Obsolete Vernacular

Ooh-Ooh Step Two

2006-10-09T21:01:00.000-07:00

Step One Done

2006-09-19T15:46:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day

2006-08-09T13:51:00.000-07:00

"It's too bad that his support for President Bush's war in Iraq provides such an easy explanation for the downfall of Sen. Joe Lieberman (D-CT). The pious prig from the Nutmeg State is almost the perfect Murder On the Orient Express figure: There are so many reasons to wish him ill that the real challenge shouldn't be finding suspects, but settling on just one. To have Lieberman's Iraq stance become the default reason for opposing him (among Republicans, of course, it's also been the only reason for supporting him) is just too easy.

Lieberman is possibly the least libertarian member of the United States Senate: An infinite-state liberal who always found ways to oppose Social Security reform (which he allegedly supported), an absurd moral scold who co-sponsored the "Silver Sewer Awards" with William Bennett, a values buttinski who couldn't resist attaching himself to Terri Schiavo's feeding tube, he was in the final analysis nothing but a fake, a tartuffe, a figure able to puff enough gas into every opportunistic action to make it seem like an example of high principle. (Witness his Captain Renault-level shock when President Clinton's Lewinski scandal came to light—a case of the vapors that conveniently allowed Clinton to duck the more serious legal issues facing him, neutralized the Democrats-as-Woody-Allen-level-perverts trope that was popular at the time, and massively raised Lieberman's own national profile. For further study, consider the longtime champion of gay rights' vote for Clinton's Defense of Marriage Act.)" - Reason's Tim Cavanaugh

Callbacks.

2006-07-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

Miss me? Yeah, I didn't think so. So, let me kill that luke warm and fuzzy feeling you're having with a little controversy. Last night, I watched Takashi Miike's Audition and I hated it. (And this was a sincere let down, considering the hype. I'm totally cereal, guys.)

Now, before you start frothing at the mouth, let me explain myself just a little bit. I'm fine with the slow burn. Sure, this film's slow burn takes an hour, which probably could've taken a half hour and still have been effective in painting a movie-you'd-never-see-with-Robin-Williams portrait of a sad sack middle aged film exec in search of a new wife to replace his long dead one. I don't think the concept's a bad one, if I do find the exploration of said concept to be a bit bland. And, of course, there's the twist, which is, I believe, meant to not just shock, but also condemn the objectification of women in Japanese culture. Oh, and before the gore, there's what I'm sure is thought of as a bravura piece of filmmaking, where in our protagonist has an entirely incoherent fever dream with too many jumps in logic to keep track of. Bits of information recontextualized: rad. Bits of information our character could never know about: lame. Or is it all a dream? A hallucination? Neither but both? And for what?

Defenders...line up please. And, in the words of Gabrielle Union, be sure to bring it.

Newsless news made better.

2006-05-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

Sen. Hillary Clinton has an iPod:

"I've got everything -- a total smorgasbord."

Her mix includes such diverse material as Aretha Franklin's "Respect," The Beatles' "Hey Jude," The Eagles' "Take it to the Limit", and Gwar's "The Master has a Butt." Clinton loves to listen to her iPod when catching up on paperwork or when hitting the gym:

"Gwar's 'Babyraper' is especially good when I'm looking for that extra boost on the stairmaster. It really gets me going."

Some might be surprised by Clinton's iPod jones after comments she made (and later apologized for) at a recent event:

"The culture in which we're raising children really argues against hard work. It's a culture that has a premium on instant gratification. I grew up in a home with one TV set. Now, we've got children in ... middle class and upper middle class homes that, you know, they have TV's in their rooms, they have computers with the Internet in their rooms, they have iPods. I mean, they are totally connected. And, yeah, one of my party's kinda sorta platforms is to provide broadband access to every home in America, but I think there are ways to stop the poor kids from being such selfish pricks too. And not just by abstaining from sex. Let them have the internet and the computer games in their room, but cover the computer in a blanket. An electrified blanket only you, the parent, controls. After a few shocks, they'll learn their lesson. And they'll work harder, get better grades, and keep their underage hohos out of their underaged friends' hahas. And one day, they'll grow up and have other people write their life stories for them, because they'll be so busy, they just won't have the time to sit down, turn on a little 'The Master has a Butt' and put down on paper a record of their storied existence."

And, yes, to answer that question that's floating around in your warped little mind, she jogs to Anal Cunt.

Yet, there's still this appeal.

2006-05-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

My Old Kentucky Blog (one of the best mp3 blogs out there) gets the gold star on this gloomy Monday. Their feature today compiles mp3 after mp3 of covers of Joy Division's classic, "Love Will Tear Us Apart." Jose Gonzalez, 10,000 Maniacs, Calexico, New Order (obvs), U2 w/ The Arcade Fire, Nouvelle Vague, and a ton more. Check it.

If Joey Chestnut loses, the terrorists have already won.

2006-05-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

"This could be so critical to our sport. It's never good for the same athlete to win so many years in a row. The Fourth of July has been stolen from Americans because of Kobayashi's dominance and now America has someone who they can get excited about." - George Shea, Chair of the International Federation of Competitive Eating, after Joey Chestnut, a 22 year old civil engineering student at San Jose State, ate 50 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes at the Las Vegas qualifier for the Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest.

After what I imagine was a hearty belch or perhaps thirty minutes of vomiting, Chestnut echoed Shea's "patriotism": "I'm going to push harder on our Independence Day to take the title back. My brother is in the National Guard in Iraq and there will be a lot of people behind me."

And don't think Chestnut can't back it up. He's the reigning champion in eating pork ribs (5.5 pounds in 12 minutes), waffles (18.5 in 10 minutes) and jalapeno poppers (118 in 10 minutes). (But what about Pizza Shooters, Shrimp Poppers, or Extreme Fajitas?)

I just puked.

Altered Quote of the Day

2006-05-18T09:03:00.000-07:00

"If I heard the Lord right about 2006, the coasts of America will be lashed by storms. Now, mind you, at the time the Lord spoke to me, I was drunk vacuuming. As many a good Christian knows, the combination of holy juices and the hum of a Dyson can make for uneasy listening. And, as any good Christian also knows, the Lord has a tendency to mumble and occassionally trail off, making it increasingly difficult to determine the nature of his musings, like Kissinger on a ham radio.

But I'm just about positive, and I really mean it this time, there well may be something as bad as a tsunami in the Pacific Northwest. But, the Lord is a just man. While he may kill millions with the full power of his mighty waters, he will not drown us all. I will live. As will my family, my employees, and the 58 Indonesian children who work in the factory that will be packaging "The American Tsunami: What Now?" a how-to guide for Godly survival in the wake of the Lord's weather, hosted by yours truly, and featuring musical performances by Amy Grant, Darryl Worley, and Steven Curtis Chapman. The DVD package also includes a miniature Bible, an "I Survived God's Wrath" bumper sticker, and two cyanide capsules for future use, further explained on the DVD. All this, available to you, right now, for only $19.95 plus shipping and handling. The Lord has spoken and through the hum of a vacuum and five Brandy Alexanders, I have heard his call." - Pat Robertson

She Mars! She Mars!

2006-05-16T13:41:00.000-07:00

I tried not to worry too much. Dawn Ostroff and Les Moonves are smart people, even if one of them has a penchant for empty headed lawsuits. I knew, deep down, that Veronica Mars would be renewed. It had to be. Had to, people. Had to. So, if you were like me, stop fretting, because this shit's official:

Straight from the horse's mouth, Rob Thomas just e-mailed me to confirm that Veronica Mars has been renewed for a third season. The show got a 22-episode order that, depending on ratings, can be reduced to 13. Very reliable sources, meanwhile, are also telling me that One Tree Hill will be back and that Everwood is, in fact, dead. Talk about injustice.

Reserve your microfridge, stock up on ramen, and get ready to catch a serial rapist. We're going to Hearst, ya'll! (Via the invaluable Mars Investigations)

Please, Hammer, don't hurt 'em.

2006-04-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

Reason # 42,136 to hate the Atlanta Braves. (Via Metsblog.)

To me, Clark Kent in a phone booth and Houdini in a packing crate, they were one and the same thing.

2006-04-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

According to the man himself, Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union will finally be published in January of 2007. And if that wasn't enough exciting news, there's this:

This Paramount/Scott Rudin production, to be directed by Stephen Daldry, has recently entered a status that some of those involved have referred to as "pre-production" or, more conservatively, "pre-pre-production." Key elements, such as Production Designer Patrizia von Brandenstein and Costume Designer Ann Roth, have begun work. Initial creative design for the comic-book elements of the film--of which there are many--is being done by certified genius Paul Pope, which is, in the general opinion, way cool. Casting has begun, with no roles yet cast as of today.

Though the production has by no means been greenlighted, prospects for this long-running, oft-moribund project are suddenly looking better than they ever have before.

I'm still not exactly sold on Daldry and I'm still attached to my idea that the book should be made into an HBO mini-series, but this could still be excellent.

Behind the bag. Gets through Buckner.

2006-04-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

My new hero, Conor (at San Diego Serenade) has recreated the final inning of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series on Nintendo RBI Baseball (with Vin Scully play-by-play). (Side note: It'll really make you want to buy this. ) Even Red Sox fans might now be able to enjoy the ball going through Buckner's legs. Or not. Seriously, check it. It's amazing. (Via Metsblog and Gunga Gene.)

Straight Talk, Straight Talk

2006-03-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

Before I get into the crux of this blog post, let me offer up to you a sampling of the lyrics to "Straight Talk" by Dolly Parton, from her 1992 film of the same name:

Gimme some straight talk, straight talk -- and hold the sugar please
Straight talk, straight talk -- sounds plenty sweet to me
Don’t talk to me in circles in some mumbo-jumbo jive
Gimme just straight talk, straight talk and we’re gonna be alright
’cause I like to know just where I stand, I don’t like guessing games
And I hate a bunch of gibberish, so just spit it out real plain
Don’t use big educated words from your bs degree
Straight talk, straight talk -- don’t try b.s.-ing me

Straight talk, straight talk -- turn loose and let it go
You can tell me anything -- just like on oprah’s show
Just tell me how you really feel, be on the up and up
With questions I can understand -- for answers you can trust

Pick up the ’phone, you’re not alone -- we’ve all got something to say
So listen in and listen up -- we’ll find a better way
With honesty and common sense, it’s really hard to miss
Straight talk, straight talk -- just tellin’ it like it is

Straight talk, straight talk -- there’s nothing like the truth
Just tell me all your troubles -- pretend I’m Donahue
So don’t be shy, ’cause we can talk -- you know you’ve got a friend
Call me, call me -- for simple straight talkin’

What’s cookin’, America?

Straight talk, straight talk
Straight talk, straight talk

Now, I have no idea if Senator John McCain took the name for his "Straight Talk Express" from the Parton film. I like to think he did, because that idea is a whole lot more endearing than the notion that he actually meant it to be taken seriously. If I've confused you, let me clear things up. Here's McCain during the 2000 presidential campaign:

I am a pro-life, pro-family fiscal conservative, an advocate of a strong defense, and yet Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell and a few Washington leaders of the pro-life movement call me an unacceptable presidential candidate. They distort my pro- life positions and smear the reputations of my supporters. Why? Because I don't pander to them, because I don't ascribe to their failed philosophy that money is our message.

Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance, whether they be Louis Farrakhan or Al Sharpton on the left, or Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell on the right.

Admirable. Sort of rad, right? The kind of things you like to hear from people you don't exactly intend on voting for. But McCain, in his ongoing Evangelical gangbang, has decided to give us a little less straight talk, straight talk:

American military hero and Arizona Sen. John McCain will deliver the Commencement message at Liberty University on May 13, at 9:30 a.m., in the Liberty University Vines Center.

While Sen. McCain and Liberty University Chancellor Jerry Falwell have had their share of political differences through the years, the two men share a common respect for each other and have become good friends in their efforts to preserve what they see as common values. This will mark his first ever appearance at Liberty University. Falwell said McCain's appearance at LU's graduation is another sign that McCain is wooing evangelical Christians.

"He is in the process of healing the breech with evangelical groups," Falwell said.

Falwell said McCain has expressed a willingness to support a Federal Marriage Amendment, an issue dear to conservative Christians.

Now, maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe this is straight talk, straight talk from McCain. Maybe everything else has been...what's the word...oh yeah...BULLSHIT. Maybe he didn't really mean what he said in 2000 and he only said it because he thought that would work and now he thinks it behooves him to sound like those he claimed to oppose. Maybe in "healing the breech" and efforting to find "common values" with a petty, dickless fascist endears him to voters he feels he needs to win the election and that need trumps all other needs, like, say, integrity or honesty or, as Dolly might say, a little straight talk, straight talk. But even Dolly knew there was no going back to that listless douche Michael Madsen, that she had turned a corner, begun anew, found herself, schtupped James Woods, etc. I don't expect much from politicians, but unlike McCain, I do have a few standards when it comes to my "friends." Oh, and I hate a bunch of gibberish. (Via Sully)

Friendly Advice

2006-03-23T17:54:00.000-08:00

At Fluxblog, get yourself the new hotness from Phoenix, "Long Distance Call." Saunter on over to You Ain't No Picasso and get "Skinny Boy" off of Amy Millan (of Stars) new solo record. (You can also pick up the new Walkmen jawn while you're there.) And then get your Aviator on and get to The Rich Girls Are Weeping and download Rufus Wainwright's version of the Gershwin standard, "I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise." I mean, I'm not going to force you or anything. But you'll kick yourself if you don't.

Crit of the Day

2006-03-22T15:23:00.000-08:00

"If there exists a device called a Procedural-O-Matic, then it created this show. The Evidence mingles the most familiar elements of contemporary forensics programs (jittery and jaundiced close-ups of fatal wounds, charmingly eccentric lab techs, the sort of leads that offer pretenses to enter sex clubs) with the most durable cop-show clichés (the bit where the fuzz toss the punk into a chain link fence along the sideline of a basketball court). As Cole, Rob Estes (Silk Stalkings, Melrose Place) is compelled to keep mourning a wife whose murder was never solved, whose voice is still on the outgoing answering-machine message, and whose smile is playfully coy in gauzy flashbacks. As Bishop, Orlando Jones (Drumline, 7-Up ads) tries to lift his buddy's spirits in a series of moderately homoerotic encounters. As Dr. Sol Goldman, Martin Landau does nothing disgraceful. And fog, in a supporting role, handsomely veils the Golden Gate Bridge." - Slate's Troy Patterson

Hellmouth Diary

2006-03-16T16:00:00.000-08:00

Working for the government (the man, the system, ZOD), one is afforded court holidays, on top of the already existing holidays that most everyone gets (Christmas, Thanksgiving, Tu' bshvat...wait, what?). On top of President's Day, we also celebrate Lincoln's birth. On top of Labor Day, we also get Cesar Chavez Day. Themes and all. Now, our office does not give us a full day off for these holidays, but instead a casual dress half day (Hawaiian shirt optional). On these half days, one employee stays later than the rest, until about 2 or 3, for some bureaucratic reason that I've never understood, nor wish to understand at any future date. Until recently, this task (staying past the noon evacuation) generally fell to me, being young, male, and white, all the usual traits of the oppressed. But, then, that stopped happening and it started getting spread around and, then, it was proposed that a rotation be set up. This led one employee to freak the fuck out.

Crying. Manic pacing. An insistent and bizarre line of questioning (directed at me for some reason) revolving around whether or not this meant she'd have to make her son quit karate. (At this time, it should be noted that this woman mispronounces her son's name and told him so when he turned eight. He agreed with her that the proper pronunciation of the name he was given was kind of stupid and that mommy was right to take the easy route. Sub-note: This woman also kept her maiden name because she felt her husband's name was too complicated. To this day, she cannot spell the name, of both her husband and two children, without several minutes of deliberation.)

Well, the freakout worked and she was exempt from the rotation. But the drama didn't stop there. Trenches were dug. Middle-aged women with beef, okay? So, then came tit for tat. Grumbling. Back turning. Hissing. One employee kept a log of grievances (like, say, the killer from Seven or former Florida Sen. Bob Graham) which was then used in meetings to discuss the relations between that employee and her arch nemesis. Another employee was roped into the proceedings, all the while, pretending to know nothing, as any good stooge would. She also plays up her age, her mediocre health, and thanks to the general stupidity of everyone around her, it works. This portion of the proceedings came to a head with a screaming match between the employee we'll call "Charo" and the aforementioned "Oldy McGee." "Oldy McGee" walks off in a huff over perceived to be rude whispering. "Charo" calls her out. Fight ends with "Charo" screaming, "I ain't afraid of you!" "I ain't afraid of you!"

This duo and the killer from Seven are "admonished" for their behavior. And post-admonishment: The Silent Era. No one speaks. "Oldy McGee" bumps and elbows "Charo" in the hallway 3 or 4 times. (I doubted this, at first, and then I witnessed it.) The Killer from Seven pretends to be unphased by it all (as exemplified by idle chit-chat about shows she doesn't watch, articles she's half read, and the death penalty, exclaiming "hang 'em high" after our supervisor asked "whatever happened to a good old fashioned lynching?"). Having achieved her first goal, she seemingly cared very little about its ramifications. But the killer from Seven overestimated her power, as many a mouth breather has done before. She determined I felt left out and that if I felt left out, it was her job to engineer a few alterations to my work habits. Now, look, I'm a pretty miserable fucker as it is during the hours between 8 and 5. Work = dread. 'kay? But I'll let it play out. I'll see what's what.

The directives: I must watch what I say. (Nothing specific is cited.) I must understand that certain words and/or phrases offend. I should not read at my desk (books, or as they were reffered to "reading books"), although the Internet is still allowed, as long as it's not in excess, to the offense of others. (Feeling as if I was at the worst summer camp evs, I pondered spending my lunch break at Michael's, shopping for popsicle sticks, glue, and an ample amount of glitter, in order to then construct Barbie's Dream House (with pool and waterslide) at my desk for the remainder of the afternoon.) But, you see, the killer from Seven didn't brief "Oldy McGee" on this plan of action and "Oldy McGee" (being a good Jahova's Witness) took out the "Good Book" and started reading at her desk yesterday. Whoops.

