Bad Movies: To Quit, or Not to Quit?

“How long should you sit through a bad movie?” That’s the way Friend of The Cooler Mark titled his e-mail last weekend when he forwarded a link to Roger Ebert’s blog post called “Don’t read me first!” In the post, Ebert defends his review of Tru Loved, a small independent film he’d blasted in a 735-word review despite watching less than 9 minutes of the movie. That Ebert admitted as much in the original review was the basis for his defense of his 1-star review. That Ebert was literally less than upfront about his early exit (he didn’t reveal prematurely quitting the movie until the last full paragraph) is what drew criticism – first from an editor at the Chicago Sun-Times, and then from his blog readership, which has logged in with more than 500 comments on the issue.

As Mark predicted, I’d already seen Ebert’s blog piece (and thus also Ebert’s original review of Tru Loved). However, I hadn’t seen Ebert’s entry in the light in which it was now forwarded to my attention. Until then, I was caught up on the journalistic ethics of it all: Was Ebert’s review fair? (Sort of, I had decided. Ebert had been honest, if not perfectly explicit, in noting the amount of the film he viewed. And I suspect his written reactions to those 8 minutes were nothing short of sincere. But Ebert hadn’t practiced good journalism. His reaction to Tru Loved produced a story but not the story. Like all too many active journalists, Ebert had opted for sensationalism over good old-fashioned reportage.) This pondering of Ebert’s critical approach was absolutely appropriate. All the while, though, a more basic and yet equally worthy debate was right in front of me, and I was blind to it. Indeed: how long should you sit through a bad movie?

It’s a question that’s relevant on two levels: (1) as it applies to the critic (professional or unpaid), and (2) as it applies to the average moviegoer just out for a good time. For the critic, tradition and general respect would suggest sitting through the entire picture. But is it absolutely essential to see every minute of a film in order to pass judgment on it? In response to condemnation from his blog readership, Ebert reversed course and gave Tru Loved a full viewing. That inspired a longer (1,808 words), more detailed review that’s barely more praiseworthy than the first one. As a report for consumers trying to determine whether to see all or none of Tru Loved, Ebert’s second review is more valuable. But as a criticism of art, does the second review have any greater value than the first? Given that in his original review Ebert revealed the portion of the movie he was evaluating, I would say no – the same way that an appreciation or condemnation of a specific scene in a film is no less relevant than a critique of the entire body of the film.

But what about the average moviegoer? Does he or she owe a film a complete viewing? I would struggle to argue yes, because it’s the consumer’s time and money being invested. When I go to an art museum, I’m far more likely to spend time lingering in front of paintings than in front of sculptures, as I simply prefer one medium to the other. If I’m free to speed through the sculptures, or bypass them altogether, why shouldn’t a moviegoer be able to bail early on a film that’s failing to entertain or inspire? Then again, a movie is designed to be appreciated in its entirety. If you’ve only seen half of a movie, have you really seen it?

Ever since I started writing about movies (on and off) more than 10 years ago, I have made it a policy never to walk out of a theatrical screening. I’ve broken the rule twice, most recently with Friend of The Cooler Hokahey at Rules Of Attraction. In both cases the early exits had as much to do with wanting to make better use of precious time with a friend as it did with my dissatisfaction with the film itself. When I really think about it, I could probably stand to walk out early on a few films each year. But, like quitting midway through a workout, there’s a real danger that it becomes an awful habit. In what so far has been a disappointing year at the movies, I would have been more than happy to quit on as many as 10 films. But I stuck with them, and I’m glad I did. (At least, I think I’m glad.) In many cases – Appaloosa, most recently – I saw a film’s greatest moments only because I was willing to keep my butt in the seat. Such late windfalls rarely redeem an entire movie, but sometimes they do. And, in the meantime, they remind me of why I showed up at the cinema in the first place.

For all movie lovers, I think, movie-going is like an endless cycle of blind dates. Each time we show up at the theater hoping that this is The One – the movie that will sweep us off our feet like none has before. Odds are that it won’t happen. But we keep coming back, living for the possibility and enjoying those precious yet fleeting moments of magic in between. Many a love story – in real life and on screen – would never come to fruition if we stuck to first impressions. Some romances take time. Sometimes our initial instincts are all wrong.

