Benny Jay: Valentine's Day

At eight o'clock, I get the call from my younger daughter: She's on a bus bound from Ann Arbor to Chicago and it's racing through Gary.

Damn, that bus is going faster than I expected. I thought I'd have time to grab a bite to eat. But now I gotta fly....

So my wife and I hop into the car and hurdle down Ashland. To Elston. To Milwaukee. To Grand. To Halsted. Like a halfback running for daylight, looking for the street with the least amount of traffic. We're moving pretty good. Past Chicago Avenue. Under the elevated tracks at Lake Street. Until -- wham -- we hit a wall of traffic at Washington.

It's Greektown on a Saturday night and the joint is jumping. Like the whole city's coming down to eat. Outside of the restaurants, drivers race out of their cars and valets race in, u-turning across two lanes of traffic. As my buddy, Ed, would put it: It's a cluster-fuck.

So I make a quick turn down Monroe over the expressway and into the western end of the Loop. I'm gonna turn right on Jefferson. "Don't," says my wife. "It's one way...."

"Oh, yeah...."

"Why would you turn the wrong way down a one-way street?"

I have no answer. So I do the best thing -- I don't answer.

We got to Wacker and over to Jackson and up to Canal, where we wait for the bus.

I turn on the radio and hop from station to station: Oldies, Dusties, Disco, Rock. Nothing good. I turn off the radio. I'm still thinking about turning the wrong way into traffic.

The bus drops off our daughter and we head back to Greektown on Madison.

"Turn left at Halsted," says my wife.

I move into the right lane.

"No, I said left," says my wife.

"No, you said right," says my daughter.

But my daughter's wrong. My wife did say left. So why would I turn right when she said left? Just like why would I go the wrong way down a one-way street? Is it my age-old battle against dyslexia? I always had trouble reversing letters -- especially the e and the i. Even now I couldn't tell you how to spell yield.

Or am I losing my mind? Is this the first step toward senility? I got to eat more carrots. Or is it spinach? Damn, what the hell is it that you're supposed to eat to fight off senility?

Maybe I'm just hungry. Low blood sugar, or whatever's low when you're hungry. It's genetic. My whole family gets ornery when we get hungry. Especially my sister. Man, you don't want to go near my sister when she gets hungry. That girl will snap you're head off....

"Let's eat at the Greek Isles," says my wife.

We were going to eat cheap, but I'm too hungry to protest. I double park on Halsted. My wife runs in and out. "It's a 90-minute wait," she says.

"Damn, I thought we were in a Depression," I said.

"It's Valentine's Day," says my wife. "No cooks on Valentine's Day. Even in a Depression...."

We stop by the Parthenon. But the line's so long, it comes out the door. My daughter calls an Italian restaurant on Ashland. They tell her they're not taking anymore reservations for the night.

Where can we eat! I want to cry. But I hold my tongue. I'm not going to say anything cause anything I say will come out nasty. And I don't want to have a fight on Valentine's Day.

So I hit the highway and we get off at Elston and drive to California and wind up eating at this taco joint near Belmont. It's got this ugly fluorescent light that makes your face look green. I realize my daughter is staring at my forehead.

"What are you looking at?" I ask.

"You're breaking out," she says.

"No, I'm not...."

"Yes, you are -- isn't he, mom?"

My wife scrutinizes my forehead.

"It's a pimple -- everyone gets pimples....."

"But you're over fifty," says my daughter.

"People get pimples when they're over fifty -- what you don't think people get pimples after fifty?"

"Not like that...."

My wife leans over, pushes up my hair and moves in close like she's a jeweler eying a diamond.

"Stop looking at my pimples," I say.

"It's that hat," says my wife, referring to a cap my oldest daughter gave me. "It's too small. His head can't breathe...."

"But how do you explain the pimples on his forehead?" asks my daughter.

"Okay," I say. "Stop talking about my pimples...."

I order the Chicken Mole and my wife gets the steak (my daughter doesn't order anything cause she ate a big lunch in Michigan). I fall on my food. I mean, I'm just wolfing down that chicken. Every now and then my wife throws me a chunk of steak. And I mop up the Mole sauce with my tortilla until my plate is almost clean. It's one of those things where I eat so fast cause I was so freaking hungry that I still feel hungry even though I'm full.