I took my supervisor aside. In the spirit of brevity, allow me to summarize the conversation succinctly: "Bitch, are you fo real?"

Thirty minutes later, our supervisor put it all to rest. She "admonished" the three witches, apologized to me, and told everyone, in general, to shut the fuck up.

Petty victories are sweet.

Piss on Pooh.

2006-03-08T11:52:00.000-08:00

If you don't know Thomas Kinkade or his exemplary work, you've missed out. His brush is guided by God (after all). Upon reviewing much of Kinkade's work, one might come to the conclusion that God is a Care Bear or at least a Care Bear part of the time, what with his many forms and all. Kinkade is, of course, "The Painter of Light," a moniker which should always be intoned with as much James Liptonian verve as you can muster, without cracking up and Horatio Sanzing the bit. But now, in a twist worthy of a cliche-ridden TV movie, Kinkade's being sued, and in the process, has been revealed to be a little less messianic and a lot more piss drunk and grabby:

It's not just Kinkade's business practices that have been called into question. Former gallery owners, ex-employees and others say his personal behavior also belies the wholesome image on which he's built his empire.

In sworn testimony and interviews, they recount incidents in which an allegedly drunken Kinkade heckled illusionists Siegfried & Roy in Las Vegas, cursed a former employee's wife who came to his aid when he fell off a barstool, and palmed a startled woman's breasts at a signing party in South Bend, Ind.

And then there is Kinkade's proclivity for "ritual territory marking," as he called it, which allegedly manifested itself in the late 1990s outside the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim.

"This one's for you, Walt," the artist quipped late one night as he urinated on a Winnie the Pooh figure, said Terry Sheppard, a former vice president for Kinkade's company, in an interview.

This twist comes about a half hour and two commercial breaks before Kinkade is revealed to either have a second, secret family or, more likely, a kiddie porn dungeon.

Now, of course, no Kinkade piece would be complete without the observations of his fans:

"It's mainstream art, not art you have to look at to try to understand, or have an art degree to know whether it's good or not," said Mike Koligman, a longtime fan who with his wife owns Kinkade galleries in San Diego and Utah.

"This is God-given talent," [Karen de la Carriere] said of a favored print, "Sierra Evening Majesty," with its snowy peaks, red-gold skies and smoke wisping from a cabin chimney. "He is a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci or Monet. There is no one in our generation who can paint like that."

It's like this...when Thomas Kinkade pisses on something (canvas, Disney characters, you), one doesn't need some hoity-toity art degree to get it. It makes perfect sense. "That's piss. And I like it!"

Oh, it's a 3-4 year plan. Why didn't you say so? I'll stop screaming now. My apologies.

2006-03-03T16:07:00.000-08:00

If I were asked to make up a list of my least favorite people, Knicks owner James Dolan would likely be in the top five. I've never met Mr. Dolan and based on my experience of being in the same room as Scott Layden, I'd likely just stand a fair distance away and comment to a bystander what I'd do if they came up to me.

I have, however, endured his reign of terror. I have seen the team's franchise player banished to Seattle because Dolan, like many others, believed that the Knicks would be "better off" without Patrick Ewing "clogging" the middle. I watched as Scott Layden was hired to "fix" the team, after Ernie Grunfeld and Dave Checketts had, presumably, harmed the team somehow. (Apparently, making the playoffs and knowing how to even spell "salary cap" are the signs of a sinking ship in need of righting.) In that era, a first ballot hall of famer who led the team to two Finals and perpetual playoff berths, was traded for Glen Rice who was traded for Shandon Anderson and Howard Eisley who were then handed to new general manager Isaiah Thomas who saw fit, as he's wont to do, to trade them for more heinous contracts attached to heinous players within a heinous context, also known as the roster assembled by a group of people whose sole intent, it seems, is to hurt my feelings. This year, the thought was that a mini youth movement (Curry, Frye, Robinson, Lee, Ariza) accompanied with the hiring of Larry Brown would save the collective asses of everyone already mentioned. (Yeah, not so much.)

On top of all this, Dolan has, as you well know, approved the acquisitions of two more heinous contracts attached to two players (Jalen Rose and Steve Francis) whose notion of "team" begins and ends with "I." Francis is known to some as "Stevie Franchise." It's a self ascribed moniker. They also happen to both play the same position on a team with more players at said position than should ever rationally be considered.

Recently, after a loss to San Antonio, rumors swirled that Dolan had come to whatever senses he has left, and determined that Isaiah needed to be fired, things needed to be changed, etc. And, being an idiot, I believed the story. Perhaps, I deserve this:

I can't say it any plainer than I've already said it. I'm not making a change, guys. We're going to continue on with the strategy. I believe in the plan. I believe in the strategy. I believe in the guys who are executing it. I fully expect you to kill me in the papers tomorrow with this, but I'm going to stick with it. I'm going to stick with it until we stop making progress. I think the course is to stay the course, not knee-jerk.

Maybe some people think I'm brain-dead because of that, but time will tell. I understand people will be unhappy when you're going through this process. You're characterizing [this season] as making a big mistake. It's not a mistake. It's an underestimation what it would take to start off this strategy. So we're 15-41 now. You have to look at how you're doing on your 3-4 year plan. It's still early. I know it's hard to take when it's 15-41, but the mistake would be to say the strategy is wrong. The strategy is right. It's just more painful to execute than we thought. It is harsh. There is no doubt. I think [the fans] are already upset.

One must have a brain for it to be dead, James. (Sigh.)

I don't know if he can handle Hastert's girth.

2006-02-26T09:34:00.000-08:00

"So [Bush] now has a list in his heart and his head of everybody who's going to screw him...literally, when he makes a mistake." - Chris Matthews reacting to President Bush's Dubai port deal on The Chris Matthews Show (2/25/06)

The Great Zucchini

2006-02-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

Gene Weingarten's "The Peekaboo Paradox," (from the Jan. 22nd edition of The Washington Post) a piece on famed Washington D.C. children's entertainer "The Great Zucchini," is brilliant, one of the best things I've read in a while, careening from tragi-comedy...

But while you're winning, anything seems possible. Eric is at the moment a heroic character, a romantic lead, a suave Bogart or Bond, rolling sixes and nines and never a losing seven, and the cheering continues. The classy illusion holds right up until the moment that the bellowing woman falls silent, sways, hiccups, and vomits all over the table.

...to startling insight. Yes, it's long, so if you're at work, perhaps discussing your co-worker's bowel movements from the night before and tearing yourself away from that thrilling exchange isn't a possibility, print it out and take it home. Seriously. Read it. It's sensational. (via Lacunae)

And you think your job's shitty.

2006-02-08T11:43:00.000-08:00

Co-worker: Hey, Tim.
Me: Yeah?
Co-worker: I had diarrhea last night.
Me: You should put that on a T-shirt.

If that wasn't enough for bowel movement related office banter:

Me: Quietly doing my business in the bathroom stall.

Middle-aged Detective enters bathroom. He hisses like something out of Midian, breathing heavily, grunting.

Middle-aged Detective: I can see your shoes. I can see your shoes.

Me: Quietly doing my business in the bathroom stall and, now, as if I'd ever stopped, quietly loathing my existence.

Middle-aged Detective: (sheepishly) Sorry.

Middle aged Detective leaves bathroom.

Sugar, it's Eli.

2006-02-07T10:13:00.000-08:00

Whenever I have questions about the big issues: war, poverty, my future children becoming vampires, I can think of no better source for soothing answers than Pat Robertson or any of his helpful associates at The 700 Club. And, thank Jehovah, I'm not alone:

My stepdaughter is fascinated with vampires and other occult practices. Her bedroom is draped in black and has an altar with candles, incense, and a pentagram. I tell my wife that even though I am not our daughter's biological dad, I am still responsible before God for my household. My wife tells me to mind my own business. What do you believe is my responsibility before God concerning her behavior in our home?

First of all, according to the Bible, you are the head of your household. That includes your wife and your daughter. If she [your wife] got married in a Christian marriage, she is supposed to submit to the authority of her husband in matters of spiritual activity.

You do not wish to invite Satan to come into your home. The pentagram, the candles, the occult incantations -- they are all prayers to Satan and to demons to enter your home and to do damage to your home and to your family. As the high priest of your household, you have an absolute right to say, 'No, this is my home and I am paying the bills. You get that junk out of here!'

Don't think that because you are not involved in it that you are going to escape. There was a prophet in the Old Testament whose name was Eli, a wonderful human being, but he let his children get away with murder. Eli the priest allowed his children to engage in fornication with the women who came to the temple to worship, and it got so bad that God said, 'Eli, you and your whole family are out of here. You are out of work, and none of your progeny is ever going to have a part in the priesthood again.' The same thing is true with you. You must take a stand on this. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Your wife has got to say that that is the way it is. You need to say, 'I am not arguing with you. This is the way it is going to be.'

Demons don't pay your bills. You do. There are no ifs ands or buts about it. (via TMN)

Quote of the Day

2006-02-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

"Anyway, I find myself rooting for the poor fans in Seattle, who have suffered through the Griffey/A-Rod/Big Unit defections; the E! True Hollywood Story-level demises of Shawn Kemp and Vin Baker; the relative lack of success of "Singles"; the Dikembe Mutombo game; Jack Sikma's perm; the Irene-Steven domestic violence incident on "The Real World"; an astonishing number of recent Mariners seasons in which the team peaked in July; and (unquestionably) the most mediocre franchise in NFL history. And that's just in the last 15 years. Can you imagine being a Seahawks fan since 1976? No Super Bowl appearances. No truly memorable players other than Steve Largent. They were like the Hartford Whalers of the NFL...and by the way, the Whalers moved eight years ago. Now they have their one chance to step into the limelight and people are crapping on them? I don't get it." - Bill Simmons

Dude, how small can your light saber possibly be?

2006-02-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

From today's New York Daily News ("Meet Jabba the Nut"), comes the story of Michale Cianci -- bus driver, dad, pitiful NERD -- creator of a middle school "fight club," largely influenced by Star Wars (in ways scarier than George Lucas' neck wattle):

Bus driver Michael Cianci created The Death Cheese Club to keep order and gave the toughest of the middle school kids nicknames like Darth, Sith Warrior and Jabba, law enforcement sources said.

The stocky married father of two, who lives with his mother in Parlin, N.J., even posted bizarre rules in the yellow bus titled "Death Cheese Laws," which were read aloud each day, the sources said.

"The penalty for breaking this code is banishment," the laws proclaimed above the signature of "Lord Matt" - apparently The Emperor's second in command.

"In a ranking of Master or above, the penalty is death or severe beating . . .Heresy will not be tolerated."

The wanna-be storm troopers pounded on weaker kids, dished out noogies and even cut up one another's clothing with scissors.

Seriously, no amount of snark can really do this story justice.

Cobra Kai

2006-02-01T15:52:00.000-08:00

I work in a county criminal courthouse. Each and every morning comes a parade of petty offenders, felons, mid-level defense attorneys (with the occassional high priced type: Darden, Geragos, Mesereau), and a fair share of people who smell as if they just rolled around in vomit. But some people break out of the boundaries of what one can achieve whilst in the stern bosom of the criminal justice system. Some redefine the parameters, break all the rules, go out in a blaze of "glory," blah blah blah. But if you don't want to do this, if you just want to get your shit taken care of with little to no fanfare, here's my advice, as based on recent events which I've witnessed:

1) You come in for your arraignment. It's not a serious charge, especially since you don't have a criminal history. If you happen to see someone you don't like in the lobby, do not, under any circumstances, rush across the lobby and karate kick said person. You'll only get arrested right there and charged with new shit that's worse than the petty shit you still haven't taken care of.

2) If you haven't listened to step 1, you're now in jail for the night. While there, don't start a fight with your cellmate. And when a deputy tries to break up the fight, don't hit the deputy. Because, guess what? You're now facing even more new charges on top of the charge you still haven't taken care of.

3) If you haven't listened to step 1 and/or 2, well, you're a dumbass. But say this is the case. You were distracted and a little hot tempered and you made a mistake. We all do it. So, you finally get your day in court, and you face multiple charges. The judge, disturbed by your recent behavior, chooses to lecture you for a few minutes. Here's your chance to ingratiate yourself with him and everyone else. Appear humble. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Do not, I repeat, do not mutter "go fuck yourself" in the direction of the judge.

4) If steps 1-3 seem too difficult for you, well, you're fucked.

The karate kick incident is currently the second best thing that's ever happened while I've been working here, ranking behind the day the neo-Nazi esaped and was crawling around in the ceiling tiles. I got out around lunch time that day and the next day too, because while trying to escape (he fell through a tile into a room locked from the outside) he stirred up some asbestos. He's my favorite Nazi ever. Yeah, I said it. Eat it, Goebbels.

Killing the buzz I don't have.

2006-02-01T15:47:00.000-08:00

"When you've sat through the Felton Spencer/Travis Knight era, the "We Want Lampe" chants at the draft, the Don Chaney and Lenny Wilkens firings and countless mind-numbing Scott Layden press conferences, you have a whole different perspective on what sucks and what really sucks. But make no mistake, this is as sorry of an era as anything the franchise has been through lately. Possibly ever.

The degree of quit displayed by the Knicks against the Lakers was so disheartening that Brown got himself tossed by referee Steve Javie midway through the third quarter. Bryant had been parading to the free throw line all night, the discrepancy so glaring that the Knicks posted each team's attempted foul shots on the scoreboard each time one of the teams went to the line. The Lakers ended up with a 58-24 advantage from the line, meaning Kobe himself had more makes and attempts than the Knicks did as a whole." - Chris Sheridan bringing me down. It's honest (brutally so) and I have a hard time disagreeing with anything said in the entire piece. The next two year's first round picks are gone (for Eddy Curry, in a trade I once endorsed, showing you just how hopeful and dumb I can be) and there is very little hope for the season, let alone the future. Firing Isaiah now won't even feel good, like firing Layden did. Whatevs, I'm starting to think Layden wasn't even that bad.

Sorry. Sorry. That was insane. He was/is that bad. Isaiah just happens to be worse.

Good Night.

2006-02-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

"I haven't shied away from political and social conversations in my life, so I don't shy away from them in the films I make either. It doesn't mean that I'm out here preaching to the converted; I'd actually like to open up discussion and find ways that aren't polarizing. Films are reflecting what is going on in society. We as a society since 9/11 have, for the first time since Watergate, sat around and had outrage, discussion, polarization and arguments from both sides of the aisle. Questions are being asked. And that is good." - George Clooney

I, for one, am relieved that we have found our way out of the wilderness (Thanks, George!) and started talking again, talking about politics, talking about world issues. These past thirty years have been, well, too quiet, especially in the arts, where no one's been grappling with issues of any kind. Nothing but glitz and fluff. Hits from the 80s, 90s and today. Hollow, right? Until now. Hurray!

Now, combine that decades long silence with the general warming of the Earth and the indordinate number of naps I've taken over the years make a lot more sense. But now I'm awake and issues rattle around in my head more often than I can take. My advice to those in a similar situation goes like this: Pat yourself on the back a few times (5-10 times works for me), watch either of George Clooney's two movies this year and then recall that hilarious anecdote about how audiences thought the actor playing Joseph McCarthy was just so great. I find my heartiest laughs come when I'm so sleepy I'm practically punch drunk. And if that doesn't work, just think back to the last couple of moribund decades, think back to all that silence and inactivity, block out all feelings of trepidation, bar yourself from ever using the term "post 9/11" ever again (please? pretty please?) and curl up under your favorite blanket. Sleep well, you Princes of Maine, you Kings of New England. Sleep...(awww...aren't we cute when we're asleep?)

Melt Your Heart

2006-01-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

"Ms. Lewis, who is Jewish by birth ("although everyone assumes I'm a little shiksa," she says) and currently lives alone in Los Angeles, said the religious inquiries on Rabbit Fur Coat partly reflect her own spiritual musings. "God ... he's a funny guy," she said. "I'm not a religious person by any means. But I'm curious. And most of the time I feel really left out in the religious-slash-political climate of the country these days. Like, am I really missing out here? Everyone seems so completely faithful, and so happy about it."

The above comes from Will Hermes' piece in Sunday's New York Times. As based on my current, singing to myself in the car/shower/apartment/cubicle obsession with Jenny's new jawn and my once upon a time obsession with The Wizard (three times in the theater and too many times on VHS), I have to say that knowing what I know now, Jenny would take over the top spot on my recent list of hot (enough to make you shvitz) Jewesses. So, there. A little blog house cleaning and lovelorn nerdery. That's that. Happy almost Tuesday.

J.R., you're no Duncan Kane.

2006-01-27T09:57:00.000-08:00

Ron Artest was finally, mercifully traded this week, to Sacramento, after he first blocked the deal, wanting to still stay unhappily married to the Pacers, as opposed to try something new with the Maloofs. Step 1: Fully clothed spooning. Artest's behavior (the infamous brawl in Detroit, asking for time off to record a hip hop album, demanding trades and then, with dewy, puppy dog eyes, claiming he'll miss Indiana, etc.) may remind you of Isaiah "J.R." Rider and if it doesn't, it will now, because, y'know, I just said it. If you've forgotten:

Rider racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines and suspensions in his NBA career, which ended in 2001. His offenses ranged from being tardy to practice to spitting at fans and airport personnel to crimes of assault and marijuana possession.

He spent two days in jail for failing to perform court-ordered community service that resulted from a 1994 assault charge for kicking a woman in the back after a disagreement at an autograph signing.

In May 1997 he was convicted of marijuana possession and later pleaded no contest to possessing unregistered cellular phones.

Rider was the fifth overall pick by Minnesota in the 1993 NBA draft and spent three seasons with the Timberwolves, winning the slam dunk championship his rookie season.

He was then traded to Portland in 1996 and spent three seasons with the Trail Blazers. He was suspended for a total of 12 games during his time in Portland, including three by the NBA in 1997 for spitting at a fan in Detroit.