But now I ask you, Cooler readers: When is the last time you quit on a movie? Do you regret it? If not, how would you react if a friend told you that he/she quit early on a movie near and dear to your heart? Would you feel the movie had been given an adequate chance?

The Truth Hurts: Body Of Lies

One of the trickledown effects of the unrestrained militaristic action films of the 1980s – the stuff of Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Chuck Norris – was a lasting sense that the seriousness of a movie decreases as the number of onscreen kills and explosions increases. Often that’s the case. Of course, the byproduct of that tenet is the sense that the opposite must be true – that the less the action in a militarily-minded movie the more highbrow the content. Based on that latter rule of thumb, many are likely to tout Ridley Scott’s Body Of Lies as a highly intellectual affair. But it isn’t. Starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe as ideologically opposed anti-terrorism agents with the CIA, the film repeatedly demonstrates its intent to talk first and shoot later, yet its conversations are empty. Body Of Lies has the manner of cerebral cinema but not the ideas.

Of the film’s many failures, the biggest is that it’s a bore. William Monahan’s screenplay, based on a novel by David Ignatius, is packed with clichés, contradictions, dead ends and unrewarding convolution. Over and again, Body Of Lies makes the sort of the all-too-routine errors we would otherwise be happy to ignore if only there were something interesting to distract us. But there isn’t. In DiCaprio and Crowe, the movie possesses two of the most capable actors working today, each of them able to carry a film with the presence of a star and the conviction of a character actor. But both are wasted here. Playing one-dimensional roles, they act accordingly. Consequently their performances feel mailed-in. Er, phoned-in, I should say. After all, DiCaprio and Crowe spend most of the movie yapping on their cell phones – just one of the many elements that left me annoyed.

Here are some others (spoilers ahead) …

* As Body Of Lies opens, Crowe’s Ed Hoffman delivers a primer on the state of Middle Eastern terrorism, explaining how the terrorists have confounded their technologically superior foes by going “old school.” How do you avoid computer and cell phone surveillance? Simple: by not using computers and cell phones – relying instead on hand-passed notes and face-to-face communication. Makes sense. What doesn’t make sense then is why a terrorist-camp raid by DiCaprio’s Roger Ferris inspires a hurried effort by the bad guys to destroy CDs and computers. And what also doesn’t make sense then is why, later, Ferris cooks up a scheme that assumes e-mail and the Internet are primary tools of terrorist communication. If indeed the terrorists have gone old-school, as Hoffman proclaims, they don’t appear to know it.

* Speaking of technology: As I watched Body Of Lies, I found myself thinking of Roger Ebert, who likes to take the whoopin’ stick to films that attempt to pass off furious typing as exhilarating action. (For example: In Ebert’s review of Deception, which he calls “jam-packed with all the thrills of watching that little progress bar grow and grow until it fills the allotted space in the pop-up box on your computer screen,” he begins: “What can compare to the white-knuckle suspense of uploading a file?”) There’s plenty of that here. And what’s worse is that the protagonist is rarely at the keyboard. Though there is a scene in which Ferris is nearly caught using someone else’s laptop, more often than not he simply assumes the part of tech support and barks orders over his cell phone to an assistant at the controls (“Okay, now I want you to use the fake e-mail address to send the following message …”). That isn’t action. It’s lazy plot exposition.

* And then there’s this: The guy Ferris plays Geek Squad for is supposed to be a computer expert in his own right. Which begs the question: If the tech whiz can’t make a single mouse click without instructions from Ferris, why is he there? The character is pointless. Of course, I guess I should be thankful that the computer geek isn’t some cinematic cliché – the only guy wearing sweatpants in a room full of the nattily clad, or something like that. Nah, in Body Of Lies the computer geek is a recluse living in a wilderness hideaway with a pet parrot and a collection of computer monitors. You’ve never seen anything like that before, have you?

* You have? Oh. Then this, I assure you, is a cinematic first: In one scene, a terrorist picks up an “old school” printed message with directions for a car bombing. The message, presumably written for just one person, is printed in Arabic … and in English. Huh? At first that wouldn’t seem to make sense. After further thought, though, I realized it’s a subtle clue that the bomber is planning a trip to America. The note is more than a bombing directive. It’s also an English-language flashcard! Brilliant! Because it couldn’t be brainless filmmaking, could it?

