A guilty pleasure; I probably watch "Running Scared" at least once a year. This is probably the best of the "buddy cop" genre of films and also the best of the "cops n' comedy" movies too - thanks to the onscreen chemistry between Hines and Crystal. (There's a reason why all the Amazon reviews mention this "chemistry" - because it's really there, and it's the backbone of the movie!) The comedy comes not so much from actual punchlines, but from the sense that these two guys are married to one another; razzing each other, sharing a high-five (or even a hug), and having a million inside jokes and rituals that only the other knows. Thanks to the "chemistry" between Crystal and Hines, we believe Constanzo and Hughes are longtime police partners and friends, with a love for each other and a history that goes back 15 years.

Most of the other reviews have covered all you need to know about the movie (one reviewer going so far as to repeat all the dialogue from a scene that could've been cut), so let me digress and just explain what the title means. Police partners Hughes and Costanzo are reckless... going it alone, never calling for backup, hot-dogging, breaking the rules, and generally risking life and limb for the job. But after tasting the good life and handing in their month's notice, the two partners start playing it safe. Suddenly they're running scared, just trying to get through the month without dying. They call for backup. They begin wearing bulletproof vests. "You're being careful," their Captain observes. "Careful gets you killed."

Other reviews compare this movie to "Lethal Weapon" and "Die Hard," but those films - while possessing some comedic elements - lean a little more towards the action side. "Beverly Hills Cop" is a better comparison, but perhaps "Running Scared" could best be compared to "Stakeout" with Richard Dreyfus and Emilio Estevez: both are underrated action-comedy "buddy cop" movies, and both rely heavily on the chemistry of their stars to work... and both DO work. "Scared" is probably the better of the two films, but after buying this one, I recommend you check out the other.

Not as completely entertaining as Ellerbee's prior book "And So it Goes," which focused on her career in broadcast journalism, this follow-up is a collection of unrelated tales from her life - each opening a window onto a different phase of it. I prefered Ellerbee's first (and funnier) book, but two tales from this volume are brilliant enough to give it a ratings bump.

Ellerbee's story of overcoming alcoholism at the Betty Ford Center is as real and honest as memoirs get. Entering the program with a witty cynicism (masking fragile fear), Ellerbee eventually surrenders to the therapeutic environment and is ultimately softened by it. It's just the kind of story you'd expect from an intelligent satirist who (at first) feels she's above the 12-stepping and soul searching, but finally recognizes it as the only way to heal and become whole.

My favorite chapter, though, is the smart and funny tale of young Linda's first summer job, "We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to You." Linda spends her summer working at a resort owned by a friend of her father. After several weeks of mingling with the other young workers - one of whom is a radical looking to unionize - Linda learns valuable life lessons and eventually "sticks it to the man," her boss. In the end, the tale (and the title) becomes a metaphor for prejudice and stereotyping. This story alone is worth the cost of the book. Buy "Move On," read this chapter, then make photocopies of the chapter for your friends... it's the kind of thing you'll want to share.

I've probably read this book a dozen times from cover to dog-eared cover; my paperback copy is literally falling apart! I still open it sometimes just to read a couple of pages from the middle, and I'm always entertained by Ellerbee's wit.

Wit: a combination of rational intelligence and humour. Ellerbee displays both in abundance, and her writing style is pitch-perfect. She's worked in network news long enough to have seen all of it's strength and weaknesses, and long enough to have lived through one-too-many comical misadventures. Some of her anectodal experiences are downright hilarious:

Stealing Reagan's golf cart for a joyride. Spying on a button manufacturer from a rooftop across the street (to learn before the competing networks who'll be chosen vice president for a presidential campaign). Getting unintentionally stuck in the middle of a homecoming parade for the Iran hostages. Using dinner trays to "surf" down the aisle of a flying airplane. A rubber duck on the set. A "thing and a thing." And so it goes...

There are also some suprising revelations, such as Ellerbee's confession to a back-alley abortion, and her discovery that Ohio didn't become a state until 1954!

Read this book and be entertained... and simoultaneously enlightened about the field of broadcast journalism.

This is a fascinating and illuminating book about a talented baseball player, a military hero, and a cantankerous curmudgeon - Ted Williams. Montville does a terrific job of encapsulating the Splendid Splinter's eventful 83 years into a fascinating 500-page book, complete with nearly a hundred black-and-white photographs, many never before seen. If you're looking for a biography of Ted Williams this is probably the one to get; it covers his entire life, something that his 1969 autobiography doesn't do (obviously).

