Best. Optical Illusion. EVER.

Here's a photo from the internet. Enjoy it...


You pervert. It's just her shoulder and arm pit. Man are you sick.

That'll be QUITE enough, thanks.

I just went into the bathroom. There is a guy in there who works with me... I won't go into who it is. He is sitting on the, well, you know... he is doing his business... he is talking on his cell phone... and the stall door is WIDE. OPEN.

I don't mind the constant chit-chat banter I have to endure from the idiots I work with, or the "when the cat's away" stuff that goes on when management isn't at work... everyone has to put up with some level of social interaction that they are less-than-comfortable with, and I know I am a tough customer when it comes to all of that because if I had my way- nobody would talk or interact with each other at work EVER unless it was work-related. But I should at least be able to go to a bathroom and relieve myself without... THAT.

Dear lord. Shut your fucking stall door. What the hell is wrong with you?

Learn How To Fucking Drive

I have three "hopes" today:

I hope the title of this entry caught your attention. I'm guessing that it did, because you are reading it. How is it so far? How are you? Can I get you something? Water? There's San Pellegrino in the fridge over there. Yeah, help yourself. No, it's behind the pot of spaghetti sauce that my wife insists on placing right in the refrigerator instead of transferring it to a smaller Pyrex dish. There you go. I'm out of limes. Sorry.

The second thing I have "hope" for today is that you actually do what I tell you to do. Because I am sick to death of the shit you have been pulling on the streets lately, and it seems to be happening more and more. So shut up, quit looking for new photos of your nephew's Bar Mitzvah, and pay attention.

There have ALWAYS been lousy drivers. There always will be. Apparently that wacky stick that you can flip up and down to let people know where you are turning still eludes some of you, and that whole "this isn't my lane but I am gonna stay here for seventeen years and make you miss your turn" thing is as old as the highway itself. But for CHRIST'S SAKE, people...

YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON ON THE GOD DAMNED ROAD

This means that there are people behind you. They are next to you. They are in their cars, which means that THEY HAVE PLACES TO GO AS WELL.

Because they have places to go, they are completely and totally inconvenienced when YOU DECIDE TO DRIVE 15 MILES AN HOUR IN A 40, LOOKING FOR YOUR MOTHER FUCKING TURN.

We have turn lanes. We have Only lanes. We even have LOTS MORE ROAD. I mention that last part because if, for some terrifying reason, you miss your precious left turn... YOU CAN PROBABLY GO A FEW BLOCKS FURTHER AND FIND A PLACE TO TURN AROUND AND GO BACK.

If you think you are going to turn left soon, GET YOUR FUCKING ASS into the turn lane. When you hang half of your car in the turn lane and keep the other half in the lane that you were traveling at 30 miles BELOW the speed limit in just a moment ago, you have literally FUCKED EVERYONE ELSE WHO IS BEHIND YOU UP.

YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON ON THE GOD DAMNED ROAD

I can't stress this enough. There is nothing in this world, NOTHING, that you can say that justifies you acting like you are the only person in a car who is driving somewhere. The only thing you can say in your defense would be the following:

1. I am an ignorant, selfish, inconsiderate piece of shit who only cares about MYSELF. Or:
2. I am deliberately doing this to be a fucking prick.
   

Either way, you need to have your pants yanked down and someone needs to whack you on the back of the legs with a bamboo cane about fifty times.

This is happening with alarming frequency lately. And it is yet another example of how inconsiderate people have become lately. I mean don't get me wrong: Since we crawled out of the swamp and became capable of breathing air we have been selfish pricks. We don't like to think so, but we are. But in the last few years it's becoming more and more acceptable to flaunt it.

Well I am sick of it. At least, I am sick of it when I am trying to get to work. Or home. Or anywhere in public.

It's very simple:

1. Drive within 10 miles above or below the posted speed limit.
2. Be AWARE of the cars around you.
3. Get the LIVING FUCK OVER when you are making a turn.

Jesus. Christ.

Oh, my final "hope" for the day?

I hope that whoever reads this and decides to comment by saying "AMEN, BROTHER! THEY DRIVE ME CRAZY TOO" (or some variation on that theme) gets hit by a bolt of lightning and fries you in the goddamn skull.

