Tolkienish Elf vs. Some Dude: You Decide

Which of these actors should've played elf-archer Legolas Greenleaf in The Lord of the Rings? (This is a rhetorical question.)

The 5'11" gender-bending green-eyed sylph, Tilda Swinton?
Or some dude by the name of Orlando Bloom?

Truly Madly Deeply

I admit it. I shout it from the rooftops. I love Coldplay. This remains true no matter how many of my friends roll their eyes in response to this hitherto well-concealed fact. What can I say? I've seen some amazing concerts: Prince (on the Purple Rain tour, no less), the Pixies, Moby, Throwing Muses, Bob Dylan (whom I stalked through the streets of Toulouse, France), James (with Radiohead as the opening act), the Smiths, the Pogues, etc. Coldplay are easily one of the best live acts I've ever seen. Who knew?

Meanwhile my friends propose worthy gigs like the world's foremost Colombian classical flamenco guitarist or a transvestite refugee who plays operatic hymns on the noseflute or various rock groups they consider more authentic (read: bands that flaunt their lack of success as if success were inversely proportional to talent). I don't want worthy. Music is not wheat germ, it's not grad school, it's not public service. I want to lose my mind with enthusiasm. I don't take drugs, I take music instead. Coldplay songs take flight and take me with them. And Chris Martin, in addition to being a bit of alright (several bits, actually) if you like tall skinny smart funny pale sensitive articulate dudes--and I like nothing more!--Mr. Martin, anyway, exuded so much in the way of warmth and good spirits that if I could've recharged my phone batteries off him, they would've lasted until Christmas at least.

I suppose it helped that our tickets were in the sixth row. This alone was amazing, but my objective at any gig is to get as close to the stage as possible. Or on it: being thrown off the stage is my specialty. At Coldplay, it turned out there was an orchestra pit between us and stage; it was heavily guarded by bouncers and everyone in it had day-glo wristbands to indicate that they had paid something like a mortgage payment to be there. (Note to self: bring spare day-glo wristbands next time I go to this venue). There were bouncers everywhere--the last time I saw that much security was at a John Kerry speech a week before the election. So, I ended up in the pit, at the center, with only two people between me and Chris Martin. What with Coldplay being the quote-unquote "biggest band in the world," this took two attempts (will being hauled out of orchestra pits become one of my sub-specialties?). The second attempt worked because I invested twenty minutes in watching the bouncers out of the corners of my eyes, waiting for the one microsecond in which none were looking in my direction to instantly execute a horizontal roll over a four-foot steel wall, like a marine under fire, and fall sideways into the pit onto various painful obstacles. Photos to follow, if they turn out.

America, the Nincompoop

So a few years back, a friend of mine married this Irish guy: claddagh ring with emerald, Celtic music, bottles clanking cheers. Result: a child and the constant presence, outside working hours, in her lovely home and environs of a man cracking good jokes, beer in hand, clad generally in a Liverpool football jersey. This being America, the process of turning her Irishman from a conditional permanent resident into a full-on permanent resident moved at glacial pace. Then it screeched to a halt: omigod! Horrors! At some point back in the mists of time--Jurassic era?--in Ireland, her husband helped some friends steal a car. Not carjacking, just car theft. He was 19 at the time. Since then, his life path has been unblemished.

But this being America, we're sending him home. Out ya go, Paddy! Despite the fact you've done nothing wrong in the many years since that one youthful mistake, we view such mistakes as proof that you don't have the moral character we require of immigrants. We're a very moral country, y'know. We're the supermoral superpower. G.W. Bush can risk people's lives by driving drunk and we'll install him in the White House, but you, Paddy, are out of luck: when it comes to our immigration laws, we don't see much difference between someone who did one stupid thing in the 1980s and someone who's been raping strangers on a weekly basis since the day they got off the plane.

So anyway, she's going with him. Moving to Ireland. The only other option is for them to spend roughly $6000 for their lawyer to attempt to persuade the feds that his departure would represent an "extreme hardship." You would think that having two American citizens permanently deprived of their husband/father is a pretty extreme hardship, but no. That's just your everyday garden-variety deportation-related hardship, and family values be damned (as they generally are once an election is over). Spending $6000 for a very small chance of winning and a very large chance of having to up sticks and move to Ireland $6000 further in the hole is a risk they can't afford to take.

Of course, it's not like our immigration folks have more important things to do in this day and age. Great use of resources, guys! Next month, there will be a bonus for the USCIS official who initiates the most deportation proceedings against apolitical, gainfully employed European nationals with a single petty crime in their past: these people may be the greatest threat America has ever faced.

That's the latest from the Land of the Free and the Home of... ah, forget it.