After getting traded to Atlanta for Steve Smith on Aug. 2, 1999, Rider was late to his first day of camp, and never could get along with coach Lenny Wilkens. He was released in March 2000 after refusing to accept a three-game suspension for being late to a game.

He spent the 2000-01 season with the Los Angeles Lakers and was suspended five games that season for violating the league's anti-drug program.

He joined Denver the next season and was waived in November 2001 after playing just 10 games with the Nuggets. Rider never played again in the NBA.

And Rider's at it again, this time, charged with kidnapping and assault, and held on $2 million bail in Marin County, CA. Sigh. The dude should employ Veronica Mars, Vinnie Van Lowe, and Astrid and kidnap in style. Worked for Duncan and the Manning baby. I like to think that's how Harold "Baby Jordan" Miner would do it.

Know Your Role

2006-01-12T14:33:00.000-08:00

5 in a row. Not losses, not terrible free agent signings, but wins. Wins! 5 victories in a row for my beloved Knicks, improving their record to a sizzling 12-21. After blowing an 18-point lead, which I heard them build on my ride home from work (thank you, Sirius), veteran Antonio Davis led them to victory in overtime:

"I think they understand how much I care about this team and how badly I want to win. I don't want to open the papers and see the position that we're in, and a lot of times you have to know your role. You have to know what you can do and what you can't do. And what I can do is I can defend a guy and I can rebound. When they see me running after a rebound, or something like that, they really understand what this game is all about.

This quote might just make Antonio Davis my new favorite player. Also best, Larry brown wore a Mark Messier jersey during his pre and postgame press conferences.

These Make My Tits Pop

2006-01-11T08:45:00.000-08:00

Celebrating Showgirls Day in style:

Ben: And just as the actors and their roles blur, I think that we, the audience (or at least the appreciative, receptive audience), blur with the Goddess audience. As much as you try to fight it, that tawdry, shitty, profoundly vulgar spectacle sucks you in through sheer will and makes you like it. Yup, that neon is garish and David Stewart's synth-score is all bombast and Cristal emerging from that papier-mâché volcano is silly, but goddam is it effective; Verhoeven and Ezterhas have got their hands all up in your id and they're not letting go.

Girish: Has the transactional basis of our market-driven society (and more specifically, the entertainment biz) been translated to personal terms as bluntly and tersely as this? "You are a whore, darlin'". "No, I'm not." "We all are. We take the cash, we cash the check, we show them what they want to see." And then, in the same companion key, this lucid piece of anti-hypocrisy: "I'm not a whore." "No you're not. You're going to be a big star."

Josh: Nomi Malone is not a human. Neither our writer, our director nor Elizabeth Berkeley herself bring a single drop of humanity to this role. Nomi Malone is an animal, caged and furious. No, even that's not quite right. She's an elemental spirit, fire leaping from her eyes as she flings a plate of french fries with all the fury of Medea slaying her children.

Flickhead: A case of the dragon consuming itself by the tail, Showgirls transcends the limitations normally set by genre and dramatic convention — and comes to embody every foul, odious thing it professes to abhor.

The Boris Lermontov of Vegas

2006-01-10T23:26:00.000-08:00

"Dancing ain't fucking."

This undeniable truth comes from aspiring choreographer James Smith, as played by Glenn Plummer, in Showgirls. Plummer may be best remembered as "Maurice," the character whose Jaguar is commandeered by a determined Keanu Reeves in Speed or as slain rapper "Jeriko One" in Kathryn Bigelow's millenial actioner, Strange Days. But if you consider yourself a cineaste and you have the slightest bit of taste, you know him best from one film and one film only. He's worked plenty, but the role of his career came in Showgirls. Everything else is window dressing.

Whilst on his quest for a muse (Victoria Page to his Boris Lermontov), Smith cleverly deploys his credo. Dancing isn't fucking, but fucking and dancing need not be mutually exclusive. And if dancing ain't fucking (and, I assure you, Smith is right) then fucking ain't dancing. Upon first introduction to the routine he "wrote for her," Nomi picks up the moves like a natural, even if James goes a little too fast at first. They click. The start of a beautiful friendship, blah blah blah. But when dancing turns to fucking, it all falls apart. Nomi's on her period and she's not down with James' offer of towels. Dancing ain't fucking but James needs fucking with his dancing. Enter Penny (Rena Riffel) who's half the dancer Nomi is, but a much more willing lover. But James knows dancing ain't fucking, so even if he is fucking Penny, he'd rather be dancing with Nomi. The catch 22 that James knows is sure to bite him. It does. And James, of course, loses his one true chance at greatness, never able to lock creatively with his one true muse. Everything is fleeting. It's Vegas. One minute you're a star, the next you brake your ankle on strategically placed beads and your days as top bitch at the Stardust are over.

James Smith is trapped. He's pulled back the curtain and seen the Wizard and all the rest seems pointless now. Nomi is his last hope. She "burns when she dances," and in that burning, he sees a phoenix of hope, in a city drowning in flash, and lacking in substance. He knows dancing ain't fucking and fucking ain't dancing and Penny ain't Nomi and Nomi ain't Penny. He knows he's going nowhere, but he has nowhere else to go. He's figured it all out. He's at the end. But he has a tape and a routine and if he can just find someone who can dance and is willing to fucking him, James Smith will own Vegas. I smell sequel.

(As part of The Showgirls Blog Orgy.)

So happy together.

2006-01-10T18:59:00.000-08:00

The following comes from David Thomson's recent piece on Munich:

In 1982, E.T. was an enchanting fable for shy creatures of all ages and alien backgrounds, as well as a warm tribute to American domestic life. In the same year, Poltergeist (which Spielberg produced, and the director of which he "helped") cast a baleful eye on nearly all the same things. Then in 1993, the double-act was Jurassic Park (a monument to species recreation) and Schindler's List (ditto on extermination). And now, in 2005, Spielberg has delivered a version of War of the Worlds that is a very exciting story of an ordeal where mankind strikes back at alien invasion, and Munich, his Christmas offering and a film that reckons to upset just about every section of the audience. At the very least, this record reveals an intensely complicated man - one far more intriguing than his great contemporary, George Lucas, and more steadily dedicated to new work than, say, Francis Coppola.

Thomson omits another pair of Spielberg films that came out in the same year: Minority Report and Catch Me If You Can. John Anderton (Tom Cruise) is accused of a murder he hasn't yet committed, as Spielberg tweaks the notion of presumed guilt implied by multiple tactics now condoned by the Patriot Act (with a nifty Philip K. Dick template). This "serious" entry from Spielberg is the lesser of the two films in my opinion (not because of its seriousness but because the toughness required to make the conceit work isn't there in the end, with its neat and tidy climax, which I think is the same problem that befalls War of the Worlds). Catch Me If You Can also revolves around an accused man on the run, but works more as a shaken martini bit of mythmaking, getting us off on the thrill of the chase and the cons, as opposed to frightening us with them, scaring us with the presentation of a world where our lives and our deeds can be manipulated at our peril. Catch Me If You Can gets off on getting away with it. It's an exhilarating piece of pop entertainment. It isn't weighed down with weighty notions it can't successfully grapple with. It tosses them off with elan.

Minority Report ends up working better conceptually, its ideas rolling around in your head, sparking conversation, but failing dramatically, cheating, cutting corners, wrapping everything up with structural bows that are never believable. Catch Me If You Can (until Munich, the best film Spielberg has made in the last ten years) is compelling not because it has intriguing notions, but because it has intriguing characters, it involves us emotionally, while Minority Report never quites grasps those involved. Of the two journeys on the run, the emotional one packs a wallop, while the intellectual one leaves you feeling cheated, with an argument that never climaxes, but simply withers, hiding from its potentially unpleasant possibilities. (This post comes courtesy of a challenge issued by Ben.)

Top 5 Discoveries of the Year

2006-01-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

My Own Private Idaho (1991) - The other Van Sant film that stunned me this year. An exhilarating blend of styles and genres, darkly funny and emotionally resonant. Phoenix's performance ranks among the very best in cinema history.

The Conformist (1970) - Not just one of my favorite discoveries of the year. One of the best films I've ever seen.

Black Christmas (1974) - Top shelf shlock (viewed as part of the New Beverly's holiday themed Grindhouse double feature, along with Silent Night, Deadly Night), aided in no small part by: alcohol consumption, imagining everyone (including inanimate objects) responding to Keir Dullea like HAL, and Margot Kidder as a sex obsessed lush.

Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974) - Fassbinder's homage to Sirk (and a major influence on Todd Haynes' Far From Heaven). The sequence that remains with me the most takes place at an outdoor cafe. Emmi (an older German woman) and Ali (a young, Moroccan guest worker) sit together (they are, at this point, already a couple). No one else is there. They're surrounded by yellow table after yellow table (and the yellow pops like candy coated Technicolor). Meanwhile, the staff of the cafe stands and watches them from afar, looks of dismay on their faces.

The Fallen Idol (1948) - Directed by Carol Reed and written by Graham Greene (from his story, "The Basement Room") with additional dialogue by Lesley Storm and William Templeton. The dirty entanglements of adulthood as seen through the eyes of a child. (Saw it on a rainy night, which seems the perfect weather for a viewing, which may be more of a comment on it being set in England than the film itself.)

Quote of the Day

2006-01-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

"The most rackety fun I had all year came in the first twenty minutes of 'Wedding Crashers,' which demonstrated that Vince Vaughn is either a genius or an escaped lunatic who should not be approached without a stun gun, yet even that farce declined into soulful whimsy, as did 'Hitch.' I did laugh at the end of 'The Revenge of the Sith,' but that was from pure relief, much as the people of Stalingrad gave a bitter, mirthless grin when the siege was finally lifted." - Anthony Lane

End of an Era: A Top 5

2006-01-09T11:20:00.000-08:00

Saturday marked the end of an era. I bought a new car, which means my 1996 Saturn will soon be no more, likely to be chopped up for its few remaining working parts. So, without further ado, the top five Saturn related memories:

High school make out sessions with my high school girlfriend who will remain nameless. When you date the daughter of a fairly stern school teacher and a Civil War revisionist not entirely thrilled by their only daughter dating a sarcastic, liberal Jew, your car becomes a safe haven, whether parked in said parents own driveway or some further distance. Without the Saturn, high school would have been a lot less fun.

My cross country trek to Los Angeles, with a stop for the grand Canyon. Too much Sonic. One too many Sooner shakes. And Dr. Laura ranting about how the Taliban hates us because of Eminem. Best.

The mishaps. Driving to dollar bowling night and plunging into a rain water filled ditch and having to push it towards the parking lot (with Beeks and Loo). The belt snapping/battery dying/renting more Aveos than anyone should period known as last year. The latest over $1,000 problems that led me to buy my new Hyundai Accent. If you have good credit, it's disturbingly easy to buy a new car. (Also, when you're selling me a car and you see that I work for the District Attorney's Office, I don't recommend telling me about that time you evaded a police officer and ultimately got arrested, eventually serving 45 hours of community service.)

Driving Geri Halliwell around for a day. Things to remember: Ginger Spice is not impressed by 4-door Saturns. She digs yoga. And she will not, under any circumstances eat an apple in the middle of the afternoon (if presented with one as a snack, she will throw it at the person who handed it to her). You've been warned.

No car is truly cool until Fagistan's iron fisted dictator has puked in your backseat. There's just no debating the issue.

So long...

2005 Top Ten

2006-01-07T19:06:00.000-08:00

If Living is Without You

10. Walk The Line (James Mangold) - Transcends its "...and then what happened Johnny" plotting with exuberant, foot stomping musical sequences and two of the best performances of the year. As long as Joaquin and Reese are onscreen, it all works out.

9. Eros ("The Hand") (Wong Kar Wai) - The first of two from Wong Kar Wai on the list. I know this may be considered cheating, as it's a short (and part of a trio of shorts presented together) but I don't care. The design, the impeccable craft, the elegant movement of the camera, the entanglement of his ever evocative music choices with his trademark desperate longing...it's all there. I was transfixed.

The Searchers

7. The New World (Terrence Malick) and 8. Breakfast on Pluto (Neil Jordan) - Patrick "Kitten" Braden and Pocahontas. Their connection is bigger than Kitten playing squaw to Billy Hatchet onstage (although, one can only imagine the Jamestown's colony's reaction to Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey"). The urge to define them, dress them up in a peep show or for the royal court, falls flat. They're more than the fantasy, even if both filmmakers seek to make symbols of them. I can't help but connect the two, the fluidity of style in both, as Jordan and Malick stick us inside of the heads of the characters, allowing the outcast, the colonized to tell their stories. We're engaged by people, by shared emotional experience, and as critical as the historical context is in both films, I never felt (as I did, say, with George Clooney's Good Night and Good Luck.) like I was being lectured or given a refresher course in Social Studies. To me, both feel like diaries, of people telling their stories in a world that won't stop spinning, certainly not for them, and that they, in their own ways, continue to try to live in, to define for themselves. It's a recurring theme this year. The importance of finding a home to call your own. These two films explore that idea brilliantly.

Unknown Quantities

5. Los Angeles Plays Itself (Thom Andersen) and 6. Look At Me (Agnes Jaoui) - In one, a daughter fights against her father's indifference. She finds beauty in opera, if she can't find any in life, her conversations persistently interrupted by disinterest or a ringing cell phone. Her struggle is everyone's struggle in the film, of people desperate to be recognized as more than the role they've been assigned. And if ever there was a misunderstood and misrepresented American city, it's the place I call home: Los Angeles. Thom Andersen presents, analyzes and deconstructs Hollywood's presentation of the city and its citizens own attitudes about it. I find myself cringing any time I hear myself call it L.A. Both films are very smart and uncompromising. Brain food. Good for the soul.

Back to the Future

4. Serenity (Joss Whedon) - Without question, the zingiest, smartest, most exhilarating piece of pop entertainment of the year, spawned from the failed television series, and born of fervent fandom. Joss Whedon continuously plays with genre, blending the western with sci-fi and, most of all, tackling the various twists and turns of a makeshift family's dynamic. The best time I had at the movies this year.

3. 2046 (Wong Kar Wai) - Tony Leung's charmer is on a series of conquests, none of which work out (and even if they could, he won't let them), because the woman he wants is nothing more than a memory, an unattainable dream. Wong Kar Wai envelopes us, his elliptical style playing with time and memory, giving us both imagined and real scenarios that are, of course, entangled in all the same sadness and yearning. It's beautiful and lovelorn, like the saddest pop song you've ever heard.

Dealing in Death

2. Last Days (Gus Van Sant) - There's a sequence towards the end of the film, where Blake (Michael Pitt) is alone in the shed behind his decaying mansion. His hangers-on are leaving the mansion and one (Lukas Haas) spots him inside the shed, from a distance. Blake is now out of focus, seemingly dressed in all red. It's obvious that Haas knows he should go over there, check in on his friend, see what's what. But, at the same time, he's afraid to or apathetic about it all, considering the inability to communicate with Blake these last few days, with him becoming little more than a mumbling, listless mess. And he goes off, never having checked in.

This sequence brings it all together for me. Watching from afar, it's all fuzzy and a little bit scary and we only know so much about what really is going on in there, in the head of the man inside that room. We may think we know more, but we only know so much. It's at once dreamy, gazing at this mythic figure (fame in conjuction with importance to the individual) and wondering what he's doing in there, wishing to know or be a part of it, his life. But, at the same time, being so frightened by this image, thoughts of pain and death and madness making the warmth of the car, and the comfort of driving away from this scene, all the more enticing. One image can mean everything and, here, it brings everything together, all the pieces that Van Sant is putting together: the corruption of the free, natural world that Blake wishes to run to (he sings "Home on the Range" with aching desperation) with his heroin buried in the earth and the trains/airplanes disturbing his Jeremiah Johnson-like sojourn through the woods, the search for something, anything, to connect with, aside from the solitary, emotional purge afforded by his music (there are two really incredible musical moments in the film), Kim Gordon's recitation of her "rock n roll cliche" speech that she seems to have given a hundred times and that Blake gets but can't seem to do much of anything about, the desperation to connect/inability to connect arc, by way of Boyz II Men, Mormon missionaries, visits from confused salesmen asking him how his "business" is going and how many "customers" he's added in the last year, phone calls from managers and bandmates and his wife, and the Velvet Underground, which are at once disaparate but all interconnected. It all makes for one of the best films of the year and the best of Van Sant's career. (As originally posted on 7/24/05.)

1. Munich (Steven Spielberg) - It could be didactic or, worse, bland. It could be every argument ever made on either side of the Middle East debate, made by old men on cable news, uttering the same tired platitudes which they've said over and over again. But what now? I say it again and again, be it with either extreme end, be it ultra-Zionists or suicide bombers. What now? The soul darkens from such conflict, from perpetual war, from endless tit for tat. You may, as Avner (Eric Bana) does, end up hiding in the closet, gun in hand, eyes wide open, unable to sleep, always on alert, always afraid of what then. What is so stunning here is that at once the film is a crackerjack thriller, tension at every turn, classic moments built one after the other (the blood stain turning to clouds, the conversation between Avner and Ali in the stairwell, saying the same things but not realizing it, Avner hearing his daughter over the phone, the near death of the Palestinian girl on the phone, etc.), sequences that could exist in many other thrillers of shady spy types skulking about Europe but it goes beyond this and becomes a true analysis of morality, of history and of where we are as a people. It's tough and smart and exciting in so many ways. it engages you and engrosses you and forces you to think, to talk, to wonder where we're headed. It's over thirty years now and things seem so similar. Can we remain this way? Can we find a new path? Can we solve problems that always seem to end the same way, with the same arguments. What now?

