“Space Jam A New Legacy” plays a lot like “Ready Player One” — a near constant stream of references to other pop culture phenomenon, proving a theory of mine that something that needs to reference a lot of other, better things is probably soft on its own content.
Iron Giant, Superman, Wonder Woman, King Kong, Trinity from “The Matrix,” and just about every other character from Warner Bros. catalogue showed for cameos in the sequel to 1996 film “Space Jam;” it got so obnoxious that I almost checked out when the leads from “Rick and Morty” showed up.
NBA great LeBron James plays an overbearing father to his youngest son, trying to turn him into a basketball star instead of the video game maker the boy wanted to be and the boy joins forces with a sentient algorithm in the Warner Bros. computer servers played by Don Cheadle, a high-caliber actor who must’ve really wanted to hang out with LeBron.
I like the idea of a sentient algorithm causing trouble for the world, but then again, that’s just another pop culture reference — to Hal 9000 from “2001: A Space Odyssey,” a property Warner Bros. doesn’t own.
“Space Jam: A New Legacy” is a wholesome children’s movie probably best enjoyed by families with children who don’t have their own smartphones yet because those kids who do have devices will be posting how lame it is shortly after the opening credits.
Daniel P. Finney writes columns for ParagraphStacker.com, a free, reader-supported website. Please consider donating to help me cover personal expenses as I continue writing while I pursue my master’s degree and teacher certification. Post: 1217 24th St., Apt. 36, Des Moines, 50311. Zelle: email@example.com. Venmo: @newsmanone. PayPal: paypal.me/paragraphstacker.
The time: 12:39 a.m. The place: My cluttered 635 square-foot apartment a fart and armpit noise away from Drake University. I’m hunched over my elegantly aging laptop with Warren Zevon’s “Poor, Poor Pitful Me” blasting in my eardrums at top volume and my Oska Tigers ballcap screwed on my bald head.
My body shakes with anxiety. It’s been that kind of day. Or yesterday was that kind of day. These wee, small hours of the morning posts are tricky bastards when it comes to the timing of things.
I checked my credit union balance this afternoon. I needed to get some allergy pills.
I wanted to save back a few bills for when my buddy, Memphis Paul, hits town next week. We don’t close the bars anymore, but I was thinking of a nice trip to the Amana and the Ox Yoke Inn restaurant with a stop in Iowa City at Prairie Lights Books and Cafe.
To my surprise, my online tax preparer had deducted about $240 from my account, leaving me in the all-too familiar position of being flat-ass broke.
Bad balance juju
What fuckery was this?
I indeed used the company’s software to prepare and file my taxes. But they were to take the money out of my refund, not my bank account.
My refund was big enough to cover the prep fees and take care of a couple months’ worth of rent with change left over.
Said refund has yet to arrive in my account. Apparently, the previous president of the United States was not fond of the IRS, particularly their auditors, and gutted the staffing for the agency.
The pandemic forced federal employees out of their enclaves and taxes filed by paper form piled up for the 2019 tax year and the beginning of the 2020 filing season.
My refund has been tied up in IRS hell since my return was filed and accepted on April 15. Normally it takes 21 days to process. We are at 68 days and counting.
I’ve tried to get the IRS on the phone. This usually meant hours on hold with a recording bleating the woes of the understaffed agency. A few times I got to a point where even the recording gave up on the charade and said, “Call back tomorrow or send us an email.”
Only the federal government can stick its middle finger so squarely in your eye without fear of reprisal.
I tried to make my elected officials work for me, which on face value seems as foolhardy as chewing tinfoil to improve your car radio reception.
The futility of representative democracy
Calling your elected representative: The last refuge of the desperate.
I dialed up the offices of Sens. Joni Ernst and Chuck Grassley and Rep. Cindy Axne.
Ernst’s office didn’t return the call. Maybe she takes personally all those columns where I called her “Dollar Store Sarah Palin.” That’s fair. Ernst seems exactly the kind of person who is only interested in helping the people who scratch her back.