I tell myself to take a deep breath. Breathe, baby, breathe. Life's gonna drive you crazy if you don't learn to breathe.

Big Mike: The Spirit Life

People seem to think bartenders live a glamorous, exciting life. They meet fascinating people. They hear the most riveting stories. They're seduced by attractive members of the opposite sex.

Maybe.

I spent a year setting 'em up for the Nardini boys at Club Lago in the tony River North neighborhood earlier this decade. Mind you, if a bartender were to live a glamorous, exciting life, River North would be the place to do it.

We had our share of celebs. Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins loved the place. The painter Ed Paschke held frequent dinner meetings at a corner table. Photographer Marc Hauser blustered in on a regular basis. News anchor and television producer Bill Kurtis ate there a couple of times a week.

The elder of the Nardinis, Giancarlo, once walked Kurtis to the door. "I hope you liked it," Giancarlo said. Kurtis turned to him dramatically and, in that famous authoritative, stentorian voice, issued the proclamation, "We love it." Giancarlo scratched his head as he came back behind the bar. "He was alone," the boss said. "Was he using the royal we?"

The restaurant even was featured in a key scene in the movie "Mad Dog and Glory," a Robert De Niro vehicle that was about as memorable as a case of hiccups.

Since it was a good Italian eatery in a trendy district, Club Lago drew its share of sports stars. One night, the head coach of the Blackhawks came in with his wife. Giancarlo, a maniacal hockey fan, almost screamed like a teenaged girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. Patrons and staff were puzzled by the fuss. As a Chicago celebrity, the coach of the Blackhawks ranks between the Recorder of Deeds and the ice cream man. I don't remember his name; for all I know, his wife forgets it too.

Former Bears quarterback Bob Avellini once graced the joint with his business. For the sports-impaired, A Chicago ordinance bars the pro football team from employing competent quarterbacks. Avellini was as pedestrian as any passer in Bears history. Still, customers flocked around him at the end of the bar. Avellini stood as erect as a victorious Roman general charioting back into the city.

Baffled by the idolatry, I pulled aside a fellow named Mr. Darby, one of the most fevered of the flock bleating around the retired jock.

I quietly asked him, "You know that's Bob Avellini, don't you?"

"Of course," he gushed, "isn't it great?"

A brief tangent. That night's Avellini-mania was further proof that Americans value celebrity above all things. If a person is somehow lucky enough to be caught, even briefly, on a television camera, his or her life is deemed fulfilled. To wit: my nice Sheila brought her 12-year-old son to the Barack Obama victory rally in Grant Park on election night. One of the ten bazillion CNN camera crews found the kid and asked him his thoughts. He told the nation that it was an historic occasion. Cut to commercial. The rest of the family hasn't stopped talking about his six seconds of fame since. I expect him to be using the royal we soon.

Back to the point. Despite the romance engendered by caricatures like Billy Goat's in Chicago, the fictional Cheers in Boston, and Joe Bell's from "Breakfast at Tiffany's," a tavern is really nothing more than a church for drunks. I swiftly adopt a local bar in every neighborhood I move into. For the first few months, I'm giddy over my new friends whom I can depend on seeing any night of the week. Like the ideal family, they're always there for me. Eventually, though, I realize that they're not there for me but for the booze. I become disillusioned until I discover a new bar family.

So, where can I go to be surrounded by kindred souls? I haven't the foggiest notion but I continue to look. The only other place in the modern world where people regularly gather and commune is, well, church itself. I can't figure out which is the sillier addiction: god or alcohol.

As for the glamor of a bartender's life, by the time I left Club Lago, I was sick to death of stinking like cigarette smoke and being told what a great guy I was time and again, time and again, time and again. In a bar, a compliment can be nothing more than a verbal tic.

I'd been able to buy both a laptop and a car in cash, though. Paid my rent that way too. Pocketing a thick wad of bills every night is a powerful draw for the profession. Money, like sex, drives us.

Speaking of sex, I never was seduced by a ravishing beauty when I was a bartender. It didn't seem quite fair, capitalizing on the fact that she might have had four cosmopolitans in her. It reminded me of the old Woody Allen line: I never like to play to a roomful of people high on pot - they'll laugh at anything.