The Good: Millions, Sin City, Mysterious Skin, Layer Cake, Kings and Queen, Batman Begins, Rize, Me and You and Everyone We Know, The Beat That My Heart Skipped, The Island, The Aristocrats, Junebug, Proof, Thumbsucker, The Squid and the Whale, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, 3-Iron, Oldboy, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Broken Flowers, Brokeback Mountain, The Family Stone, Jesus is Magic, Fantastic Four

Whatevs (denoting either mixed feelings or apathy): Grizzly Man (Treadwell's footage is, at times, incredible. But I chafe against the scenes and moments that are so clearly staged by Herzog, i.e. Treadwell's theatrical ex-girlfriend receiving Treadwell's watch from the equally theatrical coroner. And I'll admit to a childish complaint. Herzog's Udo Kier-like narration, with its morose platitudes, drove me insane.), War of the Worlds (First hour vs. second hour.), The 40 Year Old Virgin (Apathy.), The Constant Gardener (Apathy.), Capote (It's all very beige.), King Kong (New York vs. Skull Island.)

The Bad: Melinda and Melinda (Phrase to be forever banned when discussing the work of Woody Allen: "return to form."), Mr. and Mrs. Smith, A History of Violence, Syriana, Good Night and Good Luck, Elektra, Constantine, The Jacket, The Producers (Matthew Broderick's performance is beyond terrible, uneven, and so lacking in charm that it makes Nathan Lane's bellowing to the balconies seem subtle and well crafted.), Eros ("Equilibrium"), The Interpreter, Kingdom of Heaven, A tout de suite, Stolen, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Red Eye, Flightplan, Elizabethtown, Jarhead, RENT, Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Except for Tilda.), Match Point (I'm willing to accept that somehow, this urbane piece of pulp can be found as entertaining. But it has zero depth and lacks any kind of interesting perspective on the material. Just imagine if Woody respected or had interest in the film's women. Now, once you've jumped off that bridge, imagine if Scarlett, instead of skipping towards the gallows, decided to confront Emily Mortimer outside of The Woman in White (symbolism abounds). And if you proceed in that direction, imagine then that all Myers does is kill the neighbor. That or some derivation of that idea would have intrigued me, instead of a note for note retread of the Martin Landau half of Crimes and Misdemeanors. If people want me to stop looking backwards, it might help if Woody would follow the same advice.)

The Ugly

5. Eros ("Il filo pericoloso delle cose") - No film with this much nudity should be this unwatchable. That's the most serious thing I can say (because boobs are serious business). Other than that, Antonioni needs to stop. Now.

4. A Sound of Thunder - I have to admit that when compared to other films on this list of shame, this inept piece of garbage is a welcome respite from the grating agendas and rampant nihilism of this year's truly awful fare. At first, the Z-grade effects, lugubrious performances and sub-Mansquito, Sunday afternoon on Sci-Fi feel work together to make for the kind of so good its bad train wreck that almost makes you wonder if something magically shlocky has come together amidst production breakdowns and the rampant burning of money. Alas, the feeling fades. Quickly.

3. Lord of War - Okay, so I'm confused. You combine endless, shabbily written narration, wooden performances and only halfway impressive visuals (which would clearly be done better by other filmmakers to whom the style is owed), and not one, but two vile jokes about AIDS in Africa, and, to top it off, muddled politics...and a good movie isn't inevitably going to spring forth? Hmmm. Weird.

2. Crash - Sooner or later, there comes that day in junior high when fresh scrubbed, over eager high schoolers show up to perform a skit at a school wide assembly. They're accompanied by an adult (who for the purposes of this breif aside, we'll call Chad) and these kids belong to some kind of troupe. This troupe inevitably has a cheery, but willfully vague name so as to make you think they just might be there to get you into theater arts. But, alas, they're not visiting out of the goodness of their hearts. The skits they perform are meant to make you feel guilty. Each and every pimply faced kid in that audience, picking at the bits of lunch left in their braces is, among other things: a drunk driver, a terrorist, a drug addict, a racist, a homophobe, a sexist, and a ridiculous stereotype masquerading as an evocation of an actual human being with issues, related to their race, religion or sexual orientaion or any number of other things that may impact their choices in life, which, in relation to the importance of skin color (and I mean skin color in that after school special for more on the topic of race visit your library and read the following kind of way) barely register.

Now, that last part really has nothing to do with the "Fun Time Players," but it does have a lot to do with Paul Haggis. This motherfucker is probably going to win an Oscar for this bullshit. And, yeah, I laughed when Tony Danza showed up and when Sandra Bullock got all angry, turned into the Geico lizard and chewed out Brendan Fraser (before falling down the stairs and learning to love the Mexican help) and, sure, I thought it was hilarious when within ten seconds of a luke warm dispute, the pawn shop owner referred to an Iranian guy as "Osama" and made references to "mud huts," but, see, I'm not supposed to laugh at any of this. Because it's supposed to be serious. It exposes how racist we all are. Well, y'know what, this might have been done with a shred of intelligence or nuance or humanity and I might have been engaged. Instead, I'm left watching this piece of trash. I didn't miss the point. I got it, loud and clear. Now, sure, that supposed point is delivered in the broadest, most dumbed down way humanly possible and maybe the angelic glow behind Don Cheadle's holy body distracted me (when I'm not counting how many racist jokes and/or references can be thrown out in the name of showing us just how bad they all are and how single minded everyone on Earth or Los Angeles is...since we are all trapped behind glass and defined by cliches intoned with so much bogus relevance that even Morgan Freeman whilst narrating about penguins or jail breaks or God knows what else might even stand up and object), but I still get it. Paul Haggis is a bad writer. He's also a bad filmmaker. And people really dig that about him. Got it. Thanks.

1. Domino - In each lighter fluid soaked frame of filth, hate, stupidity, banality, and sadism, this film sinks beneath what can be dismissed simply as "bad" or "vile" or "fascist." Beyond the technique which veers from grating to mind numbing, beyond inept storytelling and almost laughably bad acting, there lies its core, its utter hatred of humanity, its dismissal of anything but the virtue of its own supposed intelligence. Beneath the smirk and the eye roll lies little more than petty fascism masquerading as progressive satire. It's one service is paradoxical. It's a shame that money, time and effort were wasted on it, but without that futile toil, we might not know exactly what the void looks like. The screen's big. You can't miss it. Put your money down and see what's underneath the barrel. And if you get confused, there are titles frequently scrolling across the screen, just in case you like a little condescension with your bullshit. This is the end.

Quote of the Day

2005-12-19T11:23:00.000-08:00

"Gibson is a mere grunt in Fox’s army. Bill O’Reilly, the network’s most prominent religio-political commentator, is its Patton. The shortage of anti-Christmas atrocities (plus the fact that the U.N. fanatics long ago switched to subverting Halloween) may explain why he has concentrated on department stores, many of which, in their ads or via their salespeople, wish people “Happy Holidays” instead of—or in addition to, or more frequently than—“Merry Christmas.” ( In 1921, Henry Ford attacked from the opposite flank, sneering that “the strange inconsistency of it all is to see the great department stores of the Levys and the Isaacs and the Goldsteins and the Silvermans filled with brilliant Christmas cheer.”)

O’Reilly sat out Vietnam. In the war on the War on Christmas, however, he not only has been in the trenches but has gone over the top. “I am not going to let oppressive, totalitarian, anti-Christian forces in this country diminish and denigrate the holiday!” he said the other day. And, “I’m going to use all the power that I have on radio and television to bring horror into the world of people who are trying to do that!” And, “There is no reason on this earth that all of us cannot celebrate a public holiday devoted to generosity, peace, and love together!” And, “And anyone who tries to stop us from doing it is gonna face me!”

O’Reilly sees the War on Christmas as part of the “secular progressive agenda,” because “if you can get religion out, then you can pass secular progressive programs like legalization of narcotics, euthanasia, abortion at will, gay marriage.” Just as Christmas itself evolved as a way to synthesize a variety of winter festivals, so the War on Christmas fantasy is a way of grouping together a variety of enemies, where they can all be rhetorically machine-gunned at once. But the suspicion remains that a truer explanation for Fox’s militancy may be, like so much else at Yuletide, business. Christmas is the big retail season. What Fox retails is resentment." - Hendrik Hertzberg

Kong is King

2005-12-19T10:42:00.000-08:00

"King Kong cost over $200m (which is ridiculous), but the film is as proud of its testosterone as Kong is of his massive strength. I think it quite possible that Kong will surpass the present box-office record held by Titanic. It deserves to go that high, for it is flat-out brilliant in nearly every detail except being half an hour too long. Not that there are many sequences the fans will want to sacrifice. And while we expected the onslaught of money and computer effects, the best thing about this King Kong is the way Peter Jackson has re-invented and enriched the love story. This is not a review, and I'm going into no detail, but King Kong is what the movies are meant to be." - David Thomson

This is not a review either, but I was really underwhelmed by Kong. The effects are inconsistent, ranging from the dinosaurs on Skull Island, which are nearly Sound of Thunder bad, with characters running in front of screens making one think of Land of the Lost before Jurassic Park to the truly incredible stuff on the Empire State Building. Namoi acquits herself nicely, which she must, as her performance is essentially the entire film. If you don't believe in her, in her affection/love for the beast, the whole enterprise crumbles. Brody's not much more than a prop and Jack Black never gets it, never fully plunges into the vile depths that are potentially there for him. It all feels very stock, actors filling their roles, doing what they need to do to move everything along, but never doing anything magical or surprising.

This is my beef with Narnia too, where the effects are all over the place in quality, but more imporantly, the kids (save for Georgie Henley as Lucy) are awful, as bland as can be. I'm not asking them to match Tilda Swinton (who may actually be from Narnia), but they never once engage you. They bore you. They annoy you. And the film never takes off because of it, never fully captures your imagination. The Potter people, seemingly pulling from the same pool of young actors, found great leads and consistently fill in the supporting cast with charming, dynamic kid actors. The fine line, I guess. But, Kong's not all bad, even if it's an hour too long. I just can't help but drift off when I've reached the thirty minute mark of watching someone else play a video game. Anyway, the Thomson piece is mostly a string of predictions for the Oscars and also an analysis of what Hollywood's choice for Best Picture could mean ("In the end, though, it will be Brokeback or Kong, and the winner will be an indication of what Hollywood now regards as its future."). He also shows love for Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney's work in The Squid and the Whale and calls Munich "extraordinary." Check it.

Film Crit of the Day

2005-12-16T15:58:00.000-08:00

"They're always kissing or having sex in movies. That's why I don't watch them." - Co-worker, aka "Mira Mira" (It's like working beside Laura Mulvey. Or not.)

Quote of the Day/War on War

2005-12-13T12:07:00.000-08:00

"Since "special rights" has been a term of aspersion among conservatives for decades, would-be theocrats have at least the decency to be too ashamed to demand them explicitly. Instead, they've learned the power of the victim narrative, of framing the debate to cast themselves as underdogs. Rather than attempting to entrench their values, demagogues purport to be playing defense against a plot to "purge religion from the public square," trading on the same ambiguity in the word "public" that has eased the acceptance of ever more regulation of privately owned establishments that are open to the public, and allowed for the metastasis of the term "public health," which now apparently covers not just infectious disease control or mosquito abatement, but smoking and obesity. Since the battle is a reactive one against the undifferentiated forces of anti-Christian bigotry, such nice distinctions as that between a business that fails to cater to its customers and an arm of the state adhering to strict neutrality can be dispensed with. More importantly, moderate Christians with no desire to impose their faith on others might be convinced to support a re-Christianization of public life on the premise that they'd only be defending themselves against marauding secularists.

The stratagem is so perverse as to be almost admirable: Take a holiday associated with sentiments like peace and goodwill, mix in some well-intentioned attempts to acknowledge it in an inclusive way suited to a pluralistic society, and then use the combination to generate fear, divisiveness, and high ratings. But whether we're impressed or appalled by that cynical ploy, whether we're gearing up for Christmas dinner or just a post-Ramadan pig-out, we can all breathe a little easier knowing that the anti-Christmas "jihad" is no more real (sorry kids) than Santa Claus. Happy holidays." - Reason's Julian Sanchez (12/20/04)

Mythmaking

2005-12-13T09:45:00.000-08:00

I grew up an Adventures of Robin Hood obsessive. You may read that sentence in many ways, most notably as “I’m a NERD.” Up until junior high, I was way into medieval times, but in a safe, medieval and Robin Hood themed Legos instead of twelve sided die kind of way. But all of it was tinged with Adventures of Robin Hood. When my uncle (who was the curator of a historical residence and its grounds) curated a Renaissance fair, I expected ample exclamations (“Huzzah,” “For King Richard,” etc.), pigs roasting on spits, mutton chops, and general medieval debauchery by way of Warner Bros. as opposed to fat ladies in velvet mumus selling heinous jewelry and speaking in “old English” beside their husbands, sad middle aged hippies cum fake blacksmiths or if they’re lucky, the guy who makes the hawk land on his arm. This experience still stings.

But it’s never hurt my love for the film. Neither have the multitude of other Robin Hood films, the majority of which suck, save for the Costner version, which I shamelessly enjoy, especially when one considers all the fun changes: the Sheriff of Nottingham goes from Chief Wiggum to a blood thirsty lunatic, Will Scarlett goes from clever gay sidekick to brooding Jack Nicholson impersonator, and Robin Hood goes from badass to plywood, but I still don’t care. After all, the French speaking, blood thirsty, war monger that is Richard the Lionheart is still everyone’s favorite gentle king, in both cases regal and beloved, and, in the latter, Scottish. And in watching Robin Hood this past Saturday at the Aero (in Santa Monica), as Errol Flynn swoops onscreen with “Welcome to Sherwood,” and Olivia de Havilland goes from casual Norman racist to Norman activist (but always in something sparkly, even when jailed) and Claude Rains does everything but actually twist his mustache and Flynn plays Robin Hood like a great egalitarian union leader, a man of the people, with Prince John’s deer on his shoulders as a weapon, and Basil Rathbone gets blue balls at every turn, I remembered exactly why I loved it, in all its candy coated Technicolor glory. It makes the legend real, the fantasy as vivid as possible, even if all the facts are wrong.

Ironically, I went to see Syriana afterwards, where all the facts are there and all the drama is missing.

Quote of the Day

2005-12-12T14:43:00.000-08:00

"Many of McCarthy's friends never reconciled themselves to his endorsement of Reagan in 1980, but he was governed in this by a firm conviction that Carter had disgraced the office and abdicated all claim on re-election, and I have the impression that there are fewer people now who genuinely wish that the pious Georgian had enjoyed four more years. At any rate, McCarthy then was following both a logic and a principle and pressing both to a conclusion. If he had put his party first in 1968 nobody would ever have remembered him, as some of us do when we reflect so gloomily on the choice of hacks and careerists and mediocrities from whom the professionals will be selecting on our behalf three years from now." - Christopher Hitchens, in his excellent obit for Sen. Eugene McCarthy

Earmarked.

2005-12-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

Sure, sure, it's not the Goonies house in Astoria, OR. It's not my favorite imaginary museum/addition to an already existing museum: The Jane Wyman Was My 1st Wife wing to the Reagan Presidential Library. But one now must consider the following (via The Club for Growth) when planning your next cross country adventure throughout these contiguous United States:

Consider this — the Army Corps of Engineers is, in large part, to blame for the levees breaking down in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina. Now, thanks to Republican Senator Thad Cochran, part of the funds being used to help pay for Katrina relief — approx. $13 million — will be used to build a museum celebrating the Army Corps of Engineers!

Let’s repeat that.

Part of the money being used to fix the levees will be used to celebrate the government’s inability to build levees that don’t break.

Here's some video from CNN on this. Start planning your trip now. (via Hit & Run)

For that mildly special someone.

2005-12-08T11:19:00.000-08:00

The Onion A.V. Club has a hilarious round-up of cheap toys to buy for kids you don't like so much. Or maybe you're that shitty aunt/uncle everyone has, and your idea of gift giving involves a late night run to Walgreen's. Either way, there are some choice items. For example, My Scene: Hudson (from $8.99 to $16.99 and pictured above, in what I believe is his "Club Birthday" mode), a doll for...no one(?):

Don't get it twisted: blandly hunky My Scene teen dream Hudson comes with a soccer ball, trophy, and wife-beater shirt, but he ain't about perpetuating no lazy stereotypes, fool. "Being an athlete doesn't mean you have to be a jock, know what I'm saying?" he pleads on the back of his box in his signature Wafrican-American version o' Ebonics. He goes on to explain that he plays in a co-ed league with "some total hotties." What kind of total hotties? "This girl Madison," for starters. Then, in a daring rhetorical move, Hudson shifts to addressing Madison directly: "Wassup, girl?" That's some seriously dope flava you're kickin' there, Hudson! Madison won't be able to resist your smooth moves. The back of the box goes on to insist that Hudson and the rest of his My Scene boyz are "Street cause they wannabe, fresh 'cause they have to be."

Madison, take my advice. Walk away. Hudson's no good. Just ask Chelsea.

...and that.

2005-12-07T22:55:00.000-08:00

Hua Hsu dumps an ice cold bucket of haterade on the Black Eyed Peas' latest entry in the "worst song ever" contest, "My Humps."

Saul Bellow's Seize the Day, a day in the life and mind of a has been (a failed salesman, a floundering investor, an unloved and wayward son, a bitter ex-husband, an actor whose only part was as an extra made to only mimic playing the bagpipes as the music would be provided in post), may be the best book ever written about Yom Kippur. What What, you say? Mmmhmmm. Not just your run of the mill midlife crisis. Bellow is, as Josh might say, a "Lion for Zion." Deal with that.

Coming into this offseason, the Mets needed the following: a cleanup hitter, a catcher, a closer, and, if we're to get a little greedy, better middle relief and a frontline starter. Thus far, the Mets have acquired Carlos Delgado, Paul Lo Duca, Billy Wagner...and, okay, Xavier Nady might not get you all tingly, but I bet he does aiight. Yeah, that's right. So, enjoy the moment. And continue visting Matthew Cerrone's invaluable Metsblog compulsively for all news Zito/Eischen/Vasquez/Manny/Affeldt related. Because right about now, you could be a Marlins fan. And that, I assure you, would not make you feel tingly. Unless degradation and humiliation is what gets ya moist. If it is, you've found your team. And just think, if they move to Vegas, you can wake up feeling dirty and remorseful for a whole 162 game season instead of just one weekend where you spend too much on a stripper with braces.

