Starbucks Summer Offerings

Tonight, I tried a sample of the new Starbucks Green Tea Frappuccino; well actually, its technical name is the Tazo Green Tea Blended Crème, but that means next to nothing—it tastes like bubble gum. Probably rushed out of production for a mid-summer release, it is by far the worst item I've ever had in a Starbucks—a candy drink for the inexperienced.

If you're looking for a drink divine, I recommend the Mint Mocha Chip Frappuccino as a sweet alternative, or the Coffee Frappuccino Caramel Affogato, because it's a frap that actually tastes like real coffee (definitely my new favorite drink).

The best surprise of the summer, however, comes in the regular coffee department: the Rift Valley blend, a combination of east African coffees resulting in a robust and complex drink; not what you expect from a region whose fare tends toward the acidic with tints of citrus (i.e. the Gazebo blend). This is one dark, earthy cup and best taken black. Enjoy!

Broken Flowers Trailer

I went to the crew screening for Broken Flowers last week, it was the second time I'd seen it, and the film continues to grow on me more and more. There are so many ideas subtley layered in there, metaphors and hidden meanings, that I'm really starting to see Jim Jarmusch's genius and why it won the Grand Prix and Cannes. The trailer doesn't do it justice, so go see it August 5th (and look for my name in the credits).

My Desert Island Discs

Kate Rusby - Little Lights
Over the Rhine - Drunkard's Prayer
Waterdeep - Enter the Worship Circle
Mitch McVicker - Self-Titled
Rich Mullins - The Jesus Demos
Switchfoot - The Beautiful Letdown
Shane Barnard - Psalms
Caedmon's Call - 40 Acres
Andrew Peterson - Behold the Lamb
Jars of Clay - Who We Are Instead

Review: War of the Worlds

Several years ago my cousins and I went to see Independence Day for 4th of July opening weekend and so I figured we should do the same this year with War of the Worlds, another sci-fi action flick where things blow up—except, this time it turned out to be so much more.

Watching War of the Worlds is best compared to the bloody attack on Normandy Beach in Spielberg's earlier film Saving Private Ryan, except here the attackers use weapons from the future and the story is consumed by wall to wall carnage. Unlike the often campy Independence Day, these aliens destroy more than just major cities and national landmarks: the battle is brought to the American countryside, leaving a ravaged pastoral landscape, cratered and charred. Fleeing citizens are vaporized by lasers or mined for their blood. The streams of bodies just flow.

More often, the images remind us of recent and potential, near-future events—things we would rather forget. An airplane crashes into a suburban neighborhood, mobs of screaming people flee as buildings explode around them, and military forces battle in what could be our own backyard. During the initial attack, a little girl even asks her father, "Is it terrorists?" and, in truth, the film feels like watching 9-11 over and over and over again.

Even as I write this, my anger grows at the brutal experience Spielberg and his fellow filmmakers chose to subject us to. With gore comparable to a slasher flick, the movie is oriented more towared the visceral than plot (which is, at best, inconsistent). The unmitigated violence could, of course, have been tolerable if it were used to a purpose, but the story never built to anything substantial; the characters never change and, with Spielberg's obligatory happy ending, War of the Worlds satisfies no one.