OF COURSE YOU AGREE WITH ME! THAT'S BECAUSE THERE IS NO FUCKING EXCUSE FOR DRIVING YOUR CAR LIKE A GODDAMN DOUCHEBAG.

Now DON'T make me come in here and tell you this again. Go to bed. Go on. You have work in the morning.

I hope I have helped.

That's 4 "hopes". Shit.

THREE MOVIES I WANT TO SEE ON DVD. BUT CAN'T.

Here are three movies that haven't made it to DVD yet, let alone Blu Ray. And that sucks.

It sucks because movies like THE CANNONBALL RUN, POPEYE, ZORRO: THE GAY BLADE, and THE PIRATE MOVIE are all readily available on DVD, and they are crappy movies that I grew up watching on Home Box. Hell, even GREASE 2 gets a goddamn DVD special edition. And the following movies do not. And that sucks.

1. UNDER THE RAINBOW (1981)

Let me start this off with the following statement: I think Chevy Chase is a fucking douche bag. The guy was funny on SNL in 1975. He left in '76 because everyone told him he was a magic bullet and he believed them, because heck... cocaine makes you think you are totally awesome. If you don't believe me, I humbly submit to you the work of a little ol' band called Eagles. Not The Eagles, mind you. Eagles. Look it up, it's how they want it. Ahem... ... ... ... cocaine.

Okey dokie. Back to Chevy "It only works when I am with Goldie Hawn" Chase. In '81 the big galoot starred in a movie that has effectively slipped off the face of the planet, titled UNDER THE RAINBOW. The story was actually pretty damn compelling; It is 1938. A hotel manager in LA goes on vacation and leaves his nephew (or was it his son? I can't remember and I can't re watch it because the fucking thing isn't available on DVD!) in charge of the place. The nephew swindles a bunch of little people to stay there while they are filming the Munchkin scenes on The Wizard Of Oz. The little fuckers are everywhere: hanging from the damn ceiling. Among the crowd is a dwarf Nazi who is passing on secret info to a Japanese spy. But there are also Japanese tourists all over the place, and one case of mistaken identity happens after another.

Oh, and Carrie Fisher minces around quite a bit wearing a lace see-through bra. Oh my yes indeed.

The plot is convoluted and silly, and horribly degrading to little people. The events in the movie match the politics and history of the time (pre-Nazi spies, the depression) and it even echoes the Wizard Of Oz all the way through (a fish-out-of-water fantasy... good and evil, etc.) It's madcap crap. I have no idea why Chase's MODERN PROBLEMS is on DVD for less than $10 and this one isn't. Dammit.

2. IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I HEAR (1982)

Tom Sullivan is a real guy. He was born premature and the incubators that they used at the time had a flaw where they sometimes fed too much oxygen into the chamber. It would create a film over the baby's eyes, or some such. Congratulations, son, you are now blind. Enjoy your life!

Sullivan didn't let that stop him or slow him down, and his autobiography became a bestseller in the late 70's. The guy wrote songs, was an athlete (running, swimming, even golf!) and he even took up skydiving for the hell of it. He appeared on tons of sitcoms and TV dramas in the same time period that his book was big; and they made it into a movie starring Marc Singer. Yes... the guy who played THE BEASTMASTER. Christ... I just realized that THE BEASTMASTER is available on DVD. And IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I HEAR isn't.

The movie is the story of Tom Sullivan's college years, pretty much. His romances with a young black student, his trips into hooliganism with his best friend Sly, his summer as a piano player in a tavern of a harbor town, and how he met and fell in love with his future wife (played by the cute blond gal who was in MEATBALLS... a movie that is available on DVD. Sigh...).

This would easily be a CBS movie-of-the-week if it weren't for the PG-rated language. But something about it the story of "a guy who doesn't know he's blind" is irresistible and awesome all rolled up into one. The performances are charming, the movie flies along at a good pace, and there would probably be more puppies on the planet if more folks watched it. I don't know how it correlates, but trust me: Puppies and IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I HEAR go hand-in-hand.

