,” and the next, they’re told they can be free by submitting (the second seems more true when the lovely third climax featuring Buddy Guy is revealed).

Quick side note: the most magical things to happen in the movie is the idea that, if you leave a partner for seven years without any communication and then show up out of the blue and say “I love you and missed you” apparently all is forgiven. Now, that’s movie magic more improbable than vampires any day.

This is a visually and aurally extraordinary film but it is cold. The screenplay seems to follow a “This happens. Then this happens. Then there are some vampires.” storytelling technique that doesn’t quite gel into any sort of emotional core. The characters are more exemplars of ideas than a presentation of real people which tracks in a supernatural thriller burdened with a desire to make broad historical points. In other words, it was a grand piece of art in which I didn’t really care about the humans or the vampires, didn’t connect emotionally to anyone in the story enough to feel for them, where no death or transformation moved me one way or the other. As Stanley intones in PTA’s Magnolia when he sees the rain of frogs, “This happens. This is something that happens.”

Supporting characters come and go like stock footage—the partially black white woman with history with Stack, the preacher father who disdains the music of the devil, the discarded mother of a dead child who somehow knows the rules of vampires (garlic, stakes in the heart, must be invited in) long before cinema established them, the drunken blues man filled with regret and wisdom—all there to serve the action but without the depth required for us to care about their involvement.

While most pieces fit along the way, the insertion of a KKK massacre in the second of three climaxes comes pretty much out of nowhere. While watching KKK members get gunned down is satisfying, the Klan isn’t present throughout the film and seems like an unnecessary tack on in a movie about the very nature of eternal life via cultural legacy.

I enjoyed watching this film but, like a two and a half hour music video filled with multiple transcendent moments and dozens of not quite fully realized ideas, won’t remember much about it except for the visuals and the music and that may be enough. I’m a fan of the original concept and unusual big swing and Coogler has knocked this way back into the outfield. I will, however, definitely remember that the characters were really into cunnilingus because that is the most consistent through-line of all.

“We are the authors of our own terms of surrender. In his first 100 days, Trump has gutted science funding, attacked major universities, discouraged foreign students, driven up the 10-year Treasury yield, created a crisis for U.S. manufacturers, installed a nonsense tariff regime, and slashed support for clean tech.”—Derek Thompson

A BIT OF HOUSECLEANING. Four days. Two of them in a Prius driving through the midwest. Two of them in the company of my mom, dad, and sister. No news. Less vegging out in front of the TV. Good food, a great movie, and space to reflect and breathe. On the road, I listened to classic rock and hours of movie podcasts. At home, we laughed, we caught up, we talked about the world. A perfect prep for the end of Spring and the beginning of Summer.

I’ll never get tired of how much I love hanging out with my mom, dad, and sister. They sare the grounding source of joy in the world.

And, I’ll never get over how much I am filled with awe and amazement when I drive into the Chicago city limits. Even when I’m completely tapped out from a twelve hour stint in the cockpit of a Prius.

Every time you put your phone down, skip the extra side of fries, or have a meaningful conversation with zero intention of posting about it later, you are committing an act of rebellion.

THE RECIPE FOR A FIRST CLASS MANAGER. The winning recipe for a quality manager, like any recipe worth its salt, isn’t about balance—it’s about flavor. You want bland? Hire a consensus-builder who calls every meeting a “check-in” and smiles like their teeth are rented. You want results? You need a mixologist of chaos and clarity. Two parts organizational skill, one part basic empathy, three parts asshole, one part sense of humor, and a splash of cheerleader. Stir and serve. You don’t get Michelin-starred leadership from the Betty Crocker cookbook.

Two parts organizational skill—because without a spine made of calendars, spreadsheets, and color-coded Post-its, you’re just another glorified babysitter with a title. A quality manager without a command of structure is a mall cop without a Segway: all uniform, no utility. Organization isn’t optional. It’s the quiet hum behind the machine. The one who knows where the bodies are buried because they drew the map. The one who can recite evacuation protocols like scripture and still know who’s late on their deliverables without checking the spreadsheet. These two parts aren’t sexy. They’re essential.

One part basic empathy. Not the Instagram-quote kind. The real kind. The “you look tired—what’s going on?” kind. The empathy that recognizes your staff isn’t sabotaging the gig on purpose, they’re drowning in their kid’s ADHD diagnosis and haven’t slept since last Tuesday. This isn’t coddling—it’s tactical compassion. Understand just enough of the human condition to know when to back off and when to lean in. Empathy is the spoonful of sugar that makes the redline go down easier.

Three parts asshole. That’s the engine. The fire. The necessary bastardry. You think “quality” gets enforced by hugs and positive vibes? Not a chance. The world is a mess of half-assery, and the quality manager is the one who says, “Do it again, but right this time.” Not malicious. Not cruel. Just unwilling to let mediocrity win. The asshole in this equation isn’t the villain. They’re the antihero. The John McClane of process control.

One part sense of humor. Because without it, the whole cocktail curdles. Audits are soul-draining. Reports are bureaucratic trench warfare. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of documenting how you documented the documentation, you’ll snap. You’ll become the very paper-pushing monster you once vowed to slay. A quality manager with a sharp wit is a unicorn in a hard hat. Treasure them.

And a splash of cheerleader. Not pom-poms and pep talks. Just the occasional “Nice save,” the “I know that sucked, but you handled it.” Because people are not machines, and motivation is a fickle bitch. That splash is enough to remind the troops that someone’s paying attention. That progress, while slow, is still progress.

Mix it all up and what you get isn’t a saint or a tyrant—it’s someone who gets shit done and makes damn sure it stays done. Cheers.

PLEDGE DRIVES ARE GONNA GET WORSE. Nothing like nerds with a cause, amiright? President Trump signed an executive order Thursday directing the Corporation for Public Broadcasting's board of directors to "cease federal funding for NPR and PBS," the nation's primary public broadcasters. Trump contends that news coverage by NPR and PBS contains a left-wing bias. The federal funding for NPR and PBS is appropriated by Congress.

Given that NPR receives about one percent of their annual budget from CPB and most local stations receive less than ten percent, I’d suggest maybe tighten up the belt and tell Trump to take the cash and shove it up his ass. This is the game, gang. Trump’s only real world power is money. Take away that extortionist laundry list and he’s less influential.

The downside is that the ever present Emergency Funding Crisis template used for most pledge drives and GoFundMe’s will now increase. Soon, the big charitable dilemma will be do I donate to pay Terry Gross’s salary or make sure the woman on Michigan Avenue gets her three dollars?

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Welp, there we go for the week! If you need something to listen to, swing by LiterateApe.com or Apple Podcasts and catch the latest I Like to Watch podcast where we chat with legendary filmmaker/producer/screenwriter George Gallo about his latest joint and a conversation about Scarecrow, a 1973 film starring a young Al Pacino and Gene Hackman.

In meantime, make some mayhem, find stuff to laugh about, and, if you can, call your family.