Fall of the Icon

Jesus Christ, when did autumn get here?

Seriously, like, just yesterday it felt like high noon on Arrakis, now we have leaves changing colors. Not that I mind, but a little warning would be nice. You hear me mother nature? Yeah, I'm talking to you, you old ninny. It's called manners, okay? Learn'em. Love'em. Use'em.

Speaking of manners, doesn't Harriet Miers' face look like a sun beaten turd that's learned to smile? Or is that just me?

It is just me?

Okay.

Serenity now!

If you are reading this between September 30th and October 2nd, STOP!

Go to a theater right now and see "Serenity."

When you've done that, then come back and we'll talk.

UPDATED!!!!

What. An Incredible. Film.

Seriously, if you haven't seen this movie yet, you're only doing yourself a disservice. And no, you don't need to have ever watched "Firefly" to appreciate "Serenity."

Fine acting. Incredible action. The total package. It's funny, witty, tense, sad and about everything else tucked neatly into two hours. Wow. Joss Whedon's greatest work to date.

Here's hoping it tears up the box office.

"Chris Brennaman"

If I type “Chris Brennaman” will my name come up on Google’s blog search engine like Jake? Not that I mind typing “Chris Brennaman” but I just wondered if there were other ways to get “Chris Brennaman” to pop up.

I don’t know if I feel up to typing “Chris Brennaman” over and over again. “Chris Brennaman” is a bit cumbersome, and if I made the decision to type “Chris Brennaman” just for the sake of typing “Chris Brennaman” I think that may diminish the power of the name “Chris Brennaman” a little too much. After all, “Chris Brennaman” means something to a lot of people and I would hate for “Chris Brennaman” to become just another name.

Enough about typing “Chris Brennaman” for now. I’ll be back later.

“Chris Brennaman”

Joy... rapture...

Two things:

1) Chris, tell 'em about the space elevator.

2) As of today, I'm number one (and like numbers two through eight) when you use Google Blogsearch to search for "Jake Hallman."

Of course, her life is way more interesting than mine. Oh well, I guess we know who the interesting one is.

Oh, and I bought a new keyboard rig.

Chris in Space

I talked to Jake about this last night, but it’s still bugging me.

NASA announced their plans for how they’re going to get a man back on the moon. Keep in mind, it has been more than 30 years since the last Apollo mission, and by the time we actually go back, well, tack two more decades to that number.

My point is, NASA is planning on going back to what worked and strapping a pod to a rocket and aiming it towards the moon then lighting it up. The same thing they started doing back in the 60s.

Now, Jake says this is still the best way to get a guy to the moon, but I don’t think I agree with him. Yes, I know that Jake is an infinite well of trivial knowledge, and can prove me wrong on just about anything in less than two Google searches, but I’m going to go out on a limb and formally disagree with him.

So take that, Reverend.

We are human beings. We are the creatures that harnessed the power of the sun. We can adapt to any environment on Earth. We can record ourselves having sex and post it on the internet. There is nothing more powerful than the human imagination.

And the best we can do is strapping a dude to a rocket and aiming it at the sky?

What happened to us? Are we so creatively bankrupt that we’re content on relying on the old way of doing things just because it’s easier than coming up with something new? If we put our minds to it, I know we can come up with something much better than a rocket.

Do you know who I blame? Bruce Willis, that’s who.

Ever since “Die Hard” came out, every big studio action movie has been a just a shallow remake. Oh, they may look different on the surface, but they’re all “Die Hard.” No one wants to find new ways to blow things up. That, my friends, has translated into other facets of American life, and obviously NASA isn’t immune.

Damn you Bruce Willis. Damn you to Hell.

Chris and TV

So far, there are only two TV shows that have me really excited this season. Which isn't bad, I guess, as I won't be glued to the TV as much this season. I can do things like write and have sex.

"Lost" rocks, no two ways about it. And what's even better is that a lot of the guys that work on it are either hard core comic book fans or they're former Joss Whedon alumni and it shows in every episode. I was worrind that it wouldn't be as good as it was last season, and it still could suck, but one episode is down and it looks as good as ever.

Then other show I'm digging is "My Name is Earl." I don't know if the shows is great or not, but anything that has Brody in it can't be that bad in my book. Anyway, it actually is pretty funny and makes trashy people even funnier, which is a feat, because trashy people are always funny.