Letter From Milo: A Misspent Youth

It was either Mark Twain or Herbert Spencer who claimed, A proficiency at billiards is a sign of a misspent youth. If that's the case, then my formative years were a colossal waste of time. Between the ages of 15 and 18, if I wasn't in school or at home, I could be found in a poolroom called The Club on 5th Avenue near Broadway in Gary.

At the time I didn't consider playing pool a frivolous activity. In my neck of the woods, learning to shoot pool, smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, and acquit yourself honorably in a street fight were hallmarks of a well rounded education. I never did become a good street fighter (something about a yellow streak) but I did excel at smoking and drinking, a skill set that has served me well to this very day.

I also became a pretty good pool player, not great, but good enough to hustle a few bucks now and then. I played all the games, 9-ball, 8-ball, straight pool, rotation, one-pocket, and pea pool but my money game was snooker. At the tender age of 17 I won $52 in a marathon snooker contest against an old man we called The Admiral, because he always wore one of those cheesy yachting caps favored by Elvis and Count Basie.

I lost interest in playing pool around my 18th birthday. There were three reasons I gave up the game:

• I got seriously interested in girls. It's tough enough to get laid under any circumstances, but it's almost impossible when you hang around a poolroom all day.
  
• I had gotten as good as I was ever going to get. I had hit the proverbial wall and rather than trying to break through it or go around it, I decided to avoid it altogether.
  
• I came to the realization that being a "pretty good" pool player would have absolutely no effect on my future. Why waste any more time with such a silly game.

Boy, was I wrong about reason number three.

About 12 years later I was living in Chicago, scuffling to make a living as an editor, proofreader, and freelance writer and failing miserably at all three. Desperate for work, I answered a blind ad in the Chicago Tribune looking for an editor for a sporting magazine. To my astonishment, I got called in for an interview.

Let's call the person who interviewed me Bob. He was the owner and publisher of a group of poorly written, cheaply printed magazines that dealt with fringe sports like archery, table tennis, pinball, and, lo and behold, billiards. The position I was interviewing for was managing editor of Billiards Gazette.

Bob was an odd little man - twitchy, shifty eyed, and affected. The walls of his office were covered with autographed photos of celebrities, like Sinatra, John Wayne, and Raquel Welch but I noticed that all the autographs seemed to be signed by the same hand. He considered himself a titan of the publishing industry, a first cousin to Bennett Cerf. In reality he was a low-rent hustler. His publications were mainly vehicles for attracting advertising revenue. I doubt if circulation of any of the rags was more than 2,500 and those went mainly to the specific industry. I don't recall ever seeing any of them on a newsstand or gracing someone's coffee table.

Still, I desperately needed a job, and running a shlock magazine seemed to be as good a gig as any.

After a few moments of idle chatter, Bob asked, "Do you know anything about playing pool?"

"As a matter of fact I do."

"Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie?"

"To get this job," Bob smirked.

"You'll just have to take my word for it."

"No I don't," Bob said. "I'd rather see for myself. You have to know the game to run my magazine. Let's play a game of 8-ball."

It turned out that Bob had a pool table in his warehouse, a Brunswick that was in pretty good shape. He also had all of the accessories: chalk, hand powder, a bridge, and a rack of cues hanging on a wall. Now by that time, I played pool only four or five times a year, usually on tavern tables and usually when I was drunk. I was still a decent player but nowhere near the cocky young pool shark that I was at 17. I assumed Bob had to be good.

Nervous, I was relieved that Bob won the lag and went first. He broke, ran a few solids but missed a bank shot on the 4-ball and it was my turn. I suspected that he missed on purpose. It wasn't that hard of a bank shot and he seemed to be a better player than that. But the purpose of the game was to see if I could play, not to show off Bob's skills.

"Let's see what you've got, "he said, stepping away from the table.

I took a deep breath, stepped up to the table and played the game of my life. Like Toni Kucoc used to say, I vas in da zone. I didn't miss a shot and some of them were tough. I made long cuts, bank shots, and a combination. I felt like a kid again, on my way to beating some chump out of a few bucks. When I leaned over the table to line up my final shot, Bob reached over and picked up the 8-ball. He looked at me, nodded his head in approval and said, "When can you start?"

I ran the magazine for nearly a year. It was one of the more interesting periods of my life. I met a lot of pool hustlers, earned a decent buck and heard some great stories. My favorite story concerned Jackie Gleason and Paul Newman.