* Which reminds me: When will filmmakers learn that ‘more cuts’ doesn’t mean ‘more interesting’? Body Of Lies features two car chases so chaotic that they make the action in The Dark Knight feel straightforward. Meanwhile, when it comes time for a character to have his fingers broken with a hammer, we are treated to two unflinching close-ups. You’d think it would be the other way around.

* On the subject of things that are as obvious as a blow from a hammer: When Golshifteh Farahani hits the screen there’s no doubt – none – that her Aisha, one of only two female characters in the entire film, will form a romance with DiCaprio’s Ferris. Likewise, there’s no doubt that at some point Aisha’s life will be in danger due to the relationship. Even more, there’s no doubt that the heroic Ferris will do a number of stupid things to try and save her. All of this we know immediately, because this happens in movies all the time. Fine. But, then again, not fine. Because for a guy who would rather be gunned down by a friend than be taken alive by terrorists, Ferris’ willingness to destroy his entire operation for a young woman he barely knows isn’t a sign of gallantry. It’s the sign of a one-dimensional character losing his only dimension. And what are we left with then?

* Which brings us here: The most unforgivable mistake of Body Of Lies is that its two main characters are as complex as pancake batter. Monahan pours them into the story without shape, detail or depth. In his screenplay for The Departed, Monahan demonstrated an ability to expose the psyche of his characters through action as much as dialogue, but none of that is on display here. At the end of the movie, after two hours playing “Can you hear me now?” on their cell phones, Ferris and Hoffman are no better defined than they were 10 minutes in.

The sure sign Body Of Lies gets it wrong? Despite constant attempts to wow the audience with check-this-out high-tech gadgetry – specifically go-anywhere bird’s-eye-view video surveillance that has the clarity of Blu-ray – Scott’s film had me yearning for a comparatively old-school tech woe: the dropped call. Anything to make it shut up.

Big Payne, Big Gain

More substantial posting later this week. But first, props to Mark Wahlberg, who was a double winner this weekend. Against all odds (or so I thought), his Max Payne was tops at the box office this weekend (take that, Oliver Stone). And even more surprising, Wahlberg showed he has a sense of humor.

Just last week, he ripped both Saturday Night Live as a whole and Andy Samberg’s impersonation of him in the skit “Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals.” This week? Well, see for yourself …

What’s the Other Word for Donkey?

For the first time in years, NBC’s Saturday Night Live has become must-see entertainment again – its first 5 minutes, at least – thanks entirely to a winking, media-dissing governor from Alaska. But Tina Fey’s dead-on Sarah Palin isn’t the only impersonation worth noting. On the October 4 show, Andy Samberg provided a surprisingly accurate (if goofy) impression of Mark Wahlberg. At least, I think so.

Wahlberg? Not so much. In a recent Q&A with the New York Post, Wahlberg made it clear that the offbeat sketch titled “Mark Wahlberg Talks To Animals” didn’t give him good vibrations.

“It wasn't like Tina Fey doing Sarah Palin, that's for sure,” Wahlberg says. “And Saturday Night Live hasn't been funny for a long time. They've asked me to do the show a ton of times. I used to watch it when Eddie Murphy was there and Joe Piscopo and Bill Murray. I don't even know who's on the show now.”

That’s quite a putdown from a guy trying to generate excitement for Max Payne, which apparently isn’t being screened for critics (never a good sign). Oh, and what was that movie Wahlberg was in over the summer? The Happening? I wonder if I can remember how that went …

Anyway, you be the judge. Watch the SNL clip. If you need a Wahlberg refresher, the trailer for The Happening is provided, too. And after that, there’s a brief clip in which Wahlberg reveals that he apparently hasn’t seen a scary movie since The Exorcist.

Enjoy! Wahlberg is right that Samberg’s impression doesn’t match Fey’s. But it’s pretty darn good. And the dialogue is as smart as anything M Night Shyamalan has written in a while. Seriously.