3. ELECTRIC DREAMS (1984)

Have I ranted and raved about how wonderful this movie is to you yet? Have we talked at length about how Lenny von Dohlen turns in an absolutely wonderful performance as Miles, a milquetoast architect living in San Francisco who meets and falls in love with Virginia Madsen, a cellist who just moved in upstairs? Have you heard about the movie where a guy dumps champagne all over his new computer and somehow or another it ends up bringing the computer to LIFE!? You read that correctly. He brings the computer to life. Through booze.

The computer's name is Edgar. And he agrees to help Miles write a love song for Virginia upstairs, because he is in love with the gal as well. Yeah... it's pretty much Cyrano de Bergerac. But with a computer. And Virginia Madsen. Yes oh yes.

There is a very good chance that you own a copy of the incredibly stupid and mediocre 1985 Hughs-o-rama WEIRD SCIENCE. And you think it is awesome because it has a scene where Bill Paxton gets turned into a giant pile of shit.

You own a movie where a guy gets turned into a huge pile of shit, and you can't own a copy of a movie where Virginia Madsen and a pre-Windows PC have a breath-taking 4-minute cello/synthesizer duet. Everything about ELECTRIC DREAMS is awesome: the clothes, the colors, the terrible underlying fear that the appliances were secretly out to get you... Every time I talk about ELECTRIC DREAMS in front of a group of "movie people" I get at least one other person who flips out, who has been thinking that the movie in question was never an actual movie at all but maybe something that they just made up once when they were young. Nope. It exists. It's a great piece of 80's fluff, and it hasn't been put on a DVD. And from the way things are going, it probably never will.

I just don't get it. I really don't.

Pad Thai

Pad Thai.

Pad Thai fucking sucks.

"Hey we have some delicious noodles here! Let's put a sauce on it! Hmm... this sauce is a wee bit too sweet and sticky. maybe we can temper the taste of it with some shrimp!

Fuck! The shrimp made it all sweet AND mellow... quick! Put some chicken on there!

Oh no! The chicken counters the taste of the noodles and the sticky-sweet shrimp! Quick! QUICK! WE NEED ONIONS!

Man... I fucked this one up bad. What the hell can I put on this thing to go with the taste of sticky-sweet noodles, shrimp, chicken and onions?

GROUND-UP PEANUTS!"

Fuck you, Pad Thai. You suck.

10 REASONS WHY GREASE 2 IS THE LOUSIEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME

LOUSY. Not "bad". I'm not talking about The Worst Movie Of All Time. To qualify for that, the cinematography needs to be terrible, the acting atrocious, the script ludicrous and the overall finished product has to be certifiably inept.

GREASE 2 is terrible, but the actors can act and the pictures are pretty. This doesn't excuse it from being a truly lousy movie. Easily the lousiest movie I have ever seen. What adds insult to injury here is the fact that I am positive I have seen this steaming pile of otter droppings at least 20 times. It was a programming mainstay on HBO in the early 80's. I know the thing better than the original.

And for the record; the original GREASE isn't that great, either. It's a 70's movie about the late 50's that looks and feels like a 70's movie about the late 50's. It's dopey and goofy and hyper-silly but it KNOWS that and it's okay with it. GREASE was and is an okay movie. Watchable Pith. GREASE 2 is not. Here's ten reasons why.

10- Bikes instead of hot rods.

Okay, fine- we need to be progressive and all, but in 1961 motorcycles weren't as nutty and crazy as they were about to become, and the idea of making the T-Birds a motorcycle gang would be fine if they were an actual gang, and not four ineffectual dopes who are ahead of their time in terms of what they are riding. The inclusion of motorcycles is symbolic of every other misstep the movie makes with its' choices: they don't fit and they are included in order to amp up the 'Cool Kitsch' factor from the original. Bowling, a bomb shelter, a talent show and a luau are right there alongside the motorcycle concept: set pieces and kitsch that is supposed to make us "remember when" but instead embarrasses the piss out of us. This is what happens when someone who hasn't lived through the 50's and 60's wants to make a sequel to a movie that was made by folks who haven't lived through the 50's and 60's either. I wasn't even a twinkle in my pappy's eye in 1961 and even I can see through this horse shit.

