Tales of the Loompa Wrangler

Monkeys, a.k.a. College Students Making Minimum Wage

2010-02-01T19:51:00.002-06:00

The morning alarm wrenched me from sleep, same as any other day. My cell phone alarm (yes, I’ve finally converted to the phone alarm, but I don’t have to like it) played some tune that was a mix between Ode to Joy and My Sharona—awful mutt of a ringer, really—and I quickly began building an angry head of steam toward the world in general.

I went through my normal routine: Frosted Flakes, water bottle refill, daytime moisturizer, err…manly self-slap to the face I mean, and decided to take my iPod Nano along so that I could go running right after work.

I checked the normal places. The bedroom, the nightstand, the refrigerator (never underestimate how much studying managerial accounting can drain your brain, I’ve already tried to bake cookies by placing them in the dishwasher this year), even my dirty clothes hamper.

Nada. Nothing. Less discovered than what O.J. found during his independent investigation of his ex-wife’s murder. My place was now a mess and looks as if it’d been ransacked by vengeful loopma.

Clothes and cushions lay strewn across the floor, chairs had been haphazardly overturned (please, like you still don’t through fifteen year-old tantrums when no one’s looking), and I was in general sound-the-alarm mode.

Just as I was prepared to blame terrorism, like we do for oil, the drug trade, and skin cancer, I was struck by a Eureka moment.

The University recreation center!

I plugged in my computer—I say plugged in because I have a Scrooge like obsession with the electric bill and unplug everything but the fridge before I go to bed at night—waited for Windows to take its ever-increasing time booting up, Googled the number, and gave them a call.

After some woman answered and sounded as if she’d either partied too hard or been hit in the head with a brick, I was transferred to my girl, the wondrous Gina, who rescued my precious little blue shuffle and agreed to have it waiting for me anytime I wanted to pick it up.

Imagine if the Lindberghs had gotten back their baby, or the Cookie Monster his cookies, or Taylor Swift the real voice box she had before it was replaced with the strangled cat voice box she has now.

That’s how ecstatic I was.

My iPod, in whom I am well-pleased, was to be returned to me.

Run the clock ahead 8 hours (yes, you can do it 24 style if you like. Go on, I’ll wait…)

Good.

So I Tigger bounce my way to the front desk. “I’m Brad!” I uttered like a little child on Christmas. “I’m here for the awesome blue shuffle, please!”

A freshman looked up at me with those glazed over, apathetic freshman eyes and mumbled something to the effect of, “Huh? Wait. What?”

I repeated my query. His dull cow eyes squinted, highlighting the cheese burger acne below his cheeks.

“I’m not sure…” His droning voice trailed off into the ether, the sentence as incomplete as his shampooing techniques.

Keep in mind I hadn’t asked him question. He didn’t need to be sure or unsure of anything. He needed to get off his skinny little #$@ and fetch my iPod. Since I knew I was dealing with minimum wage, part time gig syndrome, I quickly grew firm.

“I called earlier. You all described my iPod. You have it. I want it.”

The freshman monkey gestured and gargled, and summoned several more monkeys to his aid. Then I watched in amazement as they trundled around the desk area, fumbled through some written logs, bounced off one another, and generally resembled lazy monkeys fumbling about the jungle in search of a banana.

“Don’t see it,” he said, putting a falsely concerned finger to his chin, “maybe downstairs.”

“Indeed,” I answered, and shuffled off to the basement floor.

What did I find? More monkeys. Stupid, stupid monkeys.

“We don’t see nothing,” said the gum chewing bubble gum-smacking hostess at the desk. “Did you try upstairs?”

“Yes,” I growled, “they seemed confused.”

Then, and I swear this is the truth before God him or herself, the boy next to her held up his monkey hands, widened his gaze, and gave me the we don’t have a clue shrug.

I fumed upstairs like a steam engine fueled by more anger than Dick Cheney when he sees puppies or smiling babies.

I leaned over the desk, stared into the heart of what appeared to be the ponytailed leader of these damned monkeys.

“The lady on the phone described it to me. You must have it.”

Then I saw it. Just behind her. A safe. The banana I needed.

And literally two seconds before I was to attempt to point the monkeys in its direction, the leader monkey smartened up, and said, “Oh, it’s in the safe. We’ll get it for you.”

The lesson: if you have to get something from college age, minimum wage part-timers, bring your own fruit.

They Try To Make Me Go To Rehab...

2010-01-19T20:52:00.004-06:00

Tiger Woods has apparently checked himself into a sexual rehabilitation clinic.

And so the Public Relations makeover for Eldrick has begun.

As someone who wants to enter the fields of PR, advertising, and marketing, I have to say I’m impressed. Checking into rehab is the penicillin for celebrity reputations that have come down with infections of indiscretion.

Robert Downey Jr. gets arrested for being strung out on more drugs than Jim Morrison at rubber ducky time. (Come on, it’s been a loooong time since he died in that bath tub. It is NOT too soon).

Rehab.

Now he gets to be Iron Man and have his own action figure.

Mel Gibson got all DUI’d up and had some interesting commentary about the Jewish community.

Rehab.

Now he can get back to playing dudes who want some good old bloody revenge.

In the late 90’sCharlie Sheen drank more than the entire Osborne family.

Rehab.

Now he’s the loveable gigolo on a CBS laugh track sitcom. Even a recent string of domestic abuse arrests can’t beat his Rehab Out of Jail Free Card.

But Tiger’s death-defying, Houdini-like PR stunt takes the idea of public persona rehab to a brave new level. I mean just imagine how many male celebs are kicking themselves right now. You can practically hear Bill Clinton, Kobe Bryant, and Leanne Rimes all shouting in unison, “Why didn’t I think of that?!”

In fact, I believe Tiger’s move will inspire a host of new celebrity cop-outs:

Mayor Ray Nagin will go to meteorology rehab and everyone will be cool with his failure to evacuate New Orleans before Katrina

O.J. Simpson will go to a murderer’s and kidnapper’s rehab clinic just outside of Phoenix and will quickly be given a sideline reporter’s gig on ESPN.

Ben Affleck will go to inhumanly bad acting rehab (what’s with those mannequinesque stupid grins?) and once again be given $20 million per movie.

Patriots head coach Bill Belichek will attend stupid butthole jerkface rehab and be awarded a guest spot on Sesame Street (where he will then be immediately kicked off set for punching Cookie Monster in the face. What else would you expect from Satan’s brother?)

Ah well, at least Keith Richards is still holding strong…

Loompa Wranglin' at the Movies: Paranormal Activity

2010-01-06T16:41:00.003-06:00

Have you ever been so terrified you wanted to cry? Me neither…until I rented Paranormal Activity.

Hororfests, such as the Jason movies or Chainsaw Massacre, can be difficult to watch. Obviously, watching someone be decapitated or sliced and diced faster than a health care bill disturbs the average human.

And Exorcist scared millions as it showed us a little girl spewing pea soup all over a priest—though I wonder how scary it would have been had the soup been potato.

Really, though, who enjoys pea soup? As someone experienced with kids the same age as that character, let me offer this to parents: if your child ever requests pea soup, even once, you can be assured they are undoubtedly possessed by Satan.

But Paranormal Activity has none of the gore or gross our factor. The film commits to subtlety and Hitchcock’s principle that what you don’t see is vastly more disturbing than what you do and scares the hell out for you by letting your imagination do much of the work. For anyone who has ever laid in bed and heard a crack somewhere in the house, for all of us who think we may have spotted an odd shape or shadow darting past our peripheral vision, for every person who has felt a cool chill slide down the nape of their neck and wondered where did that noise, sight, or sensation come from—Paranormal Activity answers you. And the answer is terrifying. I won’t spoil it, other than to say it is from Hell, likes hurting things, and isn’t the Emperor from Star Wars or Sarah Palin.

Don’t believe me? Here is a list of the things Paranormal Activity is literally scarier than:

Kevin Costner’s accents.
Pirates of the Carribean’s plot
Christina Aguilera’s blood test.
Elin Wood’s backswing.
Mall Santa’s.
The current balance of your retirement account.
Dollar General toilet tissue.
Centipedes.

All kidding aside, I don’t scare easily. Due to a crack-like addiction to haunted houses during my high school years as well as a warped sense of humor that considers the Saw and Final Destination films to be shining examples of slapstick humor, very little in the world of thrillers of horror stays with me more than an instant.

But Paranormal Activity, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, actually motivated me to ask my girlfriend if she’d like to stop watching the movie. I shamefully feigned concern for her no less than five times. In truth, I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing the movie through to its an end.

And yes, I now feel like less of a man. A man that may never be able to sleep in a house alone for the rest of his life.

Rent this movie at your own risk. It gets five out of five Loompas, and officially declare it the most frightening movie I have ever seen in my life.

Accounting for Lindsey

2009-07-27T21:38:00.006-05:00

MBA Prep Week
Monday—Accounting

When all else fails, smile and accept your fate.

This is the mantra I repeated to myself as my knowledgeable, kind accounting prep professor spoke to the class about ratio of fixed assets to long term liabilities.

Since nothing makes me chuckle more than math mashed-up with a heaping spoon of popular culture insanity, I considered the Hollywood application of this accounting formulas.

The ratio of fixed assets to long term liabilities basically tells a lender, such as a bank, whether or not a company has enough valuable stuff to warrant a long-term loan. Will it be able to make its payments?

You calculate the ratio using this formula:

Fixed Assets ÷ Long-Term Liabilities =

Ratio of Fixed Assets to Long-Term Liabilities
(or as the kids call it, the “how good a long-term borrower are you ratio?”)

For our purposes, let’s say Lindsey Lohan is not a human (insert joke here), but a corporate entity.

Lindsey’s Fixed Assets:

Property—A vomit soaked condo somewhere on the Hollywood strip, complete with cocaine showered carpet and crystal meth lab in the bathroom.

Vehicles—Whatever car she’s jacked in recent days

Equipment—I had a zinger about breast implants here, but let’s go with unopened Amazon Kindle instead.

Lindsey’s Long-term liabilities:

Notes Payable (i.e. a mortgage payment)—Has a small mortgage payment. She had a huge amount of cash to put down on her building because of all the money’s she’s saved by not eating.

Bonds Payable—In order to fund its insatiable appetite for 151 Rum and cigarettes, Lindsey Corp. sold over 3,000 bonds at $10,000 pop. This means she owes 3,000 Mean Girls fans (they were the only ones who’d buy it, (sorry L-Bone)) $10,000 each. In addition, she has to pay those bondholders interest on that $10,000 every six months. A major ouchie in Lindsey Corp’s wallet.

Contingent Liability—This is the worst of all. Contingent liability is the probability and estimation of if and how much a company might have to payout in repair work for their products (if they’re guaranteed or under warrantee), or how much the company might have to cough up if they get sued.

Unfortunately for Lindsey Corp, the company has a bit of a dangerous reputation. She blows off movie shoots, shows up for work impaired, and carjacks Los Angelino motorists so that she can chase down her personal assistant.

All very bad things for Lindsey Corp.

So, you add up Lindsey Corp.’s fixed assets…divide that by the sum of her long-term liabilities…(carry the one, round to the nearest hundredth…)

Lindsey Corp.’s ratio is (and now we'll have a competition to finish the blog! The most creative entry wins my eternal admiration!)

The Way You Make Me Feel

2009-07-02T14:26:00.002-05:00

Michael Jackson is dead. No more dancing on cars outside of courtrooms. No more competitive baby danglin’ in Berlin. No more nose reconstructions so that he can “breathe better.” No more putting on some Barry White, turning down the lights, and curling up with a few attention starved adolescents.

Yes, Neverland Ranch is permanently closed. Peter Pan will not frequent Lisa Marie’s or Brook Shields’ or Debbie Rowe’s room another time. Unless he can channel is inner Thriller zombie, MJ is now moon walking on that great dance floor in the sky, or beneath our feet. Or I supposed he might now be that gnat that keeps buzzing about your eyelashes.

Whatever your take on the afterlife, there should be no pretense or revisionist history when it comes to Michael Jackson’ actual life. He was an alleged abuse victim, a talented performer who made two great albums and many singles, a drug addict, an alleged child abuser who paid off his accuser, and a compulsive liar (go back and watch him tell Martin Bashir that he only ever had TWO plastic surgeries done in his whole life, or that the surrogate mother of his third child was black. Unless the King of Pigmentation had his sperm whitened as well, there is no way the third child could have two African American parents and be that fair-skinned.)

Why am I being so harsh? Why speak ill of the dead? I’ll tell you. Every time a celebrity dies, we immediately proceed with the whitewashing (pun intended) of their lives and careers. We act as some collective minister and absolve them of all their sins and transgressions. Even O.J.’s jury thinks we go too easy on celebrities. A few examples:

JFK, Jr. was a child of privilege who loved the spotlight and whose reach far exceeded his grasp. His political magazine, George, had a spirited run of a whole six years. Finally, after being warned not to fly out into a storm, he died as a modern day Icarus. Only this time Icarus sank his wife and dogs into the depths of the Atlantic.

And yet, because he is that cute little kid who played at JFK’s feet in the oval office, we offer his memory the same reverence that was given to princes in 1500’s England.

Marylin Monroe. She was an exceptional pin-up girl at best, and an overrated, average actress at worst. She loved painkillers, and openly flirting with her lover-President of the United States. Many find her breathy version of Happy Birthday Mr. President to be a sultry moment in American politics. As her rendition was about as subtle as a stampede of rabid elephants, I wonder how Jackie Kennedy felt as she watched Monroe song-rape her husband.

But now she is remembered as a starlet, one of the all-time Hollywood beauties and actresses.

Let’s not forget America’s biggest celebrity president. No, not libido Bill. And Obama still has a way to go. I’m talking about the only President who actually was an actor—Ronald Reagan. Here are a few highlights from his administration. A trickle down economic policy that widened the gap between the rich and the poor. The only thing trickling down was drunken Wall Street investors’ urine atop the heads of the NYC homeless. He “defeated” the Soviet Union by outspending them on nuclear arms, using money we didn’t have and running up a deficit that would even make General Motors proud. Looks like big bad Evil Empires can go broke. I would’ve thought Evil Empires, if they were so big and bad, would have plenty of money. I never heard Darth Vader complaining about a lack of funding for the second Death Star.

But here’s the bad news. Guess what country now has thousands of nuclear weapons stashed all over the place—and has little security to protect it? Russia. Or as I like to call it, Home Depot for terrorists.

Not to mention, Reagan ignored the threat of HIV and Aids, dismissing it as a holy plague cast down on homosexuals. Forget how medically irresponsible it is for the President to ignore such a potentially catastrophic virus; every Christian knows that the only disease God has used in the last fifty years is the swine flu. To kill Miley Cyrus fans.

So what’s the debate now that he’s dead? Whether or not we should boot FDR off the dime and replace him with grandpa Ron.

Before you leave any nasty comments, understand that I’m not refusing MJ his proper credit. Every hip-hop act in existence, from Black Eyed Peas to Justin Timberlake, owes Jackson their careers. He made hip-hop digestible to the masses. He was the only cool thing about disco. He made dancing a requirement for anyone who wanted to be a successful hip-hop or pop act. Do you really think all those unathletic white boys from the Backstreet Boys wanted to dance it out? No. They knew how lame they looked. But after Beat It and Thriller, it was required for credibility.

And he has plenty of decent excuses for his bizarre behavior.

Clearly, daddy wasn’t a nice guy. And after he became rich and famous, no one in Jackson’s life ever called him out on his insistence on being treated like an eight-year old.

Or his belief that he should be held to the same behavioral expectations as an eight-year old.

Or his staunch proclamations that those lily-white kids actually belonged to him.

Hell, he had so many enablers he was able to get hospital grade sedatives sent and administered to him at home—just so he could sleep. Who needs sheep when you have ditropan?

So let’s give MJ his due. Maybe even shed a tear over his early life and career. But let’s stop short of Sainthood.

Then again, Saint Peter couldn’t moonwalk.