Holy War: Religulous

And on the eighth day, God said: “Pull my finger.” That isn’t a joke from Bill Maher’s Religulous, but it might as well be. Helmed by Larry Charles, the director of Borat, and starring Maher, Religulous is a documentary in the Michael Moore style in which religion is in the crosshairs and condescending jokes are the ammunition. Maher, standing front and center, takes us on an offbeat tour of several major religions (Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Mormonism, etc), a few minor ones (a marijuana-using sect in Amsterdam) and those in between (Scientology). Maher interviews people at the Vatican, near the ruins of Megiddo, at a religious theme park in Florida and at other places across the globe. No matter which religion is being discussed or who it’s being discussed with, the conversation remains the same. Though Maher’s explicit arguments change on a case by case basis, the implicit theme goes something like this: “If you believe that, I’ve got some land near Chernobyl to sell you.”

The point of Religulous, Maher says, is to create a case for doubt. Maher notes, seemingly sincerely, that he just doesn’t know whether any of the world’s religions have it right or if there is a God at all. Thus he doesn’t subscribe to any religion, but he is careful to point out that he isn’t an atheist. To absolutely not believe in God would, in Maher’s view, cause him to commit the very sin of certainty that confounds him about believers. The trouble is, for a guy turned off by a made-up mind, Maher is so devout in his doubt that it might actually take a talking snake or a few days living inside the belly of a fish for him to see the light. After all, this is a man who calls religion “detrimental to the progress of humanity.” You’d have an easier time building an ark than finding doubt in that statement.

But if you think Maher’s imperfections as a listener render Religulous unworthy of your attention, think again. Maher himself doesn’t always play fair (his ideological battles in this film often pit him, a heavyweight debater, against novice lightweights), but as a whole his documentary gives voice to a shockingly silent though significant minority. According to a statistic cited by Maher, 16 percent of Americans are admitted non-believers. But while Bill O’Reilly throws regular fits about a mounting “attack on Christianity” taking place in the U.S., the fact remains that remarks disparaging any religion other than Islamic extremism are considered taboo. That’s unfortunate. If you believe that society is improved by a free market of ideas, Maher’s anti-God bullhorning isn’t just acceptable, it’s long overdue.

Of course, Religulous won’t be embraced by everyone. Many will be offended, by Maher’s smugness if nothing else. But is Religulous truly offensive? If you find yourself leaning toward yes, you might ask yourself why. All Maher does with this film is repeatedly call attention to the curiosities, let’s call them, of many religious faiths. Shouldn’t something as significant as a belief in God be able to stand up to such cross-examination? Why is it that something so profound all too often goes unchallenged? There are a few instances in Religulous when people walk out on Maher rather than stand up to his questioning. “I didn’t know you were making that kind of film,” they say. Translation: “I’m here to agree with you, but don’t you dare raise doubts.” Seems to me that though we tell ourselves we don’t discuss religion in public because faith is a private matter, perhaps the real reason we avoid the subject is because it keeps us from being asked questions for which we don’t have answers.

In case it matters, full disclosure: From as early as I can remember until I left home for college, I went to church every Sunday. I even went to a Catholic high school, though that was more for the benefits of a private school education than any desire (parental or personal) for religious influence. Looking back over my life, I can think of numerous positive encounters with representatives of the Church and not a single negative one. But I am no longer a practicing Catholic. The sticking point, if there was just one, came down to the Church’s cowardly, just-barely-tolerant treatment of homosexuals (revealed through a number of equal-rights measures going through my home state of Oregon in the early 90s). I failed to see how the Catholic Church’s stance was remotely in line with the spirit of Jesus Christ’s teachings, and that quashed any desire for affiliation. As of today, I haven’t altogether eliminated the idea of God, but I can’t say I believe in Him. I love the idea of an afterlife, but I’ve seen no evidence of one firsthand, and so I don’t believe in that either. I hope I’m wrong on both counts.

In the meantime, yes, I find it either arrogant or naïve to think that any of us has a clue who God is or what His intentions are. Maher doesn’t need to sell doubt to me. I already have it. On that note, if Religulous is meant to be a vehicle to spark a non-belief movement, I’m not sure it succeeds. The movie is peppered with observations that should give any thinking believer a pause, but these erudite points are lost amidst others that are flimsy and sophomoric. Time and again, Maher genuflects to comedy before honest conversation, and in doing so he is likely to repulse the very people he hopes to convert. In Maher’s ideal scenario, the gag-filled antics of Religulous make it the meat surrounding the bitter pill that is Maher’s truth. But, more likely, the dog in this scenario is Maher. He spends so much of Religulous wearing a grin of self-congratulations that he might as well be licking himself.