9- Lorna Luft channeling Marilyn Monroe.

GET IT?! SHE'S MARILYN MONROE BECAUSE MARILYN MONROE WAS A BIG DEAL BACK THEN!! SHE IS EVEN DAFFY AND UBER-SEXY LIKE MONROE WAS! OMG OMG OMG! (head explodes). Lorna Luft is Judy Garland's daughter. She's Liza's half-sister. She's also nowhere near as subtle or talented as Marilyn Monroe. And when she was researching the part, it's a little obvious that she didn't watch a single Marilyn Monroe movie. Or study acting. Or singing. But we will get to that later.

8- The whole cast has no idea who Maxwell Caulfield is. Why? Because he is wearing goggles. Brilliant.

I know I am picking at nits here, but come on: the plot is shoestring and dreams enough as it is- when you are dealing with a sequel that is pretty much rehashing the original, and your only hook is to switch genders and play the "mistaken identity" card, you NEED to do better than to put Maxwell Caulfield in a fucking pair of goggles and send him into a parking lot to do wheelies.

This all goes towards my original complaint listed in #10. When you need to fill a musical out you rely on convention, and when you are trying to beat your original box office take you grab those conventions and you hold them down and hump them until they beg for mercy. So we have the lover's triangle, we have the unrequited infatuation, we have the "pretending to be someone I am not just to win my lover's favor". We have terrible movie-making.

7- Stunt casting.

Not necessarily bringing back the tiny handful of actors who appeared in the original (although we will roast that chestnut over the coals in a few as well, I promise). This is more geared towards Connie Stevens as Miss Mason, a steamy, goodie-goodie sexpot teacher with a sorority-girl demeanor and a cougar-in-waiting mentality lurking in the shadows.

It's not even so much as the decision to cast a celebrity from this era in the film that bothers me as much as how they make her so damn savvy. She knows what the boys who oggle her are after. That's no fun. Nobody's intentions are right in this thing. What the hells is the backstory deal with Principal McGee having dinners over at Johnny's house? Where did this personal pride she has for these boys come from? And what the living fuck is going on at the talent show? What school has a talent show this elaborate?! Fuck this movie.

6- Seriously. The talent show? Jesus fucking Christ.

5- Michelle Pfeiffer sings like she has a dying cat in her throat.

When Michelle Pfeiffer went on to star in THE FABULOUS BAKER BOYS, she made a point of sharing the fact that she was brought through extensive voice training lessons in order to pull off the role. Know why? Because everybody heard that she sang her own songs in the movie and immediately remembered seeing her at the top of a ladder singing "Cool Rider" in GREASE 2. Holy shitballs, she's the star of the movie and if she isn't flat then she's sharp.

4- Somebody thought that Adrian Zmed would be a good "Johnny" because he played "Danny" on Broadway.

If I told you that Russel Crowe was going to be playing Divine in a John Water's biography because Crowe played Frank N Furter in Australia's ROCKY HORROR cast you'd shake your head at me and tell me to get out of your bathroom while you are in there. I don't have a point here, by now I am just typing so my co-workers think I am doing actual work. Oooh! Cake!

3- Those twins.

Actually, the entire supporting cast. And by "supporting cast" I mean everyone who shows up and does complicated dance numbers and generally tries to lend a air of "big fat fuckin' musical" to the production. That whole sequence where the entire cast sings about reproduction? It's 55 minutes long. 48 minutes of it is devoted to adorable side-glances and eye-rolls by the supporting cast. I timed it. I did it for you.

2- Bringing back Didi Conn and The Ugly Fucker.

Because people will relate more if they see Didi Conn and The Ugly Fucker. You know, they were in the first movie. And now they are back in this sequel! So remember them? Are you enjoying this thing any more than you would be if they weren't in it? Okay. Incidentally, Eve Arden and Blanche get a passing grade because... well... come on... it's Eve Arden. And Blanche.

1- The god... damned... MUSIC...

GREASE had a pretty damn good soundtrack. It was a nice mix of late-1950's doo-wop, bop and rock 'n roll, and it all worked. Know why it worked? Because it was music for a Broadway show and it had years and years of talent behind it. Even with adding 70's pop tunes in there for John and Olivia to sing- it all worked. The songs were GOOD.