Loompa Wrangling at the Movies: A Depressing Dose of Deep Despair (a.k.a The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)

2009-01-27T16:47:00.025-06:00

In one of my earliest posts here in Loompaville, I stated that Brokeback Mountain was the single most depressing film I'd ever seen.

And it has valiantly held that title for several years.

Through I Am Legend's cheap murder of the dog. It held up.

As I watched Mr. Plainview mentally destroy his adopted son in There Will Be Blood, the mountain-filled tale of ill-fated love reigned supreme.

Even as I finally rented Mystic River, and watched two families be ripped apart by a tragic misunderstanding, Brokeback refused to lose.

Until this afternoon. January 27, 2009. A date that will live in melancholy.

The date I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button do for tear-jerkers what The Texas Chainsaw Massacre did for horror.

The Oscar nominated film, directed by edgy filmmaker David Fincher, plods along at a sluggish pace and seems only interested in waking you when something terrible happens. And I don't mean "ooh look at that train wreck" terrible. I'm speaking of "here, watch the person or animal you love most in this world die a slow death" terrible.

Fast facts about Button:
5--The number of times (at different points in the movie) Brad Pitt and his love interest Cate Blanchett say goodbye.

3--The number of parents we get to see die.

2--The number of children abandoned by their fathers.

1--The number of times I've had the opportunity to watch a woman hold the infant version of the man she loved most in the universe--as he died.

Button opens with Daisy's (Cate Blanchett) daughter huddled by her deathbed telling her how much she's going to miss her. We then quickly flashback to the death of Benjamin's birth mother.

The next 15 minutes showing us Benjamin as an old man behaving like a toddler provides the only levity in the film. After that, when someone isn't dying or leaving, the film grinds to a halt.

We're shown countless vistas of the world. They're beautiful, but more at home on the Travel Channel than in this film. They feel forced down my throat, as if Benjamin wants to shake me by the shoulders until I realize how beautiful life and everything in it truly is. I only wish he could have visited Nazi Germany or present day Mumbai, India.

Even when not begging for a best cinematography Oscar, the movie slinks along with the urgency of an obese sleepwalker. Many times I found myself wishing I could fast forward through scenes and get on with the action. Brad Pitt is a handsome man, but if I had to watch anymore lengthy close ups of him being pensive, or lost in wonderment at the cyclical nature of life, I was going to drown myself in my gallon-sized Hi-C.

The acting is serviceable, but not what the Academy has made it out to be. Cate Blanchett looks very sultry in youth and very sad in old age. Yawn. There simply wasn't much meat on Daisy's character for her to sink her acting chops into. I wasn't shocked she didn't receive a nomination.

Brad Pitt is sedate, melancholy, and honestly, quite distant. He succeeds in delivering the few comedic lines in the film, highlighting where this movie wasted much of its potential. Brad Pitt's acting genius, much like that of his manfriend George Clooney, shines through in comedies. Why he does so few of them I don't know. I've read he's envious of Leonardo DiCaprio's film choices. But he shouldn't be. Making people laugh is much, much, much, much more difficult than making them cry. Kill a dog. Give a mom or child a terminal disease. Whip up a teenage suicide. Have a love affair end in tragedy. Get Sean Penn to act retarded. The formula isn't complicated.

But making an audience laugh for an hour and a half (see Tropic Thunder) or playing a half-witted physical trainer to goofy perfection (see Brad Pitt in Burn After Reading) requires immeasurable skill.

George and Brad should leave the uber-drama to DiCaprio and Day-Lewis, and use their own enormous gifts of comedic timing. I love Brad Pitt--but his nomination feels more like a thanks for all your great work nomination than something earned in Button.

(And an "it's about time clap" to the Academy for nominating Robert Downey Jr. for best supporting actor in Tropic Thunder. Maybe if the Academy acknowledged the greatness of comedic acting a little more often, Brad Pitt would do more comedies and I wouldn't be stitching up my wrists right now.)

Back to Button. The finest performance belonged to Taraji P. Henson, who was nominated for a best supporting actress for her role as Queenie, Benjamin's mother. She is the only actor who pops off the screen and is still memorable after they've flooded New Orleans and you've snot-soaked your final tissue.

The script, adapted from the novel of the same name, was penned by Eric Roth. I wasn't surprised to read he also wrote Forrest Gump. Button, which desperately wants to be Forrest Gump, is the exact inversion of Forrest Gump. Little charm. Few ancillary characters worth caring about. And far more loss than triumph.

Button is the Bizarro to Gump's Superman.

Ultimately, the film is so desperate to make the audience feel true sadness, that it accomplishes very little in between tragedies. And at a run time of three hours, feels longer than Reagan and Princess Di's funerals combined.

And I almost forgot.

Button ends as Katrina floods New Orleans.

Hooray.

For being an emotional snuff film, I give The Curious Case of Benjamin Button two out of five Loompas, both of them teary-eyed and crestfallen.

Season of Sickness

2009-01-14T22:27:00.012-06:00

Just as anyone else who works in a school, I’m exposed to all manner of germs. But the bacteria bonfire I face is considerably more potent. I’m tasked with seventh graders. That’s right. Every day, armed with only demerits and a scented expo marker (Chocó-mint. It’s friggin’ sweet), I do battle with hordes of pubescent adolescents.

I fight desperately to keep them locked away from the hours of 7:30a.m.-2:45 p.m. All so that you regular workin’ folk, like Joe Sixpack and DUI Danny, can go to work unmolested by gangs of smelly preteens demanding candy and full disclosure of your personal life.

There’s a reason Jack Bauer never takes on public education for 24 hours. He’d never make it past 9:00-10:10a.m

(That’s a 24 reference and shout out to all loyal fans who are giving 24 one more try this season. Through the first four hours we’re good. Jack’s at his surliest, ass-whoopinest best.)

But recently I developed a marble-sized knot in the back of my skull. In the past day it’s deflated a bit, and none of my literary genius appears lost. But I am thoroughly ready for the “season of disease” in public schooling to be over.

Note: the season of disease is much like summer TV. It’s filled with reality based crap you never wanted to see, like green snot sickles or milky vomit covered in mint-fragranced sawdust. Really. What’s the difference between seeing that or watching Temptation Island?

Very little. That’s how much.

The season runs from about January to March, and I’m already tired of it. Even more tired than drunk David Hasselhoff is of YouTube. So today, whilst dodging the latest uncovered, mucus-drenched cough from one of my students, I tried to temper my annoyance by thinking of three things that irritate me more than the season of the sickness.

3-->Brad Pitt and his wife-Can they not just act? Can they just not enjoy their jobs as make believe characters and stop commenting on societal issues? I know, I know. It’s great when celebrities use their star power to further causes, like rebuilding New Orleans or helping impoverished children.

But they blew off Ryan Seacrest at the Golden Globes. And that pisses me off. What did Seacrest ever do to piss somebody off? For God’s sakes, he was the funniest thing about Knocked Up. So let them have as many twins as they want. And let them adopt all the children they can snag until they successfully reenact the It’s a Small World ride in their living room. But maybe they just shut the hell up for a while and at least act like they’re not so damn put out all the time. Well, I know Brad can pull that off.

His wife’s not so much on the acting.

2-->Brittney Spears-Don’t give Brittney any more money! It will only go to two places, Kevin Federline and her Beverly Hillbillies white trash family, or liposuction so that she can keep sucking down pies to calm herself after she bashes in another car window.

Get her off the iPod screens in the Best Buy inserts! You listen to music on iPods. You watch train wrecks on CNN and VH1. And that’s all she is now. A talentless exhibitionist of the highest class.

Hell, even Taylor Swift thinks Brittney can’t sing.

1-->Twilight-Maybe this is just because I’ve finally been overcome with enough curiosity that I am almost 100 pages into the first novel (I use that term loosely) and am finding myself more bored than Hillary Clinton at Obama’s first cabinet meeting.

If I have to read her cook dinner for her father one more time (we’re up to two in about a 30 page span) I’m going to microwave the book, cover it in hot sauce, and pretend I’m devouring the heart of the literary agent who cast this plague upon us. (Writers House, I’m staring in your direction).

I honestly don’t blame teens and preteens for their captivation. Edward is designed to be the perfect male. And Bella is the perfect helpless Lois Lane. Yes, she talks tough, but seems to clearly need Edward to save her and make her happy.

But to those over 20, I bite my thumb at you. The Buffy the Vampire Slaver loves Angel (haunted vampire with a soul) storyline is better love story by miles. Yes, it’s a little edgier and doesn’t necessarily end happily, but at least it’s believable—as far as human vampire romances go. Honestly, there’s no comparison. This is like Michael Keaton Batman versus George Clooney Batman, or Daddy Bush versus W. Sometimes newer does not mean better.

Or maybe this knot on my head just has me in a foul mood…I hate this season.

Thoughts from Beneath the Christmas Tree

2008-12-23T13:32:00.012-06:00

As I attempt to dive back into the scalding hot pool that is thankless, barely read blogging, I think I’ll start off small. Not small like Miley Cyrus's pitch range small. More like Thomas Jane’s star power small. (Come on, you’ve seen Deep Blue Sea, Original Sin, The Punisher, and The Sweetest Thing, haven’t you?)

(Haven’t you?!)

(God I’ve seen too many movies.)

So, much like Kiefer Sutherland on a bender, I’m going to leap on top of your Christmas Tree and share a few impressions of the Holiday season thus far.

(Watch him go 24 all over this tree’s ass! Terrorist Tree)

First, there are no “can’t get items.” I’ve seen everything. Wii’s. Playstation 3’s. Don’t Molest Me Elmos (Scout Master Mace Repellent Included), and High School Musical flashlights. Everything is gettable. Think Lindsey Lohan if you’re a mammal with a pulse.

But if I thought one item would be a tough grab, I wagered it would be the Elvis-Priscilla Presley Getting Married Barbie Set. This was also high on my mom’s Christmas List. High as in number one.

Yes, she’s still obsessed with Barbie. No, she isn’t currently on any medication.

Back in September, nobody had it. Until I called a Wal-Mart in Deliverance, Tennessee. Some kindly, professional butcher of the English language had Bobby Joe check the security cage and, eureka, they found it. So at 2 in the morning I drove thirty minutes into no man’s land, armed only with a tank top and a scowl, and bought the sixty dollar doll set.

Why am I angry? I checked Amazon and Ebay last week. They’re currently selling at retail price…and below.

Second, I’ve discovered the key to happiness. It’s the introductory scene in Alvin & the Chipmunks. Go ahead. Think of something that will enrage you. Billion dollar handouts to senators’ corporate chums. Bush refusing to place the polar bears on the endangered species list. Baseball players scoffing at 8 year, 23 million dollar per year contracts. Tim Tebow circumcising little Philippine boys in the college football off season.

Good and mad? Watch the first minute of this.

Had a Bad Day

Are you not happy? Good, I thought so. Because the only creatures who wouldn’t enjoy that are Satan, Oprah, and Dick Cheney.

No, I’m being too harsh. Satan might like it.

Lastly, the American Movie Classic Channel has officially gone Tom Cruise crazy. You know how they always run the “if you like (insert movie), then check out (insert another similar movie).”

Here’s the last one I saw.

If you are enjoying Karate Kid, then watch Million Dollar Baby next Friday night.

Makes sense.

If you enjoy a family movie about a sweet kid overcoming his own weaknesses and defeating a gang of bullies, then you'd love a film centered upon assisted suicide. Not since Sarah Palin combined a press conference with turkey executions have two such dissimilar things been paired together. (Sarah th e Barbarian)

This got me thinking. What could be a worse suggestion on AMC’s part? Let’s try a few.

If you’re enjoying Enchanted, then check out Fatal Attraction.

If you’re enjoying My Dog Skip, then watch Old Yeller.

If you’re getting into Fiddler on the Roof, then flip over to Schinlder’s List.

Feel free to make your own suggestions. The winner of the most terrible double feature suggestion will win a shout out on my blog. Read by myself, and occasionally Christian Slater.

He has nothing better to do now that his laughable show has been canceled.

OH! And did you read my Name Game post? Did I not so totally call the demise of My Own Worst Enemy?

Why am I not consulted about network programming.? Ah well, happy holidays.

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Wonka Violates Helpless Animals

2008-10-29T20:52:00.010-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, loompas and elves, a lot has been made of my record on skin wash. Let me assure you that I want all skin-blemished loompas to have affordable access to facial cleansers.

Now let me give you some direct talk from the direct talk express.

Willy Wonka fornicates with reindeer.

Fifteen years ago he sat on a board that studied the effect of gaseous Reindeer anal emissions on the ozone layer.

He and his hippie buddies, no doubt high after slurping down shots from the infamous Butterscotch Schnapps River that runs through the center of that Gomorra he calls a chocolate factory, had gathered to promote a scientific theory that reindeer emissions are causing some kind of global warming.

First off, other than the increased number of polar bear carcasses washing up on my front door, my increased comfort level in cargo shorts and Hawaiian t-shirts, and the new orange groves sprouting up in my backyard, there is no proof that this “warming” exists.

Heck, only 99,999,999 out of 1,000,000,000 scientists believe it’s anything more than a fanciful, merit less theory.

Second, we have camera footage of him violating a Reindeer to prove this egghead theory.

All in the name of science. Whatever the hell science is.

While it’s true the footage was lost in an unfortunate sled crash, you can believe this happened because I said it.

Willy Wonka.

He prods reindeer in the pooper.

What in God's name will he do to your children?

I’m Santa Claus, and I approve this message.

Paid for by Reindeer Against Cold Thermometers.

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Santa Claus Won't Help Loompas

2008-10-15T16:22:00.008-05:00

The only thing fatter than Santa Claus’s waistline are the lies he vomits from his fat mouth.

Fact: Willy Wonka has done more for the Loompa community than any other leader.

Fact: All skin bleachings were voluntary and done to cure impoverished Loompas stricken with Volcano’s disease. A rare acne related illness that causes Loompas to develop orange sores that spew green puss.

Fact: The whitening is a harmless side effect.

What has Senator Claus done about this? We’ll let him answer.

“I think Volcano’s disease is an illness of the vain...we ought to make those filthy Loompas take a bath every now and then, then taxpayers wouldn’t have to pay for their little midget Clear-a-sil treatments!”

Santa Claus. An obese, hateful old man who’s out of touch.
And wants Loompas to have puss dripping down their face.

Gross.

Paid for by Friends of Volcano Be Gone Face Wash.

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Santa Claus Attack Ad

2008-10-13T15:04:00.007-05:00

I’m Santa Claus and I approve this message.

Willy Wonka can’t be trusted to lead. Just look at his record as Candyland Governor.

Raised taxes ten times on peppermint stick income, leading to an unprecedented rise in halitosis cases throughout Candyland.

Supported the Healthy Skin Initiative, wherein 2,000 Loompas had their green skin forcibly bleached white.

Used taxpayer dollars to fund the rebuilding of his glass ceiling elevator shaft ten times—at a cost of 20 million dollars.

Agreed with current Magical Funtime Republic President Yosemite Sam that Funtime had to invade Cerealatoria, despite any real intelligence that proved Count Chocula had acquired weapons of mass marshmallows.

He sings creepy little songs that make children cry.

Willy Wonka. A racist who sings weird, breaks things, and likes bad breath.

Paid for by Reindeers for Santa.

Magical Funtime Election 2008: Willy Wonka Attack Ad

2008-10-13T14:11:00.007-05:00

I’m Willy Wonka, and I approve this message.

Thinking of voting for Santa Claus for funtime President? Maybe you should think twice.

Who is this Santa Claus?

He prefers the company of small children. And he really prefers them on his lap.

He and his wife aren’t legally married, but were joined in a “civil union” presided over by radical Icelandic Fundamentalist and known Magical Funtime Republic hater, Frosty the Snowman.

His cheeks are always ruby red because he has a substance abuse problem.

He has committed breaking and entering over 109,272,292,292 times and still has yet to serve one day for his crimes.

He refuses to seek medical treatment for his reindeer Rudolph, whose nose is afflicted with a staff infection.

Claus still hasn’t offered health insurance to his elves, who work 60+ hours a week and reside in milk crates—with big wheel tires for roofs.