To be fair: America probably isn’t ready for the PowerPoint lecture in favor of doubt, ala Al Gore’s global warming wake-up call An Inconvenient Truth. Perhaps this was the only approach available to Maher if he hoped to reach a mainstream audience. But by that design, Religulous isn’t as funny as it should be or even all that bold. There are a few terrific gags (a Brokeback Mountain music cue, for one), but most of them are cheap or predictable. As it turns out, Maher’s smartest joke, borrowed from an old stand-up routine, doubles as his most cogent argument for doubt: First he lists some of the beliefs of Scientology, and then, after those get a laugh, he compares them to some of the beliefs of Christianity. The point? Most religions seem so wacky to outsiders that it’s hard to believe insiders have taken an honest look at themselves. It’s a gotcha moment for the audience, and it’s hard to avoid the trap.

At my Catholic high school I came in contact with various religious figures who encouraged me to challenge my faith. I doubt that most are so fortunate. Religulous attempts to take the fight to those who think their religion is above scrutiny. Believers shouldn’t ignore Maher or dismiss him as a bigot. They should welcome the challenge. Because if you have true faith, what is there to fear? Regardless, so as long as “In God We Trust” is printed on our currency and Presidents take their oath on the Bible and school kids pledge allegiance to the flag “under God” (terminology added in the 1950s, remember), religion doesn’t get a free pass. My personal wish would be for all those who rushed to see The Passion to put forth equal effort to see Religulous. It’s only fair. Besides, in the end Maher and Believers share a fundamental view: If Christianity or Judaism or Islam or any of the world’s religions are accurately advancing The Word of The God, well, it’s nothing short of a miracle.

Tale of Two Sundances: Appaloosa

At the end of Appaloosa, a lone cowboy rides off into the sun-tinged horizon of New Mexico circa 1882. In doing so, he is following a trail blazed by so many before him – the ride into the sunset being as much a staple of the Western movie as the cowboy and the horse – but he is heading nowhere in particular and he is in no particular hurry to get there. This much we know, not just because the metaphorical device is as self-evident as a fist-fight in a saloon or a duel on a dusty main drag, but also because, against all reason, the cowboy comes right out and says so. The clunky explanation is delivered in a bit of bow-tying voice-over that is as unnecessary as it is indicative of the film entire. Appaloosa, a Western heading nowhere in particular and in no particular hurry to get there, is a model of screenwriting mediocrity.

The film is based on a novel by Robert B Parker. Screenwriting duties were handled by Ed Harris, who also stars and directs, and Robert Knott. Neither Harris nor Knott has a previous screenwriting credit, and their lack of experience shows. Intending, I think, to be an examination of a pair of tight-lipped lawmen-for-hire, Appaloosa is instead just tight-lipped. Expressionless. If you recognize where the film aims to go, you can perhaps make some allowances and help it along. But the hard truth is that Appaloosa moves with all the purpose of a stray cut off from the herd. It doesn’t take us anywhere. It merely takes up time.

It’s a shame, because as lethargic as the film is, Harris’ passion for it is unmistakable. Working with cinematographer Dean Semler, whose Western credits include Young Guns, Dances With Wolves, The Alamo and even City Slickers, Harris frames his shots with the care of someone in love with the genre. Appaloosa lacks the opulence of The Assassination of Jesse James, which Roger Deakins approached with Malickian flare, but it gives us a handful of iconic two-shots of the contemplative cowboy leads Virgil Cole (Harris) and Everett Hitch (Viggo Mortensen), plus a seduction amidst a dust storm that’s so visually romantic that it feels as if it comes from Gone With The Wind. In these moments, Appaloosa is at least nice to look at. But because Harris and Knott fail to find the pulse of their story, that’s all that it is.

Appaloosa’s chief sin is that it is almost entirely without dramatic tension. It opens by announcing the villain, Jeremy Irons’ Randall Bragg, a wealthy rancher living just outside of town who shoots the local marshal rather than let two of his ranch hands get taken away to jail. Enter Virgil and Everett, gun-toting friends who roam the Southwest looking for little towns in need of peacekeepers. Tired of Bragg’s band of mischief-makers, Appaloosa’s three suits, who often appear to be the town’s only citizens, immediately enlist Virgil and Everett’s services. But if you figure this sets up Appaloosa to be a gritty battle between the lawmen and the lawless, you figure wrong. It’s just about this time that a train comes into town bringing with it the fine fashions and empty purse of Renee Zellweger’s Allison French. And immediately, Appaloosa takes on a new identity.