The songs in GREASE 2 are horrible. Sincerely terrible. Incredibly bad. There are 13 musical numbers in the entire film and each one is overloaded with nonsense-lyrics, ridiculous subjects, and the worst thing of all: melodies that refuse to leave your skull, long after you have walked away from the TV set. There's no crime against humming "Hopelessly Devoted" while you are driving to work. But getting "Let's Do It For Our Country" stuck in your head will make you want to gouge your eardrums with an icepick. Hearing and re-hearing the chrous of "Girl For All Seasons" while you are walking out to pick up the mail just might provoke you into walking out into traffic. The music is catchy, light and fluffy, and fucking terrible.

Man, this movie sucks. It sucks hard. This is a movie that you are embarassed to watch even when you are watching it alone. God forbid you manage to catch a few minutes of it when you are surfing channels and someone walks into the room. You'd rather be caught masturbating than admitting that you were watching a full-blown musical number about bowling called "Score Tonight".

I think that the most heinous of crimes committed in GREASE 2 is the movie's sense of showmanship. GREASE 2 encompasses and displays the enthusiasm and jazz-hands of every 14 year-old tap dance class ingenue. It has the grace and poise of every Senior High School Play you ever had to sit through. Everything about it is mediocre, but it plays out as if it is a blockbuster of epic proportions. I strongly believe that Michael Bay watches it and says "YES! THAT IS MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT!" There is a remarkably large difference between a crappy movie that isn't up to snuff because it is overblown and over-enthusiastic and a movie that sucks because it is a piece of shit. GREASE 2 lives in the valley between.

Yes, I own it on DVD. Fuck you.

SLOSS...

Went to a Sloss Pour. Amazing. Here, read this- there are tons of photos and I don't feel like re-doing it here...

http://www.ryanwilliams.us/slossweb/sloss01.html

THE RED BASTARD STRIKES AGAIN!

Some things never go away. Taxes... Corduroy... Rod Stewart... and douchebags in red cars who can't walk an extra 10 feet...

Behold! An empty parking lot! And only 30 yards from a door to the building!

BEHOLD FURTHER! A DOUCHEBAG IN A RED CAR WHO FEELS THEY MUST PART RIGHT NEXT TO ME.



Why am I the only person who sees how annoying this shit is?

THE WEBCAM PHOTO INCIDENT

I swear to you that this wasn't intentional...

I'm loopy about My Lovely Wife™. There, I said it. So we do what loopy-about-each-other couples do sometimes. You know, stuff like calling each other silly names and making squeaky noises at each other instead of actually speaking. Those of you who are in the same mess we are in will understand.

So this afternoon at work my Blu Ray copy of PINEAPPLE EXPRESS shows up. She has been on me for a few weeks now about picking up a copy and it's finally here. OH HAPPY DAY!

Now my INTENTION was simply to do the following:

1- Write My Lovely Wife™ an email saying "Hey (pet name that I dare not repeat online), guess what showed up! HOORAY!"

2- Include a photo from my webcam so she can see it and see me smiling and she can think to herself "Oh Glee! Oh Fortuna! My life is a fine one!" and so on and whatnot.

That's ALL I was gonna do.

So I fire up Photo Booth. I hold up the disk in its' sexy blue box with a photo on the cover of stars James Franco and Seth Rogan, and I hit "snap"...

And I end up with this:


This will be even more amusing to those of you who recall my lament earlier in the year regarding the comments have been getting at restaurants, movie theaters and bookstores.

I am a pudgy, hairy doofus.

WATCHMEN ... ... ... dammit...

I get into film discussions on a regular basis with Josh, My Cinematic Junky Compadre. I respect his opinions because he respects mine, and because he admits that he is far more forgiving to the flaws and cracks that often ruin the experience for me.

We recently attended the majority of a Stanley Kubrick retrospective, and in between films one of our chats touched on the fact that Kubrick was the master of adapting novels to the screen. It never seemed to faze the director that he was deviating from the original outline, because the director was able to effectively convey the emotion and message of the book even if he didn’t stick entirely to the plot. Did we really need to see the animated hedge-animals in THE SHINING? The Made-For-TV remake in 1997 answered that question quite effectively.