Who is Santa Clause?

A tyrannical, animal-hating, unmarried, drunken pedophile that will break into your house.

Paid for by the Committee to Promote Everlasting Gobstoppers.

Loompa Wrangling at the Movies: Burn After Reading

2008-10-13T10:02:00.010-05:00

Seen the commercials for Burn After Reading? The film seems like it would be genuinely funny. Although, what’s with the dead body sticking out of the closet?

That’s the corpse of what could have been.

Before I get specific, I should probably lay down my barometer for Coen brothers movies. In my opinion they have made two great films. O Brother Where Art Thou? and No Country for Old Men. Comedy and drama. Two genres as distinct as motor oil and chocolate syrup.

While I have seen nearly every other one of their movies, they almost all have the same flaw—severe schizophrenia. They are creatures that can’t settle on one personality, and suffer because of it. Kind of like Lindsey Lohan, Tom Cruise, or Kanye West. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Intolerable Cruelty got all liquored up and chased me down the highway, or if The Man Who Wasn’t There converted to the First Church of Afterbirth Eating, ahem, excuse me, Scientology.

Burn had the potential to be every ounce as funny as O Brother. Brad Pitt is as hilarious as he seems in the previews. His crack-like addiction to his iPod was something familiar to most of us, and his ignorant enthusiasm made his every scene pop. J.K. Simmons, who many of you know as Juno’s dad or The Closer’s boss, or Spider-Man’s mean editor-in-chief J. Jonah Jameson, nearly stole the film with about fifteen lines. His closing monologue at the end of the film is well written and comedically perfect.

As for Clooney, he was entertaining for sure, but unlike O Brother, and a lot like Intolerable Cruelty, his character was quirk simply for the sake of quirk. It brought a few laughs, but ultimately felt like one of Sarah Palin’s speeches, hollow and programmed.

Frances McDormand, who, shockingly, still has one more Oscar than I do, was tolerable. Still, after seeing her thrust upon me in yet another Coen movie (six altogether), I’m left wondering how many parts she would have snagged had she not been Joel Coen’s wife. I suppose I should just be glad she didn’t show up in No Country, though I would have felt some sick sense of satisfaction had she been another victim of psychopath Anton Chigurh.

As for John Malkovich, no character best sums up Burn than he. The first scene of the film concerns his firing, and his visceral response to his bosses in their office. His lobbing of f bombs and uncomfortable, unbridled rage brought several gut-busting, laughs from the crowd. Imagine those moments on NBC’s The Office. The ones that are awkward yet completely hilarious, now let Steve Carell tell everyone to f-off and run wild with any other combination of expletive he likes.

But quickly his character begins to mope, to soul search. And since I paid seven bucks, I get to watch. Yipp and Eee. After a high energy, comedic start, the movie comes to a grinding halt for about the next twenty minutes (the runtime for this film said 96 minutes, but it felt much more like 120.) And I wasn’t alone. My special friend leaned over and said, “They sure are taking a looong time getting this thing started.”

Sweeping, melodramatic music is rushed in as Malkovich’s character contemplates his future. At first I thought this was meant to be sarcastic, a clever touch by the Coens, mocking the very idea that this could be a drama. But then they do it about ten more times and you start to feel like a visitor to a Pentecostal Church, the only one laughing when the person next to you starts drooling and speaking as if the dentist accidentally deadened their bottom lip.

After the third booming entrance of music, I stopped laughing and quietly thought about how against the grain this mood music seemed for such a film.

The film then continues on and has a hard fought civil war. It battles itself, comedy versus drama, much as I’ve witnessed in other Coen brother movies. Movies that should have spent less energy trying to be so damned smart and nuanced and more simply giving in to where the story and characters naturally wanted to go.

It’s like this. Imagine if O Brother Where Art Thou? murdered one of the main three guys, or if No Country for Old Men had Tommy Lee Jones telling jokes every ten minutes. It wouldn’t have worked. O Brother committed to the laugh and succeeded. No Country committed to a serious edgy tone, and was Oscar’s best picture.

But with Burn After Reading, well-acted and chuckle-packed it might have been, I was mainly left wondering what might have been had this script seen a psychiatrist and figured out what it truly wanted to be in life.

Rent it, but don't pay theater prices. It gets 3 out of 5 loompas, all with hatchets in their heads.

Ways of the Domesticated Male, Part I

2008-09-29T19:54:00.001-05:00

Recently, I bragged to a female coworker of mine that I was fully domesticated. She looked at me quizzically, so I informed her that I did not mean I don’t tinkle on the carpet or scratch up the sofa (though believe it or not, I don’t), but that the path of manhood does have a higher plane which can be reached. Something beyond the easily achieved, somewhat valuable altruisms of remembering one out of every three anniversaries or an annual foot massage.

No, I’m referencing the higher order of male accomplishment, with specific regards to the familial front. I now present to you, the traits of a truly domesticated male.

1. Realizes that ketchup (and all condiments) are located in the space directly between their eyes and noses, on both the pantry and refrigerator.

2. Knows the sheer terror of sitting onto a toilet, and finding oneself plummeting into a watery abyss.

3. Understands that any gift involving plastic cards and a predetermined amount of funding will not result in romance.

4. Understands that it is the end result that counts, not the thought.

5. Does not elbow a woman awake so that she can take care of his child.

6. Comprehends that women see the transparency in a present meant for them that is any of the following: golf clubs, weapon, Sports Illustrated subscription, or most any other gift that he himself would enjoy.

7. Knows a night at O’ Charley’s and the matinee showing of Blade 4 is not appropriate for anniversaries or birthdays.

8. Will buy separate gifts for mate even if her birthday coincides with any holidays or anniversaries. Also knows that in that case “lump sum gifts” which claim to be the value of all special days combined will not be fully appreciated.

9. Stops to ask directions before running out of gas, or ending up in Alabama. Though some credit must be given if it is the former and not the latter.

10. Never, ever, ever attributes any domestic argument to the menstrual cycle, or any other facet of the female body. Which, if it were a board game, would be Mouse Trap.

More to come...

Mascara on a Scarecrow

2008-09-10T20:23:00.005-05:00

Sarah Palin thinks Barak Obama called her pig. Don’t know the story? Here’s a quick recap.

Governor Palin, a.k.a. the Scourge of the Polar Bears, said in her now recycled speech—the same spiel she’s recited at every stop since the convention; she’s kind of like one of those broken animatronic dinosaurs they have on the Jurassic Park ride at Islands of Adventure; well, not exactly, the dinosaur said it wouldn’t force it’s hatchling to have a baby if it was raped—she said in her speech that the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull was...lipstick. Bad dum dum.

Several days later Obama said that McCain promising to invoke change while simultaneously promising to continue Bush’s polices was like putting lipstick on a pig, or wrapping an old fish in newspapers—it stills stinks.

Can you guess what the McCain-Palin camp did next? Come on, you can guess it. They’ve been playing the victim card better than fake handicapped Eddie Murphy in Trading Places. Think. Think hard. They’re good at this. They’ve had to be.

Otherwise the public might actually pay attention to the following facts (and yes, these are research based and vetted, unlike Palin. If even one of these facts isn’t true, I’ll delete my blog account forever. And I don’t mean true in the mirky, maybe there’s a one in a million chance you could interpret it this way true that McCain and Bill O’Reilly operate by. I mean completely true and accurate. Like red, white, and blue are colors of the flag that the Republicans so eagerly drape themselves in true.)

1. She was for the infamous Bridge to Nowhere and still pursued state funding for it when it federal dollars fell through.

She’s not a reformer.

2. She has said that the Iraq War is God’s task for America. Palin asked students to pray for the troops in Iraq, and noted that her eldest son, Track (his honest to God name), was expected to be deployed there.

"Our national leaders are sending them out on a task that is from God," she continued.

She’s not in touch with the average person.

3. She told churchgoers that God wanted a 30 billion dollar pipeline built though Alaska.

"God’s will has to be done in unifying people and companies to get that gas line built, so pray for that," she said.

She’s not in touch with reality. Plus, it didn’t get built, so whoever she hears in her head sure ain’t God.

4. She did not actually sell the jet on eBay. First off, it is common for Alaska to sell big ticket items every few years. Her move wasn’t that of some maverick reformer cutting out wasteful spending, just simply following established procedure. Nine days after she took office, the Alaskan government already had three planes on eBay.

Unfortunately, her luxury jet never sold (big shock). So who’d she sell it to? Tee hee. She didn’t actually sell it, either.

Dan Spencer, director of administrative services at Alaska's Public Safety Department, informed the media that John Harris, the speaker of the Alaska House, arranged a sale to Larry Reynolds, a businessman who made campaign contributions to both Mrs. Palin and Mr Harris. He ended up paying only $2.1m for the aircraft, and now wants $50,000 from the Alaskan taxpayer to cover maintenance costs.

She twists the truth to her own political advantage, the same as those she’s aiming to replace have for the last eight years.

5. Her “executive” experience as governor of the sparsely populated state of Alaska, all two years of it, does not make her better equipped to deal with serious issues, if something should happen to John McCain.

Want to know her thoughts on Iraq? "I haven't really focused much on the war in Iraq."
That’s an exact quote.

She is dangerously uncurious about the grave conflicts threatening our national security.

This contradictory record, a record that would have doomed her candidacy had she been in this election for more than a couple weeks, is starting to be unearthed by reporters. So the McCain camp has cried sexism. Deployed Fox News, right wing radio (both of which skewered Hillary Clinton on a regular basis) and other Republican media to yell into their microphones that a hatchet job is being done to poor, innocent, she-is-perfect-and-has-never-done-anything-wrong-so-don’t-look-plus-she-has-the-same-chromosomes-as-Hillary-so-all-of-her supporters-should-vote-for-us-Palin.

But now they’ve outdone themselves. Truly. In an era when energy is of grave concern, when our brave young men and women are being left to police a fatally dangerous country indefinitely, when our economy has more holes than one of Mrs. Palin’s convention anecdotes, the McCain camp has all media debating whether or not Obama’s lipstick comment was “directed” at Palin.

And now, considering all this attention it’s gotten, I think I agree.

Yes, of course it was aimed at her. And, after a little time to think about it, I discovered several more instances where I think Mrs. Palin is being disparaged by Obama. Let me share them with you.

Last year Barak Obama said Ho-Ho-Ho at Christmas. He must have been calling Mrs. Palin a ho! That jerk!

It’s rumored that Obama told his kids they could watch Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. You just know he meant his wife was the lady, and Mrs. Palin was the tramp! That chauvinist!

Obama’s campaign slogan is “Yes we can.” But he doesn’t explicitly state that Mrs. Palin can, too. He thinks Mrs. Palin can’t! That pig!

Barak Obama said he loves his wife. But he doesn’t say that Mrs. Palin is deserving of love! That woman hater!

We don’t know if Obama loves hockey, so Obama must hate hockey. Mrs. Palin’s a hockey mom! That evil man!

Obama repsonded to criticism by saying "you just have to brush your shoulders off." He's implying Mrs. Palin has dandruff! That monster!

(Stopped to puke in my mouth.)

When candidates do absolutely nothing but attack their opponents, make up stories like middle schoolers, pleading “but I was picked on” so that they won’t be held accountable for vandalizing a locker, it means they have no good ideas themselves. This is how Bush stayed in office. With short stories about swift boats.

This is also how McCain and Palin would slither into office.

Gleefully skipping down the red state road, all the while ginning up wildly fantastical charges of sexism, and screaming, “pay no attention to the frauds behind the podiums!”

Go here. Watch Obama’s comments and judge for yourself. If you think he’s calling Sarah Palin a pig, you’re a total idiot and shouldn’t be allowed to vote or operate a motor vehicle. In fact, you’re brain dead and should seek immediate medical attention.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBmd_OujjKM)

The Name Game

2008-09-09T22:24:00.009-05:00

What’s in a name? A lot.

Recently, I was watching a little football and, as usual this time of year, bombarded with commercials for fall shows that are destined to be short-lived clunkers.

So many things can bring about the destruction of a show. Poor chemistry amongst the actors, bad writing, a FOX sitcom that’s non-animated, or it airs on CBS. Truly, it seems like a crapshoot. Who knows what’s gonna happen?

Who would ever think Joey from friends (you know, Joey—dumb like Homer Simpson, only not funny in any way) couldn’t carry his own show, or that Ray Liotta’s Smith, a CBS tale of thieves who were less likeable than the Kardashians and Hiltons put together, would get the heave after three episodes? (Can I just ask, what the hell happened to Ray Liotta’s face? Where did all that pasty white skin and pitted acne scars come from? They weren’t there in Goodfellas. They weren’t. Ugh...these are the things that keep me up at night.)

But there is one surefire way to tell if a show will make it or not. It’s not the star appeal of the lead actresses, like on Desperate Housewives, and it’s not overbearing but emotionally cathartic music, like on Grey’s Anatomy.

The sink or swim measure is the Title Test.

Does the title roll off your tongue in a way where you can see easily see yourself saying, “Hey, I’d love to come hang out, but I gotta watch (insert title here) tonight.”

And not only must you be able to see yourself saying it without hesitancy or embarrassment, you must see yourself able to repeat it on a regular basis. Let’s give it a try.

“Hey, I can’t make it to the pick up basketball game because there’s a new Lost on tonight.” Okay, it works.

“I’m so stoked, there’s a new Pushing Daisies on at nine!” Feels good out the mouth.

“Can’t talk now, Nip-Tuck is on.” “I’ll be late, have to catch the Office.” Nice.

Let’s try the new action show starring Christian Slater on NBC (I know, I thought he was dead too.)

“I’ll have to come along next time, My Own Worst Enemy is on tonight.”

Huh? Feels like I’m coughing up globules of snot-covered gravel. And how many syllables is that? Three or four hundred? This show won’t make it to the spring.

Let’s try a couple of CBS shows (though we already know how this movie’s going to end). “Sorry I missed the P.T.A. meeting last night, I had to check out Gary Unmarried and Eleventh Hour.”

Eleventh Hour. What happened to the first ten? And they must not have much to do if there’s only one hour left. Feels like I missed too much already, or the show won’t be around very long. Either way, I’m not watching.

As for Gary Unmarried, they should re-title immediately. Sitcoms that work have an easy to follow noun or a strong verb.

Seinfeld. Family Guy. Friends. Everybody Loves Raymond. Curb Your Enthusiasm. (Yes, I love It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Yes, it’s the only exception).

The title test works for actors and actresses as well. For example, yeah you loved Knocked Up. But can you ever see yourself saying, “I’ve GOT to see that new Katherine Heigl comedy!” (Change the name with Will Ferrell and the point leaps from this page and smacks you on the face.)

Want to know how the new thriller, Eagle Eye, will do at the box office? Say this out loud. “I’m going to make sure I buy tickets on fandango for that new Shia LaBeouf movie.” That film’s going to do worse than Sheeeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhh’s right thumb after he decided to take Optimus Prime out for a fun night of drinking and driving. (For more on this, read here http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/07/27/shia-labeouf-dui-arrest-a_n_115205.html)

Now we’ll gage the new picture, Burn After Reading, which works on multiple levels. “Can’t wait to see the new Brad Pitt movie.” “I’ve got to check out that new George Clooney film.” “I have to see the new Cohen Brothers flick.”

Brightens my day just to say it.

Of course, the sad thing is, Sandra Bullock, George Lucas, and Robin Williams all once passed this test.

Ah well. I better stop. The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer is about to come on.

Oh wait. It’s not.

Top 5 Movies of Summer 2008

2008-07-27T14:34:00.011-05:00

While perusing the old blog, I came to the realization that readers may get the impression I hate and mock all movies. So here is my list for the top summer (as in May-July) films of 2008. And unlike Colin Powell at the United Nations, you can trust my reporting. One caveat, there was an enormous scarcity of dramas this summer. So no smart alec comments like, "Summer of the Super Hero." Which it was.