The composite sketch of the South Park kids = best. Also best: "gingers," "no, Clyde it is not like Juwanna Mann," the Smith(s) credit sequence after getting Tom Cruise out of the closet, dead whales on the moon, and a statue of the Virgin Mary bleeding out her ass. The new season is over already. Not best.

Food, glorious food.

2005-12-07T13:40:00.000-08:00

"The food industry doesn't spend $10 billion a year on ads to kids because they like to waste money. Their ads not only work, they work brilliantly." - Sen. Tom Harkin

Unlike the food industry, Harkin works in Congress, where many dicktards like him love wasting money on idiotic studies that tell us shit we should have known for 50 or 60 years by now. I prefer it when Harkin is attempting to foist shitty candidates like Howard Dean on an unreceptive public, but only for the occassional psychotic outburst that such an endeavor promises. The stunning news that Booberries are not part of a balanced diet or that advertisers want me to buy their product even though it might not be the best for me or my children comes as a great shock, as I'm sure it does to every shitty, worthless parent for whom this study emboldens to continue to blame everyone but themselves for their fat, unruly, violent, stupid kids. Funnily enough, the study itself isn't as bold as Harkin, stating "the current evidence is not sufficient to arrive at any finding about a causal relationship from television advertising to adiposity." But the potential opportunity for censorship of any kind is much sexier than being responsible. After all, if parents took the care to make sure their kids had a proper diet or exercised regularly, Harkin might have to do something important, or, worse yet, difficult and potentially unpopular, y'know, like cut public school funding so that those schools will have to whore themselves out to Pepsico or McDonald's. Something fun like that.

Get your war on.

2005-12-07T11:03:00.000-08:00

Today is Christmas decoration/Nacho Fundraiser day at my county government office. (My menorah was neither requested nor offered . And, no, I'm not offended, per se. Frankly, I hate the national menorah and all its money wasting eight days of wonder.) However, I suppose today is a bit surprising, if you're to believe there's a "War on Christmas." Granted, if you believe that, you might also be intensely distracted by shiny objects, but I digress.

So, in our small office, we have a well decorated tree, lights in every corner, hanging snowflakes, a few snowmen, window stickers, poinsettas, and, underneath the tree, a miniature nativity scene. But, there is one problem. For the past hour, everyone has been searching frantically for one last thing. You see, Baby Jesus is missing from the nativity. (He was also missing and never found last year, but I enjoy watching the yentas run around in circles, searching for a lost item never to be found.) The search has been exhaustive, but the prospects of finding the little glass tyke don't seem good. He may be/is lost forever. My offer of replacing the lost baby Jesus with a magical stack of post-its has, thus far, been turned down.

Apocalypse on a shoestring

2005-12-01T11:06:00.000-08:00

"In Left Behind 2: Tribulation Force, for example, Kirk Cameron has to take Ben Judah, a respected rabbi, to the Wailing Wall so that he can tell Jews everywhere that Jesus Christ is Lord. Israel is represented by a few stone walls obviously made of plywood, some Christmas-tree lights, and 500 volunteer extras wearing leftover costumes from a Nativity pageant. The Wailing Wall is patrolled by soldiers dressed in World War II army uniforms. The producers have also dubbed in the sound of goats during scenes set in downtown Jerusalem, which leads to the unusual notion that modern-day Israel is populated by WWII re-enactors, nervous-looking people in bathrobes, and goats." - from Grady Hendrix's piece on the Left Behind films at Slate, which has provided me with the unhealthy urge to spend a day watching all of them, in a row, drinking nothing but plague curing communion wine (...wait for it). And if you're thinking that a Growing Pains rerun (even a later, more Cameron controlled one, with mutant Ben and his unibrow playing opposite Dicaprio) is enough to satiate your appetite for Kirk Cameron related fare, the following proves just how wrong you are:

Thanks to Sony's money, the third installment is slightly more upscale—it's even got Louis Gossett Jr. as the pistol-packing president of the United States—yet the series still can't shake its low-budget mindset. The president slips out of the White House in the trunk of a hatchback, invades a chemical weapons lab (the nefarious Nicolae has been poisoning Bibles, causing Christians to become sick), takes out the bad guys by surfing down a flight of stairs on their faces, and then sneaks back in to the White House undetected. Once there, he orders the "SS" to launch an attack. I think he means the Secret Service, but I'm not sure whom the president is trying to scare, as we've already seen his Secret Service detail and there are only two guys on it. At the end of the movie, the Christians discover that communion wine can stop the plague, and the president finds God and almost immediately sacrifices himself in a missile strike on Nicolae. A fine effort, but Nicolae emerges from the rubble without even a smudge on his European menswear.

Cameron apparently added five o'clock shadow to his performance in the latest film, so as to exude a tougher, more aggressive version of Mike Seaver than say the episode where he gets the Dear John letter from the nanny he almost married before Jesus forbid him from pretend fornicating with a girl who'd posed nude. Oh, and in an ultra-classy move, Cameron's wife has been cast as the Whore of Babylon in all of the films. In a word: best.

Quote of the Day/Year

2005-11-28T13:39:00.000-08:00

Let me set the scene. Two guys sit across from each other at Baja Fresh. They've received their order and then pray over their respective lunches. Baja Customer 1 is a guy in his late twenties (spiky hair, visor worn backwards). Baja Customer 2 is also this age and happens to resemble Sloth from The Goonies. Anyway, here's the quote:

Baja Customer 1: You see all this Christmas stuff? Where you can't say Merry Christmas. You have to say season's greetings or happy holidays. Because it's politically correct. Don't they realize this is why we haven't caught Bin Laden?

Baja Customer 2 nods approvingly. (When reading the above quote, please note that everything in italics is said with an angry sneer, as if the words themselves were sickening.)

Q & A of the Day

2005-11-22T15:37:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I'm "on a break." Blah blah blah. I don't even take that seriously, as I'm sure you don't either. It's just one of those things you do, like put a hold on your mail or leave one light on so that the "Wet Bandits" don't pick your house out. ("That's the silver tuna, Marv.") Anyway, as a grammar snob, this shit cracked me up:

John (H-town, TX): The Rocket is very painful to watch this season. What are your solution?

Chris Sheridan: Fewer injuries for them, remedial English courses for you.

(From today's ESPN Insider chat with Chris Sheridan.)

The Annual "Break" from Not Blogging

2005-11-22T15:03:00.000-08:00

Happy Turkey Day, ya'll. I promise to post about a repeat Gary Bauer sighting, if one occurs. Otherwise, I'll probably be in a full-on food coma. Gobble gobble.

No, you'll shoot your eye out!

2005-11-09T10:19:00.000-08:00

"Texans know that marriage is between a man and a woman, and children deserve both a mom and a dad. They don't need a Ph.D. or a degree in anything else to teach them that." - Texans for Marriage's Kelly Shackelford picking another fight with her son Ralphie over his desire to get a PHD in gayness.

Quote of the Day/Cottage Comforts

2005-11-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

"His blog shows frustration and fury over what seems like a hopeless cause. And I share this frustration. Creature comforts have made Americans complacent. Why rock the boat, when we can still go down to the corner and get our Starbucks and return home to television sitcoms, our lives fundamentally unchanged by the immoral acts committed by our countrymen? Why risk going to prison, because we have so much to live for back in our Brookyn studio apartments or our small Silverlake cottages? Well, guess what, it's all in jeopardy. For no other reason than our own selfish, materialistic needs, we have to fight back. Because the way the G.O.P. is gutting domestic policies like healthcare, destroying the environment and fueling anti-American sentiment around the world, the U.S. and our nice, comfy lives are being threatened bigtime.

What's it going to take, people? Gilroy and I can blog to the end of time, but there's a major blowback on the horizon and if we all don't take to the streets and demand moral action (an end to torture, an end to corporate givebacks, an end to Israel's occuptation of the Palestinian territories, an end to unilateral force and a call for a multi-national, Arab-led peacekeeping force in Iraq), it's all going to shit." - Anthony Kaufman, responding to filmmaker Tom Gilroy's piece at the Hugginton Post.

After a full day of blogging, I like to imagine that Kaufman jumps on to his magical pony and flies around the globe, delivering sweets to all the boys and girls unburdened by creature comforts. He has to do that as you know how slow and unreliable those Arab-led peacekeeping forces are. Kaufman and Gilroy both see the Paris riots as something of a template for what "we," and by "we," I assume he means the young, white and middle class living in Silver Lake cottages or apartments in Brooklyn, should be doing. It should be noted that violent protest frequently bears positive results (just ask Richard Nixon) and if the choice is made that such protest is the way to go to achieve ones political goals, a magical pony and a bag of treats will make the day a much more pleasurable experience, before heading home and watching Two and a Half Men, sipping on a latte, and wallowing in your own myopia.

It's all over now, baby blue.

2005-11-07T15:47:00.000-08:00

Previously, I've shared my own half baked, contradictory thoughts on illegal immigration. I won't link to either post, as they both suck. Basically, my point is that endorsement of business practices that entrench a large portion of the population in poverty and, often times, atrocious working conditions, while at the same time (by the sheer nature of their role as illegal workers or guest workers or whatever) denying them basic benefits or forcing them into a situation which damages that system of benefits (i.e. the multitude of clinics that have closed in Los Angeles County), we have put ourselves in a situation where workers of all walks of life lose and scumbag companies eager to find cheaper and cheaper labor (to whom they have to afford zero protection) win. Anyway, anyway, anyway...this is all one half baked, contradictory way of me telling you to go and read something so xenophobic, racist and hysterical that it almost made me laugh. (Admission: I laughed a lot.) Who's behind such a piece? People...c'mon. Think. Who else, but Pat Buchanan, sharing his thoughts on the French riots:

Like the urban riots in America in the 1960s, which the Kerner Commission blamed on “white racism,” Paris’s riots are being blamed on France’s failure to bring Islamic immigrants into the social and economic mainstream of the nation. Solutions being offered range from voting rights for non-citizens to affirmative action in hiring for the children of Third World immigrants.

To understand why this is unlikely to solve France’s crisis, consider how America succeeded, and often failed, in solving her own racial crisis.
While, as late as the 1950s, black Americans were not integrated fully into our economy or society, they had been assimilated into American culture.

They worshipped the same God, spoke the same language, had endured the same Depression and war, listened to the same music and radio, watched the same TV shows, laughed at the same comedians, went to the same movies, ate the same foods, read the same books, magazines and newspapers, and went to schools where, even when they were segregated, they learned the same history.

We were divided, but we were also one nation and one people. Black folks were as American as apple pie, having lived in our common land longer than almost every other ethnic group save Native Americans. And America had a history of having assimilated immigrants in the tens of millions from Europe.

Doesn't segregation sound neat when Pat talks about it. Seriously, if I was the NAACP, "Black Folks...as American as apple pie!" would be my new slogan. Double quick. Anyway, Pat closes with gusto:

The soaring Muslim population is a Fifth Column inside Europe.

Nevertheless, their numbers must grow. For not only do they have a higher birth rate than the native-born Europeans, no European nation, save Moslem Albania, has a birth rate (2.1 births per woman) that will enable it to endure for many more generations. The West is aging, shrinking, and dying.

Yet, to keep Europe’s economy growing and taxes coming in to fund the health and pension programs of Europe’s rising numbers of retired and elderly, Europe needs scores of millions of new workers. And Europe can only find them in the Third World.

Nor should Americans take comfort in France’s distress. By 2050, there will be 100 million Hispanics in the United States, half of them of Mexican ancestry, heavily concentrated in a Southwest most Mexicans still believe by right belongs to them.

Colonization of the mother countries by subject peoples is the last chapter in the history of empires—and the next chapter in the history of the West—that is now coming to a close.

Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays.

Hot Enough to Make You Shvitz

2005-11-04T16:35:00.000-08:00

A while back, I was challenged to name the 10 Greatest Jews...well...ever. (Jesus was #1.) And, now, another challenge from the same source: name the ten hottest Jewesses. Now, it wasn't explained specifically what kind of parameters I had to work within, other than that I could not include Natalie Portman (obviously, for those too dumb to realize, the hottest Jewess in Jewess history) and Shalom Harlow, because they were obvious, boring choices. Fair enough. (No disrespect to either.) With that in mind, I'm keeping things current (save for one deceased choice who is not Golda Mair). This is what the bar mitzvah is all about, kids...the ladies:

10. Bea Arthur - So not hot, she's hot. Once upon a time, friends and I discussed starting a clothing line. As part of said clothing line, we'd sell T-shirts adorned with a picture of Bea with "Old School" printed underneath. If you don't think this is the kind of shirt you'd wear, well, you're not part of our target audience. It should be noted that none of the other (goyim) Golden Girls made for good attire. Anyway, Maude makes it. (Other elder stateswomen considered: Lauren Bacall, Anouk Aimee)

9. Elizabeth Berkley - Strident fictional high school feminist cum fictional Vegas stripper. The best bad actress of our time. As committed to eating french fries, dramatically throwing herself into cars, and fucking Agent Cooper in a pool like no man, Jewish or otherwise, had been or will ever be fucked again, as she likely was to learning her Haftorah.

8. Sarah Silverman - You know how I like my Jewish girls? Casually racist, sex obsessed, and profane. Yeah, yeah, the Jimmy Kimmel thing's depressing and she might be a bit too comfortable with the casual racism as fodder, but whatevs. That rack could make you convert.

7. Maggie Gyllenhaal - I like to think she's the girl who intentionally made out with the Palestinian kid working at the Carvel, just to get under the skin of every yenta in Temple (fill in the blank) Sisterhood.

6. Sarah Michelle Gellar - Vampire slayer with seriously questionable taste in men. But isn't that always the way. Jewish girl goes for dumbass goyim. This goes both ways. Trust me. I know. (Just ask my mom.) But that's not what this list is about, now is it? (Honorable Mention: Selma Blair)

5. Shiri Appleby - Way cute star of parental favorite, Roswell. (My parents are nerds.) My mom would talk about this girl like she lived across the hall from me or something. How 'bout that Shiri Appleby, Tim? Huh? Huh? (You'd think she was Shana Brandt.) Whatevs. Definitely on the list, even if she's in Swimfan@. (Honorable Mention: Evan Rachel Wood, Mila Kunis)

4. Nigella Lawson - Domestic goddess. Jewess. Rumor has it, that with every egg she delicately cracks against the edge of a bowl, a young Jewish boy, for a reason he can't right then ascertain, gets a boner. It's a fact. Or so I've heard.

3. Marilyn Monroe - She converted for Arthur Miller. Best. Now, I know how some people feel about converts or Reform Jews...and I'm not going to resort to name calling, you fucking wackos, so don't even try to goad me. For example, Dr. Laura Schleshinger, whose absence from this list should come as no surprise to anyone who's seen her lizard neck, listened to her haterade, heard her refer to Reform Jews as "not real," or had a rock thrown at them for walking around on a Saturday afternoon. Converting is hot. Guys, if you're unaware of this, the ladies aren't. I dated a girl in college, who took it upon herself, at an intimate moment to inform me that she'd convert. Sure, sure, we broke up a few weeks later, on matters completely unrelated to religion, but it's not like her saying that turned me off. And she knew that. And so did Marilyn. Brains and beauty, people. Brains and beauty.

2. Jennifer Jason Leigh - Owner of the hottest bioport evs. You know what would happen. Hebrew school gets out a little early, and you and she take a walk over to the nearby baseball field. You're in the dugout...some heavy petting...and GOD DAMMIT...you NEURAL SURGED.

1. Scarlett Johansson - Jewish? Really? And, no, this is not some bogus, Jewish by proxy thing because she's Woody Allen's new muse. Nope. Her mother is Jewish. And according to blah blah blah and blah blah blah that means she's official. Seriously, do I actually need to explain it any further? Didn't think so.

Analogy of the Day

2005-11-03T14:46:00.000-08:00

"We don't allow child pornography on the Internet. We don't exempt it from consumer safety laws...We don't because we think those laws are important." - Rep. Marty Meehan (D-MA)

Meehan and his fellow House Democrats killed the Online Freedom of Speech Act yesterday, a bill which would have allowed for bloggers to be exempt from FEC campaign finance rules. The bill needed a super majority to move on to the Senate.

Still the one.

2005-11-03T11:03:00.000-08:00

Gus Van Sant's Last Days is still going strong atop my 2005 Top Ten list. Now's as good a time as any to assess the year to date, right before the Oscar season barrage, which begins, in earnest, this weekend with Jarhead. So, I've shown you mine. What's yours?

Panic Mode

2005-11-03T10:05:00.000-08:00

The Knicks have begun their season with a loss. A 114-100 loss to Boston, in overtime. An overtime period during which they sat down, counted their money, and then, as the final buzzer sounded, called it a day. Jamal Crawford, the team's "point guard" played like open ass. The rest of the team, a gaggle of overrated and overpaid role players played up to the highest levels of ragged mediocrity. One game does not make a season, but as is the case with so many things, the beginning means a lot. Larry Brown is sure to survive the season, unless it's revealed that Brown actually grew up in Denver, Minneapolis or Cleveland, and that his dream since boyhood has always been to shepherd that city's team to the promised land.

However, one man that might not make it out alive is Isaiah Thomas, who, in this blogger's humble opinion, might be best to quit now, before things get even uglier. (Look, it's not that he's traded away great players for bad players. He's traded away mediocre players for more mediocre players, often times with terrible contracts. I don't buy into the idea, proffered by The Sports Guy, that Mike Sweetney is going to come into his own this year and become a mini-star or that Kurt Thomas will be sorely missed, but they haven't been replaced with anyone, unless Curry learns to devote himself to something more than contract negotations, that will make it easy to forget about the mediocre and less expensive players we used to have.) Because, despite my inappropriately modest hopes, Isaiah has put together a wretched team without an ability to do anything but make the playoffs. Not win a playoff game or series, mind you, but just make it. You don't get very far that way. You don't get a cookie. You get fired. Out on your ass. Like Dignan. Isaiah, after one game, I am officially putting you and every player you acquired on notice. The above may be more of a comment on the state of the league or the state of the game, in general, or maybe I just think that because my team sucks.