Furthermore, Josh and I agreed that because of Kubrick, the time has come to stop comparing books to their cinematic counterparts, because the director had shown Hollywood once and for all that a film could stand on its’ own from it’s source material. Perhaps it could even improve upon it. A book is a book and a movie is a movie. Let each stand up for itself.

Imagine what Kubrick could have done with WATCHMEN.

Director Zack Snyder has been adamant about acquitting himself of plot changes and lost moments in WATCHMEN. It seems to me that if this is true, we will be seeing a more competent, exciting, faithful adaptation of what many consider to be the Greatest Graphic Novel Of All Time. Perhaps we will see one where the emotion and message of the original story comes through. All that I know for certain is that they are lost in this cut of the film.

If you don’t know what WATCHMEN is all about, then stop reading this review and go read it, or at least see the 162-minute version that I just saw and let me know what it is like to experience the film without being tied back to the graphic novel that inspired it. For me, the story was always an epic: a magnificent comic book story that marked the reader’s transition from adolescence to adulthood. It painted superheroes as (almost) entirely human, and existing in a real universe where history mirrored our own, but didn’t rely on Kryptonite or atomic spiders to create it’s saviors. It grounded its’ characters in reality and then pondered what would happen if a world that was filled with masked vigilantes was suddenly given a TRUE superhero to witness: one that possessed actual superpowers and was therefore drawn less to humanity and more fascinated with the makeup of the universe itself.

The original WATCHMEN also gave us a cautionary tale about fear, and the fragile precipice of sanity, and it suggested that we ask ourselves “what kind of a person WOULD dress up like a moth and try to fight crime in a big city?”

You know how awesome you think Batman is? You wouldn’t recognize him before WATCHMEN was written. Do you know why Spiderman began to fight Venom? Read WATCHMEN. The dark realities were out there before Alan Moore & David Gibbons created Nite Owl and Rorschach, but WATCHMEN galvanized it, and set it in darkness, and gave it some sort of reality.

Enough of me waxing poetic. Zack Snyder’s filmed adaptation of WATCHMEN is released. And it is almost a great movie. But he left out some very important details in his interpretation, and it is exactly like creating a stew without any seasoning... the ingredients are fine and good, but ultimately you have a bland dish that leaves you wanting more.

What’s great about WATCHMEN? The actors. Every last one of them is fine. Carla Gugino is getting some flack for not adding much to her interpretation of Sally Jupiter, the world’s first Silk Spectre, but she’s fine. Fanboys are gushing over Jackie Earle Haley’s dark, brooding Rorschach, and rightly so as he handles every word and nuance perfectly. The actors don’t miss a step, and they gel wonderfully with each other. No complaints.

Another great thing about WATCHMEN is it’s decision to fill in the gaps with exposition that works: the opening credit sequence is by and far the best example of how to bring an audience up to speed with a comic-book-reality I have ever seen. And the way it introduces each character in the first act of the film is truly impressive.

But sadly, there is never any sort of payoff by the third act.

I truly believe that there was enough material and information shot that, when edited together properly, will give us an acceptable version of WATCHMEN that might convey the depth of emotion and intellectual investment that the original graphic novel evoked. But it’s lost here, and it is caught under a ton of unnecessary garbage and unreasonable filler. I found myself adoring the first half of the movie and fearing what they were going to do next with the story after the first 90 minutes.

The Top Five Things That Disappointed Me About WATCHMEN:

5- “The Watchmen” moniker

So this is a little thing, but it was the first thing that unsettled me when I was watching and it goes towards my “this is a pot of beef stew without any seasoning at all” theory. In the film, Dan Dreiberg and others refer to themselves as “The Watchmen”- it is implied that they were an organization in the 60‘s that followed after “The Minutemen” in the 40’s. In fact, the organization that was proposed in the 60’s was going to be called “The Crimebusters” and it never happened because The Comedian made such a mockery of it during its’ first meeting. The title WATCHMEN refers to each and every costumed vigilante and superhero that encompassed the scope of the story, from the 40’s on through. It might seem fanboyish to wish for a detail like that to remain in the film, but it adds more depth and symbolism to the story when it is left ambiguously out of the crime fighters’ vernacular. When they refer to themselves as “The Watchmen” it makes the casual viewer understand that there was a group of superheroes out there, but it also implies that it was a small group and that they were unified. That’s the first step in misleading the viewer from the original message.