Montville doesn't shine much new light onto the Public Ted - any true baseball fan is already familiar with his battles with the media, his 406 average in 1941, his weak performance in the 1946 World Series, the two military interruptions to his baseball career, his storybook home run in his final at-bat, etc. We already knew that stuff. Where the book truly shines is in illuminating the Private Ted...

The selfish Ted, who'd drag uninterested wives along with him on fishing trips, and who'd rather be alone in a boat somewhere than be present for his children's births; his lustful enjoyment of his hobbies was more important than his family. The angry and blasphemous Ted, who'd spit at fans and frequently (and colorfully) take the Lord's name in vain with a smattering of the f-word and his favorite modifier, "syphilitic." The lonely Ted, who married three beautiful trophy wives, had teammates and friends all over the country, yet still lacked the unconditional love he desperately needed. Somehow Montville manages to paint Williams as sympathetic, lovable, and even heroic, while still telling the story of a bitter and cranky man.

Thankfully, there were at least a few caring people in Ted's life to help diffuse his negativity and give him unconditional love: Louise Kaufman, the grandmotherly woman who became Ted's longtime companion after his three failed marriages to younger women, and the male nurses who took care of him during his final decade on Earth.

Sadly, the book (like Williams's life) ends on an unavoidable down-note. Montville frightens us with the awful tale of Ted's money-grubbing son, John-Henry. Here the author fairly throws objectivity aside, painting the younger Williams in tones reminiscent of Shakespeare's Iago. John-Henry's underhanded machinations and obvious treatment of Ted as a meal ticket rather than a beloved father left me feeling sad and depressed at the story's end. Junior was more concerned with his progenitor's ability to sign and sell valuable autographs than his comfort and welfare during his declining years. The demon seed of Ted Williams kept his father's friends and loved ones from calling and visiting, and then - in an act which violated Ted's wish for cremation, as per his will - John-Henry had his father cryogenically frozen after his death. Thus began the fighting and infinite court proceedings between Ted's offspring - an embarrassing and surreal coda to a life otherwise lived with integrity and dignity.

A great book about a great man. As sports biographies go, it's surely one of the best - just like Ted.

(News update: John-Henry Williams, 35, died of leukemia in March 2004. Perhaps now the legal maneuvering will stop; perhaps Ted can at last be cremated and have his ashes spread across the waters of Florida, just as he wanted. Meanwhile, thanks to John-Henry, the decapitated head of Ted Williams remains in a frozen vat in Arizona.)

Yesman Chris Squire shows off his many bass guitars and his stellar chops in this 3-star video. It's great to see and hear Chris play unaccompanied versions of "Tempus Fugit," "Heart of the Sunrise," "All Good People," and other fast yet melodic basslines. Squire's talent is unquestionable. His playing has influenced and inspired many young bassplayers - the target audience for this video.

The booklet provides sheet music for some of the "excercises" (many of which are the actual basslines to classic Yes songs), which should have amateur players scrambling to copy Squire's licks. But the problem with the booklet is that neither it nor the video explains which transcribed bassline goes with which onscreen bassline; the watcher/reader will have to woodshed to figure it out for himself. (And beware: I found many errors in the transcriptions!)

There are other problems. Host/interviewer Bob Birch is ineffectual at directing the proceedings, asking only irrelevant or unnecessary questions. Birch comes across as a long-haired and brainless Wayne Campbell type - he's enamored of Hard Rock guitar heroes but "not worthy" of being in their presence. Birch is the stoner dude who hangs out at the music store and knows enough guitar licks to impress his buddies.

And while other instructional videos left me believing I could become a stellar player by practicing a few techniques and ideas, this video leads me to believe I must possess the same equipment and effects as Squire to get even a little of his magic. This isn't a how-to video, it's a "greatest licks" video, with the host shouting out song titles for the musician to play. Entertaining, but not very instructional.

(Tufnel-like moment: Squire straps-on and plays several of the basses in his arsenal, but when it comes to his green Meridian bass, he tells us "I won't play that one." I was waiting for him to slap Birch's hand away and say "Don't touch it! It can't be played!")

Chris Squire's solo work outside of Yes has been hit-and-miss; this album is a hit, his other two albums are misses. Buy this one!

