Cade reviews . . .

Five unwanted cookies lie in the box, looking through a cellophane window onto a world that has has no more use for them.

They are bereft of the property that makes Entenmann’s Original Recipe Chocolate Chip Cookies so delectable: their softness. You see, this bite-sized baked good’s diminutive diameter lacks the density of dough that a larger cookie would require, allowing for the smoothest mastication experience on the boxed cookie market.

I try one of the five. The cookie breaks apart dry and crunchy in my mouth. Most disconcertingly, small sections of cookie seem to congregate into even crunchier, hard-to-bite balls. Are they being joined together in the remains of some sticky chocolate chips? The chocolate chips are still soft, but uncomfortably chewy, sticking with incidental dough to the bottom of my molars, like fillings drilled in by a baker.

These previously chewy Entenmann’s would still be edible had they been some always-crunchy Chips Ahoy! Unfortunately, I watched these Entenmann’s go stale, so it is impossible to eat them and simply pretend they are some other, acceptably crisp brand. Perhaps if I had found them without any identifying markings, within some wayward cupboard cookie pouch …

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Before I decided to start a blog to review everything, I just reviewed movies. Actually, when I was younger and a bit more naïve, my dream job was to be a film critic. For a few years I had seen it as my vocation, my higher calling. It felt like the thing I was meant to do. But it’s a dying profession. The odds are astronomical that you could become one of the few people who make a living off their movie opinions. So it goes.

Instead I got a new dream, and now I’m an aspiring stand-up comedian. That’s a little more attainable. And, unlike with film criticism, there’s immediate feedback and gratification. But I guess I tried to merge those two passions – criticism and comedy – when I decided to do this blog. That’s not to say “Cade reviews …” is supposed to be comedic. In fact, I think some of the reviews on here are kind of sad. But it’s nice to have an outlet to flex my creative writing muscles, and it’s also a nice supplement to stand-up that lets me say, “Hey, look, I do this, too!”

But the only reason I review anything is because of Roger Ebert. Sophomore year of college I wrote my first film review and became a critic for the school newspaper. The review was of Peter Weir’s 1981 film “Gallipoli”. I taught myself by reading Roger. A seminal moment was when I read his introduction to his book, “Awake In the Dark”, which functions both as a autobiography of his life in film and as an outline of his film-watching philosophy. I also spent hours and hours on the archive of his reviews on rogerebert.com. If I wanted to learn how to write a four-star review I just searched for all his four star reviews from, say, 1992, and poured through them. By the way, that advanced search feature is no longer available on his site. They really need to fix that.

He changed the way I thought about movies. I enjoy movies more now because of him. I remember reading his Great Movies essay on “McCabe & Mrs. Miller.” I had seen it and I didn’t especially like it. But after reading what Ebert had to say it became one of my favorite films. It’s a powerful feeling to have your mind so thoroughly changed. When I watch the movie now, I’m also watching Ebert’s words. It’s just as possible to be moved by what someone else has to say about a film as it is to be moved by the film itself. Or maybe they’re one and the same?

I learned a lot from him. Ebert wanted every movie to be good. It’s a beautiful feeling that pervades his reviews. And when a movie was bad, he had the opposite feeling: betrayal. Critics have been caricatured as elitist curmudgeons, but it seemed like Roger always approached each film with raw, earnest consideration. And with respect.

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It’s like listening to someone else’s iPod on shuffle. Except there isn’t 1,000 songs on it, there’s 20.

Record players are fun, though!

Two stars out of four.

Zero stars out of four.

I have heard that there is only one candy more sour than a Warhead. I dare not try it. It is a clandestine bonbon sold only in black markets and back alleys, and ghastly tales are told of people who have tasted this devastating confection. It is said these eaters’ lips puckered to such an extent that their faces imploded into their very heads. Have you ever seen a mouth eat itself? Physically impossible, yes, but it happened. All the healthcare personnel who treated them went mad upon seeing this gross distortion of physical reality. The victims of these sweets now reside in seclusion on a remote South Asian Isle, worshiping this horrible force that has warped their bodies and minds as the earthly manifestation of some lost, cosmic, Lovecraftian abomination.

I look at the back of the Warheads Extreme Sour Hard Candy package. “Warning: Eating multiple pieces within a short time may cause a temporary irritation to sensitive tongues and mouths.” (Emphasis mine.)

No. I am afraid, and I have so much left to give.

No star rating.

Didn’t these used to be Cooler Ranch Doritos? Why am I paying full price for less?

I think I can taste the difference, too. Before, when I would eat these Doritos, I could distinctly taste the idea of a harsh January gale. (I couldn’t actually taste the coolness, since this ain’t mint gum, but I could taste the idea of it, you know?) Now I just taste a chilly, early-March breeze. Disappointing.

Two and a half out of four stars.

Also, now I always seem old and/or grammatically mistaken whenever I call them Cooler Ranch Doritos out of habit. Seriously, I spend all this time learning that stupid, weird name - I went along with it, never questioned it - and now that the name isn’t stupid and weird anymore, I’m the one who looks stupid and weird.

Revised star rating: Two out of four stars.

A transparent vessel for your refreshment, a ghost ship for your libation’s voyage, the glass is a drinking aid intended for those who wish to flaunt their beverage. Saunter about any high society soiree and simply let your drink do the talking. Perhaps you catch that voluptuous maiden’s eye across the room. You move your arm slightly in a nearly imperceptible motion, and her eyes are drawn naturally down your bicep, pivoting around the fulcrum of your elbow, only to climb up the forearm and fall upon contents of your hand, a mug-without-secrets that says to anyone who will listen: “Yes I drink milk. I am a healthy boy.”

And why shouldn’t you have pride in that milk? Is it hubris? No.

Moobris.

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Ah. This gentleman’s grooming device is, in a word, superb. Compact and practical, sleek and (sexy? Yes - ) sexy - as cool a customer as four hard inches of jet black plastic can be.

The coherence of this hair care product is even more remarkable in light of its dual nature, its split personality. Half of the comb bears considerable gaps between each tooth - run that side through your follicles and it is as if your hair is being bitten by Goofy. For the comb’s other two inches the gaps contract, forming forty-two fine teeth - run this side through your hair and suddenly there crawls the legs of a little less than half a centipede, the insect meticulously searching for its footing. This magic black line of chaos and precision is mental illness made useful - split personalities each deployed at the appropriate moment, for the desired effect. It is a resounding success, like the use of Hulk/Banner in last summer’s Avengers, not a failure like NBC’s Do No Harm.

Three and a half out of four stars.

Cars roll down the street. Within the next eight hours at least one will crash in the tri-county area (this is because of the darkness).

A baby cries out in a three-story apartment building. The child’s parents are gone. Only the tenants below can hear it. If they act in some way the infant may survive.

In an alley a desperate man marks a couple walking by as his victims. The young lovers will never know why he needed their money (gum).

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I saw the avalanche of macaroni covered in chemically processed powdered cheese product from across the room. I have been to Cheese Mountain before in my dreams, so I click my heels together - the trigger for my flying powers when I am in a lucid dream state. This was no dream, this box - it was a dream come true.

It was a photograph on cardboard - a box of food. The enticing, creamy macaroni cavalcade clings to the top half of the box. An unusual design choice for this packaging, but the correct one. I look at this box and feel as if the food is coming for me; I expect to be smothered, overwhelmed by cheesy macaroni in a rapturous dairy-death.

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