However, I am worried about "Alias." True, it hasn't aired yet, but any time a real life pregnancy is worked into a TV show, bad things happen. See "Angel" when they knocked Cordelia up. Besides, the teasers for the new season are lame at best, with Jennifer Garner making obnoxious comments about her hormones. Wow. How original. A moody pregnant lady.

You know what would be original? An episode where Sidney gets kicked in the stomach too hard by Sark or maybe even Sloan, resulting in the baby spilling out right there on screen. I wonder how much spying and butt kicking you can do when there's a fetus on the ground with an umbilical cord disappearing up your skirt. Seriously, I do.

From the Chris Files

Some labels seem to follow you around no matter where you go or how old you get.

Take "smart ass" for example.

A few of us at work got bored and started up that classic of conversations, about how work is like a high school, and if that's the case, who would everyone be.

For example, Leigh-Anne, it was decided by general consensus, would be that bad girl who does all the bad things but still is friendly enough to hang out with and be seen in public with. You like her because she's tough yet sensitive and knows where to find the good pot at the last minute.

And so everyone is newsroom was assigned an identity. We had the home coming queen, the nerd, the jock, the jock wanna-be and the fat chick. Everything was scary accurate.

Then they got to me. I know myself pretty well, but I like to think that after 26 years on this planet, that I've changed a little bit, that the character that is me has made some kind of forward movement, personality wise at least, in the epic that I call my life. I asked what role I played in our little Brunswick News high school drama, eagerly awaiting what it would be.

Everyone looked at me as if a joke were told whose punch line I didn't get.

"Dude, you're the smart ass."

I suppose there are worse things to be known for. In fact, I know there are. I could be they guy with oddly colored penis, or the short hairy fella. In the long term, smart ass ain't so bad. Whether they admit it or not, people like having a smart ass around. We keep it real while everyone is else trying hard to fit their role, whether it's in high school, college, the newsroom or prison.

So yeah, I was a little dismayed about being the smart ass again. I guess I was hoping for something that sounded cooler or had more hip overtones about it.

But at least I wasn't dubbed the frustrated closeted homosexual who we all know will come out in college. I really feel bad for that guy.

Over the line?

Chris, God bless 'im, helped me keep my sanity today. Thank the Lord for telephones.

As many of you probably know (since apparently only co-workers and heterosexual life partners read this), I'm now editor of Connect Statesboro, a weekly arts and entertainment publication put out by the Herald.

On October 1 I go to doing just that, but right now I'm running myself ragged splitting my time between straight journalism and getting Connect out the door every week.

Our first issue came out Thursday before last. I should have figured it would draw a response from The E11eventh Hour, the "other" arts and entertainment tabloid in town.

They're bi-weekly, we're weekly. They also focus on news, we have a daily newspaper for that. They have a staff of non-professional journalists, we have... uhm, pretty much me, one columnist, and my executive editor at the Herald helping out (as well as the occasional reporter I can rope in).

Brad Evans, publisher of The E11eventh Hour, called us out in their edition this week. He accused the Herald of ignoring the entertainment scene for years, seeing an opportunity to cash in, and doing the big, bad corporation thing.

He also drew parallels to the Macon Telegraph's attempt to compete with the Macon edition of his publication.

What was over the top (to me, anyway), though, was the cartoon they put on page 9 of their illustrious (and suddenly re-designed, hmm....) rag. It featured a caricature of the typical corporate "fat cat," with copies of the Herald and Connect Statesboro on his desk, surrounded by piles of money and smoking a cigar whilst reading The E11eventh Hour.

Didn't even look like our publisher, except for the piles of cash.

After grabbing a delicious chicken sandwich loaded with fast-acting triglyceride sedatives, I gave ol' Brad a call.

I pointed out to him that yes, we're in it to make money, just like he is. I told him that I saw advertisements in his publication, too.

I also told him that we'd had a weekly entertainment page for two years, so we were hardly ignoring that aspect of Statesboro life. Hell, I'm part of the Statesboro scene. How many local gigs has he played?

He didn't seem too interested. In fact, he kept saying that since we put our publication out right by his, we had to expect them to make fun of us.

