But with the Logan Theatre still out of commission, the closest alternative within walking distance to my apartment is the Regal City North 14. That's fine, mainstream first-runs are fine and dandy—I'll never be too highbrow to watch Kate Beckinsale trudge through another Underworld or check out a trio of angsty teens wield alien-gifted telekinetic powers. I'm just happy to be entertained—using my brain isn't as important to me as it once was. Understandably, I made it a short-term goal to marvel at Liam Neeson battling blood-thirsty wolves in the barren Alaskan landscape.
His absence haunts the Tribune, and a lot of other papers too. He (or, very definitely, she) is remembered as an editor. Not the lofty editor who designs and leads the great campaigns that win the coveted prizes. And not the obsessive who can lecture an hour about the comma. I'm speaking of the minions who once formed the protective layer of surly common sense that insulated a newspaper's daily report from the reporters' illogic, muddled language, and failure to think through what they were trying to write about.
In the process of being horrified by a song I previously thought to be infallible, I realized something important about the Motown sound: Everyone loves it. That means every no-talent bucket of contagious hate has to produce a rendition of a classic Motown song. As a result, the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay have an inexorable soundtrack for their stay.
Here are the five worst covers of “The Tracks of My Tears.” Proceed with caution.