5. Iron Man
Unlike Amy Winehouse, Robert Downey Jr. has always said yes, yes, yes to rehab, and I’m glad he has. The sometimes sober thespian created the coolest comic book hero since Michael Keaton’s Batman and his snarky Tony Snark routine never gets old. His smart mouthed Iron Man is what Toby McGuire’s sissified Spider-Man should be. While the movie did get bogged down in too much of Iron Man’s birth, the action scenes were tight and near perfect. The most surprising aspect the film? Gwyneth Paltrow was attractive and charming.

4. Hancock
Half comedy, half action flick, half love story. Sorry, President Bush was my math tutor. The idea of Superman as bitter, brooding, and drowning in Wild Turkey is certainly the most original concept to come out of Hollywood since Britney Spears had facial reconstructive surgery and restarted her career under the alias Miley Cyrus. Will Smith delivers the one liners as seamlessly as he displays the dramatic, Jason Bateman brings comedy and heart, and Charlize Theron is strong without trying to steal the spotlight from Smith. As a topping cherry, there is an excellent plot twist that anyone who isn’t an old crotchety lemon sucker will love. I would have liked to see more of Hancock while he was the drunken a$$hole, but then I wonder if that would have made it less funny and more monotonous.

3. Stepbrothers
The question for you, the reader, is simple. Did you like Talladega Nights and the 40 Year Old Virgin? If the question is no, STAY AWAY from this movie. And if the answer is no you should also probably see a doctor about whatever long, sharp item it is you have lodged between your buttocks. Recently, I’ve been forced to watch cliché filled, predictable romantic comedies (most of them starring Ryan Reynolds, who I really liked until seeing We’re Just Friends and Definitely, Maybe) and was ecstatic to view an R-rated, adult comedy. Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly have more chemistry than Bill Clinton and...no. No intern jokes. They’re too easy. Come on, Brad. Think. Oooh, oooh! More chemistry than Bill Clinton and poorly thought out free trade agreements. (See, that’s why I stick to Lewinsky. NAFTA jokes never kill. They just don’t.)

Quick side note. Microsoft Word has Lewinsky plugged into the Spell Checker. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and test it. I’ll wait...

See! Isn’t that awful? Does Hillary’s torture never end?

Back to the movie. The stepbrothers conjure laughs in every scene they’re allowed to dominate. But sometimes Apatow, the writer behind all these movies like Knocked Up and Wedding Crashers, becomes a little self-obsessed and wastes our time with a homage to the popular culture of his youth, such as one supporting character’s family singing Sweet Child of Mine. And while the stepbrothers’ scatological humor is always funny, the truth cannot be said for the supporting characters. Overall, you’ll laugh 84 percent of the time.

1 B. Batman: The Dark Knight
Dark. The movie is dark. Did I mention its dark? Yes, this isn’t your daddy’s Batman and it is undoubtedly not your mother’s Joker. Heath Ledger gives the last and greatest performance of his life as a maniacal sociopath. This murderous anarchist version of the Joker is as far from the 70's version as knock off purple drinks are from grape Kool-Aid. He’s not watered down sugar and food coloring, he’s pure, concentrated evil without a cause. If Anthony Hopkins deserved a best supporting Oscar for his small role in Silence of the Lambs, then Ledger should receive one for Dark Knight. And yes, I’d say this if he was alive. Two of his scenes—his monologue to Dent about chaos, and his speech to Batman as he hangs off the side of a building, are two of the finest bits of cinema I’ve ever seen. The special effects for Two Face’s mangled face are spot on and creepy. Christopher Nolan, the film’s director, obviously took some cues from the animated series that ran in the late 90’s. The film is gritty, on the edge, and without sympathy for its characters. On a more sour note, can we all stop pretending that Maggie Gyllenhaal is attractive? She’s not. Not in any way. She's like a skull wearing a brown wig. Her bitter scowls and frowns are about as endearing as the old lady version of Snow White’s witch, and I’m tired of her being forced into movies I want to see. All this said, she was a sliver better than Katie Holmes in Batman Begins. But since Mrs. Cruise became a scientologist robot, her acting chops are somewhere between a comatose gorilla and a box of Wheat Thins.

1A. Kung-Fu Panda.

That’s right. Kung-Fu Panda. Didn’t see that one coming, did you? The movie was hilarious from start to finish. The martial arts scenes were the coolest ones I’ve scene since the Matrix, and the voice acting was perfect. I mean, Angelina Jolie played a tigress and wasn’t even outlandishly breathy (see Beowulf). Like Hancock, this was a gem of originality in a summer that sorely lacked it. Jack Black voiced the Panda with...subtlety. Yeppers, he was nuanced and didn’t blast every line from a bazooka, as he’s prone to do in live action films. I will buy this on DVD the DAY it’s released, and this is the only movie on this list I’ll say that about. My single complaint was that it ended too quickly. The runtime was 1:31, but I could’ve sat there another hour or two.

Unwanted

2008-07-16T18:52:00.006-05:00

I recently viewed the movie Wanted. The special effects appeared neat and a friend wanted to go, so I went.

God help me. I went.

This film is a crapfest in the truest sense of the made-up word. The movie opens (and continues on like a steam engine into a concrete wall) with an awkward narrative by the film’s main character, played by the dentally challenged (no, that’s not a typo) James McAvoy. The Scottish accent, his only charming trait, is hidden, though his troglodyte chompers are not. There is a reason I couldn't find a single pic of him smiling and showing his teeth. But perhaps I'm being too superficial.

Back to the narrative. Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Notice how well his narration and lines aimed at the film’s audience worked? Wanted is like that, only if Paris Hilton and a retarded monkey—no, that’s not accurate—only if Paris Hilton and M Night Shyamalan wrote the script. Meaning it’s utterly stupid and boring to the point where I actually prayed the hyperactive statue of pubescence running the projector would spill his Code Mountain Dew and end my torture.

The story plods along with ridiculous concepts, such as the loom of fate (ba buh buh!) Yeppers, that’s what decides who Morgan Freeman’s secret society of assassins must kill. A literal textile loom weaves binary code, which is then checked with a magnifying glass by Freeman, and translated into an ordered assassination. That’s not sarcasm. That’s actually what the writers came up with. (Quit looking ath the loom! He'll kill ya!)

The other great farce is how they bend the bullets—the one thing that looked cool about this celebration of suck. Want to know how they do it? Here’s Freeman’s explanation.
“If no one ever told you bullets only shot straight, why would you think you couldn’t curve the shot?”

The Oompa Loompa Wrangler would think that you can be as ignorant as you want of basic physics and aerodynamics, but he’ll wipe your butt and call you Sally if you can make the bullet bend just because you decided to cup your ears during freshman Physical Science 101. Honestly, how can these writers not slit their wrists and rid the world of their hackery?

The film, after one or two scenes that met my approval only because they took screen violence to knew heights (such as all the explosive headshots, or the part where McAvoy shoots three guys with a gun he has lodged in another man’s eyesocket) ends with a mass suicide/killing and McAvoy insulting the audience. He drones on about how boring the average person’s life is, shoots someone, then says, “What the fu—did you today?” Roll credits and lame, testosterone drenched rock song.

The acting was magnificent in its atrociousness. Angelina Jolie cashed in on a paycheck and sleepwalked through the film, making it a long time since she showed off any true acting chops. Morgan Freeman became a caricature of a good guy you know is secretly bad, and uttered an expletive at the end that was so out of character it would be like Michael Vick doing a voice over for Pound Puppies.

If you see this movie showing at your theater, you should consider burning the theater down. It’s what the Loom of Fate demands!

My Grade: D--(Why not an F? Because I got to see a dude firing a handgun that was located in another dude’s skull, blowing out holes and chips of bone and brain AND hitting other dudes with the same shots. That’s good for two minuses.)

The Fertile Myrtle Experience

2008-06-19T11:02:00.022-05:00

The summer vacation is one of the quintessential American experiences. The beach. The salt water swelling and coating your skin like some piece of sausage being preserved on the Oregon Trail. Noticing that you’re on the fourteenth floor, then realizing that there is no thirteenth floor, which means you’re on the thirteenth floor. So, because I’m a lazy American and like things boiled down to their most basic structure, here is a list of things I encountered on my South Carolina Odyssey.

1. Large men screaming on elevators are scary. A tall man tried to break the awkward silence of the elevator by shouting at the top of his lungs, then saying with a wry grin, “gotcha.” My gut instinct was to shove him through the glass window and watch with self-satisfaction as he plunged to his shocking, well-deserved death. Instead we all enjoyed an exhausted laugh. There hadn’t been that much relief in a confined space since Magic Johnson’s doctor informed that rich people can’t die of A.I.D.S. (Don' be so sensitive. Why do you think he's always smiling?)

2. Alcohol buzzes don’t last when battling six foot waves. After you’ve been drinking, most any idea sounds like a great one. Here are some responses that you might normally hear from people who are a bit inebriated:
“I don’t know, I think he/she is pretty hot.”
“What could one more hurt?”
“As long as it doesn’t explode, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re right, I am tired of living in Texas. I think I’ll run for president.”

This beach trip, I christened a new one:
“Undertow? I don’t believe in undertow.”

Needless to say, after a few mai-tais, and half an hour of battling for my life in the Atlantic, I kind of felt like a cross between Lindsey Lohan and Mark Walberg when he was staring up at the sun in The Perfect Storm. You know, when he was trapped in the eye of the hurricane...just before he drowned.

3. Putt-putt is taken way too seriously by my family. While I like to take my time working out a shot, I do realize that this is still a game where the only necessary skill required is the ability to smack a little white ball into the mouth a mountain lion or clown, and hope that fate spits the ball out somewhere near the cup and not into the tiny stream of dyed-blue water.

My mother and father, however, view this as the U.S. Open. Between my father’s painstakingly intense analyzation of every hole, to my mother’s Tiger Woods like ability to finish off every cup in two strokes, I was too intimidated to compete for even second place.

4. My brother, who for some reason was driving faster than Ted Kennedy after a date, genuinely believes he can defeat a wild bear in hand to hand combat.

As we were careening through the mountains of Ashville, North Carolina, the following conversation occurred:
Wrangler: “If Al Cowlings had driven this speed, O.J. would have made it to Mexico. You’re missing all the pretty scenery. Like those mountains up there.”
Kyle (deadly serious, glaring from the corner of his right eye): You think there are bears up there?
W: I imagine so.
K (still Tom Cruise intense): I could take one.
W: Take what?
K: A bear. Like a grizzly bear.
W: You mean like in a fight? If you had a gun, or maybe a giant sword?
K: No. With my hands. (Slowly lifts BOTH hands off steering wheel.)
W: Put your damn hands back on the wheel! And that bear’s claws would rip off your lower jaw and eat it in one gulp. With your freakin’ hands. You’re out of your gourd.
K: (shakes head in disagreement) No. I could take him.

5. Toilets may also double as bidets. Emergency bathroom visits can be categorized into levels. One day, when I don’t have a manuscript, or manny in Wrangler speak, to revise, I’ll blog that one out for both of my readers. On the way to a putt-putting destination, I was hit with a level 8—The Sickness.

The Sickness is when your stomach writhes, and it feels that everything below your waist is in imminent danger of spontaneously combusting. I imagine this is what it feels like to swallow a helium balloon. As I have made it a personal goal to frequent every toilet in the southeast, I chose the Food Lion. And my time on the porcelain throne went well. Until I depressed the shiny metal lever.

To say that the toilet erupted would be an understatement. Like saying that John McCain’s oratory style reminds me of the Crypt Keeper bin Tales from the Crypt. It didn’t erupt, it detonated. As my bare behind was drenched in toilet bowl water (yes, you should feel nauseous right now), I tried the retreat and hover technique. But the geyser’s strength knew no limits and followed me the six inches into the air.

Needless to say, I did not enjoy my Food Lion enema.

But I did enjoy the game of cutthroat putt-putt afterwards.

The Great Plague of Washington D.C.

2008-06-04T18:14:00.010-05:00

Politics is my second passion, just behind stealing toilet paper from upscale restaurants. And while you won’t see me on Hardball being covered in Chris Matthews shout-slobber, or doing interviews with CNN’s very own Duke of Dull, Anderson Cooper, you are privileged to have me reporting live from the wrangler’s den.

Briefly, I’d like to discuss a frightening new disease that’s sweeping through D.C. and infecting politicians on both sides of the isle. I’m talking, of course, about Lasting Inability to Accept Reality, or LIAR’s.

First Case Study: George W. Bush, President (R), United States

On May 1st 2003, aboard the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, the great dumbass cowboy of our time said: “In the Battle of Iraq, the United States and our allies have prevailed. And now our coalition is engaged in securing and reconstructing that country.”

However, insurgents from Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and every other Middle Eastern country that ends in the two letters –AN did not agree with this assessment. They also forgot to mention this to the Sunni and the Shiite, who seem to get along slightly less well than FEMA and coastal cities.

Reality: Nearly 4,000 troops killed as of May 1st 2008.

Dubya Reality: This is an interesting case because his divergent reality is two-fold. First, he...ahem...his spokespeople say that he only meant combat operations were over for that particular ship. I know, I know, you think I’m making this up.

Well then here’s this little tidbit from White House press secretary Dana Perino:

“President Bush is well aware that the banner should have been much more specific and said 'mission accomplished' for these sailors who are on this ship on their mission.” “And we have certainly paid a price for not being more specific on that banner.”

Second, Bush has an alternate reality facilitator. An evil wizard that keeps him submerged in a dastardly spell, a spell that convinces him that his poop smells like cotton candy, global warming is great because we can have orange groves in Alaska, and the war is going swimmingly.

It’s the man who even tells his own mother to go f*** herself—Darth Cheney.

What lies could he possibly be whispering into Dubya’s ear? What could he say to make Bush think he’s Tom Cruise in Risky Business, making all the right moves while the serious adults are out of the White House?

We’ll let shotgun Cheney speak for himself:

“Think about what would have happened if Abraham Lincoln had paid attention to polls, if they had had polls during the Civil War. He never would have succeeded if he hadn't had a clear objective, a vision for where he wanted to go, and he was willing to withstand the slings and arrows of the political wars in order to get there.”

Diagnosis: A person free of LIAR’s, that actually lives in this realm, must tell Dubya that he’s not Abraham Lincoln and I.E.D.’s are not the Iraqi equivalent of flowers and candy.

(The Associated Press contributed to this report.)

Second Case Study: Larry Craig, Senator (R), Idaho.

The good senator from Idaho once said of Bill Clinton, “I will tell you that the Senate certainly can bring about a censure resolution and it's a slap on the wrist. It's a, ‘Bad boy, Bill Clinton. You're a naughty boy.’”

As it turns out, old Craiggers decided to engage in some naughtiness of the more freaky variety himself. And he didn’t even need an intern.

According to Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport police Sgt. Dave Karsnia, the Craig Mac Daddy tapped his right foot, “a signal used by persons wishing to engage in lewd conduct.” Craig then ran his left hand several times underneath the partition dividing the stalls.

Karsnia explained that Craig's blue eyes were clearly visible through the crack in the door.

"Craig would look down at his hands, 'fidget' with his fingers, and then look through the crack into my stall again,” Karsnia wrote in documents accompanying the arrest report.

“The presence of others did not seem to deter Craig as he moved his right foot so that it touched the side of my left foot, which was within my stall area.”

After Craig ran his hand underneath the partition wall three times, Karsnia held his police identification down by the floor so the senator could see it, the report said.

“With my left hand near the floor, I pointed towards the exit.

(Here comes this wrangler’s favorite part!!!)

“Craig responded, 'No!'

“I again pointed towards the exit. Craig exited the stall with his roller bags without flushing the toilet.”

Reality: Craiggers wanted to get his horndog on with another man in a bathroom stall and signaled this by using a method common to all other horndogs who find airport bathroom stalls hot. (Paris Hilton, George Michael, and Pee Wee Herman are names that immediately come to mind.)

And Craig, while turned on by white ceramic tile and strange, sweaty palms, is still clearly a rude male as he neglected to flush the toilet.

Craig plead guilty to disorderly conduct

Craig’s Reality (as of 2 months later when his fellow homophobes turned on him and wanted his resignation):

“Let me be clear: I am not gay and never have been," said Craig, who has aligned himself with conservative groups who oppose gay rights.