He even said we try to look like him. No, I told him, we try to look like our well-established sister pub, Connect Savannah. He said that Connect Savannah looks like The E11eventh Hour. We're all printed in tabloid format, but Connect Savannah's been around far longer than his rag.

Here comes the stuff I didn't get to tell him, since he writes a good game but talks a very scared one:

Yeah, Brad, I kind of expected it from the maturity you guys have shown through your three years. In a meeting over a month ago, I brought up the question of whether we should acknowledge The E11eventh Hour's existence in our pub.

We decided not to. We took the high road. We're going to continue to take the high road. Every time you mention us, it just means one or two more people who wonder "what is this 'Connect' that has them so freaked out?"

So keep on attacking us. Your hasty redesign this week shows that you know we look better than you do.

I hope both publications can survive. You're right, the competition will make us both better. But if you go down, I won't shed a tear. Heck, I might have an opening or two.

And this isn't Macon, Brad. If you want to beat us, you'd better give your kids some lessons in basic journalism and layout. Maybe it wasn't that you beat the Telegraph, but they decided you weren't worth their time.

Y'know, you've convinced me to work that much harder to make sure we beat you to the punch on the big stories every single time.

The Chris Files- Take 3

So if this works, it will be third time in one day that I have posted the same entry.
Here goes nothing.
Been bad about keeping up with the blogging. Maybe it's because I get lazy about it, maybe it's because the word "blog" sounds like what I do in the Brunswick News men's room round about 8:30 every morning. Whatever. No more excuses. I owe it to you all seeing as how most of you I haven't seen in years. Keeping it real for the fans and all that.
Everything stays the same. Still married, still a reporter, still searching for the anti-life equation.

Salvaging a softball game.

I thought that I hadn't gotten any good shots at the Statesboro High - Southeast Bulloch softball game Thursday, Sept. 15.

Shows what I know.



I rock.



Hard.



Keep your eye on the ball.



You, too.

Google vexes me.

Google has introduced their new "blogsearch."

Once again, I'm not the top search result when you search for "Jake Hallman."

Sigh.

On traveling...

As most of you know, I'm playing in a touring country band now. We had the chance, thanks to a friend of a friend, to stay in a five-star hotel in Atlanta for a couple of days last week.

First of all, imagine these guys (yes, I'm in the photo) walking into a five-star midtown Atlanta hotel, complete with doormen and snooty foreign desk clerks.Clerk: "Are you sure you have the right hotel?"

Jake and Kyle: "Here's the confirmation number."

Turns out we didn't have the right hotel (long story), but because Eric (far right) is a smooth-talkin' guy, we still got to stay there at a severely discounted rate. For two nights.

On day two in the hotel:

Well-dressed guy in elevator (to Corey, center): So you're doing some construction work here in the hotel?

Corey: Hell, no! We're stayin' here!

The weird part about the trip was the growing sense of disconnect I had. Working at the Herald, I'm used to being immersed in current events.

Spending Tuesday through Saturday on the road, we got all of our New Orleans news through the Fox News Channel (the guys in the band's favorite).

Even though I really, really dislike Bill O'Reilly, I actually found myself agreeing with him a couple of times as he jumped on various federal officials over their response to the disaster.

It was a little funny to see ol' Bill trying to direct relief efforts from his New York desk, though. "You hear that? We need security at the hospital at XXX street!"

Yeah, right, General O'Reilly.

Driving between Atlanta and Auburn twice, we had the chance to see several convoys headed to Mississippi and Louisiana with storm aid, including one near-endless line of electrical repair trucks with New Jersey plates.

Those guys rock. I tried to do my part Tuesday morning by donating blood before we left for the Auburn gig.

Note to self: never donate blood before a show. I almost died at the end of the show. Guys from the bar were putting orange juice and water in me - they said I looked pretty bad.

Anyway, after two nights at the Georgian Terrace, we were back to the Plaza Motel in Auburn, a distinctly .5-star experience.

It's alternately called either "The Crack Shack" or "The Haji Hilton" by the gentlemen in County Line. Haji's a nice dude - he owns the Plaza, and always tries to hook us up in his special broken-English way.