I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

2005-11-03T06:43:00.000-08:00

In 1999 Maureen Dowd won the Pulitzer Prize. Now, realize, the Pulitzer doesn't really work like the Nobel Prize. It's not like Dowd stopped writing for a couple of decades and instead devoted her time to being something of a nutjob activist and then won. Nope. It's worse. She actually won the prize for her writing. Anyway, Dowd has a new "book" coming out (Are Men Necessary?). If there's no Drano around the house to quench your thirst, you can read an excerpt here. But, if you're like me, and your ideas on Dowd are generally fixed, head over to Slate for a healthy dose of Haterade, courtesy of Katie Roiphe:

Dowd pushes every statement to its most exaggerated form; her column occupies a space somewhere in between the other columns on the New York Times op-ed page and the political cartoons that sometimes run there. She is, at her best, a brilliant caricaturist of the political scene, turning each presidency into vivid farce. As a caricaturist, she has a fondness for punchy one-liners strung together, and for the one-sentence paragraph: "Survival of the fittest has been replaced by survival of the fakest"; "We had the Belle Epoque. Now we have the Botox Epoch"; and "As a species is it possible that men are ever so last century?" Her style evokes a brainier Candace Bushnell, whose oeuvre she frequently refers to, but it is given extra weightiness by her position at the Times.

If I was Bushnell, I'd be pissed. Now, the best thing Roiphe does is not just attack Dowd. That's sort of easy. Instead, she attacks the whole construct, a tool frequently utilized to defend Dowd's supposed skills:

I don't mean to suggest that there is something inherently wrong with using one's own life in political writing. But one should use it honestly, rigorously, complicatedly, like critics such as Mary McCarthy, Rebecca West, Joan Didion, or Andrew Sullivan. Because the issues surrounding sexual politics are so emotionally charged, so laden with contradiction, so racked with ambivalence and irrationality, it is especially important not to neglect nuance. One of the failures of the feminist movement in the first place was a reliance on easy aphorisms, and the scematic worldview that such aphorisms implied. The famous line, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle" did not prove to be a constructive or realistic contribution to the feminist cause. Replacing one set of rigid gender stereotypes with another did not allow women the full range of their desires and ended up sabotaging the movement. Dowd herself criticizes the feminists of the 1970s for imagining a sea of identical, sexless women in navy blazers descending on the workplace. Though she appears to be arguing for a new, more rigorous feminism, she is guilty of precisely the same intellectual fault—starting with the catchy, meaningless title of her book, Are Men Necessary?, Dowd's aphorisms, amusing and pithy in the morning paper along with a cup of coffee, are precisely what the conversation about sexual politics does not need.

Oh, one more thing. In the piece, Roiphe says the following, "One of Dowd's many admirers extravagantly compared her to Edith Wharton." Perhaps the person was being sarcastic. Perhaps they had forgotten to take their anti-psychotics and amidst drooling and smelling the colors, they thought this made sense or thought it would work as code for "get me my pills." I've never seen a more understated use of the word extravagant.

Turtle Power

2005-10-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

From the New York Times review of NYC's latest entry in the worst sounding theme restaurant evs contest, Ninja New York:

Ninja acts like a Disney ride - Space Mountain under a hailstorm of run-of-the-mill or unappealing sushi - but charges like Le Bernardin. It has a stringy crab dish served on a grapefruit that belches smoke, a ridiculous dessert in the shape of a frog and a whole lot of nerve.

An American offshoot of a restaurant in Tokyo, Ninja intends to evoke a Japanese mountain village inhabited by ninjas, a special breed of stealthy warriors. In this case they come armed not only with swords and sorcery but also with recipes, which may be their most dangerous weapons of all. And they roam, romp and perform dopey magic tricks, including sleight of hand with rubber bands, over 6,000 square feet of darkened crannies and well-separated, quiet nooks.

My advice: Can the expensive/apparently lackluster menu. Call Kevin Eastman and whomever else one needs to call on such matters, and get turtle suits for the waiters. Make it a pizza place. Fire the foot clan. Drown in profits.

Quote of the Day II

2005-10-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

"I don't know why they would pick up my option, but if they do, I might quit. I'm serious. I don't want to be back there. I always thought Minnesota was a great place to play. After a year with the Mets, an organization that doesn't have a clue, I know that for sure." - soon to be former Met Doug Mientkiewicz, at once admitting that he hits somewhere in between not at all and my little league level of production (which, if you're unaware is as close to zero as one can possibly get without spelling your name M-i-e-n-t-k-i-e-w-i-c-z) and, at the very same time, being a giant douche. Trust me, dude, you have nothing to worry about. Don't let the door hit you on the way out. I know, I know...the idea of Doug making contact with anything is hopeless. Sorry. (via Metsblog)

Quote of the Day

2005-10-25T17:55:00.000-07:00

"For George Galloway, however, the war would seem to be over. The evidence presented suggests that he lied in court when he sued the Daily Telegraph in London over similar allegations (and collected money for that, too). It suggests that he lied to the Senate under oath. And it suggests that he made a deceptive statement in the register of interests held by members of the British House of Commons. All in all, a bad week for him, especially coming as it does on the heels of the U.N. report on the murder of Rafik Hariri, which appears to pin the convict's badge on senior members of the Assad despotism in Damascus, Galloway's default patron after he lost his main ally in Baghdad.

Yet this is the man who received wall-to-wall good press for insulting the Senate subcommittee in May, and who was later the subject of a fawning puff piece in the New York Times, and who was lionized by the anti-war movement when he came on a mendacious and demagogic tour of the country last month. I wonder if any of those who furnished him a platform will now have the grace to admit that they were hosting a man who is not just a pimp for fascism but one of its prostitutes as well." - Christopher Hitchens

Apocalypse Now

2005-10-18T20:46:00.000-07:00

"I thought the story should be a journey into the heart of darkness. I see it as a big satire, in a way, not only of action films but of where American culture is headed." - Richard Kelly's explanation of Domino (from "The Domino Effect" in the October 21st issue of Entertainment Weekly)

Strangely enough, director Tony Scott does not utilize scrolling titles or super titles to explain to us which scenes are satirical or which are damning of our culture, as he does when the plot that he and Kelly have "crafted" becomes so unintelligible that such a device is necessary. (It should be noted that the titles that are utilized do not accomplish their intended aim.) Now, I know that I'm prone to mis-labeling certain things as satire, but this alibi of sorts for Kelly and Scott's fascist puppet show rings hollow. What, in fact, Kelly has accomplished is exactly what he claims to be satirizing and damning. He has shown us the void. He thinks he's shown us the way.

Performance Enhancing

2005-10-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

MLB's big catch today: soon to be former Met Felix Heredia. Sends shivers down your spine, doesn't it? Heredia barely played this year, because of a thumb injury, followed by a shoulder injury (both preceded by his general craptastic abilities as a panic inducing pitching option). It's very likely that Heredia was attempting to speed up his recovery time from these injuries by using whatever banned substance he tested positive for. Heredia could also be attempting to improve his status from rag-arm-oh-no-they're-putting-in-Heredia to being someone greeted by rocking chants heard throughout the borough of Queens: Fe-lix He-re-di-a. (Yeah yeah not so much, to the tune of pounding feet.)

It should be noted that the guy's piss could be pure enough to drink or dress a salad with, and I'd still prefer the roller blading wonder that is Heath Bell. For those unaware, Bell used to be the prospect who might be a good middle reliever if he'd only lose some weight. He roller bladed to spring training one season, back and forth every day (I think), and lost the weight. He still kinda sucks, but he does so in a "natural" way, or so I assume. Felix Heredia sucks and does so with the assistance of banned substances, which makes the term "performance enhancing" more than slightly ironic.

Agreeance

2005-10-18T13:56:00.000-07:00

Walter Kirn and Stephen Metcalf are corresponding over at Slate, regarding Kirn's latest, Mission to America. Kirn's first e-mail begins with the following:

A fable, not a satire—you're dead right. If I wrote my autobiography straight, most reviewers would call it satire, too. That's what they tend to do with honest narratives that take as a given an American scene they find baffling, dubious, and embarrassing.

Reading this, it made me think of Josh's reaction to my hatred of A History of Violence and my labeling of it, in part, as a satire. I've been thinking I was wrong to call it that since I wrote it, said it, criticized it, etc. (Not that it's made me like the film any more...) I don't think it's the result of some sort of regional bias on my part, just good old fashioned descriptive laziness. So, now, Kirn has hammered the point home, in an indirect way, and I think we're all better for it, at least I am. And my well being matters much more than yours. Why? I've just listened to a twenty minute long rant from one of my co-workers about how she doesn't understand how people can mispronounce "Valencia." This, from a woman who has stated on numerous occassions that she can't pronounce California correctly unless she sings "California Dreamin'" in her head before/while saying it. So, I think I've earned this moment of self absorption. Thanks for your understanding.

Just another day, livin' in The Beast

2005-10-17T16:43:00.000-07:00

Look, I'm not going to lie to you and pretend that I'm a big fan of Madonna's, but when was it exactly that she completely lost her mind? Was it right after her naughty photo spread with Big Daddy Kane? Has she just pounded too much Kabbalah water and she's begun ranting the way those drunk on certain fluids are prone to? And, most importantly, when did she become Pat Robertson?

"The beast is the modern world that we live in!"

"The material world. The physical world. The world of illusion, that we think is real. We live for it, we're enslaved by it. And it will ultimately be our undoing."

"(People) are going to go to hell, if they don't turn from their wicked behavior."

"I refer to an entity called 'The Beast'. I feel I am describing the world that we live in right now. To me 'The Beast' is the modern world that we live in."

This nonsense is "developing." Sure, this is slightly different than Pat's obsession with bar codes, aka "The Mark of the Beast," but the instant mental connection one can make between these two gay icons is staggering. Okay, that's all folks. Back to life in the Beast.

A Photographic Essay on the Human Physical Response to Cameron Crowe's Elizabethtown

2005-10-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

Feel the Bern

2005-10-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

"In between those seasons, he established himself as a quiet, dependable star. As much an October fixture as Tim McCarver's over-analysis during the television broadcast, he played in six World Series and won four. He has 275 home runs, 1,301 runs, 1,196 RBI and a .298 career average." - ESPN's Jim Caple on Bernie Williams (McCarver's over-analysis included a criticism of Yankees fans' "Ber-nie Will-iams" chant during Game 4 of the ALDS, stating that the superior chant would simply be "Ber-nie," as neither team on the field had another player named Bernie. This analysis is completely wrong, by the way, in every way such low end analysis can be. Simply chanting his first name would likely sound much more derisive than intended (i.e. the haunting "Daaaaaryl" which was meant to inspire Mr. Strawberry or scare pitchers facing him but now seems more like the perfect chant for his doomed career), while the full name chant has a great ring to it, as also evidenced by the "Pa-trick Ew-ing" chant, as recently utilized during Ewing's jersey retirement ceremony. I suppose McCarver is thinking it could be like "Ru-dy," but Rudy's last name was Ruettiger and chanting that makes no sense at all. In moments like these, I yearn for Deion Sanders to permanently be waiting in the wings, ready to dump ice water on McCarver's fat head.)

Overheard One-Sided Phone Conversation of the Day

2005-10-08T20:49:00.000-07:00

"Have you ever heard of this book Everything is Illuminated? Yeah, Everything is Illuminated. I don't know. I've never heard of it. But, supposedly, it's now a movie starring Elijah Wood. Yeah. I don't know. (pause...pause) No. I'm not buying it. It's fourteen dollars. There's no way I'm spending 14 dollars on a paperback." - girl on cell phone in bookstore

Mini Travelogue

2005-10-07T20:27:00.000-07:00

While waiting for my flight on Thursday night, I noticed that waiting for another flight, but in the same terminal, was former Republican presidential candidate and one of the OV's favorite evil trolls, Gary Bauer. It should be noted that at no time did Bauer flip any pancakes, fall off any stage set up for said pancake flipping, or put together any kind of foitus/brine/menstrual blood mixture and carry it about in a large jar with which to intimidate those who might consider taking the seat next to him.

Also, on my flight (Flight 485), one L. Scott Caldwell was among the passengers. Sure, I may obsess about Lost a bit too much, but being joined on a flight by a fictional survivor of a fictional plane crash is not exactly comforting, nor is sitting next to "legs spread guy" or "snoring guy" or "I dumped an entire bottle of A & F fragrance over my head guy." Who am I kidding? It was super rad. By the way, where the fuck is her husband? Anyone?

The cure for anal leakage

2005-10-06T13:48:00.000-07:00

I leave for Natuh this evening, for some Rosh Hashanah related R & R. Knowing that, and knowing that I won't be going to work tomorrow or Monday, the day has been draaaaaaging. But, Thursday just got way better:

Pennsylvania Treasurer Bob Casey Jr.'s lead over Sen. Rick Santorum (news, bio, voting record) has grown even larger in their U.S. Senate race, according to a poll released Thursday.

The Quinnipiac University poll of 1,530 Pennsylvania voters showed Casey leading the two-term Republican incumbent by 18 points, 52 percent to 34 percent, in the 2006 race. That compares to a 50-to-39 percent lead in a July poll by Quinnipiac.

Santorum, the No. 3 Senate Republican, spent part of the summer promoting his new book, "It Takes a Family," on television talk shows. The book compares abortion to slavery and accuses feminists of undermining motherhood.

Casey, a Democrat and the son of a popular late governor, has maintained a low profile and done a limited number of media interviews.

The telephone survey, conducted from Sept. 27 to Monday, had a sampling error margin of plus or minus 2.5 percentage points.

So, so, so best. Via Sully.

Quote of the Day

2005-10-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

"But Clooney is too blinded by his love for Murrow to think his way through his hero's inconsistent relationship with the medium: Murrow both chased hard news and whipped up celebrity fluff on Person to Person, his interview program from the same period. If we're going to praise Murrow for producing fearless TV news, we should also be ready to damn him for paving the way for Barbara Walters, Oprah Winfrey, and all the celebrity bootlickers on red carpets. Instead of grappling with the Murrow paradox, Clooney bookends the movie with the broadcaster's sanctimonious 1958 speech about television's lost promise.

If I judge it correctly, Good Night and Good Luck intends to serve as a parable for our times and not a history lesson. Its makers want us to find contemporary "resonance" in the film and conclude that, compared to the giants of 1954, modern journalists have been cowed by those in political power. What a facile, Hollywood cliché. Journalism has improved vastly since 1954, certainly eclipsing the likes of Edward R. Murrow's overrated TV output, and today's reporters are more independent and willing to confront presidential administrations and powerful political figures than Murrow and his boys ever were." - Jack Shafer

Currying Favor

2005-10-05T15:28:00.000-07:00

Eddy Curry is 23 years old. He proved himself to be a more than capable low post presence last year on the offensive end. His defensive deficiencies should be aided by the presence of new coach Larry Brown and his maturation. He allows for Brown to use notoriously lazy (read: fat) and currently overpaid Jerome James as a backup. In the move to acquire Curry, the Knicks gave up Mike Sweetney (at best, the second coming of Charles Oakley), Tim Thomas (his presence will not be missed for a second), Jermaine Jackson (no, not that one), and lottery protected draft choices which will, if all goes well, be somewhere in the mid to late first round, all the while also acquiring a solid veteran big man in Antonio Davis, who I've always hated but will now learn to like until he breaks down, forever wearing a suit all season, and, thus, become the object of my perpetually infantile and unfair abuse. Curry might also be a superstar in the making...and this could be a Dale Davis for Jermaine O'Neal redux. Hell, I'd take an Oakley for Camby redux.

Curry has a heart condition, but has been cleared to play by numerous physicians, both associated with the Bulls and now the Knicks. If Dallas had acquired Curry, I can't help but think ESPN observers would be praising the move. A young big man on the rise, they'd say. Instead, I have to scroll through analysis which makes Thomas and Sweetney sound much better than they likely would have if described in a preview of the Knicks. To paraphrase a now infamous and oft criticized speech by former Celtics coach Rick Pitino...Patrick Ewing ain't walking through those doors, people. Curry is the best available. He's 23. He's big. He's athletic and he's now under the tutelage of one of the best coaches ever. Trust me, things could be worse. And any Knicks fan wringing their hands over this should know better. You'd think they brought back Vin Baker.

Dead Inside (etc.)

2005-10-05T14:00:00.000-07:00

In writing that last thing about A History of Violence, it made me think of another film about a family threatened with violence, made with stunning craftmanship: Spielberg's War of the Worlds (which I probably liked more, but still has many flaws, i.e. the ending of the film, which is mind bogglingly atrocious). Despite some of the incredible tricks up Steven's sleeve, and, for my money, two much stronger performances from Cruise and Dakota Fanning than anything on display in Violence, I was left cold by that experience as well. Both have style to spare, but in my "opinionation," they both are sorely lacking in substance.

Dead Inside

2005-10-05T11:25:00.000-07:00

Not that anyone much cares, but I've been urged to join the fray regarding Cronenberg's A History of Violence. (You'll see why in a second.) It's been drowned in love. Even when it's critiqued, it's still bathed in the warming glow of guilt-ridden displeasure. I didn't like it, but but but but. I get that. It's expertly shot, cut, lit, and scored. So, naturally, the feeling grows that one must have missed something if one didn't like it, didn't find it rapturous, didn't find it compelling, because of its visual flair, its finely tuned score, its staging of the violence, which, as is often the case in Cronenberg, forces the viewer to linger just a bit longer, feel just a bit more than the norm. And, of course, there is the guilt that comes with disliking a film by one of modern cinema's greatest living directors. I understand. And, after a moment of reflection, I'm over it. Because I hate A History of Violence. Hate, hate, hate it. When it's not flailing at being a tepid and muddled satire, it's a wretchedly written, blandly and often times terribly acted family drama. I understand that Cronenberg is not intending for the scenes with the family to be realistic (if that even means anything in the realm of art), but he could at least have made them convincing or affecting, which he did not, instead, careening from bland platitudes to sub-sitcom quips in order to show the growing discord in the family's dynamic. (Ben rightly brings up Twin Peaks and I'd like people to consider Donna's family or the Palmers or simply the relationship between Cooper and Harry as examples of what one can do dramatically and emotionally in the context of something that is, in a sense, parodical, but at the same time, frightening.)