With his wife by his side, Craig said he is the victim of a "witch hunt" conducted by the Idaho Statesman newspaper.

“In pleading guilty, I overreacted in Minneapolis, because of the stress of the Idaho Statesman's investigation and the rumors it has fueled around Idaho,” he said. “Again, that overreaction was a mistake, and I apologize for my misjudgment.”

Diagnosis: A “hands down” case of LIAR’s. Let us hope that Craig seeks treatment so that he can once again join us in reality.

(CNN's Dana Bash and Jessica Yellin contributed to this report.)

Third Case Study: Hillary Clinton, Senator (D), New York

“I’ll be making no decisions tonight.”

Most people would assume that, with those words, Hillary Clinton effectively shot Barack Obama the middle finger. That she is the worst sore loser in the history of U.S. politics, or at least of this century.

(Let us not forget Chester A. Arthur, our 21st president (1881-1885). He tied his victorious primary opponent to a horse and dragged him through a cactus field until the man bled to death and he was named the nominee. Okay, so I made that up.)

Some people might think she is being tyrannically stubborn by not acknowledging the race is over, especially considering that Obama has clinched the official number of delegates to make him the democratic nominee (not the “presumptive” nominee, THE democratic nominee for president.)

But it’s not true. Hillary simply has a severe case of LIAR’s and has chose to substitute her reality for the actual one.

Reality: The race is over. There are no more delegates to be had. Florida and Michigan made a power play to be moved up in the primary schedule and lost. Their votes have been rationed out to Obama and Clinton.

Hill-Nasty’s Reality: The race will be over when she wins it. She’s put up with too much (Bill, I’m looking in your specific direction) over the years to stop now. She had this race wrapped up two years ago. She had every democrat vote. Black, white, guy and gal. SHE HAD IT. All until some political neophyte with a funny name started making speeches and making her appear to be the “establishment” candidate. Even the sleeper cell evil radicalist Muslim card didn’t stop him.

Now her surrogates must go out and tell all that mean old media (the same mean old media that made Bill Clinton’s perjury look like jaywalking and broadcast her “evil, rightwing conspiracy” message everyday during her boy’s impeachment proceedings) that they are the reason she lost.

Her people are even saying that she’s now considering her options and how best to proceed. And no, that doesn’t sound like the captain of the Titanic deciding on the best route to sail after the ship was hit by an iceberg.

The path to victory is simple for her now. Hill-dog can win more primaries and overtake him.

She just has to find a way to add some more states to the union.

Diagnosis: If Hillary is not made President, she will tear a hole in the space-time continuum and kill us all. She may be afflicted with severe LIAR’s, but please, think of you children. Just give it to her already.

(click http://youtube.com/watch?v=kN9vm95SocU for Hillary's official themse song, her love song to the Oval Office. She keeps losing the nomination. But then that political power bug bites her...and she's back!)

Mr. Magua Goes to Washington

2008-05-26T11:22:00.018-05:00

Politics is one of my favorite topics, just ahead of Hannah Montana and facial gangrene. So when I came across a certain quote by a certain senator, I felt compelled to add my voice to the thousands of other hack bloggers who believe that the world needs to know how they feel about everything.

I present to you Senator Arlen Specter, who is currently leading a bloodthirsty, merciless vengeance quest against the New England Patriotsm, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Magua tried to kill every white man in sight in Last of the Mohicans.

Apparently the good senator, who seems to be bored with trivial issues like the cacophony of carnage in Iraq and the George “W” economy (the W stands for “whoa,” as in “Whoa, never thought I’d have to take a second job as a stripper to pay for gas,”) feels that the Patriots broke NFL rules by taping opponents during games and using that footage to make changes to their game plan at halftime.

I’ll be honest. I hate the New England Patriots. I hate them as I hate all Montagues, Hell, and thee. I hate them more than John McCain hates bamboo, more than Amy Winehouse hates an empty crackpipe, more than Jordan Sparks hates not eating donuts and quarter-pounders, and I even hate them more than Dick Cheney hates babies and puppy dogs.

They’re the National Footballs League’s version of Biff Henderson (Back to the Future reference, stay with me people). You root against them every week because they are smug, condescending, and drenched in an arrogance that makes Simon Cowell look humble. I root against them every week. Not just when my team, Heaven’s own Indianapolis Colts, plays them. And I don’t just want them to lose, I want them to get destroyed. There isn’t a number in mathematical theory that could be higher than the number of points I’d like to see them lose by.

And when the Pennsylvanian senator first started making noise about what has been termed “Spygate” (can we please stop naming every controversy by taking the subject and adding “gate?” IT’S NOT A SUFFIX. -LESS, -LY, -FUL, ARE SUFFIXES. NIXON IS DEAD. LET IT GO) I was actually a little giddy. This was my chance to discredit every win they’ve had over the last decade. I didn’t even mind that Arlen was doing all this because the Patriots had beaten his two state teams, the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Philadelphia Eagles, in the playoffs.

Hell, what did I care why they were being smeared? The great thing was that they were being smeared. Kind of like if Osama Bin Laden was killed by his brother for sleeping with his sister in law, even though poor Osama was innocent. Is it justice? Probably not. Is it good for humanity? Yes. Yes. Yes.

I'm telling you bro, that wasn't your woman!

Then old Arlen went and said this:

“If you can cheat in the NFL, you can cheat in college, you can cheat in high school, you can cheat on your grade-school math test. There's no limit as to what you can do.”

Ah, the logic that only a career politician can dream up. If the Patriots cheated (and make no mistake, they did) then little Johnny will cheat on his finger-painting assignment in first grade.

Much like Tipper Gore claimed rock music made children terrible scamps or Joe Lieberman wanted to blame violent video games for everything but the Iraq War he so staunchly loves, Arlen now wants to blame yet another preposterous source for children’s poor behavior.

Of course he doesn’t mention that one of his major contributors, Philadelphia-based Comcast, is currently in a battle with the NFL after Comcast made the NFL network a premium channel and cost the football league millions of viewers. Is it all possible that he’s putting the NFL to the coals on behalf of his campaign cash cow?

“They have been a campaign contributor,” says Specter, “along with 50,000 other people ... I've been at this line of work for a long time, and no one has ever questioned my integrity.”

Right. And Africans were brought to America so that they could be free from the terror of lions and rhinos, not enslaved for free labor.

As much as I loathe the Patriots, the idea that they’re cheating will make my kid steal the answer key to his American History final makes is laughable at best, and political pandering at worst. Particularly when the esteemed senator has several other mighty fine reasons for gunning after Satan’s Patriots, including but not limited to “Government-raise-your-kidsgate” or “Comcastgate” (dammit, now I’m doing it!).

So, I invite all my readers, all two of you, to call up Arlen Specter and ask him to investigate other things instead, like why the government allowed the oil industry to buy up all the alternative technologies developed over the last thirty years, or why Halliburton was given an unprecedented cost plus twenty percent contract for its services in Iraq.

Do it for kindergarteners everywhere.

Oscar Night 2008!

2008-03-07T01:08:00.036-06:00

Ah, Oscar night. Another chance for Bjork to wear a dead carcass for a dress. Another chance for some pretentious actor (Sean Penn, I’m speaking in your specific direction) to hold pat while the band plays, like a first-grader refusing to put away their jump rope and come in from recess. Another chance for Gary Busey to kiss Jennifer Garner on the neck. And one more opportunity to see if the Oscar statue comes equipped with man-junk. (After a few good close-ups, I can confidently report that Oscar, much like Adrian Brody, Elijah Wood, and that kid who saw dead people, is a eunuch.)

I love the Oscars, and this year, I actually saw four of the five nominated films. I skipped Atonement because I’m tired of watching Stuart Townsend dress up in drag and star in British period pieces. You didn’t know Stuart Townsend and Keira Knightly were the same person? Well sheesh, I thought everybody knew that...

Since nobody but Matt Damon cares about most of the awards (there will be no mention of The Bourne Ultimatum’s THREE Oscars--Achievement in Sound Editing, Sound Mixing and Film Editing, other than to say that must be the greatest sounding movie of all times ever, ever), let’s hit the highlights.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY-->Juno, Diablo Cody
I can think of no better place to start than Diablo Cody, Hollywood’s very own pretty woman, only without those Julia Roberts, collagen soaked lips.Not since the Hillbillies moved to Beverly Hills has white trash had a better day. Actually, I jest. I’ll go ahead and ruin the surprise by saying I felt Juno was clearly the best picture, with scenes that made me run the gamut of emotions. It was kind of like Neapolitan Ice Cream, while No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood were tasty, but uni-flavored. I have to say (and this is the only time in my life you’ll hear me say this) that stripper has talent.

BEST ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE-->Tilda Swinton, Michael Clayton

Swinton’s the tallest ginger I’ve ever seen. She was cold, anxious, and by the end of it, ready to kill the man who threatened her powerful position and potentially even more powerful future. No, I’m not talking about Hillary Clinton after Iowa (though what she did to Obama before the Texas and Ohio primaries might as well have been attempted murder. "No, I don’t think he’s a radical Muslim undercover." Wink wink.) I must admit I thought Cate Blanchett would get this for portraying a man, Bob Dylan in I’m Not There. The clips looked amazing.

Stuart-Keira was jealous.

BEST ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE-->Javier Bardiem, No Country for Old Men.
Anton Chigurh, the bowl cut-sporting, shotgun-wielding psychopath, was delightfully logical in his murderous ways. Imagine if Dick Cheney was 40 years younger, Spanish, and had an unlimited supply of hunting buddies. That’s the only way I could see someone have more fun killing innocent people. Tom Wilkinson, from Michael Clayton, was the only other nominee I saw from this category. If you want to duplicate his performance, just drink 20 cups of coffee, muss your hair about, and say the following:
“Blah, blah, blah, I am Shiva the destroyer, blah, blah, blah, I know everything about (insert wild conspiracy theory). Blah, blah, blah.”

Can you tell that I’m not wild about this movie?

Ooh, ooh, I almost forgot Bardiem’s closing speech which was the mascot for the night’s No Oscars for American Actors theme:

Mama esto es para ti. Esto es para tus abuelos, para tus padres, Rafael y Matilde. Esto es para los comicos de Espana que han traido la dignidad y el orgullo a nuestro oficio. Esto es para Espana. Y esto es para todos vosotros.

Translation: Mama, this is for you. This is for your grandparents, this is for your parents, Rafael and Matilda. This is for the actors of Spain that have brought dignity and pride to our craft. And this is for all of you.

Thanks, Javier. I appreciate that.

I had a great joke about NAFTA until I remembered he was Spanish, not Mexican. But...can I tell it anyway? Promise you won’t be mad? Promise?

’Kay.

Well, at least one good thing came from NAFTA! Ha, ha, ha...ha...ha?

Whatever.

BEST ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE-->Marion Cotillard, La Vie en Rose.
Typical Oscar formula. Take beautiful person. Add makeup, new hairline, off-putting eyebrows. Age and marinate in tears. This is me not impressed.

*
This---------------------------->Plus This-------------------->Equals This

And you can stop calling me ignorant. I do watch foreign films, with subtitles. EVEN in the theater. Need I remind anyone that Selma Hayek went from being just another piece of cinema eye candy to Oscar worthy because she donned some funky eyebrows and a mustache in Frida.

BEST ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE-->Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
This man turns me into James Lipton, from Inside the Actor’s Studio. Seriously, all I can do is gush about the Irishman. (But I mean really Mr. Lipton, Martin Lawrence? Martin Lawrence? From Big Momma’s House? What, were none of the Wayans brothers available that night? But I digress...) Have you seen him in Gangs of New York? When Danny boy was nominated for Best Actor in 2002? Well, this was better. There’s a reason he only does a movie every six or seven years. He BECOMES the role. He channels the part and there is no more Daniel Day Lewis, only his character. He’s totally believable as anyone.

He’s even better than when Bush played the war hero in the 2004 election. Sure, during the Vietnam War his daddy snared him a spot in the National Guard so that he could protect the United States from the ever present threat of a Mexican invasion, but did you see him on that aircraft carrier? Kerry could’ve done ten tours in Vietnam. It wouldn’t have mattered. Bush became the hero.

Daniel’s like that, only his performances don’t cause wars and recessions.

Now, I’m skipping best director because I feel like the director of the Best Picture should win Best Director. Just seems like common sense to me. Of course, this is Hollywood, where they make movies like Norbit, Battlefield Earth, and give Julia Roberts an Oscar for showing her boobs. (Does anything show the Academy’s chauvinistic tendencies more than that? Trying to figure out why she deserved an Oscar is even more confusing than deciding which one of Forest Whitaker’s lazy eyes is the one to look at. I swear to God, sometimes I think the Academy is just a Mardi Gras-balcony, full of inebriated, male college students. And they’ve got way too many beads.)

"Forest, are you checking out my rack?"

"Part of me is."
*

BEST PICTURE-->No Country for Old Men
Best picture is a tough one for me. No Country was brilliant, and passed the test of being even better the second time I saw it. I consider it a snap-shot movie, like Pulp Fiction or Eastern Promises. You look in on the characters for a while, then the credits roll. Sometimes you’re satisfied with the plot (Pulp Fiction), sometimes you feel short changed (Eastern Promises). With No Country, I was kind of like Freddie Mercury, somewhere in between.

There Will Be Blood was a film with breathtaking cinematography and told the story of a character that seemed limitless in his complexity. However, there were some establishing shots that had me wondering if they ran out of money before they hired an editor.

Because I have doubts about the greatness of this film if Mr. Lewis had not turned in one of the greatest performances since Al Pacino portrayed Michael Corleone, I have to rule it out.

Michael Clayton. Yawn. I found the movie more pretentious than Tina Fey’s pro Hillary rant on Saturday Night Live (I didn’t even know SNL was still on the air, much less shouting "bitch is the new black" from the fake news desk, classy). The flick was wildly boring, and overlaid with a score that was so overbearing, I considered watching the film in subtitles on mute. But yes, in order to appease my mother, I will acknowledge that I see her point when she stated that, “George Clooney is about the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”

Juno, the little movie that could. I laughed, I almost cried (for the lady readers who enjoy my blog, I did tear up. For the guys, I didn’t even come close. Insert Hillary wink). To me the movie nailed my number one requirement. Give me a story where 99% of the characters are dynamic. Let me see them happy, sad, funny, jealous, smug, vulnerable, likeable and annoying. And even though I’m a happy ending kind of guy, the resolution the film delivered was heart-warming (yes, I said “heart-warming,” I know I’m lame. Leave me alone) but still realistic. The music was seemingly matched up to the scenes by some all-knowing, divine force, and EVERYBODY in the movies played their part flawlessly. None of them tried to do too much. My only complaint was one teenage girl’s line, “Really, honest to blog?” But that’s a small price to pay for the story that was told.

God, I love Oscar night.

Revenge of the Horse

2008-03-03T18:43:00.003-06:00

I’m tired of being gouged by bloodthirsty insurance providers. If it’s not my health insurance biting a chunk out of my wallet, it’s the auto parasites over at State Farm. For instance, I have to pay the Farm Bureau $25 a year for the privilege of purchasing health insurance through them (to the tune of $140 a month, with riders on the only medications I take regularly. And no, it’s not methadone).

What in the holy hell do I need a membership to the FARM Bureau for? And then it hit me. Maybe the membership could get me a discount on horse feed.

Eureka.

I can buy a horse. This would negate the need for a car and for auto insurance! (I don’t think the law requires Mr. Ed insurance. Perhaps I’ll call Lindsay Lohan and find out. I’m fairly certain she’s not allowed to drive motorized vehicles anymore.)

As an added bonus, I can use my horse, who I’ve tentatively named Sarah Jessica Parker, to take revenge on all those Devil worshippers who park too closely in shopping mall parking lots. Finally, those who believe their luxury SUV also comes with a pass to park over the lines will have their comeuppance.

