Author Archives: Rites of Patches

Dead Series Discussion: Last Rites for Last Resort (Part 1)

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Title CardLast September, the television show Last Resort premiered on ABC. The show starred Homicide alum Andre Braugher as the captain of the nuclear missile submarine USS Colorado, given orders to nuke Pakistan. The Colorado is attacked by American forces after Braugher’s character refuses to fire. A chain of events is set in motion that leaves Colorado in control of a nearby tropical island, attempting to expose the truth of the US government’s involvement in the attack.

Despite a favorable critical reaction, the ratings were never where they needed to be. As a result, the show was canceled after thirteen episodes. For a four-part look back at the show, I am joined by my esteemed colleague, Jeff, blogger extraordinaire of Slazenger1.

Patches: Jeff, welcome!

Jeff: Thank you for the undeserved praise. I’m interested to see if we come up with anything new to say about this little show that we haven’t previously covered.

Patches: Haha. We ended up with 74 pages of email exchanges. It might be quicker to just watch the series again rather than re-read our emails. If you could boil 74 pages of thoughts and analyses into one word, what would it be? What adjective would you use to describe Last Resort?

Continue reading →

How Do We Measure Elite?

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With yesterday’s Super Bowl victory, Ravens quarterback Joe Flacco guaranteed that, next year, he’ll be getting muckafuckin’ paid. At the beginning of the year, Flacco asserted that he was an “elite” NFL quarterback. During the regular season, Flacco finished in the middle of the pack in every meaningful statistic. That narrative changed with one of the greatest playoffs performances in NFL history. Is Joe Flacco an elite quarterback? Continue reading →

Aging Gracefully

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London is an old city.

When I traveled to Britain to visit a friend studying in Edinburgh, we stayed in London for five days. We visited palaces that housed hundreds of years of monarchy. We visited castle walls where centuries of England’s sons had thrown down their lifeblood.

We visited the same Parliament building that ruled the seas since 1488, enforced Pax Britannica, balanced the powers of Europe, and controlled and colonized so much of the world that the sun, very literally, never set on the British Empire.

London feels like it has been there for thousands of years and makes you believe that it will remain for a thousand more, long after America crumbles. Continue reading →

Nationalism, Sports, and Loss

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I don’t care about the Olympics.

There. I said it.

While everyone else caught gold medal fever this summer and sang the praises of Olympic heroes old and new, I awaited the end of a long, ugly baseball season and the start of NFL Training Camp.

I don’t care about American athletes in international competition.

This contrasted strikingly with the people of Scotland during Wimbledon. No British tennis player had won a Men’s Final since Fred Perry in 1936. While I was visiting my friend Dylan in Edinburgh, Andy Murray, a Scotsman, made it to the Men’s Final against perhaps the greatest tennis player in history, Roger Federer. Continue reading →

Surrealist Manifesto

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During my recent trip to London, I finally came to understand what I enjoy about art. As I mentioned in a previous article, art was not always a part of my life. Heck, I wouldn’t say it’s a large part right now either, despite a newfound appreciation.

Although I won’t be mingling with socialites, sipping wine and nibbling on cheese at the next Walker fundraiser, I do lose myself in surrealist art in a way usually reserved for fire. Just as I could stare into a campfire for hours at a time, I could stand in front of a Salvador Dali or Yves Tanguy all day.

While stroking my beard thoughtfully. My beard is the source of all my intellectual power. Barely kidding.

While stroking my beard thoughtfully. My beard is the source of all my intellectual power. Barely kidding.

Dali and Tanguy are easily my favorite artists. Until London, I never understood why I loved these two and their fellow surrealists while I remained indifferent to nearly all others. Finally, as I stood stroking my beard in front of Tanguy’s Azure Day at the Tate Modern, I understood.

I love surrealism’s contrast. The known and the unknown. The beauty and the brutality. The logical and the impossible, Echoes of both the familiar and the deformed. It simultaneously could be, shouldn’t be, and is. It spurs me to keep looking within each work for an understanding that will never come.

I love the sense of possibility that surrealism’s provides. While the painting ends at its margins, the ideas go on forever. The frame encloses the work, but the mind cannot help but expand beyond its original borders.

Ultimately, this is why I love surrealist art.

Realism shows me one thing. It is what it is. The style and the method and the perspective changes, but mine does not.

Abstract art shows me nothing. It does, of course, try to express something, but I’m not going to do all the work for the artist. Meet me halfway. If your triangular box with a picture of Dave Foley at the center represents the emptiness of love, at least give me a hint.

Surrealism shows me anything. There’s enough there to draw upon what I know, but not enough for me to actually know. That contrast, and the possibility it creates, blows my mind every single time.