Gleason was a genuine pool shark. He learned to play as a kid on the mean streets of Brooklyn. As he used to tell it, his skill at pool helped him survive some very tough times. Paul Newman learned to play pool during the filming of "The Hustler," one of my all-time favorite movies. The director had hired Willie Mosconi, arguably the greatest player ever, to coach Newman. Newman actually became a pretty good player under Mosconi's tutelage. Unfortunately, he wasn't as good as he thought he was.

Shortly after Gleason's death, Newman was interviewed by a reporter who wanted to discuss the film and Newman's memories of Gleason. The interviewer asked if he and Gleason had ever played pool for money.

"Yes we did," Newman replied. "And I beat him two out of three games. I won the first two games for fifty bucks each and Jackie won the third game for five hundred."

A classic hustle, if you ask me.

Benny Jay: Howling At The Moon

I get a call at seven thirty or so from Norm. He's at the Bulls game with his stepdaughter, Audrey.

He tells me it's halftime and the Bulls are losing by eleven to Miami.

Damn! I hate Miami. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to face another Bulls loss. I can't take this season. Win one, lose one, win one, lose two -- the inconsistency is driving me nuts.

Norm starts in about Ben Gordon: too short, can't play d, can't dribble....

I can't take it anymore. I love Ben Gordon.

We hang up. I get busy. Time passes. I forget about the Bulls.

I go to the kitchen to have a delicious glass of chocolate milk.

I turn on the radio. There's six seconds left in the game. Bulls down by three. And Ben Gordon has been fouled in the act of shooting a three-point shot. Can you believe this! He's going to the free-throw line to shoot three free throws and possibly tie the game.

I turn off the radio. Too scared to listen. Then I think -- be a man! I turn it on again.

Gordon dribbles three times. Takes a Breath. Shoots. Good!

I pick up an orange and start tossing it in the air.

Gordon dribbles, breathes, shoots -- Good, again!

I close my eyes. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. I say: "Please, please, please...."

Gordon breathes. Shoots. Good!

He did it. He did it. He did it. Ben Gordon tied the game!

I call Norm.

No answer.

I leave a message: "I told you not to hate on Ben...."

I rush back to the radio. Miami's inbounding the ball. Chalmers looks, looks, looks -- he throws it in. Intercepted by Hinrich. Bulls ball; Bulls ball.....

The crowd's howling. I'm howling. I call Norm. No answer. I jump up and down. I sing. I dance. I rework the Cubs fight song, which I sing as I loudly clap along: "Go, Bulls, go; go, Bulls, go -- hey, Chicago, what do you say, the Bulls are gonna win today...."

Nicky, the dog, comes into the kitchen. I pound her on the back: "The Bulls have the ball, Nicky; the Bulls have the ball....."

The commercial ends. The teams return to the court. Six seconds left. The Bulls have a chance to win the game.

Thabo Sefalosha's inbounding. He's looking to pass it in. He's looking.....

"Pass the ball," I yell.

He throws it away. Miami's ball. "Noooo!" I yell. "Noooooooo!"

I actually moan.

The phone rings. It's my older daughter calling from Iowa. She's been watching the game on TNT. "Can you believe this?" she says.

"They threw away the ball," I say.

"I know, but what a great game...."

"I can't believe Thabo threw it away...."

I don't wanna listen. But I do. Wade gets the ball. He throws it to Marion. He dunks. Bull lose.

I turn off the radio. I slump in a chair. I can't talk. Norm calls. But I'm too sad too talk. I walk the dog. I call my daughter. "I'll call you tomorrow," she tells me. "I'm going to a friend's...."

She's already over it -- she forgot about this game as soon as it was over. But not me. I can't forget.

I walk on. I don't even feel the cold. I take out my phone. I start to call Milo. I need to talk to someone. I'm halfway through dialing when I realize -- he goes to bed early. He's probably asleep. He's too smart to stay up late for this crap. I put away my phone and keep walking.

This love for the Bulls -- it's insane. It's irrational. I'm a lunatic. It's a curse.

I make a decision. That's it. It's over. No more. From here on out, I'm through with the Bulls.

I look at the moon and I howl....

Big Mike: A Guide For The Married Man

With The Loved One spending her weekdays in Bloomington, Indiana now, leaving me and the cats, Boutros and Terra, to our own devices, I've been thinking about the nature of marriage, love, relationships, and other forms of comedy.