Imagine their horror when they return to their Escalade or Navigator and find that big Sarah has taken a mighty, massive, meaty Equus shit all over their car. Picture their rage as I calmly explain that, if only they hadn’t parked so closely, their car would be free of horse excrement.

And I’ll be free of these sycophantic insurance “providers.”

Get em' Sarah!

Embracing the Bitterness

2008-02-20T20:33:00.009-06:00

This post temporarily removed by the High King of this blog.

My Happy Place (Not That, You Pervert)

2008-02-16T18:51:00.004-06:00

The Batcave.

Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion.

Gilligan’s island.

These are all places of sanctuary for men who desperately needed them. All guys have such places. My place of refuge is far more simple—the bathroom. The smaller the better and preferably with dim lighting. The bathroom is a bastion of higher-level thinking, a testosterone-doused Shangri-La where my mind enters a Zen like state of ingenuity. When I need to work out a rewrite for my novels—it’s off to the throne. If I need a blog idea and I’m more stumped than Tom Delay in a Political Ethics class—I head for the head. And it’s not that I even use the toilet or the sink. Sometimes I’ll just sit there on the icy, ceramic tile floor, cold and naked. Well, that’s only half true, and I’m not telling which half.

The point is that the bathroom is my bankey, the one thing in life, other than gin and doctor’s offices, that seems to calm my nerves. So, at my new post as a 7th grade teacher, I immediately found the nearest teacher’s restroom. The room is near perfect. Dim lighting, a mirror that contains no sexual organs or phone numbers scored into it, and an always clean, porcelain toilet. The only drawback is the toilet paper. As usual for public sector jobs, the material is somewhere between sandpaper and mutated porcupine pricklies dipped in radioactive hot sauce. To be far less eloquent, the paper corrodes the anus. (And oddly enough, even though I’ve done a Brokeback Mountain post, that is the first anus reference on this blog).

But I overlooked the toilet paper’s shitty nature (I couldn’t resist) and found peace in my new bathroom away from home. Until the day I forgot to lock the deadbolt on the door. See, the door handle lock is broken, and since Bush has yet to force his “No Bathroom Door Handle Left Behind Law” through Congress (and I’m glad he hasn’t because then we’d have to give all toilets A’s, even if they couldn’t flush), the only way to secure the door is with the deadbolt.

Yesterday I strolled into the bathroom, dropped trow and made for a tinkle. I left the stall door wide open, confident that the bolt was latched.

It was not.

I can’t truly describe the look of horror on the elderly sixth grade teacher’s face as she trundled into the restroom, expecting it to be vacant. If forced to give an account, I’d say her facial expression was close to Carrie’s on prom night, only not as pleased.

I stammered ineptly through some barely coherent explanation. Something like, “Whoops—hey—guess I didn’t lock it...uhm...geez. Sorry?”

I don’t know if she forgave me or not. By the time my Rain Man impersonation reached the apology, there was nothing left of her but a cartoon silhouette and the scent of deep regret.

I do know this: I felt more violated than Kobe Bryant’s nanny.

Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne never had to put up with this.

All Grocery's Eve

2008-01-05T00:36:00.000-06:00

Crack and fizz. Ah the hope that springs with the popping of a fresh can of Yoohoo. The best chocolate drink since I blended a Hershey bar with genuine, straight from the vein, Smurf blood. (It gives it that smooth, hint of white cocoa aftertaste.) And, my few and faithful readers, venture ye a guess where this chilly non-diary drink hails from? Publix. The same Publix grocery store that shafted me out of a FULL 12 PACK earlier this year (See previous post). And stop your damned snickering, that stuff costs me $5.79 a pack. That’s more than Joan Rivers paid for her last nose, more than Donald Trump paid for his last wig, more than Paula Abdul paid for her last bottle of painkillers, more than Britney Spears has EVER paid for child care, hi-YO! (I’ll be here all night, remember to tip your waitress.)

But, if I might be serious, for just a moment. I know it’s been a long time since my last post. In that time I’ve been rejected by my dream agent (want to know what that one feels like? Try this. Pretend that someone tells you they want to cast you as the lead in the next Transformers flick, then wait two months without hearing anything, then imagine you receive an email saying that instead of casting you in the film, they’ve decided to feed your soul to Dick Cheney’s gremlin grandchildren), coming to terms with my decision to give up writing in pursuit of a law career, and realized I may need to overhaul my novel this summer. Life isn’t like a box of chocolates, folks, it’s like a box of rabid chipmunks, and there’s a hobo with halitosis pressing a gun to your head and forcing you to stick your hand in the box or else he’ll kill you, then take a leak on your brainless corpse. I know, I know, not graphic enough.

I’ve also seen a couple of movies. One good (No Country for Old Men) and one not so good (I Am Legend—though Will Smith was brilliant). I’ll have more on those in another post, hopefully. Mainly, I just wanted to give an update on the Yoohoo crisis, and also provide you with a hand dandy list (I love lists, they require such little skill to write). So without further adieu, here is my list for creeping people out at the grocery store. I field tested these techniques on Christmas Eve and guarantee their success.

The Abbreviated Grocery Creep-Out List

1. When in the Dairy isle, wait for someone to approach the milk. Then, just before they make their selection, reach in and gently caress the gallon they are about to select. After they recoil, look at them longingly and say, “it’s so white. It’s just sooo white.”

2. Open up the ice cream doors. Allow them to frost over. Draw sad faces with tears streaming down the cheeks. Wait until someone passes to close the door. Preferably someone with small children.

3. Ask the butcher if he’ll let you “play with the meat.” When he asks you what you mean, just wink at him, and say, “you know what I mean."

4. Drive your cart into the path of oncoming shoppers. Make sure to repetitively snap your left hand and mumble the words, “revelations, innards, marshmallow, fatted-calf, wiper-fluid, unrepentant, Tom Cruise, pestilence, driveshaft, venereal, and waterslide.”

5. At the checkout line, place your groceries on the conveyor belt without using the mighty plastic separator. Leave just enough room so that there’s a narrow, natural barrier between your items and the person checking out in front of you. You will be AMAZED how frantic people become without the separator.

Random Thoughts II

2007-12-09T11:04:00.000-06:00

Was there a fountain of sexy-youth on China Beach? Why has every woman on that show become significantly hotter with age?
Marg Helgenberger (right) Age 50.
Dana Delaney (left). Age 52.

So far the fruit industry has been well represented at the republican presidential debates. Fred Thomson looks like a plump, petrified raisin that’s been run through a dehydrator, then left to dry in the Sahara sun for about ten years. Ah well, good thing his young, blonde wife loves him for his sparkling, Scrooge on valium personality. Seriously, this guy is Jabba the Hut upright, and without the flair for charismatic speaking.

I never feel worse than when I’m holding up the line at the Post Office. I like for the agents in London to reject my work as much as the ones in the U.S., and it takes a minute to get all that international shipping business sorted out. You know, cause terrorists ship most of their biological weapons from middle Tennessee. I can feel the angry glares behind me, burning holes into the back of my neck. I bet this is what Barak Obama feels like every time he turns his back on Hillary.

If one more acne riddled grocery man-boy loads my groceries into the wrong person’s cart I’m going to hold one of those cellophane, takes ten thousand years to biodegrade bags over their heads, and murder them on the spot. Seriously, this is what I’ve lost in less than a week:
Yoo-Hoo 12 Pack (And yes I know it tastes better in a bottle, but I’m poor.)
2 Boxes Loaded Marshmallow Hot Chocolate (At this point, it’s hot chocolate or gin, so back off unless you want to pay for rehab.)
One Pack Orbitz Gum (This stuff isn’t cheap, it’s like the Heidi Fleiss of gums.)

On Extreme Makeover, Home Edition (my mother begged me to watch), there was a 6 year old obsessed with Abraham Lincoln. They redid his bedroom in all-Abe gear. It was the creepiest thing since John Travolta put on that transgender fat suit for Hairspray. Or was that Battlefield Earth? I can’t remember...

At my new job I had to give them my social security number so that I could purchase a tiny carton of milk in the cafeteria. I declined to buy a cookie because I was certain they’d need a blood sample.

In the things my family members actually said category: “Betty Crocker’s a stupid idiot.”
---My mother, upon reading Ms. Crocker’s recommendation that instant mash potatoes be used in making potato soup.

MySpace is the most narcissistic invention since the mirror. Naturally, I love it.

Running Diary: 30 Days of Night

2007-11-25T18:55:00.000-06:00

What does a 27 year-old male with good prospects do on a sunny Saturday afternoon? He goes on a picnic with his significant other, balances his checkbook with his latest paycheck, or maybe even goes house hunting.

Which is why I went to see a movie by myself. Don’t cringe, its not the first time. Or the second. And with the state of most members of the opposite sex (that’s right, I blame you) it won’t be the last.

My choices were unusually good for the first of November. There’s American Gangster, but I’m afraid Denzel will make murderous drug pushing look so cool that I’ll want to become a sales rep for Phillip Morris.

Saw IV...sigh. I quit watching the first one after some tiny, crack addict-looking white dude whooped up on 8’9’’ 400lb. Danny Glover. I could buy Keanu Reeves as an FBI AGENT (!) before I could that. So that’s out.

Something else with the name Tyler Perry on it. That might be good. Who doesn’t love stereotypical comedy that isn’t criticized because the creator is part of the minority being stereotyped?

Me, that’s who.

Across the Universe...okay so I love musicals, the Beatles, Julie Taymor, and Evan Rachel Wood. Ummmm...Evan Rachel Wood (insert Homer Simpson doughnut drool). But I think I should wait and see if I can’t get a date for this movie. (I heard that snicker. Now I’m crying. I hope you’re happy. )

Evan...my love.

Hey. 30 Days of Night has a 1:40 showing. For those of you unfamiliar with the premise, let Yahoo movies help you out:

In Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost town in the U.S, the winter sun sets and does not rise for 30 days and nights. From the darkness comes an evil force that strikes terror on the town.

Excellent. I love vampires. And snow. I think movies based on graphic novels rock I mean, what is a graphic novel but a storyboard with words. And 300 was friggin sweet. Multiple decapitations and stabbings. (Though the one sex scene was awkward, certainly shot by someone with a nipple fetish.) Plus, I think the leading lady, Melissa George is hot bordering on superhot (those categories will be defined in a later blog). And I have a secret mancrush on Josh Hartnett. Hells yeah, this is my show.

Hey Stella!

I arrive in the theater just in time because a mom, her three rabid kids, and her malfunctioning VISA take forever to get their tickets for Bee Movie (yay, another CGI insect movie, now if I just had some CGI Raid I’d be in business). Welfare lines in Moscow don’t move this slow.

1:44 - Down go the lights. It’s just me and one other guy, who’s ominously sitting in the very back row. I feel like Nick Nolte in the Cape Fear remake. If this guy lights up a cigar and starts shouting “Counselor!” I’m heading for the exit sign faster than a cat in a Mexican restaurant.

(An hour later this guy magically floats down the isle without making a sound, and I don’t notice until he glides past me. He heads off to the restroom. I’ve already gone in my pants.)

Down in front! I can't see!

1:45 – Horrorfest 2007 trailer. “Where Evil lives,” says a gravelly-throated narrator. “Fear is the only emotion you’ll fear,” he continues. Is this really necessary? I would think that if you vacationed where fear lived, it would be understood that fear would be your only emotion. Kind of like visiting sucky-movie land, where all you feel is raging annoyance. One logically leads to the other. It doesn’t really need to be stated.

On the positive side, I did see some cool wraiths that are knock offs of the wraiths J.K. Rowling knocked off of Tolkien. There’s also a dude hit by a train, which is almost as good as a dude hit by a bus. (You don’t get to see the guts trail with a train.) And there’s a bunch of boobs in one shot, and I don’t mean Bush’s cabinet.

1:48 – God that was a long trailer. Some lame movies about evil cell phones. On the bright side there’s the perfect girl from the 40 Days and 40 Nights, Shannyn Sossamon. Unfortunately, Ed Burns is in it. He’s the new kiss of death for box office sales, taking over for Steve Guttenberg and training killer-in-waiting Lindsey Lohan.

1:50 – Oh snaps. Methinks I hast been served. Another movie about people dancing at each other. What happened to good old fashioned musicals and big showy dance numers? Since when did choreography replace drive-by-shootings as urban teens’ mode of conflict resolution? It’s called Step Up 2. The lead actress is going to be a star. If she can live through several “servings” that is.

1:52 – Be Kind Rewind starring Jack Black, so I’ll either laugh the whole movie or be annoyed. As long as he doesn’t talk about “rocking,” “rocking out,” or anything to do with “rock” in general, the movie should be straight. And Mos Def is in it too. He has great comedic instincts for a rapper who’s proved himself to be an idiot on the Bill Maher show. (9/11 conspiracy subscriber.)

1:54 – The Mist. When was the last time a Stephen King horror tale was made into a good film (remember, the Stand was on TV)? Carrie, Salem’s Lot, the Shining? Any not in the 70’s or early 80’s? And God help you if you say Misery. Go look at this list and tell me I’m wrong. Go on, I’ll wait. (http://bestsellers.about.com/od/stephenking/a/king_films.htm) Oh, and I’ve heard the 1408 short story is quite different from the movie. So take that.

1:55 – Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Exploding heads? Check. Acidic aliens? Check. Hamas, suicide-bombing predator? Check. Thank you studios, for coming up with such original and fresh films. (The sad part is I LOVE these movies. And the worse the dialogue, the more I love them. Based on the lines I’ve heard in the trailers, I might ask this film to marry me.) Also, they play Silent Night at the end and have a tagline of No Peace on Earth. I think this is weird and don’t care for it.

1:59 – Untraceable. A serial killer uses a website to allow web surfers to kill his victims. Blah. It’s got Diane Lane, though, and she’s still one of the most underrated hot chicks around. Could we get an Unfaithful sequel instead? Maybe this time she has an affair with a woman. I’m down.

And in case you were wondering, yes, I’ve been sitting in the theater for 15 minutes now watching mostly lame trailers (and waiting for Max Cady to descend the rows behind me and plunge a knife into my throat.)

2:01 – More Silent Night. Weird and unnerving. Except this time the song is playing in the trailer for P2, one of the most absurd stalker movies to come along since Sleepless in Seattle. The actress, who resembles Jodie Foster, gets held hostage by an obsessed security guard in a parking garage. Here’s a big shock, she turns the tables on him, and before caving his head in with some large, blunt object, she takes the time to say “Merry Christmas.” First, no one but Arnold Schwarzenegger and Winston Churchill could ever pull off those lines. Second, I’m tired of seeing “turn the tables” movies. For once I want some reality. I want the damn tables to stay right where they are. The security guard should have a nice Christmas dinner with his bound hostage, then cut her head off with a chainsaw and decorate it with blinking white lights. The End.

In a small twist of irony, I just loaded up my Yahoo page and found this news article. (http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20071108/ennew_afp/entertainmentbritainfilm)

2:02 – Trailer for Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. “It doesn’t say Cox unless I say it tastes like Cox.” This movie has the potential to have more classic lines than Al Gore’s lockbox social security speech.

2:04 - 25 minutes after I sit down, the f****** movie finally starts. I’m not in a good mood.

2:07 – A young, bearded Dick Cheney walks across the snow. I know it’s a young Dick Cheney because he’s obviously angry at the polar ice cap he’s standing on and has that bloodthirsty “I must find a hunting buddy to shoot” look on his face. Behind him there’s an old tanker stuck in the ice. I’m assuming this is where the vampires live. Which immediately brings several questions to mind. Why would a cabal of vampires live in the North Pole? Lots of warm blood to be found out on the ice pack? Ah well, it’s early, I’ll let it slide. But this doesn’t bode well.

2:11 – Josh Hartnett (whose name is Eben, which is as distracting in the film as it is to read here) has asthma. I guess that means he’s sensitive? (Cause I know I am).