The Plaza is one of those hotels where you occasionally get offered very special "room service" by freelance contractors roaming the grounds.

I joked Friday night that the next time we stay there (that'll be this Saturday night) I'm bringing a black light to go over the room for... stuff, C.S.I. style.

It was universally agreed that a black light would be a singularly bad idea. We don't want to know what's happened in those rooms.

Coming later this week: the Plaza Motel's welcome/check-in sheet - a foray into Engrish.

Prophetic...

This is so how I feel most days.

Flashing lights! Flashing lights!

EDIT: Sorry, just realized that I'd disabled comments in the picture gallery. They're working now, I think. Test 'em out.

All you blog readers get it first, before it's linked from jakehallman.com - the brand-new photo gallery.

Right now it's shots from Eric Lee Beddingfield and County Line (hey, wait, I'm not in that picture!) shows, but there's going to be some other... interesting... stuff added later.

Music and such.

Don't know how many of you check out jakehallman.com, but I tossed up a whole bunch of music that I've done in the past few years up there.

I'll even spare you all of the pretty pictures - here's a direct link to the page.

Also, would any of you mind if I stopped hosting the site here and just had the whole darned shootin' match at stouthouse.org? You'd have to change some links, but that's not too much to ask, is it?

Oh, and keep the Jake Hallman links coming! I'm moving up in the rankings.

I laughed my butt (ass) off.

Memorable quotes from my interview with comedienne Etta May that will never, ever see the light of day at the newspaper where I work:

"With some comics, 'fuck' is the punchline. If that happens, you're screwed. Did you see Robin Williams? If he wasn't grabbin' his dick, he was saying 'fuck.'"

"You'd have thought I kicked their dog and shit on their floor."

"I feel like I'm the smart one, because all this reality TV bullshit has come in. Actors are a real pain in the ass."

"Twenty years from now, I'll probably have to grab my dick and say 'fuck,' and people will still think I'm brilliant because I'm Robin Williams."

More like a Google pinata, really.

Everyone, I need your help. If you haven't heard of the phenomenon of "Google bombing," you may want to familiarize yourself by following the link.

I find myself in a difficult position. If you google the phrase "Jake Hallman," the number one search result isn't JakeHallman.com. It's a news story about a Jake Hallman who's an English major in college in Boston.

I've spoken to her. She's very nice.

That's sick. Stop thinking that.

Anyway, nice though she is, she shall not have my rightful number one search ranking. Here's what I need all of you with Web sites and blogs to do: throw a link somewhere that links the phrase "Jake Hallman" to jakehallman.com.

Like this: "Jake Hallman asked me to help him googlebomb himself."

For bonus points, you can link other words to it, too: "It shows that he's rather neurotic and insecure."

I don't care about the other words - just get "Jake Hallman" linked to jakehallman.com and make me a Google superstar!

New music.

Just wrote this one and slapped it up: Icy (1.35mb MP3).

Enjoy.

Wow... just... wow.

First of all, "Over There" is some gut-wrenching television. No matter how you feel about the war in Iraq, it'll open your eyes.

It's on Wednesday nights on FX.

On a lighter note, my new XM radio for my car came in today. It rocks.

And it was $38 shipped. Ain't technology wonderful?

It just about took longer for me to rip the package open (that's what they should make black boxes out of) than it did to install it. Within 10 minutes, I had it mounted in the car and had set up the external antenna (including running a cable underneath weatherstripping).

Now I've just got to order a wireless remote for the darned thing, otherwise I'm gonna become a highway statistic. And yes, I always use a hands-free device with my cellphone in my car.

On making enemies.

First, jakehallman.com is up and running. Let me know what you think of the design. Chris, if you'd like something similar, I can have it up and running for you in a day.

Sometimes, it's just the principle of the damned thing.

We played Gadsden, Alabama on Saturday night, at a club called "Chestnut Station."

Yes, I know. Not a gay bar, I promise.

Anyway, we killed 'em. One of the best shows we've done in at least a week and a half. They were diggin' us hard, and late in the show a young lady in the front decided to try and flag me down mid-song.

We made eye contact, and she mouthed to me that she wanted to wear my hat, in that particular over-enunciated help-me-the-frat-boy-standing-behind-me-is-molesting-me-and-I-like-it-and-can't-feel-it-'cause-I'm-drunk-as-hell kind of way.