TLO seems to be suffering more than we are. After all, she's sleeping in a sublet room, sharing an apartment with a cerebrum-on-legs grad student, while the cats and I have the run of the Louisville manor. We phone numerous times a day just to hear each others' voices. The conversations regularly seem to end up with one or both of us dewy-eyed.

I might think that would be the tale any married couple would tell in a similar situation but, of course, that isn't true at all. Take a couple of examples. My neighbor, Captain Billy, grants me the benefits of his wisdom as often as he can - that is, whenever her sees me before I can see him. The Captain has many fascinating ideas about husbandly duties and wifely obeisance.

He had much to say to me when he learned that I would drive TLO to work downtown every day before she jumped for saner pastures. We're a one-car family and I didn't want to be stuck without one. The Captain told me there was a perfectly good bus stop about a mile away and that my wife should have the decency to take that bus, thereby not putting me out and, besides, gas cost nearly four dollars a gallon at the time. "What the hell's wrong with her?" he demanded.

The Captain's family, being a normal Kentucky brood, has enough vehicles to open a used car lot. Everone in the family has a set of wheels. Hell, if Boutros and Terra lived with them, they'd have cars too. Normally, the Captain's wife drives her own car to work but at the time her car, a massive heap with a robust engine that serves as my alarm clock every morning, was on the fritz. Since the car has been in use since the Taft administration, it took weeks to find parts for it. Through those weeks, the Captain deigned only to drop his bride off at the bus stop, rather than haul her all the way to work (or, god forbid, let her use his car.)

For kicks, I decided to check the bus schedule to see how long her trip might be. It turned out she had to ride and hour and fifteen minutes each way. That bus, by the way, comes by every hour so woe unto her should she miss it.

I told the Captain that TLO might not reward me with a hug and a kiss if I suggested such a scheme to her. The Captain recoiled as if I'd taken a swing at him. "You tell her to take the bus," he advised. "You don't ask her."

Naturally, if I'd ever approach the delicate flower in that manner, I'd be the one recoiling from a flurry of swings.

I merely laughed off the Captain's advice and he walked away probably convinced my testicles are the size of protons.

Now, example number two. Skip the Trombonist's wife slipped while walking down the stairs late last fall and broke her ankle so badly she had to have metal bolts surgically inserted. Since she'd be confined to a wheelchair for a couple of months, she decided to stay in Harrodsburg in her sister's one-story home.

One Tuesday, during our Trivia game (Skip and I are part of Team Gorlock) I asked him if he missed the love of his life. "Damned right I do," he replied. "The dishwasher's full, the litter box is overflowing, there's nothing in the refrigerator. Shit, the place is a mess."

"Have you cooed these words into her ear yet, you old Romeo?" I asked.

"Nah. Why should I? Nothin' she can do about it now," he said.

After growing up in a family and neighborhood where husbands and wives regarded each other as if they were operating under United Nations-imposed cease-fires, I can be forgiven for thinking The Loved One and I have a rather unique relationship. Then again, I think of friends like Danny and Sophia, Ben and Pam, Milo and Sharon, all of whom have been hitched for more than 20 years. And if their words are to be believed, none has ever even entertained the notion of having an innocent fling. They all seem to cherish and care for their cellmates.

Who are the oddballs? We who sorta like our cellmates or Captain Billy, Skip, and their respective helpmeets?

Note from Big Mike: Celebrate today! It's the 200th birthday of both Abie Baby Lincoln (the original cast recording of "Hair" was the first album I ever owned - if you get the reference, you are awfully cool) and Charles Darwin. Both gents believed in god, pretty much the only thing I can take issue with either of them.

Letter From Milo: A Penny Saved....

Like the rest of the USA and the world, my family has been affected by the "Big Meltdown," a term I prefer to recession or depression. My wife and I are both self-employed and we hit the financial bust-out perfecta. She's in real estate and I'm in advertising. You know what happened to the real estate business, and the ad business is not far behind, especially when several of your clients are also real estate agencies.

A lot of our recent family discussions have been about ways to cut spending. We include our two daughters, 16 and 21, in these discussions because we figure it's important that they understand the rotten financial situation we're in. Not much gets settled at these family round tables, but at least everyone gets a chance to voice an opinion and present money saving ideas.

