There’s nothing smart or remotely funny about Cop Out. It’s nothing more than a haphazardly thrown together story that’s not based on any kind of feasibility. The actors are not so much directed by Smith as they are let loose to act like slobbering maniacs who give no thought to motivation or comedic timing. It’s just one big mess. And do I really need a buddy cop hommage flick? If I want to watch a good buddy picture I’ll turn to the hundreds of great films that have already done the job well, are exponentially funnier and have stood the test of time.

For some reason, Wilco wasn’t in a somber mood last night. Somebody slipped the boys from Chicago some Prozac. While my son and I didn’t get to hear our respective favorites, we were hardly disappointed with the concert.

There’s three things that make me cry: The seventh game of the 1997 World Series, the end of The Polar Express when that little bastard finally believes in Santa Claus, and Johnny Cash. The first instance is out of extreme pain – the Cleveland Indians were one out away from winning the championship and Jose Mesa, the Scott Norwood of professional baseball, gave the game away. The second instance is of hope realized; when a cynical little boy realizes that there is still magic in the world. And Johnny Cash? He’s the perfect combination of both.