Grassley’s office called and sent me a privacy form to fill out. I did so. I’ve not yet heard back from his people.
Axne’s office emailed me the form. I sent it back the same way. The next day someone called back and said they would assign it to a caseworker who deals with IRS problems.
They warned me this is an ongoing problem and they’ve dealt with a lot of calls about it. I’m supposed to hear something back this Friday.
Companies inside of companies
So, back to the online tax preparer, whom I’ve done business with since 2001. I paid the company the extra dough for 24-7 support because if there was a year shit was going to go sideways on my taxes, it would be the year I lost two jobs and lived off unemployment.
I dialed the tax prep company up and got a man on the phone within minutes.
The reason they hit my bank account: It’s the fine print, the man said. In the fine print, I agreed to pay the online tax preparer even if my refund never shows up.
We did send you three emails, the man said.
I searched my mail. I found nothing.
He read my email address to me. It was an address I hadn’t used for years and it isn’t the one I log into the tax prep site with.
Ah, well there was the rub, the tax prep man said. I changed my email with that part of the company, but there’s this other company that handles the money transaction side of things.
That part of the company sent emails to an address I no longer use warning me of the pending transaction. If I had replied to one of those messages, they would have extended my grace period.
But I don’t check that email. So, I’m out that cash. It’s legit. But it still sucks.
Hopeless against the merciless
I don’t know what a citizen is supposed to do. You can’t fight the IRS. You can’t get them on the phone. The government works about as well as going uphill in roller skates in an ice storm. I’m unemployed. I need that money, which the law says is my money and should be returned to me.
This wouldn’t hit so hard if Iowa Gov. Kim Reynolds hadn’t cut off the pandemic assistance unemployment, which tacked an extra $300 to unemployment insurance.
Reynolds seems primarily concerned that restaurant servers get back to work for substandard wages and earn their tips rather than make a living wage.
I’ll remind you that the $300 unemployment booster came from federal money and didn’t take a cent from Reynold’s budget. And the money ended in September anyway.
If Disney keeps up with this “Cruella” franchise, they might consider Reynolds for the lead role.
Job market is great for servers
Some jerk already has their pity “Get a job!” response keyed up. Yeah. I’m trying.
Funny thing about that, though. I had a job for 23 years. I worked at different shops. But I did well until one day I made too much money for the greedy Wall Street hustlers and the put me on the bricks.
By then, I hated my job and what it had become so much, it was almost a relief to be cut loose from the toxic trade.
What I quickly learned is the skill set I have may have value to other careers, but I have zero skill in translating what I can do to what people need done. I’ve paid companies to help me with it.
The closest I got was a short engagement with a TV station that was an absolute disaster because I was totally out of my element.
Trying to be a better person
But what I’m really trying to do is get a new career. I’m studying to be a teacher, to give back to the institutions that gave so much to me and maybe pass along what I’ve learned.
I’m am trying to be a better person. I’m trying to grow out of this miserable experience. And, yeah, I wanted to go for a nice meal with my buddy whom I haven’t seen in three years.
The time is 1:43 a.m. Zevon’s “Mr. Bad Example” blasts. Boy, that man knew how to sling a savage lyric.
I get it. This is America. There are winners and losers. And if you’re a loser, it’s your fault. Nobody gives a shit about the runners-up let alone the last guy to cross the line. And if you don’t make it? Hey, you might as well not exist.
Reminds me of another Zevon tune: “Lawyers, Guns, and Money.”
Somehow, I got stuck between a rock and a hard place
How many people are struggling with this “fraud hold” in silence?
I got mine. I should be satisfied. That’s how we behave in America. We look out for No. 1 and everybody else is on their own.
I don’t believe that. I don’t want to live that way. But I’m not a journalist anymore. I’m not paid to ask tough questions and make open records requests or pressure public officials for specific details and data anymore.
No, I’ve got just enough of a conscious left to feel guilty that I beat the system and just enough cynicism to realize the system is a game, but the constituents aren’t the players — they’re the pawns.