And, yes, I too appreciate Cronenberg's frank depiction of sexuality, but a 69 scene can't make me forget about all the homespun conversations that ring false (the bedroom scene that begins the Stall family story makes me want to die) in conjuction with the entire small town/Rockwellain conceit that never rings true. It can't extract the thought of William Hurt (and the hairy vagina on his chin) chewing the walls from my memory, nor can it ever convince me that Viggo Mortensen makes me care, for one second, what happens to anyone involved. And, sure, maybe this is the ultimate point, somewhere within a more general treatise on violence, that there are no sides, that everyone involved is guilty, etc. etc. etc., but if I am to go along with this, I feel as if I should care, at some point, and perhaps be pulled from that perspective, forced to contemplate why one mob trained killer is better than a mob trained killer with a funky eye or how they're two sides of the same coin. But, alas, I am left with nothing but types and notions and the bland intriciacies of a B-movie plot I've seen before. I don't feel the chill of a gutsy satire that could have made me bristle at the twists and turns Croney could have put us through, forcing us to continually re-evaluate where we stood, where the characters stood, etc. But I just felt empty after seeing it. I saw the makings of a great film, made by a great filmmaker. Sometimes, that just makes me long for something completely atrocious or perhaps a similar scenario where in I'm more comfortable with the disappointment, y'know, like with Woody Allen. (Timmy brand Haterade is available in stores nationwide. Check with your local retailers.)

Conversation of the Day

2005-09-30T11:01:00.000-07:00

Co-worker: This freedom of speech stuff has just gotten out of hand. What about my right to privacy from this...all this filth.

Police Officer: That's what happens when you vote for Democrats.

Some of it is just transcendental, some of it is just really dumb

2005-09-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

Keith Phipps has a piece on fan fiction (Buffy and Spike move to central California and start an avocado farm, et al) at The Onion A.V. Club. There's apparently Smurf fan fiction (who knew?), most of which is not meant to be taken seriously. But then again:

Not so "Raven Child2," whose sprawling trilogy ("The Smurfette Village!", "Return to the Smurfette Village," and the still-in-progress "How Things Smurf") follows Hefty Smurf on an epic journey that spans several centuries. Separated from the other Smurfs after a devastating flood, Hefty happens on a village that reverses the male-to-female ratio of the patriarchal Smurf Village. Can he find true love with his female analog, Toughette? Will he ever be reunited with his Smurf friends? Can they adjust to modern times when they're whisked into the 21st century?

The mind reels.

The Barbarian

2005-09-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Almost Wednesday, y'all. (At least it's not still Almost Tuesday.) If you're at work and the droning conversation between your co-workers is making you modestly suicidal, with the statement "I'm going to kill myself" (which you repeat, along with "someone please shoot me in the face" over and over and over again) a much easier task than the thought of actually doing it, I offer this brief respite. Do yourselves a favor and check out this piece ("Conan on the Couch") from New York magazine. Some choice bits:

“The Tonight Show should become a lot more like The Price Is Right. It should be more in the game-show area, because if you’re not giving away a boat, no one is taking you seriously. Also, it should be broadcast from a different city every night. Remember ‘Where in the world is Matt Lauer?’ It should have that kind of quality. If you can figure out we’re in Omaha tonight, you get the boat. Also, I want to bring smoking back. These are the kinds of things I’m thinking of.”

O’Brien and Liza Powel met when she consulted on the show as an advertising professional, and they married after dating for two years -- “She had the tiniest apartment on 105th Street. I thought, ‘I don’t have emotional feelings for you at all, but I feel a responsibility to get you out of this apartment.’"

He watches TV, like I’m Alan Partridge on the BBC and MTV’s Laguna Beach (“At first I was trying to make fun of it, but then I was like, ‘Kristin is a bitch, but she’s so much more interesting than L.C.!’ ”).

“There is this expectation that because I live in New York and broadcast out of Rockefeller Center, at night I should have a few Scotches at some cool bar, then it’s downtown for experimental theater and off to the club for saxophone, home at four in the morning for a little cocaine and off to sleep. You know, a little bisexual relationship—‘I have my wife, but I also see Scott.’ ”

O’Brien talks about how much he’s always wanted to do a bit on the contractor for Hitler’s bunker—“Everyone’s coming into Berlin, and he’s saying, ‘You really don’t want to rush this kind of work, you want to do it once and be glad you have it.’ ”

O’Brien’s other comedic touchstones are Saturday-morning Warner Bros. cartoons (he loved the coyote and how all those jokes had to work silently); an SCTV skit in which John Candy, as Yellowbelly, a cavalry officer kicked out of the Army for cowardice, shoots a mother and child for saying his name; the Eiffel Tower–is–in–D.C. episode of Green Acres; the Batman episode where the villain Shame insults Batman with the line, “Your mother wore Army boots,” and Batman responds, “Yes, she did, and she found them quite comfortable.”

And...there's some Daily Show haterade sprinkled throughout, via Conan and Jeff Ross. Super best. Check it.

The Ed Gein Collection (Available Now at Pottery Barn)

2005-09-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

From J. Hoberman's Toronto Film Festival diary:

The most spectacular example of kamikaze auteurism, however, was Terry Gilliam's almost unwatchable, not altogether unadmirable, and certainly unreleasable TIDELAND. Making exactly the movie he wanted, Gilliam presents an American Gothic Alice in Wonderland in which little Alice is the logorrheic offspring of two flaming junkies (Jennifer Tilly's Courtney Love–like slattern and Jeff Bridges's flatulent Captain Pissgums) and Wonderland is a pair of derelict Midwestern farmhouses seemingly furnished by Wisconsin cannibal Ed Gein. The creatures include a collection of doll heads and Brendan Fletcher's drooling Forrest Gump parody. Increasingly grotesque in its intimations of pedophilia, the movie ends with a comic train wreck, literally. It will become legend.

Wait. Did he just say Pissgums? (via GreenCine Daily)

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

2005-09-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

If you saw last night's season premiere of Lost, you might be wondering what the too happy that it's creepy (in a serial killer dressed in his mother's undies, rubbing peanut butter all over himself before tucking it away and posing in front of the mirror to ask, "Do you want to fuck me?" sort of way) song was. It's "Make Your Own Kind of Music" by "Mama" Cass Elliot. So, if you're like me, and you're in the mood to live underground in a swingin' bachelor pad/evil command center, Mama Cass is the only way to go. Obvs.

Quote of the Day

2005-09-22T09:54:00.000-07:00

"I'm just like Fassbinder, but without the drugs and the whores." - Steven Soderbergh

Hand Check

2005-09-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

From today's Washington Post comes this:

Early last month, the bureau's Washington Field Office began recruiting for a new anti-obscenity squad. Attached to the job posting was a July 29 Electronic Communication from FBI headquarters to all 56 field offices, describing the initiative as "one of the top priorities" of Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales and, by extension, of "the Director." That would be FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III.

The new squad will divert eight agents, a supervisor and assorted support staff to gather evidence against "manufacturers and purveyors" of pornography -- not the kind exploiting children, but the kind that depicts, and is marketed to, consenting adults.

Attorney General Alberto Gonzales wouldn't mind if the religious right warmed to his many charms, if a particular honor were to be bestowed upon him soon. Perhaps this is a play for their affection or perhaps it's just another case of one of the many jacktards appointed by this president doing a shitty job and getting slapped on the back for it by the man who put him there. Either way, I just threw up. And while I'm at it, there's this portion of the piece:

Congress began funding the obscenity initiative in fiscal 2005 and specified that the FBI must devote 10 agents to adult pornography. The bureau decided to create a dedicated squad only in the Washington Field Office. "All other field offices may investigate obscenity cases pursuant to this initiative if resources are available," the directive from headquarters said. "Field offices should not, however, divert resources from higher priority matters, such as public corruption."

Public corruption, officially, is fourth on the FBI's priority list, after protecting the United States from terrorist attack, foreign espionage and cyber-based attacks. Just below those priorities are civil rights, organized crime, white-collar crime and "significant violent crime." The guidance from headquarters does not mention where pornography fits in.

"The Department of Justice and the Federal Bureau of Investigation's top priority remains fighting the war on terrorism," said Justice Department press secretary Brian Roehrkasse. "However, it is not our sole priority. In fact, Congress has directed the department to focus on other priorities, such as obscenity."

If we can't catch Bin Laden, I guess Peter North will have to do.

(Sick and Tired) Quote of the Day

2005-09-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

"I guess I wasn't the only one who decided to skip watching the president live last night. Across the blogosphere, it seems as if many others decided to catch it later, or on the web, or just read the transcript. Why? Because I knew what was coming: an attempt at spiritual uplift, greased by billions and billions that we don't have, organized by a federal government that, under Bush, cannot seem to organize anything competently. I'm not saying we don't need to spend money on the reconstruction of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. I'm saying I don't want to hear it from this guy. As a friend of mine commented last night over a drink, I don't hate this president and never have. I'm just sick of him. Sick of the naked politicization of everything (Karl Rove over-seeing reconstruction?); sick of the utter refusal to acknowledge that there is a limit to what the federal government can borrow from this and the next generation; sick of the hijacking of the conservative tradition for a vast increase in the power and size of government, with only a feined attempt at making it more effective; sick of the glib arrogance and excuses for failure that dot the landscape from Biloxi to Basra. I'm not the only one." - Andrew Sullivan

The Unremembered 80s

2005-09-15T17:46:00.000-07:00

One week or one fictional year has now passed since the premiere episode of FOX's Reunion (even thoughh 1987 won't air until next Thursday). For whatever reason, I decided this was the show that I'd add to my paltry list of shows I watch. Yeah, not so much. In case you missed it, here a few helpful hints for avoiding Reunion:

1) Basil Exposition's stellar eulogy, which opens the show and leans more towards laying out the show's basic premise (These six people...Three HOT guys(!)...Three HOT girls(!) redefined friendship. You know nothing of the bonds that tie people together unless you knew these six. Fuck you for thinking that Chandler and Joey got along alright and would be there for each other if need be. FUCK YOU!) than, y'know, an actual eulogy. If Cliff's Notes were made for crap TV shows...who am I kidding...this show is a Cliff's Notes version of a real show.

2) Craig is rich. Will is poor. They are best friends. Craig is rich. His dad is such a wealthy layabout that he has all the time in the world to plot schemes to get his son out of any and all trouble that the little rascal gets into. Will's father is too busy clipping hedges outside the Waldbaums. Craig can't stand trial for vehicular manslaughter because a judge and jury will not take kindly to a rich kid's transgressions. Will can stand trial because judges and juries are soft when it comes to the poor's transgressions. Craig and Will are best friends. Craig and Will are best friends. Craig ("Baby Ben Affleck") and Will have nothing in common, seem to sort of dislike each other, keep a fair share of secrets from one another (like Will knocking up Craig's girlfriend and secretly loving her), but as they say about sixty times throughout the hour...THEY ARE BEST FRIENDS.

3) There's a scene early on when a detective confronts one of the characters in the present day. (The show tracks twenty years in the life of these six friends, culminating in one of them getting murdered...the clues to whodunit are laid out in the episodes leading us to the present.) The cop makes some reference to how he needs to talk to her in private because he can't ask these kinds of questions in public. This falls flat, of course, because he doesn't ask her anything even mildy spicy. No questions about a dirty sanchez she may or may not have received in 1991. No discussion of the use of pieces of flair as sex toys at the grand opening of the TGIF in Sysosset, NY. Nope. Just more bland exposition for the guy who apparently didn't listen closely enough to the eulogy.

4) The part of Aaron...the nebbish whose "Wham! is the next Beatles" lines really slay for people who think people were always making inane references back in the days they think they're nostalgic for but still maintain a superiority to. He's also what happens when Adam Brody ends up in The OC and you get the guy who was told they were going a different way after the second callback.

5) No craft. Everything and I mean everything is played on its head. A scene about friendship, for example, never shows them being friends, but just has them talking about how great it is being friends...over and over and over again. The concept is still interesting, but when everything else is this bland, no one cares who gets killed, because we already want them all dead anyway.

The Multiculturalists Invade Poland

2005-09-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

"But back then, as now, we were a nation of newly arrived immigrants, threatened from abroad and bombarded with destructive ideologies. Then, it was communism and fascism. Today, it is multiculturalism, political correctness and, among the Muslim population, radical Islam." - Tony Blankley, in today's Washington Times. Blankley does a couple of things in this piece. He reaffirms the undeniable fact that he is, to put it mildly, an overflowing bag of nuts, and, two, lays the seeds for a movement to bring back the analogies section of the SATs. If you'd like, you can post a Blankley related analogy question in the comment section. The winner gets to go to an internment camp. Wait. What?

Quote of the Day

2005-09-12T15:58:00.000-07:00

"My old friend and frequent critic Geoffrey Wheatcroft once tried to define a moment of perfect contentment and came up with the idea of opening a vintage wine while settling down to read an undiscovered work by P.G. Wodehouse. Another comrade identified bliss with writing or reading very hard in the afternoon, knowing that someone really, really nice was coming to dinner. I, too, have a taste for the simpler pleasures. Can I convey the deep sense of delight that stole over me when I learned that George Galloway and Jane Fonda were to go on an "anti-war" tour together and that the idea of this perfect partnership had come from Eve Ensler, author of The Vagina Monologues?

The pure silliness and risibility of the thing would have been quite beyond one's power of invention. And, oh, just to be present when they finally meet. Jane can shyly tell George, who yells daily about the rape of Jerusalem by Zionism, of the brave days in 1982 when she and Tom Hayden went to entertain Gen. Sharon's invading troops in Lebanon. He can huskily and modestly discuss (he says he's a great admirer of her role in Barefoot in the Park) his long record as one of Britain's leading pro-life politicians, and his more recent outrage at the judicial "murder" of Terri Schiavo.

Jane Fonda, who the last I heard was in the throes of a post-orgasmic spiritual transfiguration, was a byword for ditziness even on the left when I was young, and she now issues apologies for her past politics almost as rapidly as Barbarella changed positions." - Hitch, in a fine return to form

Quote of the Day

2005-09-02T18:52:00.000-07:00

Among the many instances where members of the news media (apparently roused from their summer long nap) stuck it to the horrifically incompetenet boobs which populate every inch of our teeming bureacuracy, Anderson Cooper handing Mary Landrieu (whose existence as a living, breathing homosapien, let alone a U.S. Senator has always bothered me since she came on the scene) is, by far, my favorite. Keep it up, Anderson:

Anderson Cooper: Does the federal government bear responsibility for what is happening now? Should they apologize for what is happening now?

Sen. Mary Landrieu (D, LA): Anderson, there will be plenty of time to discuss all of those issues, about why, and how, and what, and if. But, Anderson, as you understand, and all of the producers and directors of CNN, and the news networks, this situation is very serious and it's going to demand all of our full attention through the hours, through the nights, through the days.

Let me just say a few things. Thank President Clinton and former President Bush for their strong statements of support and comfort today. I thank all the leaders that are coming to Louisiana, and Mississippi, and Alabama to our help and rescue.

We are grateful for the military assets that are being brought to bear. I want to thank Senator Frist and Senator Reid for their extraordinary efforts.

Anderson, tonight, I don't know if you've heard -- maybe you all have announced it -- bt Congress is going to an unprecedented session to pass a $10 billion supplemental bill tonight to keep FEMA and the Red Cross up and operating.

Cooper: Excuse me, Senator, I'm sorry for interrupting. I haven't heard that, because, for the last four days, I've been seeing dead bodies in the streets here in Mississippi. And to listen to politicians thanking each other and complimenting each other, you know, I got to tell you, there are a lot of people here who are very upset, and very angry, and very frustrated.

And when they hear politicians slap -- you know, thanking one another, it just, you know, it kind of cuts them the wrong way right now, because literally there was a body on the streets of this town yesterday being eaten by rats because this woman had been laying in the street for 48 hours. And there's not enough facilities to take her up.

Do you get the anger that is out here?"

And, as a side note, is it time to kill Michael Chertoff yet? And, if not, let me know when. I'll be out of town and would like to take part in any number of possible public hangings/floggigs/etc. So hit me up on the cell.

Super best diary entry of the day

2005-08-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

I love the blurry line here, between an anecdotal account and the strong likelihood that this is completely fabricated or, at the very least, embellished. Here's my favorite sampling from Pedro Almodovar's Volver diary/shooting journal:

A man comes up to me while I’m having breakfast in a bar. He tells me he’s seen “Bad Education” three times. I thank him, as I normally do.
The first time I fell asleep, the stranger explains.
Did it bore you so much?
No, on the contrary, he says. I was totally into it but I got sleepy and I let myself go. Then, of course, I went to see it again since the bit I had watched left me very intrigued.
And?
I liked it better than the first time but, again, at one point I was so relaxed that I fell asleep once more. And the same thing happened the third time.
So, you still haven’t seen the whole film?
Actually, no, I haven’t. Now I’m waiting for it to come out in DVD so that I can watch it calmly at home.
This man seems to be a little over fifty, without any particularly striking characteristics. I wouldn’t know what a narcoleptic looks like, but he certainly doesn’t look like he has the sudden sleep syndrome. And he doesn’t seem to be joking either.
Well, I don’t know what to tell you, I say.
Don’t be offended, he adds, it’s just that when I like something a lot it relaxes me so much that I can actually go to sleep. It’s a really pleasant feeling, I mean it as a compliment. And, also… I’m currently taking some medication to curb anxiety and the doctor warned me that it could make me sleepy.
Then, there’s no doubt, I tell him emphatically, that has to be the explanation. You are falling asleep because of the pills, not because of my film!
Don’t you suffer from anxiety, anguish or desperation, he asks, unaware that his words are the lyrics of a bolero.

(Via GreenCine Daily)

Yeah, Xanadu sucks, but come on

2005-08-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

In Bill O'Reilly's Thursday Talking Points Memo, Bill gave a quick list of "indicators" to help you figure out if you are an extremist. Grouped together on said list were the following:

If you think the documentary "Outfoxed" tells the truth about this network, you're in the extreme zone. (As opposed to being in the No Spin Zone, which you are obviously in right now...smartass.)