From here, Appaloosa is a love story, or perhaps a collection of them. Whatever it is, it’s poorly executed. Sitting in one chair we have Virgil, admittedly uncomfortable with even the concept of emotion, finding himself stirred by this newcomer. In another chair is Everett, equally quiet but obviously attracted, and yet bound first to Virgil. And last there’s Allison, who we grow to learn has an eye for everyone and is willing to take on all comers (pun intended). Her appeal, beyond being female, is never made clear. She has no money, no skills beyond the piano and, worst, no real personality. Without many lines to speak, Zellweger spares us a return to her hammy antics of Cold Mountain, but her performance is ghastly nonetheless, a collection of smiles, grins and beams. Allison is fool’s gold, but that doesn’t keep the character from being the underlying motivation of almost every scene following her introduction.

The other characters aren’t any more interesting. Villains usually make for ripe roles in Westerns, but Bragg is more bark than bite, and beyond that he’s a bore, thus continuing Irons’ recent streak of unmemorable bad guys. Meanwhile, Mortensen is given just one good scene as Everett, and it comes all too late to make an impact. For the most part, Everett is little more than Virgil’s mustachioed shadow, and the soulful Mortensen is routinely upstaged by the 8-gauge shotgun he carries. Then there’s Virgil, clad in black as if to highlight his lack of transparency. For Appaloosa to succeed, it needed to be driven by the perversity of Virgil’s twisted ethics and urges, but Virgil’s character seems made up of screenwriting concepts rather than actual emotions. Harris the writer fails Harris the actor, leaving Virgil looking more empty than distant. Frequently, shots of Virgil and Everett that are meant to suggest depth or poignancy merely evoke aimlessness.

To Harris’ credit, the gunplay in Appaloosa is thrillingly quick and vicious. Trouble is, that’s exactly the wrong kind of gunplay for a film that rarely feels worthy of our attention. As a frequent critic of the drawn-out “action” sequences that typify most adventures these days, I will have to dodge lightning bolts as I write this, but Appaloosa needed at least one free-for-all in which the shots pop like fireworks and the supply of ammunition is bottomless. This wasn’t the time to go for realistic minimalism. To imagine this film done right is to think of something closer to Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid – another Western with two men in love with the same woman and yet more in love with one another. “Who are those guys?” is the famous refrain from that film. I might ask the same question about Virgil and Everett. After almost two hours, I still didn’t know. Or maybe I was never made to care.

Announcing the Politics & Movies Blog-a-thon!

[Nov 4 Update: The Politics & Movies Blog-a-thon has commenced here.]

The 2008 race for the White House has gone on so long that even Barack Obama is starting to look old. And, sure, the whole drawn-out affair has recently gotten a bit more interesting, thanks to a certain hockey mom from Alaska who is so intent on staring down the Russians every morning that she apparently can’t remember the name of the newspaper that’s spread out next to her bowl of cornflakes. But, like it or not, in just over a month the spectacle will end.

Come Election Day – er, maybe a few days after – some of us will be celebrating and some of us will be sobbing. But, assuming we’ve been keeping up with the coverage, all of us will find ourselves with a little extra free time and a pang of regret that the whole blessed affair ended so quickly (just go with me on this). So on that note, in the spirit of keeping the rash of political mania burning just a little longer, or if only to provide a welcome diversion from the election’s outcome, The Cooler is pleased to announce the Politics & Movies Blog-a-thon, taking place right here November 4-9.

Bloggers: Consider this your invitation.

The parameters are these: Your post must deal with politics and movies. Simple as that. If that means you write an appreciation of a political-themed drama like The Candidate, perfect! If that means you analyze a documentary like No End In Sight, that’s great, too. If instead you want to dive into the deeper political themes of a blockbuster like The Dark Knight, be my guest. Politics and movies are the essential ingredients. Go forth and be creative.

Per usual, post your contribution on your blog and send me the link via e-mail or the comments section the week of the blog-a-thon. If you don’t have a blog and would like to contribute, e-mail me your contribution and I’ll post it here at The Cooler.

In the meantime, if you would be so kind, help spread the word.

See you on Election Day!