2:18 – We meet Stella, Eben’s estranged love interest. Stella is played by Melissa George, the hottest looking/ugliest named woman on the planet. Locals are scrambling to hop single prop planes and get out of Barrow. I don’t understand why 30 days of darkness makes transportation to and from Barrow impossible. You can’t fly planes or be on the roads at night? What is this, Detroit? I don’t care if there’s a good explanation for this. It wasn’t presented in the movie. Again, I’ve got the bad bodes. These writers are assuming I’ve never heard of the question “why,” and it’s pissing me off.

2:22 – Great, after sitting down 45 minutes ago to watch a vampire movie I finally get a brief glimpse of a vampire. Hooray.

2:30 – The vampires have cut the phones and power and young Dick starts prophesying to Eben. Okay, so he’s the 21st century Renfield. Wait, that’s the crazy 3:10 to Yuma Guy (Ben Foster). Only with greasy black hair and Jewel’s mangled teeth.

So braces really aren't an option? Well, uhm, good for you, Jewel. Good for you.

2:37 – Dick Jr. tells Eben—(that rolls off the tongue with the fluidity of a pine cone. Is it just me? Am I making too much of this Evan mutation? I’m like Robert De Niro at the end of Heat. He couldn’t let go of Waingro, not even for his new love. I can’t let go of Eben, not even for my blog.)—that he doesn’t speak to dead men. The line falls flatter than Nancy Kerrigan at a tire iron convention. And not just because of the irony of a man who converses regularly with vampires saying he doesn’t speak to “dead men.”

2:40 – Really well shot car scene with a vampire latched on top of Eben and Stella’s SUV. (Later on when the credits roll I realize this was the only cool vampire scene in the movie. Sigh.)

2:48 – A surly character that’s a cross between Grizzly Adams and Santa Claus saves them with his giant rig. Simpsons fans will recognize the vehicle as Barney’s snow plow.

2:50 – The vampires, who are all dressed like Euro trash that bought discount suits from Croatian terrorists, find Dick Jr. in the jail. Their faces are contorted and oddly funny. If the vampire world has Jerry’s kids, they’re all grown up and living in Alaska. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d come to Barrow in a short yellow school bus. They find Dick Jr. in the town jail. The leader, who is the most powerful but has a lame haircut and a noticeable bubble gut beneath his fake silk shirt, mutters something about humans being stupid. He speaks in some carnal language that sounds like a hippo passing a kidney stone. Finally, Nosferatu Jimmy Hoffa says something about humans believing anything, then breaks Dick’s neck.

Am I supposed to care?

God's special little vampires.

2:54 – The few surviving villagers are holed up in a secret attic. Think Diary of Anne Frank meets Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Now if we just had Keanu Reeves butchering a British accent we’d be in business.

2:57 – Some woman’s walking down the street, crying for help. She’s whiny, annoying, and about as sympathetic as a 600 pound heart attack victim. She’s being used as bait. I know this because the writers think I’m retarded and have Eben say, “They’re using her as bait.” The vampires are easily spotted creeping around corners and rooftops. I can’t imagine any of them have ever successfully played hide and go seek.

3:03 – Eben chops off a vampire’s head with an axe. But it isn’t a clean cut. The grisly crunch of the blade cracking though the spine is realistic and makes me laugh. I realize two things. One, I need help from a medical professional. Two, that’s the first time this movie has perked my ears. Eben gets a little worn out from all the lumberjackin’ and has an asthma attack. He sleeps it off.
I have asthma. Here’s a fun stat.---
Number of years living with severe asthma: 27
Number of times I’ve “slept one off:” 0

3:07 – These vamps rubbery, water on the brain smiles are really annoying. And the people in this town are dumber than a box of warm turds. I’m so much more annoyed than scared right now, I’d swear I was watching a country music video.

3:11 – Eben decapitates a ten year old girl. It’s more entertaining than it sounds.

3:14 – The screen reads “Day 18.” Day 18? That was fast. In under three weeks Eben has gone from clean shaven to thick bearded mountain man. In a movie filled with vampires that look like they just left Dieter’s dance club, Sprockets (Old SNL refernce. Get smart about it here. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sprockets_(television), that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen.

My name is Dieter. Zee vampires come to my club often. Zey pet my monkey.

3:19 – Eben tells his estranged wife to make a run for some secure building. I think it’s a power plant or something. This is a good time to mention how the writer’s addressed Eben and Stella’s relationship troubles.

Stella: I shouldn’t have left.

And that’s it. It’s no big deal though. It’s not like their separation affects the plot or the realization of their characters. Oh, wait...

Do you know why I want a divorce?

3:23 – Eben burns up a vampire with a UV lamp stashed at grandma’s house. Apparently, Eben’s grandmother grows her own marijuana. Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

3:24 – The meathead leader of the vampire finishes off the burned vampire, who I think was his second in command, Bonnie to his middle aged, glassy eyed Clyde. And he tosses out yet another trite one liner, “What can be broken, must be broken.” (Looks even stupider in subtitles. I mentioned this line to my brother. It was the first thing in the last week that’s torn his attention from the new video game he bought) Earlier, before stepping on Mr. Plow’s neck, he said, “When a man meets a force he cannot destroy, he destroys himself instead.” This stuff sounds like Art of War for Dummies. Have I stated how annoying these vamps are? Sheesh.

3:27 – Chop. Thud. Roll. Eben dispenses with another vamp.
Note to self: when the great vampire invasion occurs, sell all holy water, wooden stakes, and garlic and use money to purchase one sturdy axe.

Geeze, Eben. Go easy with the axe. This is a new coat.

Screen reads “Day 27.” I get that the night lasts for 30 days, and obviously you can’t do the film in real time. But this wanton day skipping feels like sex with Kobe Bryant. Forced.

3:33 – The few survivors have made it to their industrial stronghold. A bite victim just grabbed a vamp (the one who looked like Kojak after gastric bypass surgery, with the big dumb grin) and plunged them both into what I can only describe as a meat grinder for wooly mammoths.

3:35 – Vampy McMeathead orders his vamp crew to “Destroy them all!” Oddly enough, none of the vampires reply, “well, duh.”

3:37 – More axe action. It gets funnier every time. (Especially this one. Eben really made a mess of it. He was shakier than an Antarctic nudist going through detox and he sliced the dude’s melon to pieces.)

3:41 – Vamps are burning the town with oil. They don’t want to leave any evidence of their brutal killfest behind. O.J. should have consulted with these guys. Eben looks out the window of the compound and sees Stella hiding under a car with a kid she saved. I smell a showdown coming.

WARNING: ENDING SPOILERS AHEAD ------->

3:44 – Eben needs super duper vampy powers, post haste. He injects himself with vampire blood that he draws from the headless corpse he just carved up. He’s now a supervamp, without the masochist getting a prostrate exam smile that the others have. My movie nose is always right.

3:47 – Eben and Meathead have a showdown in the street, high noon style. The heavy, rock soaked, 300 music has me stoked for what should be an awesome fight.

3:50 – Well, that was the most disappointing climatic scene since Matrix: Revolutions, or every episode of Scooby Doo. Eben gets his arse whipped up and down the street until Meathead leaps at him and Eben improbably sticks out his fist, which manages to make it into Meathead’s open mouth and punch a hole out the back of his head. The other vampires meander off into the night. I guess it never occurs to them to elect a new leader lickity-split, kill Eben, finish off the town, and proceed with their original plan. Even the Iraqi parliament thinks these guys are incompetent.

Wait. You're going to kill me how?

I’ll leave out the very last scene, because it’s predictable (see Blade 2) and they had an opportunity to do something much cooler. I’m only going to get pissed writing about it.

Maybe my expectations were too high, or I was in a bad mood, but rarely have I been so under whelmed by a movie I was looking forward to. The pace was plodding, the scares were few, and except for Eben and his estranged wife, I literally disliked every character in this film. I felt like I was watching a republican presidential debate.

Some of the shots were cool, such as the rolling overhead view of the town as the vamps marauded and pillaged, and the axe killings were mildly entertaining.

But overall, this was 30 Days of Boredom.

Eben, that's exactly what I felt like at the end, too.

All this fuss over Beowulf?

2007-11-20T12:29:00.000-06:00

"What's the big deal?"

I like violent movies. Scratch that, I like wildly violent movies that make angels sob tears of blood. Gratuitous violence, much like any sentence spoken by Fred Thompson (his voice is like a bag of gravel mixed with laziness) or Hillary Clinton's Joker like cackle that she uses to avoid answering questions critical of her (http://youtube.com/watch?v=gPcqy0pvdsI&feature=related), is funny.

Hit somebody with a bus. Snicker. Lop off someone's head with a lawnmower blade. Chuckle. Cut three or four hundred people in half with a broken cable. I'm on the ground struggling for a breath (I'm referencing Ghost Ship. This movie has the greatest opening scene in film history. Don't believe me, eh? Go watch it here.) (http://youtube.com/watch?v=icWBbAA9J-U&feature=related).

So needless to say, I'm psyched about the new Beowulf flick. Just the previews alone showed a dude being skewered on what looked like a chandelier. And the possibility of seeing this in digital 3D had me giddier than Tom Cruise at a Bette Midler concert.

One of my movie selecting habits is to check out the user reviews on Yahoo. I scanned the critics reviews, and they were all fairly good, especially considering this movie is mostly meant to be eye candy. So I assumed the user reviews would be just as good. Nope. They appear to be 2/3 positive, and 1/3 written by the retarded, cro-magnon love child of Alan Jackson and Reba McEntire. Let me share with you some quotes from the Play-Do eating reviewers.

1. This film is way too gory.
So in the trailer, when Beowulf says, "I am ripper! Tearer! Slasher," you thought he was applying for a job at the Pottery Barn's fabric department?

2. The CG Naked, painted-up Jolie is one of the few things more sickening to look at than a live action naked, painted-up Jolie.Yeah, that's a pretty common criticism of Angelina Jolie. She's just so darned ugly. Honestly, this one has me speechless.

3. Wanna waste Twenty dollars and give your otherwise non-sexual nine-year-old their first boner? Then take your entire family to Beowulf, the first PG-13 porno ever made. I couldn't decide whether I enjoyed the CGI breasts or the Penile Innuendo more.
Breasts. The correct answer to this question is CGI Breasts. Mark your papers accordingly.

As much credit as I'd like to give them for using the phrase "penile innuendo," even Britney Spears wouldn't take a nine-year old to see this PG-13 version of Beowulf. And no, Kevin Federline doesn't count.

4. When we arrived we were thrilled that we got tickets, but once we got into the show and the movie started we knew it was not going to be what we expected. I was EXTREMELY disappointed with the fact that it was animated.
Isn't that like being disappointed upon finding that the sun is warm, or British food tastes like boiled toilet paper? Did you not see the commercials? Did you think the whole computer animation thing was just a joke? That they couldn't afford to shoot live action trailers? Please God, smite the stupid.

5. I'm not sure but i think he does it with a mermaid.
Okay, so now I have to go see this movie. It sounds more than deserving of a running diary.

And I hope the mermaid is Ariel.

Random Thoughts

2007-11-14T09:44:00.000-06:00

Is there anything more filled with hope than a late night trip to a non Wal-Mart grocery store? Regardless of when you go, it seems to turn back the clock several hours and make the night feel young. Heading to Kroger’s at 12:30a.m. is like having cosmetic surgery done on the clock.

Then you eat that frozen box of Hormel’s chili fries, fall asleep, and wake up feeling like Jabba the Hutt just took a big chubby dump in your stomach.

As a substitute teacher, what’s the best way to respond when an eight year old says, “You look like you don’t want to be here.”

Does Dick Cheney have a secret hunting license for humans? And if so, how can I get one?

I knew Owen Wilson’s hair was a cry for help.

Does O.J. Simpson ever think, “I wonder if Whitney Houston would take me to dinner?”

The sign says no U-turn but mentions nothing of lowercase n-turns.

If I watch a video of Rosie O’Donnell, will she climb out of my television and give me horrifyingly severe sour-pop face? The answer is yes.

Dumbledore and Gandolph were recently spotted canoodling in an upscale coffee shop in Manhattan.

I told a mime to pretend he was suffocating and he died. I pretended to care.

When I see hits on my blog, I get happier than a catholic priest at Chuck E. Cheese.

If you get Mitt Romney wet, Mormon wives pop out of his back.

Top Ten Things I Loved About Halloween 2007

2007-11-02T09:20:00.000-05:00

1. You can sit on your porch and drink by Jack-O’-Lantern light. On a Wednesday.

2. My God complex is catered to. People approach you for candy as if they’re preparing to beg their lives from a King.

3. You can hide in the bushes and fire bottle rockets at mischievous adolescents and no one cares.

4. Judging who gets the good candy and who gets the purple colored rocks that taste like deep-fried cat piss doused in Splenda (Gross....Splenda.)

5. Seeing a one year old dressed as a ladybug and realizing that even Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would say, “Awwww.”

As we're white trash, we actually put this up in June.

6. Sarcastically berating the teenagers who show up with no costume and a bag. For example, an acne-riddled, voice-cracking teen dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans says “trick-or-treat,” and I say, “How creative, dressing as a looser for Halloween. That must really be a stretch for a hardworking overachiever like you.” Then I give him a purple rock.

7. Laughing as a 33 year old man, dressed as a vampire, asks for candy. Then feeling guilty after remembering that the guy was about six years ahead of you in school...and was in the CDC class.

8. The relieved chuckle once you notice that God’s special little Trick-or-Treater doesn’t notice your laughing.

9. Carving the pumpkin with the sole purpose of making elementary school kids cry in sheer terror. The goal being somewhere between Nancy Kerrigan’s hair-raising “why, why” sobs and me after I watched an entire season of FX’s craptacular new series, Damages.

10. Bringing out the crappy candy when the parents run out and conveniently “forgetting” to bring out the good stuff so that you can eat sweet confections right up to Thanksgiving. (Crinkly wrapper noise). Uhmmm, this Reese’s Cup is soooo good.

I Heart Crazy People: Lindsay Lohan

2007-10-26T01:22:00.001-05:00

This is your brain.

This is your brain on crack rock and dance clubs.

Lindsay Lohan—Do you remember when curvalicious Lindsey was in Mean Girls, all funny and radiating the hotness, before she went on the starvation diet? Those were the days. The days before she started doing movies where she plays the most freckled stripper in history, looking like she’s been dipped in Elmer’s glue and showered with seed ticks.

Now poor Lindsay is into more illegal activities, and I don’t mean stealing teenage boys’ hearts (come on, admit it, you’re snickering at that one). She’s been arrested for driving under the influence, possession of cocaine, transporting a narcotic into a custody facility and driving on a suspended license. (I particularly like the drug smuggling into rehab charge. How bad off do you have to be to sneak drugs into detox? Even the lovechild of Robert Downey Jr. and Tara Reid thinks that’s messed up.)

And now, in another excellent (and when I say excellent, I mean excellent like, “Excellent, I just drove a nail through my retina) example of good decision making, she is being sued for assault and negligence.

In case you haven’t kept up with this story (and good for if you haven’t), here’s the report from TMZ.com. My comments are in parentheses:
Dante Nigro, Jakon Sutter and Ronnie Blake drove to Malibu with the boyfriend of Lindsay Lohan's assistant. Lindsay and her assistant ran into Dante and friends. Later, the assistant text-messaged Dante, saying Lindsay wanted to invite him to a Malibu party that night.

Later, Dante says, he and his friends drove to the party. Dante and the assistant's boyfriend were let in, but Jakon and Ronnie were rejected and stayed outside. Dante says Lindsay was never without a drink during the evening and he even did a shot with her.

At one point, Lindsay's assistant and her boyfriend walked outside and got into an argument. Lindsay came out and got angry at her assistant. The assistant then said, "I quit," which enraged Lindsay. Dante and crew were ready to leave. The GMC Denali they were in belonged to Dante, but he was sitting in the front passenger seat. Ronnie and Jakon were in the back seat. The assistant's boyfriend was behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition when the assistant's boyfriend got out and continued the argument with his girlfriend. The assistant then got in her car and left.

According to the group, Lindsay suddenly jumped in the driver's seat of the Denali, started the engine and began driving -- chasing the assistant's car. Ronnie says he was so fearful, he jumped out of the vehicle as it accelerated. Just as he hit the ground, he says Lindsay ran over his foot and just kept going.