Mom: How about we cut out cable TV?

Kid 1: (Indignantly) No way. I'm not giving up MTV.

Dad: (Also indignant) I can't believe you're asking me to give up watching the Bulls.

Mom: What if we sell one of the cars?

Kid 2: You can't be serious. Do you really expect me to ride the el and buses everywhere I go?

Dad: (Reasonably) Now, now. Let's not get upset. We're simply discussing options.

Kid 1: Here's an option. Why don't you and Mom quit drinking so much wine?

Dad: (Angrily) Don't be a wiseass.

Mom: Ungrateful brat.

Kid 2: Now who's upset?

Dad: Let's all calm down. (Pathetic attempt at humor) Here's an idea. Let's sell the cat and dog to the Korean restaurant down the street.

Mom: (Aghast) That's a horrible thing to say.

Kid 1: That's not even close to funny, Dad. It's just gross.

Dad: Just lightening the mood, trying to make everyone feel better.

Kid 2: Want to make us all feel better? Quit smoking. What do cigarettes cost anyway?

Dad: (Grumbling and obscenities)

In the end, we came up with a money saving solution that satisfied almost everyone. Dad got taken off of the health insurance policy. Being self-employed, we pay for health insurance out of our pockets, a little over $800 a month. That's a lot of money right now or any other time. By removing me from the policy we save nearly four hundred a month.

Fortunately, I have a health insurance option. As a veteran of the United States Army, I'm entitled to care and treatment at any veteran's hospital in the country. It's one of the perks of having risked life, limb, and sanity for my country. The only problem is that veterans' hospitals are not considered to be in the top echelon of medical facilities. I can see the conversation with my doctor now.

Me: I need brain surgery, Doc.

Doc: That's too bad.

Me: And I need a septuple heart bypass.

Doc: That's a shame.

Me: What's the prognosis?

Doc: Dude, you're probably gonna die.

The good thing, however, is that VA doctors are experienced in dealing with traumatic injuries. So if I get shot or stabbed or step on a land mine in Lincoln Park, I'll be in good hands.

I'm going down to the Jesse Brown VA Medical Center on South Damen Avenue next week to register in the system. I'll bring along my discharge papers and my good conduct medal and my dog-eared copy of the US Army Survival Manual, just in case things get rough. I'll let you know what happens.

Big Mike: Leave The Gun; Take The Cannoli

Lemme start with a little log-rolling. I can't believe how lucky I am to be doing this thing with Benny Jay. He's only four months older than I am (hehe) but I've always seen him as a sort of mentor. A mentor who's mental, but a mentor nonetheless.

Anyway, his post yesterday flooded me with ideas and memories, as all good writing should. "The Godfather" always leads my list of the ten greatest films ever made. Here they are in no particular order:

• "The Godfather" and "The Godfather Part II," they have to be categorized as a single entry (and forget about "The Godfather Part III" unless you're perversely drawn to Sofia Coppola's inept acting)
• "North by Northwest," the height of Hitchcock's obsession with the wrong man caught in the wrong place
• "Casablanca," it's impossible to choose between this and "North by Northwest" as the purest, most rewarding example of storytelling on film ever made in the USA
• "City Lights," Chaplin labored over this movie like no other, the sweet ending never fails to make me cry
• "The Third Man," Brit Carol Reed out-Welleses Orson Welles, the last shot may be the best I've ever seen in a movie
• "An American in Paris," the combo of Gershwin and Gene Kelly is impossible to beat, Kelly may have been the greatest American athlete of the 20th Century
• "White Heat," Cagney was a movie actor's movie actor long before Marlon Brando revolutionized the art form
• "Stalag 17," I could have selected any of a half-dozen Billy Wilder movies but I settled on this
• "The Day The Earth Stood Still," no, not the recent version starring the cardboard cutout that is Keanu Reaves, this is intelligent, sophisticated, adult sci-fi
• "Fort Apache," John Ford's anti-war, anti-bigotry piece starring John Wayne and Henry Fonda - did Fonda ever overact in any scene in his entire life?
  

The way I see it, if you can't be entertained, uplifted, enriched, and/or educated by these movies then I suggest you stick with Adam Sandler and Kate Hudson stuff. There's plenty like it out there.