If you admire the philosophy of the Third Reich, you're there. (Also, for those watching at home, if you just said "define admire" to the screen, you have yourself a problem.)
Now, Outfoxed director Robert Greenwald is pissed(obvs):

"O'Reilly has simply lost his mind. I demand that O'Reilly apologize." He also challenges O'Reilly to "a real debate on the issues, not his silly name-calling."

Uh, yeah, Greenwald, to say he's lost his mind involves having control over his faculties in the first place. This is a guy who takes it to heart when a hooker tells him he's hung like a horse. So much so that he repeats it as part of his rap to ladies willing (or unwilling) to let him soap up their boobies or engage in loofa play. But getting back to this amusing little tiff, here's the FOX response:

"Why would we book a has-been like Robert Greenwald on cable's highest-rated program? We wish him well on his road to extinction."

Zing.

Q & A of the Day

2005-08-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

When and why did Steven Seagal threaten to throw you out a window?

I was assigned to write an article on him. And I guess he didn’t really agree with the thesis, which was that his career was over.

From Claire Zulkey's very funny interview with A.J. Jacobs, author of The Know-It-All and the forthcoming The Year of Living Biblically.

Tear down the opera house

2005-08-25T18:49:00.000-07:00

The work day is over. Earlier this week, as it was mandatory, I attended computer "training." At this "training," I learned many new and exciting concepts. CDs, aka compact discs, have holes in the middle. They also have a shiny side and a dull side. The shiny side goes down. Say it with me, class. Down. The shiny side goes down! The shiny side goes down! I'm going to jump out this window, but. No. Shit. SHIT. These windows don't open. FUCK. The shiny side goes down! Down, down, down!

You get the point. Anyway, the work week is just about done. So, huzzah!

I've been waiting a few weeks and my copy of i bet you say that to all the boys (+ a bonus disc) by The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir finally arrived. Again...huzzah! Combined with this morning's acquisition of tickets to the November 8th Broken Social Scene show at the Henry Fonda Theater and, well, you know what's coming...huzzah! In case you missed it, here's the track listing for BSS' forthcoming self titled jawn:

1 Our Faces Split the Coast in Half
2 Ibi Dreams of Pavement (A Better Day)
3 7/4 (Shoreline)
4 Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast
5 Major Label Debut
6 Fire Eye'd Boy
7 Windsurfing Nation
8 Swimmers
9 Hotel
10 Handjobs for the Holidays
11 Superconnected
12 Bandwitch
13 Tremoloa Debut
14 It's All Gonna Break

and...the bonus EP, Be You and Me:

1 Her Disappearing Theme
2 Canada vs. America
3 Baroque Social
4 No Smiling Darkness/Snake Charmers Association
5 All My Friends
6 Major Label Debut (Fast)
7 Feel Good Lost Reprise

Okay. One more time. For the kids. Huzzah!

Quote of the Day

2005-08-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

"I'd like to be a little oinker, myself. If he's the chief porker, I'm upset." - Rep. Don Young (R - Alaska) upon hearing that he ranked second in the entire U.S. Congress in securing pork barrel projects, such as two bridges ($230 million each), as part of the recently signed Highway Bill, one of which will be called "Don Young Way." (via Hit and Run)

Boo-urns

2005-08-24T18:44:00.000-07:00

In the Cornell Daily Sun, writer Tracey Zhang hates on Los Angeles. Her commentary is about as tired as it gets, but letting such drivel slide isn't my style. First up:

A trip to Whole Foods (the health food supermarket that seemed to have overran the city) revealed that I had previously been living in the dark ages. Just the bread aisle yielded seemingly impossible varieties of bread such as flour-free, wheat-free or even one made specifically for women, menopausal women that is. It seemed that the entire city was fueled by one purpose: looking good. I know it may seem that I was being entirely superficial in my generalization, but that's only because I was being entirely superficial in my generalization. Even restaurants were following with the trend, advertising themselves as "macrobiotic vegan" or "gourmet raw food." Before I knew it, even I was starting to buy into the entire drive to succeed aesthetically, pressured by the entire avenues of yogalates studios and gyms that I passed everyday on my way to work.

Whole Foods is currently in 30 states (including California) and has three locations in the District of Columbia. Gosh, Tracey, you've really uncovered another L.A. phenomenon. Bravo! Do the other kids in Ithaca look at you with mouths agape when you make such observations? Do they doubt your veracity, stunned by the weirdness you expose?

But let's move on. Tracey closes strong, with a cell phone joke...reference...I don't know and, yes, a Botox joke:

I want to say that I adapted just fine, with my cell phone glued to my ear and my boho purse slung haphazardly over one shoulder as I browed through boutiques on Robertson Boulevard. Instead, I just stared. Starred at the rows and rows of sunsoakers at every beach I went to and also at the outrageously outfitted entourages of teenagers from Bel Air who drove European cars whose names I couldn't even pronounce. That being said, the worst thing I encountered (besides the non-stop traffic and cutthroat parking situation) was the pollution.

Despite initially giving off an impression of superficiality and an unhealthy preoccupation with appearances, Los Angeles was surprisingly helpful in an ironic way. With a driven population completely unimpressed with the entertainment industry that the rest of the world designates as its source of identity, L.A. forced me to just get over it. So what if the street or the local Coffee Bean was suddenly closed due to filming of some show or commercial, all it meant was perhaps a slightly longer walk to the nearest Starbucks. Who cares if you have a friend who works in "the industry" because the accountant at my office is actually a reoccurring cast member on a new fall pilot.

So thank you L.A., for making me jaded and level-headed, no really! Without you, I would still be gushing over every new Hollywood commodity with shameless glee. But now I know better. I know that without Botox, the entire west side of L.A. would not show up for work on Monday morning. Just kidding!

Okay, okay, okay. How does she know they're from Bel Air? Huh? Oh, wait, that's right, Bel Air is a known name to the douchetards who will read this and nod their heads or...gasp...laugh. This piece makes me want to die. I know, I know, I should be used to crap like this. The minute I stepped into New York City a few months back, the barrage of "When are you coming back east" questions struck, as if the notion that people could survive somewhere without two Jekyll & Hyde theme restaurants to tickle their fancy was unheard of. To Tracey and all the other haters, stay where you are. We don't want you. (via LAist)

Most obvious joke ever

2005-08-24T16:36:00.000-07:00

Disney said on Monday it was looking for a sexy man of mystery with a rock singer's voice and a swimmer's physique to play the lead role in a new Broadway musical called "Tarzan."

OBVS. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane. Son, Hobey. (And if the above photo is not enough, the show's producers should check this shit out. Stat.)

It's not TV, it's Pat Robertson

2005-08-24T14:22:00.000-07:00

With the success(?) of Hogan Knows Best, I have recently been considering pitching a similarly structured reality program to my personal hero, Rev. Pat Robertson. Robertson's personal history lends itself to great television. Pat or Marion (as he's known to close friends like me) has ample bling (he's worth between $200 million and $1 billion), has a stellar fake military record (he did not imagine liberating the concentration camps...oh well, but he is known to have caroused with many a Korean whore), is chummy with war criminals (the Charles Taylor sans Kate Moss induced boner...well, as far as I know about that Charles Taylor's boners), is involved in the bloody diamond industry, can halt and/or redirect hurricanes with the power of his prayers, presumably towards the gay part of town (or in the case of Hurricane Gloria right into my front yard, on my very Jewish block, where a tree was uprooted and fell on a car), and he digs assassinations and Chinese abortions. Now, things, of course, need to be spiced up for TV purposes. I think a slutty granddaughter would be nice. We can cast her or Pat can just ask one of them to participate. And I assume Pat's wife is wacky enough for her own show, but this is merely conjecture.

And perhaps a running gag through the first season can be that the house next to the Robertsons is up for sale. They're all very concerned who will move in...and the season can end with the stunning twist that one or more than one of Pat's old Korean whore flames has moved in, dredging up the past that Pat so dearly wishes he could forget/ignore/cover up/assassinate. But being a lying, weak willed pussy is not going to convince the folks at VH1:

"I didn't say 'assassination.' I said our special forces should 'take him out.' And 'take him out' can be a number of things, including kidnapping; there are a number of ways to take out a dictator from power besides killing him."

One, yeah you did. Two, you said covert ops guys, which is different in many crucial ways than special forces. Three, we know you're a raving mad man, Pat. You're a full bag of nuts, and that's why we love you. There's no need to back away from your statements. (It should be noted that on multiple occassions, while watching The 700 Club and hoping that the prayer circle would try to cure me today or that the dramatization involving a young man who mixed drugs, alcohol and Metallica(!) would be re-aired, I have yearned for Pat to be assassinated. Yes, I've said this out loud and I might have even gotten up and yelled at the TV as if Pat or anyone else --bizarro Bernard Shaw, Gordon, the lady -- could hear me. And I don't know exactly how I'd feel if I was in Hugo Chavez's shoes right now, especially with my lack of experience as a dictatorial thug. But I believe my reality show idea can be a successful way of making amends with Pat.)

So, Pat, if you're reading this, call me.

Note: Can someone please explain to me why Robertson is posed like that? What's in his hand? Does he have some kind of palsy and that's how "Marion" grips his lapel? And I doubt it's a nod to his penchant for magic, as Pat would certianly not want to be associated with the "dark arts." Anyone know?

Scattered Ashes

2005-08-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve just finished Lunar Park. I waited seven years and devoured it in a week and a half. I’ve read the negative reviews, which for some reason seem to shock people every time, as if Ellis’ previous work had been lavished with critical praise. I’ve heard people talk about how they wanted to tear out the first chapter in disgust, but how the Stephen King-like elements made them happier. I’ve read it be described as the worst book someone’s ever read, and that person was not Victoria Beckham. There’s a lot swimming around in my head, so let me try to break this down. If it makes no sense, I apologize.

I think there’s an interesting development in these last three books and since so much of Ellis’ work is interconnected, be it by locations or people, I guess it should come as no surprise. American Psycho is a book entirely shrouded in darkness, no matter the distractions, be they a dissertation on Phil Collins or anything else. (The key flaw of Mary Harron’s film is that it misses the darkness inside the satire. It’s too tame, too coy, for it to truly work. But it’s still the best thing anyone’s ever done with an Ellis book.) There is no exit, even if it’s all in his head, the thoughts in his head are enough. It’s also, as Ellis has stated numerous times, about his father, a dark and abusive man, never satisfied, never able to connect with anyone.

Then, comes Glamorama, the story of a dumb kid thrust into fame, unable to handle it, who falls into a diabolical terrorism plot that his father is involved with, in order to replace him with another man that looks just like him that will behave more in line with his father’s wishes. The darkest element of this dark twist is that only because of his son’s fame will the plot work, so as much as he is dissatisfied with his son, he is drawn to and in need of his fame for it all to work. It ends with the lost son (under the watchful eye of his father’s cronies), eyeing the painting of a mountain, yearning for more, promising that his life can contain more than “specks.”

And now comes Lunar Park, Ellis’ inside-out memoir cum horror story, where the ghost is his father, himself, and his fictional son (who exists and, at the same time, does not…see, also, everyone else). He escapes to the suburbs, as a response to his decadence, as so many “adults” do, and he tries to be a better father than his father was to him. He doesn’t succeed, but knows he hasn’t, knows he hasn’t done better than his father and it kills him inside (the hope it seems that Ellis has for his father…you always want the person that hurt you to regret it, even if just a little, so that it gnaws at them).

But the trick Ellis pulls is masterful, because the book is less about himself or his own fictional problems (they all implode on themselves as they were just as much hallucinations as the many ghosts and monsters) and more about his own yearning to forgive his father (who becomes his character) and for his father to be a better man. (By no coincidence, Ellis father’s name is Robert and his son’s name is Robby.) For them to say “I love you” to each other at a dinner where they never said it and where Ellis remembers wishing he had. The man who wanted us to slide down the surface of things, has now asked us to dig through the layers of self, to see ourselves as the pieces of many others, to face up to being the man you swore you’d never become and to attempt to forge ahead and be better, make the choices he never made, and not be in a situation where your lost son can say only a few words to you in a McDonald’s in Sherman Oaks before leaving, not so much wanting to be around you for too long, but wanting you to only know that he’s alright so you can go back to only worrying about yourself.

He's haunted. His house is haunted. His past and present are haunted. He has to face the monster (his father) or end up becoming the monster, if he hasn't already.

Quote of the Day

2005-08-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

"One of the important ideas of a democratic culture is that we all have equal standing in the public square. That doesn't mean stupid ideas should be taken as seriously as smart ones. It means that the content of an argument should be judged on its own merits.

The left seems to be embracing the notion of moral authority in part as a tactical response to the right. For years, conservatives have said or implied that if you criticize a war, you hate the soldiers. During the Clinton years, conservatives insisted that the president lacked "moral authority" to send troops into battle because he had avoided the draft as a youth or, later, because he lied about his affair with Monica Lewinsky.

So adopting veterans or their mourning parents as spokesmen is an understandable counter-tactic. It was a major part of the rationale behind John Kerry's candidacy. The trouble is, plenty of liberals have come to believe their own bleatings about moral authority. Liberal blogs are filled with attacks on "chicken hawk" conservatives who support the war but never served in the military. A recent story in the antiwar magazine Nation attacked my New Republic editor, Peter Beinart, a supporter of the Iraq war, for having "no national security experience," as if Nation editors routinely served in the Marine Corps.

The silliness of this argument is obvious. There are parents of dead soldiers on both sides. Conservatives have begun trotting out their own this week. What does this tell us about the virtues or flaws of the war? Nothing.

Or maybe liberals think that having served in war, or losing a loved one in war, gives you standing to oppose wars but not to support them. The trouble is, any war, no matter how justified, has a war hero or relative who opposes it.

Sheehan also criticizes the Afghanistan war. One of the most common (and strongest) liberal indictments of the Iraq war is that it diverted troops that could have been deployed against Al Qaeda in Afghanistan. Are liberals who make that case, yet failed to enlist themselves, chicken hawks too?" - Jonathan Chait turning down the volume just a bit and hitting it on the head.

Gore Vidal's Wet Blanket

2005-08-21T08:18:00.000-07:00

Get your filthy minds out of the gutter. Jesus. Vidal, in a piece on Hollywood's rejuvenated love affair with F. Scott Fitzgerald ends things on this note:

"The problem of trying to adapt a great work of fiction - 'Gatsby' is not that, but it's a lovely little novel - is you can't get that on screen, and filmmakers have never understood that. It's a tone of voice, and the tone of voice is that of the author. And, if I may say so, films have no authors, no matter what the prints say. It's a collaborative effort."

Along with this, there's news on a Tender is the Night remake, Fincher's Benjamin Buttons, Robert Evans' past (and present) myopia, and Z Channel fave Stuart Cooper's A Short Trip Home. Check it.

Your Mother Should Know

2005-08-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

Here's a hypothetical. A 9/11 widow stages a protest outside the White House or on the outskirts of the Crawford ranch. She grieves for her husband, an unwitting civilian casualty in a heinous terrorist action, aided by the ineptitudes of a teeming bureaucracy asleep at the switch. It could have been prevented but nothing has been done to make those who failed us pay. No firings. No substantive changes. She grieves and in grieving, grows angry at her president and her government for their failings, for their inability to protect its citizens, for then endangering more of its citizens with further military "adventures."

In the process of protesting, demanding a face to face with her president, to air her grievances, she comes upon a theory, which she expresses without hesitation. This theory, in conjuction with the agonizing pain of losing a loved one so suddenly, is the basis for her protest. She asserts her intelligence, her ability to see the forest for the trees, and professes to know the true cause of her husband's death. She has heard it from "reliable sources" and isn't "stupid" enough to believe the lies anymore.

The Jews were behind 9/11. As per a directive from on high, none of them came to work that day. She has heard all the stories you've heard, of a horde of them, Jews, enjoying a leisurely breakfast that very morning, at the 2nd Avenue Deli (so many of them that it must be true), stroking their beards, reveling in Zionist bliss at the prospects of this diabolical act, of how it will lead to the resolution of their master plan, to finally evacuate Gaza and the northern West Bank. Oh, the glory of God smiles upon us today!

Which brings me back to the reality of Cindy Sheehan. She has every right, if not more than most, to protest this president for commanding her son and so many others into harm's way. But Sheehan has gone beyond a protest of this sort. She has now spouted off politically, expounded on conspiracy theories, etc.:

Am I emotional? Yes, my first born was murdered. Am I angry? Yes, he was killed for lies and for a PNAC Neo-Con agenda to benefit Israel. My son joined the army to protect America, not Israel. Am I stupid? No, I know full well that my son, my family, this nation and this world were betrayed by George Bush who was influenced by the neo-con PNAC agendas after 9/11. We were told that we were attacked on 9/11 because the terrorists hate our freedoms and democracy … not for the real reason, because the Arab Muslims who attacked us hate our middle-eastern foreign policy.

She has, in my opinion, made a fool of herself. But spare me the notion that I can't say that because she lost her son. I would not listen to a legless veteran tell me that the best plan would be to kill 'em all and let God sort them out and allow him carte blanche. He served, he's been there, he can say whatever he likes without challenge. His loss and her loss cannot be fathomed by most. Their politics, be they mad ravings or well scripted nonsense from support groups (the difference is subtle, I know), can and should be challenged if one sees fit to do so.

It's sad when a cause tries to foist upon us the speaker who cannot be challenged. The Jonathan Pollard crowd does this by sending out his sister to prattle on about his Torah study and his idyllic childhood. Can't yell at the sister. She's family. She yearns for her brother's release. I'm proud to have asked her a question once, at an event where her ass was kissed as if it might bring one eternal life, and I'm proud to have been hissed at and then ignored.

I don't speak for Cindy Sheehan's son or her or attempt to understand her grief. But she has now attempted to speak for me, for all of us, and in that, she's failed.

Motivation for this post: Hitch on Sheehan and Josh on Hitch on Sheehan.