Y'see, when I play with the County Line boys, I wear this $5 beat-up straw cowboy hat I picked up from Fred's here in town. I'm on my third or fourth one - they don't last long, but at $5 they're almost disposable.

Almost.

I offered to let her wear my sunglasses. At $4 a pair from Big Lots, they're more disposable.

I'm on pair number three of this particular sunglass brand, too. Hey, I lose things.

She wanted none of the sunglasses action (though later I was asked by another young lady at the club if I was blind). She wanted to wear the hat.

So I relented. "One song," I told her, as Eric kicked off what was truly a stellar, balls-to-the-wall four or five song close to the set.

I never really got back around to the hat, but on our last song I noticed that the young lady, named Kelly as I later discovered, was nowhere to be found.

"That chick ran off with my got-damned hat," I said, a little too close to the open mike.

After a little bit of asking around, I located the friends she'd drove to the club with, and was duly informed that since she could still walk she'd decided to go to the club next door.

I headed out the door, and nearly ran into her, sucking face in that help-me-I-don't-know-if-I-like-this-and-I-can't-feel-my-lips kind of way with some random dude on the sidewalk.

And she didn't have my got-damned hat on.

For the record, I was perfectly willing to let her do whatever carnal things she wanted with whomever she wanted...

... I just wanted my got-damned hat back.

So, taking no mind to Chet, the son of an orthodontist who was conveniently attached to her face, I politely asked Kelly where my hat was.

She opened her eyes from the kiss, looked at me, and kept on checking Chet's adenoids for lumps.

"I'll be back," I said, and headed back into Chestnut Station. I met up with her friends, let her know that she was plying her trade outside, and followed them next door.

Ran into Kelly again on the sidewalk, this time hanging on to a different guy... Todd, the likely son of an investment banker.

Kelly explained to me that she'd left my hat in the womens' restroom of Chestnut Station.

"Thanks so very much. Have a nice night," I told her.

By this time, I was slightly pissed off. It's the principle of the thing, y'know? Besides, I was the only stone-cold sober person within at least six blocks.

After knocking, I barged into the womens' restroom without knocking. It was deserted, and there was no hat to be found.

To paraphrase Ron White, I spun into a whole new dimension of "pissed off."

The doorman at Peabody's (the club next door) took a look at me, checked my ID, and let me in without paying the cover.

I must look kind of scary without a hat and with unkempt hair.

I located Kelly and her friends on the dance floor after a couple of laps around the club and nearly being stepped on by a gentleman in a pink polo shirt who said "Excuse me, hippie."

Since I didn't want to get my ass kicked then, I'll take the liberty of saying it now:

"Fuck you, you pink shirt wearing frat boy fuck. Go date rape someone before I make you look bad in front of all your pretty friends you paid for."

Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and I'm not nearly as brave as normal when I have no one to back me up.

Kelly didn't want to speak to me. Hell, she seemed shocked to see me. Her friends, though, tolerated me, and even put a guilt trip on Kelly to get her to go to her frickin' car and get my got-damned hat.

She came back in (this time with the hat on), and immediately was suckered in by a group of military-looking gentlemen who immediately took to manhandling her.

"Great," I thought. "Someone's going to have to die for his country just so I can get my got-damned hat back."

Kelly's friend Kate pre-empted me, though, exhibiting a level of cock-blockery that I've never, ever seen practiced before. She successfully fended off six soldiers trying to paw both Kelly and she, got my hat off of Kelly's head and gave the Army a look that if Saddam Hussein had mastered would have resulted in a radically different geopolitical situation in the Middle East.

Kelly wasn't happy to see my hat back on my got-damned head.

"It looks like ten times better on me," she said.

"Yes, it does. However, it's my got-damned hat," I replied.

"But it looks so much better on me!"

"I don't care. It's my hat. I'll bring you one next time we play here."

"But I want your hat!" she whined - but whined with an edge. Her friends took a step back.

"You can't have it." I said.

"You're a selfish asshole," she screeched (just as the music stopped, no less).

"No, I'm a selfish prick," I replied as she gave me two fingers. "But I'm a selfish prick who got his hat back. Y'all have a good night."