(Of course she didn’t stop. No goal oriented person would stop just because they hit ANOTHER HUMAN with a car. I like this girl. She’s driven. Pun intended.)

Dante and Jakon say Lindsay then hit Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. Dante says he tried to grab the wheel, prompting Lindsay to say, "If you touch me I'll sue you." Jakon says they pleaded with her to stop.

(So if you want a car all you have to do is carjack it, and then threaten to sue them if they touch you? The next time that BMW 3 series comes down my street, they’re in for a surprise. They’re so much I can learn from this girl.)

Dante says they were going 100 mph. They say Lindsay caught up with the assistant and began doing circles on PCH, around the assistant's car.

(She did circles people! Like a gang of Hell’s angels closing in on a lost tourist, she did circles! Like an angry pirate looping a ship he plans to commandeer for booty and riches, she did circles! THAT is how you motivate people to see things your way. The next time I ask a girl out on a date, I’m going to get in my He-Man cozy coupe, the one with tassels at the end of the plastic handle bars, and peddle as hard as I can until they’re scared into saying yes.)

They say at one point, Lindsay boasted, "I can't get in trouble. I'm a celebrity. I can do whatever the f*** I want."

(No argument there. As soon as I get a book deal I’m going to O’Charley’s and ask for extra salad dressing even when I’m 99% sure I won’t need it. And I’m not even going to feel bad, because I’ll be a celebrity.)

The now former assistant finally lost Lindsay on PCH. Dante says Lindsay thought the assistant was going to her mother's house in Santa Monica so Lindsay went there. It just so happened that the assistant's mother was pulling into the driveway as Lindsay arrived.Dante says the mother panicked at Lindsay's crazy driving, and backed out of the driveway in fear -- not knowing who was behind the wheel. The guys say Lindsay then began to chase her at speeds of up to 80 mph through Santa Monica, blowing multiple red lights.

(Apparently, Disney teaches NASCAR driving techniques to all their young talent. I hear Christina Aguilera is running in Daytona next year.)

Dante realized the mother was driving to the police station and the two cars stopped in a parking lot near the cop shop. When police arrived, Dante says it seemed as if Lindsay told officers, "I wasn't driving. The black kid was driving."

(The Los Angeles PD believed her and immediately beat the “black kid” to a pulp.)

(Yes, I made that last part up.)

Two other quick notes about Lindsay. She also sings. Well, she makes semi-mammalian noises into a microphone. How to describe this...get a rock and crush your own larynx. Then, down a shot of sulfuric acid. Begin mating with a whale, and finally, put on your headphones and sing along to a Celine Dion power ballad. That’s it. That’s her sound.

Now if this were any other singer, that would be crazy enough. But no, not her, she ups the ante. She sang the title track for her movie Herbie: Fully Loaded (and he probably was if she was in the car).

Do you know the chorus? The chorus for the theme song to a children’s movie? I know it because she says it ad nauseum in the music video, as she she thrusts and juts and generally copulates with her microphone stand. The song’s called first.

Here’s the hook:

Don't wanna be like

Every other girl in the world

Like every other one who wants you

Cuz when I see you something inside me burns

Then I realize I wanna come first

I wanna come first

This is me easing back from the keyboard. Some jokes just tell themselves. I...I have nothing else to say. I’d be crazy to say anything. Just like her.

I Heart Crazy People: Kanye West

2007-10-25T18:14:00.000-05:00

As I was baking another double batch of spicy cheese biscuits (because that’s what nobody-writers do on a Thursday morning), I began to question my own sanity. I found myself smiling at the thought that I might be a little off in the noggin. Why would I smile? Then I realized, I have a genuine affinity for insanity. I don’t mean fake crazy, like Ann Coulter or Rosie O’Donnell.

And I don't mean the hobo on the street muttering about the hordes of robotic wasps buzzing about his head. (By the way, just give them cash. Yes, they’re going to buy liquor. I’m shocked and appalled. A homeless person with a drinking problem, who knew? But honestly, if you lived in a cardboard box that was insulated by your own excrement, what would you want? The answer is not a roast beef sandwich from Arby’s. Unless you were low on insulation.)

This isn’t any of the Jackass guys, either, drenching their man jewels in honey to see if grizzly bears can get it without turning them into publicity-seeking, no-talent eunuch hacks, instead of just publicity-seeking, no-talent hacks (and I loved the movies).

I mean actually, clinically insane, as judged by a panel of medical professionals. Honest to goodness, Grade A nut-balls. I’m beginning a series of my favorites, in no particular order.

***Kanye West—He ain’t messin with no Gold-diggaz, but I can see him setting your car on fire if you reject his call.

This guy is extremely talented, and the only recent artist whose albums I’ve bought at the store. I didn’t get it off iTunes or...borrow it from the music sharing ether.

But he’s out of his gourd, to be sure. He’s thrown a fit at every major awards show. (Because at every awards show he gets screwed worse than Jenna Jameson at a satyromaniac’s convention. Look that word up on dictionary.reference.com. I’m nothing if not an educator.) The guy’s even threatening a joint boycott of MTV with 50 Cent. Priceless.

Another example that he’s a lyrical Norman Bates—his Katrina telethon tirade against George “the gunslinger who never actually fired a bullet” Bush. As Mike Myers stood next to him in horror, his expression amazingly terrified (like how you’d look if you’d just seen Mr. Rogers deep-fry Big Bird alive or just listened to the new Carrie Underwood album), Kanye said flatly, “George W. Bush doesn’t care about black people.”

Now the statement itself is debatable. In fact, I believe Kanye is completely wrong. It’s not that Dubya doesn’t care about black people, he doesn’t care about people. (Alright, that’s kind of a joke. I say kind of because he’s a self-described compassionate-conservative. Which means if you get trapped in a flooded city he’ll pray real hard that you can swim.)

Kanye on Katrina---->http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIUzLpO1kxI
So with Mr. West the matter boils down to this: How many of us go ape sh** when things don’t go our way? When I received rejections on my first novel, I always responded with polite thanks.

However, I’m thinking of invoking WWKD, what would Kanye do? So after the next rejection, I’m going to the agent’s house, sit outside with a megaphone, and start reading my entire book. The unedited edition. 150K words of Braddy goodness.

Am I really going to do this? No. Why wouldn’t I, why wouldn’t you, do this? Because we’re not crazy. Well....you're not.

Running Diary: How I Ended Up Depressed on Brokeback Mountain

2007-10-24T12:27:00.000-05:00

*Reader's note. This is an old running diary written a few weeks after the film's release.

Why did I see Brokeback Mountain? Two primary reasons. First, the more people make something seem taboo, or treat it as if it's some sort of Medusa that'll turn you to stone if you look at her (or in this case two gay cowboys that'll make you a homosexual), the more I want to see it. My curiosity (and my desire to do what I'm told not to) can get the best of me, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.
Secondly, while I do realize that I'm not Marty McFly (Back to the Future Reference, 100pts.) but when someone dares you to do something that the rebel in you is already begging to do, well it's almost enough to do it.
This is how I got there. Sitting in a theatre. A wee bit uncomfortable. (Read wee as the uncomfortable you feel when you're visiting some married friends, they have a huge argument right in front of you, ask you to take sides, and when you say nothing they tell each other to f*** off and leave you sitting by yourself in front of a television that only gets the Lifetime Channel). Without further adieux, my running diary from the

1:00p.m.showing.

1:08- They run a preview for a Beastie Boys concert film and a movie about a guy swimming the English Channel to make us feel more manly. It didn't work. But on a side note, I do plan to swim the channel in the next ten years. Wait and see.

1:18- Here comes the gentle acoustic guitar riffs and sweeping Wyoming mountainside vistas. We are now officially at the point of no return. If I leave now I can still catch the start of 16 Blocks. It's got rappers, Bruce Willis shooting people, everything a red blooded hetero could want. Or maybe Shaggy Dog? Yeah! I like dogs...hell, I've come this far. Time to cowboy up (you like that one? Yes, of course you do).

1:23- Jake Gyllenhall is Jack Twist. Heath Ledger is Enis Delmar (of the sea in Spanish). Enis and Jack Twist, huh? Oh boy. Jack asks Enis, "You ever rodeo?" "Once in a while, when I got the entry fee in my pocket," he answers. Double oh boy.

1:30- Seven or eight minutes of chopping wood, grabbing great big stones, lifting giant sacks into the air (think I'm joking? Go see it. Although, they're probably just hiding their food from bears. But still, lifting a giant sack? I'm starting to wonder about these cowboys).

1:31- Jack's doing his best to tame a strong, wild, stubborn horse. Enis watches. The English major in me says Enis is supposed to be the horse. I need popcorn. Right now. Sure wish I hadn't figured out that bit of symbolism.

1:36- Cowboys seem to eat an inordinate amount of beans. No lunch, so right now I'm craving a can of heated over the campfire, still in the can, beans. That doesn't make me gay, does it? Screw you guys.

1:41- Sundown on Brokeback and Enis just commented that "I may be a sinner, but I ain't yet had the opportunity." Jack has that twinkle in his eye. Damn, won't be long now. 16 Blocks and Shaggy Dog could still save me. They don't have real plots so getting there 45 minutes late wouldn't matter...no, I just can't quit this movie (buh dum dum.)

1:45- We're all in the tent now, and looks like we're liquored up. Jack attempts to spoon, Enis does it then freaks out. Are we fighting or—oh.

1:46- So that's what rough gay cowboy sex is. Well...okay then. On the positive side, the camera went back and forth between their faces, and it went fast, and...who am I kidding, I just groaned so loudly I think they heard me in the back row.

1:47- Enis finds a sheep (one of the several hundred Jack and he are supposed to be protecting) with it's guts gnawed out. Now, I'm all for symbolism, and there's a little in my novel, but that's just gross.

1:52- More tent love. I don't know what these two actors were paid, but they earned every cent. And in case you'd like to know, Jack is clearly the woman. He wantsa commitment from Enis, always sleeps in the tent, and his chest is as hairless as one of those creepy cats in the Austin Powers Movie. Enis's mangy, few bits of chest hair look like they were hastily CGI'd on in postproduction after Ang Lee realized that most Wyoming cowboys barely bathe when they're out on the range, much less take the time to shave off all their body hair. And by the way, this whole hairless thing pisses me of to no end. Anyways...

2:02- Flash forward four years. Enis is married to Alma, played by Michelle Williams, and they have two screaming kids. Seriously, I know babies cry, no problem. But these kids are producing blood curdling screams like I haven't heard since I yelled at the end of the last Matrix movie. By the way, I think that at birth Michelle Williams' face was compressed horizontally by two massive blocks of granite. Not too cute. But that didn't stop her from getting topless.

2:10- Here's Jack's wife. Look kids, it's the Princess Diaries girl, Anne Hathaway! I know this for two reasons. The commercials ran constantly on ESPN because they're owned by Walt Disney, who put out the movie. So while I was watching manly things, like football, I was forced to watch them. Two, she looks like a clown and it creeps me out. But that didn't stop her from getting topless.

2:18- Did Phillip Morris pay for this movie? I realize it's set in the late sixties through early eighties, but can we have one scene without someone lighting up? I think I have cancer now.

2:19- Jack's coming to visit Enis. Here comes the music. Enis streaks down the stairs and greets Jack by passionately pushing him against a wall and making out. Here's me in the movie theater, "Oh sh**!" Literally, that's what I said, at the top of my lungs, as we see Alma glance out the window and watch her husband do the tongue tango with his "fishin buddy." Right in front of his wife. His poor, face-scrunched wife.

2:21- Most Awkward Moment in a Movie This Decade. After saying hi to his buddy, Enis runs in and tells his wife he probably won't be home that night. The same wife who just saw him doing that thing he did to Jack. She says nothing. I think I have an ulcer for her.

2:42- Years pass, Enis gets divorced. Jack's in laws are meddling, bigoted psychopaths (at least the father. And trust me, I have personal experience with this type of father. God, thank you for making some girlfriends exgirlfriends.)

2:52- Whoa! We now officially have three reasonably hot girls in the movie! First it's the scary movie girl, Anna Faris, then it's ER/Scooby Doo girl, Linda Cardellini, and Enis's daughter Alma Jr. (not joking, that's her name), Kate Mara. And all three can act. Refreshing.

2:58- Here is where things stop getting funny, and start getting real (Real World reference, 15 pts.). Enis and Jack both have had some good one liners in the last hour, they're becoming very likeable (not in the like-like way, you jerks) and I'm really starting to feel sorry for them. They live in a world surrounded by total buttholes, especially Jack. But what do you expect? He lives in Texas. I'm really to the point where I wish they would just take off, everybody would leave them alone, and we could all go home. But pictures that get nominated for best film usually don't end well, and I've got a real sinking feeling in my stomach.

3:something- So rarely is my gut wrong. I'm not gonna ruin things for you and that's one reason I'm stopping, but if you liked the ending to Sleepless in Seattle, you may not like this one. (And yes, I realize I'm comparing a hetero romantic comedy to a gay cowboy tragedy. But can we not all just grow up and get out of everyone's personal business. And once more yes, I felt this way before I saw the movie. If Tom Cruise, O.J. Simpson, and Hugh Hefner can get hitched, then Jack and Enis should have the right as well. Anyways...).
As the credits roll, I have to admit I don't feel at all like I'd imagined. As hetero male, I worried this would be uncomfortable scene after the other. While some things were awkward for me, funny even, the main emotion I felt after seeing this film was sorrow. After nearly three hours, especially once the physical interaction died down, I no longer saw Jack and Enis as two gay cowboys, but rather as two individuals whose love was doomed from the start. Want a hetero equivalent? Go watch the Whiskey Lullaby music video or Rome & Juliet. This is the saddest film I have ever seen. More than Old Yeller, the aforementioned Romeo & Juliet, the third season of Farscape, or anything with Ben Affleck (zing!).

The Puck Rule

2007-10-24T10:14:00.000-05:00

Thought I might have a quick clarification on the content of this blog. It has been said that I "have a mouth on me." Not like a sailor, but like the guy who makes a remark, then gets swung at. And I'm sorry about that. But not really.

However, if I make come comment you don't like, send me hate mail. Say terrible things about my mother and father, question my heritage and sexual orientation, inform me as to where I’ll be spending my afterlife, or just what particular object I should introduce into one my body’s orifices.

Because I’m sensitive. I’m so very, very sensitive. Most nights I cry myself to sleep on the bathroom floor, curled up in the fetal position and muttering unintelligible movie quotes like “lord make me a bird, so I can fly...,” or “sex panther, sixty percent of the time, it works every time.” So if I discover that I’ve offended anyone in anyway, I might just have the barrel of a 357 magnum for dinner. For the only thing greater than my sensitivity to mean comments, is my lifelong desire to never offend anyone or cause any conflict, ever, ever.

Don't cry for me Blogger, the truth is...

Everyone Can Succeed at Making Me a Success

2007-10-24T00:46:00.000-05:00

Okay fellow aspiring writers, here at yet another late hour I have been struck by yet another epiphany!

If all YA writers will stop submitting to agents for six months, one of them will have no choice but to sign me. I'll even take the first one that offers, providing he or she is in my top 25. Then, after the contract is signed on the dotted line, I will make a glorious announcement that I have finally been agented and you can all go back to querying.

Take this time to polish up those third and fourth drafts, outline your next work, and finally finish that work in progress. Whether it be fiction, like Harry Potter and A Million Little Pieces, or non fiction, like How to Understand the Dewey Decimal System and any script written by Wes Anderson. (A work is considered nonfiction if it makes you sleepy, right?)

Or, if you're unlike me and have a life, kiss your girlfriend, boyfriend, or goat. Perhaps you have a spouse and have some arguing to catch up on, or maybe you even need to see "a guy" about the fastest way to receiving said loved one's life insurance policy. And you could always pet your children and prized vases. Cherish the tiny little things. Those vases won't end up tossing you in a nursing home.

So thank you already, as I know everyone will concede that this is what is best for the writing community.

If it's good for the Brad, it's good for everybody!