Now, if you need me, I’ll be over here with a Mich Golden, gnawing on a hunk of sharp cheddar.

Mmmmmm… sophistication.

/Gratuitous Simpsons Sound Effect

Some of my favorites after the jump. Continue reading →

London Reflections

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To say that I learned a lot during my trip to London and Edinburgh last summer would be an understatement befitting the people of that island. For years, my internationally-oriented friends urged me to get out of Minnesota. Desire and opportunity finally intersected when my friend Dylan began a masters program at Edinburgh Napier University in Scotland.

In a sense, we can only understand what we have compared and contrasted. A broadened horizon expands our knowledge and understanding, allowing us to better know what we have already experienced.

The idea can be summed up by the T.S. Eliot stanza shared by Robert McNamara at the end of The Fog of War:

We shall not cease from exploring
And at the end of our exploration
We will return to where we started
And know the place for the first time

This is the purpose of these London Reflections. Hopefully, I can share some of the gifts that London, Edinburgh, and the people of those cities gave to me.

What’s in a Name?

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I have a thing for water.

Let me back up a bit…

There was a time in my life when songwriting provided me with the creative and emotional outlet I needed to deal with life’s troubles. I frequently found myself using nautical imagery to convey the feelings and ideas of my lyrics.

Nothing symbolizes hopelessness like a wind-swept, snow-covered field. Nothing seems as lonely as rain pattering against a window at night. Nothing feels as powerless as a ship dragged by the current or swept by a storm. Nothing is as sturdy as when it is anchored.

I’m not sure how I became so transfixed by rain and snow and the oceans and the seas. Maybe it’s because life on a farm is seasonal. Maybe it’s because I fell in love with history following maps showing the maneuvers of World War II warships. Maybe it’s because precipitation lends itself to analogy and symbolism.

Regardless of how it happened, I instantly fell in love with the title Nothing but the Rain. As I stated previously, this title was not my idea. I struggled to find a Battlestar Galactica quote or phrase that both sounded good and was available. When Dylan suggested Nothing but the Rain, I was smitten.

When I asked Chelsey to make a banner image for this website, my immediate thought was to transpose everything I like across the page. When that image became cluttered and unwieldy, she sent me the background and asked for further modifications.

The only problem was that it was already perfect. I couldn’t, and still can’t, explain why, but the banner image you see above would become less meaningful if anything were added. It represents Nothing but the Rain on every level.

Water is deeply personal and deeply meaningful to me, but even after writing and proofreading this post for well over an hour, I can’t explain why.

Maybe this is one of the few things where the “why” doesn’t matter. It just is. I’m not satisfied with that answer often, but I think I am this time.

Mini-Appreciation

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A couple days ago, I attempted to thank three individuals for facilitating monumental improvements to who I am as a person. Today, I make three additions. Without these folks, this website would exist in much crappier form.

First, Kelly Prosen must be thanked. It was her blog that showed me the meaning of “writing dangerously.” My posts won’t be nearly as personal as her essays and prose, but without Kelly, I would not be putting myself out there to the same extent. Our topics and writing styles are different, but we share a desire to better understand ourselves and the world around us through the medium of writing.

Second, Dylan Thomson must be thanked. The name of this very website was his suggestion. I knew I wanted to reference the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica, but couldn’t find the right phrase. “So Say We All” and “Action Stations” were taken, but because of Dylan, nothingbuttherain.com exists today.

Lastly, Chelsey Lutteke must be thanked. The righteous banner image you see at the top of this page was her doing. Without Chelsey, this website would not be anywhere near as soul-punchingly awesome. Her website/portfolio will be linked on the right when or if it becomes available.

This is happening. These three helped make it happen.

Appreciation

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I grew up on a farm in south-central Minnesota as part of a conservative, Roman Catholic family. Due to what I can only assume to be a combination of genetic luck and positive influences at home and school, I became a pretty smart-ish (and handsome and humble!) dude. On the other hand, I was also pretty narrow-minded.

I went to a small school in a small town. It wasn’t really my fault, but I had no understanding of the world beyond the City of New Ulm. My family never went on vacation. My world ended at Duluth to the north, Sioux Falls to the west, Clear Lake, Iowa to the south, and the lakes of northern Wisconsin to the east. Later, I attended St. John’s University, another small school in another small town.

My horizons were so close I could reach out and touch them. I was smart, but I was ignorant. Three people changed that. This is my appreciation. Continue reading →

Patience & Virtue

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If I had a nickel for every time I heard “Patience is a virtue” while growing up, I might be wealthy enough to avoid cliches in my writing.

If you have stumbled here or if I have sent you here, know that things will be up and running soon. Links to intelligent, reflective people will be added. A specially commissioned banner image will leave your mouth agape.

Posts will come rolling in soon. Patience…