Squire's two recent collaborations with multi-instrumentalist (and sometime Yes on-stage associate) Billy Sherwood have been disappointing. "The Unknown," which is the newer of these two efforts, aims for a modern relevancy but comes up a little short. The other CD, "Conspiracy," is lackluster; it seems to make no attempt to be either 1970s Progressive or 1990s cutting edge; it just stands there. Boring power pop by a classic rock artist past his prime. Ho-hum. Fortunately this solo album - Squire's first - is much better than his later two.

"Fish Out of Water" is very Proggish; the tracks on this album could just as easily have appeared on a 1970s Yes album. (In fact, the Squire-penned Yes song "Parallels" was almost included on this solo album, and it would certainly fit.) I don't understand the reviewers who say this album doesn't sound like Yes; it sounds VERY MUCH like Yes - Squire playing his Rickenbacker in a "lead bass" style, the time and tempo changes, the virtuosic organ playing, and Squire's wonderful voice (which sounds much like Yes bandmate Jon Anderson's voice, and was often heard alongside Anderson's on many a Yes track). "Fish Out of Water" is nice and Progressive, just like Yes in the 70s. The "fish" (Squire) may have left the "water" (Yes) for this album, but he didn't go too far - the similarity to Yes music can clearly be heard, perhaps because "FOoW" contains three Yesmen - Squire, drummer Bill Bruford, and keyboardist Patrick Moraz.

Fans of Prog Rock, fans of Yes, and particulary fans of Squire's fast and grungy bass tone will not be disappointed with "Fish Out of Water." Now if only Squire would wise up, drop Billy Sherwood as a co-collaborator, and release something this Proggy and this sublime again. (And if not a Progressive record, then at least a record with some kind of relevancy!) Those other two Squire albums are missing a lot, especially his stellar bass work.

Jim Ladd's sixties and seventies memoir is not so much HIS OWN biography, but the biography of rock radio itself. Ladd comes across as a principled (albeit somewhat self-important) radio DJ; one who refuses to play Army enlistment commercials during the Vietnam War, and leaves a successful radio station to work for a less-popular one which will allow him more creative expression.

As a fellow left-leaning radio jock, I enjoyed Jim's book documenting the counterculture-inspired beginnings of free-form FM radio. Ladd knows about the music and has a strong respect for it - including its lyrics - that I like to believe I share. (Too many people in this business are woefully ignorant about the artists, albums, songs, and lyrical messages.)

The underlying theme of the book is the good versus evil tale of "the jocks against the suits," the DJs versus management, art going fist-to-fist with commerce. Commerce and the alleged capitalistic bad guys ultimately win, but for a moment there was something special, wasn't there? For a moment we were all simultaneously rocking-out to the longer "deep cuts" from albums by true musical artists, instead of listening to the mindless pulp released by mainstream pop stars. And nowadays - with lax FCC regulations that allow corporations to buy all the radio stations they want - the "art" is lacking and "the format" reigns. Let's blame the fall of radio on those big corporations that are directly responsible... Clear Channel, Infinity Broadcasting, et al.

Let me now take a right turn and criticize the book. Ladd fails to see how even a formatted radio station can be a source of artistic expression for DJs like he and I. Yes, Jim, even at "KASH" (with the PD telling the jock what to play) a radio DJ can commune with like-minded listeners and "bang the tribal drum." The station's sales department may not understand the music, but you and a fair portion of your audience do; a common bond that unites the jock and the listener. It doesn't matter that you aren't allowed to play "thematic sets" of music, you can still communicate and bond with your audience. All it takes is a little more subtlety, a bit of "creative cheating" with the format, and the love and knowledge of music you already possess.

Another criticism, although it's a nit-picky one. Ladd's frequent "tribal drum" analogy is peppered throughout the book and gets old after just the second chapter. The hippie-inspired "tribal drum" reference is Ladd's way of describing the intangible sense of community felt between a DJ and his like-minded audience. It gets multiple mentions in some chapters; really annoying! Ladd even scribbled something about "banging the tribal drum" in my radio co-worker's autographed copy of the book!

And Ladd changes the call letters of all the radio stations he mentions, and changes the names of half their employees as well. I wonder why, when just a little bit of digging would probably provide the inquisitive reader with the CORRECT NAMES of all the radio stations he worked for, and all the people he worked with.

I love this album; I consider it the best punk album ever recorded. Despite my love for this album, I've never checked out any of the other Stranglers albums... perhaps I'm afraid I'd be disappointed when comparing them to this masterpiece. (This strange quirk of mine extends to the "bonus tracks" on the CD; I don't want to hear them for fear they'll turn a perfect album into an imperfect disc.) I can't imagine The Stranglers - or punk music - getting any better than the original "Black and White" album. I don't have a favorite track on this album; they're all gems.

What makes this record unique is its balance between traditional "punk" sounds and attitudes on the one hand and virtuoso musicianship on the other. Punk bands have never been known for talented instrumentalists; oftentimes, it's a person's ATTITUDE that gets him hired by a punk band, not his ability to play an instrument. As a result, most punk bands don't have very talented musicians. That's not the case here... the members of The Stranglers are all exceptional on their chosen instruments; they all have "chops" and play as though music theory matters. Bassist Jean-Jacques Burnel is perhaps the best in the band... his tone and basslines on songs like "Toiler on the Sea" and "Nice n' Sleazy" blow me away.

Punk musicians with chops? Time and tempo changes in punk songs? It hardly seems possible, but it is. Prog Rock meets Punk? Prog Punk? What's next, will the members of Yes join the Clash?

(The only complaint: the CD format robs the buyer of the art on the original album. The LP had a "marbled vinyl look" that was entertaining to stare at as it spun beneath the record needle.)

I love this album; I consider it the best punk album ever recorded. Despite my love for this album, I've never checked out any of the other Stranglers albums... perhaps I'm afraid I'd be disappointed when comparing them to this masterpiece. (This strange quirk of mine extends to the "bonus tracks" on the CD; I don't want to hear them for fear they'll turn a perfect album into an imperfect disc.) I can't imagine The Stranglers - or punk music - getting any better than the original "Black and White" album. I don't have a favorite track on this album; they're all gems.

What makes this record unique is its balance between traditional "punk" sounds and attitudes on the one hand and virtuoso musicianship on the other. Punk bands have never been known for talented instrumentalists; oftentimes, it's a person's ATTITUDE that gets him hired by a punk band, not his ability to play an instrument. As a result, most punk bands don't have very talented musicians. That's not the case here... the members of The Stranglers are all exceptional on their chosen instruments; they all have "chops" and play as though music theory matters. Bassist Jean-Jacques Burnel is perhaps the best in the band... his tone and basslines on songs like "Toiler on the Sea" and "Nice n' Sleazy" blow me away.

Punk musicians with chops? Time and tempo changes in punk songs? It hardly seems possible, but it is. Prog Rock meets Punk? Prog Punk? What's next, will the members of Yes join the Clash?

(The only complaint: the CD format robs the buyer of the art on the original album. The LP had a "marbled vinyl look" that was entertaining to stare at as it spun beneath the record needle.)

This book is 80% factual; the direct quotes from the band members and their associates, taken verbatim from newspaper and magazine articles. The other 20%, the part written by Telleria himself, is of questionable accuracy; much of it, in fact, has been proven wrong by other "reigning authorities." You really need to understand this book's 80/20 nature and be okay with it before buying.

Less-knowledgeable fans (or those new to Rush) will be quoting from this book as a valid reference source... and it's not! I won't go into details, but the true "reigning authorities" have documented pages and pages of factual mistakes in this book. These mistakes are going to be repeated by casual fans for many years as "fact," thanks to the author's ignorance and sloppiness.

As an obsessive fan of Rush for some 20 years, there really isn't anything in this book that I didn't already know. It's also interesting that the "facts" which were new to me weren't supported by a quote from a band member. That makes me think they're not facts at all, but rather some rumour or personal belief that the author is passing forward as an empirical truth. I've found too many errors in this book to begin taking the author at his word; at least, not without a supporting quote from the band.

Oh, and two more things:

1. That is NOT Neil Peart on the "Permanent Waves" album cover, and the burden to proof lies with the author and his supporters to show otherwise. Find a quote that supports this claim and I'll begin to believe it, but for now, there are too many factors which indicate it's not him. I owned a vinyl copy of the album for years and got a good look at the man on the cover; not once did I even begin to suppose that it could be him... and me, with an active imagination and a habit of looking for the "hidden meaning" on album sleeves. Also, given Neil Peart's penchant for privacy, how on Earth do you think he could be talked into posing for the front of the album, and without the other two band members???

2. Geddy Lee, not Neil Peart, wrote the lyrics to "Best I Can." It says so right there in the liner notes. And get yourself an original vinyl copy of the album! The lyrics are all written down inside the LP in Neil's handwriting, but Geddy is credited with creating that song's lyrics. And Neil drew a little picture of Geddy next to this song; that should tell you something!