4- The Violence

It’s not that I don’t like blood and gore. That’s crazy. I have been a gorehound since the days of renting VHS tapes and fast-forwarding them to the parts where the bad guys all melt. But I was flabbergasted at how gleefully and mercilessly Snyder decided to let fly with the carnage. Bones don’t just get broken, they fly out of a person’s skin when they crack. Knives are thrust into bad guys’ necks. Cleavers split heads open, arms are out-and-out amputated. Entrails hit the ceiling and stay there. Here is my question:

WHY?

Is it because Snyder wanted to add a level of depth and reality to the story? Did he want to remind us that these are “real people and that they are really doing these horrible things, and that blood and gore is a result of it?” Is this part of the underlying theme of the story... that this is what would really be happening when costumed vigilantes get violent with real flesh-and-blood criminals?

If so, then why do people soar 20 feet through the air when they get kicked in the chest?

3- That Sex Scene

I love tits. LOVE em. There, I said it. If there was any doubt, let that be the closer, right there. Naked boobs? They are A-O.K. in my very long, very detailed book.

Therefore it is with a heavy soul that I proclaim the very moment when WATCHMEN became less-than-great for me was during the 3-minute extended sex scene between Dan and Laurie in the hovership. Did we REALLY need to see Dan’s ass thrusting enthusiastically and triumphantly between Laurie’s legs? My inner pervert says “Yes indeed!” but believe it or not... it was unnecessary. And silly, and uncomfortable, and stupid. This marks TWO occasions where Zack Snyder has taken me OUT of a movie-watching experience because of a too-long, too-goofy sex scene (see 300).

2- The Pacing

It should have been faster, smarter and tighter. Nobody said that 300 was over too quickly. And considering what I am about to complain about, one would think it could have been accomplished with a heavier hand in the editing bay. By the last half hour you felt like it needed to be over. What a shame... SUPERMAN came out at 143 minutes in it’s initial release... felt like a half hour. Hmm...

1- That Ending

SPOILERS AHOY!

The biggest bone of contention against WATCHMEN is the fact that they changed the ending. (highlight the following if you want, I don’t want to destroy this for the rest of you) In the book, Veidt’s plot involves a band of scientists, artists and designers who have been exiled on an island for months-to-years designing an authentic alien squidlike-creature that they believe will be a prop for a science fiction movie. Veidt teleports the creature to the center of Manhattan, where it explodes on arrival (Dr. Manhattan can teleport objects and allow them to remain intact, but Veidt’s technology can’t). The creature’s arrival in New York City implies an impending alien invasion, and the countdown to Armageddon ceases to be an issue between The US and Soviets as they unite towards a common cause. Sure, a few million people die... but Veidt insists that it was necessary in order to save billions.

Snyder’s version instead has Veidt constructing complicated bomb-like mechanisms that imply, when detonated in SEVERAL cities across the globe, that Dr. Manhattan has attacked more than one area as revenge or an act of aggression towards the human race.

(OKAY I AM DONE SPOILING IT)

They claim the resolution is the same: unity and an end to impending nuclear war. But there couldn’t be a larger gap between the intent of the implications in the original story and the implications of the film. I’m not religious, but the overall message of “Fear God’s Wrath” is WAAAAY, WAAAAAAAAY off the mark here. And it ruins everything that came before it.

Snyder claims that there simply wasn’t enough time to provide the exposition necessary to keep the original ending intact.

Let me get this straight... there was enough time to show two characters humping like teenagers for three minutes... there was enough time to change a scene where a convict gets his throat slit to a scene where he gets his arms hacked off with a power tool... there was enough time to change a scene dealing with burning a building down with a killer inside it into a scene where a beloved character butchers him with a meat cleaver... but we couldn’t effectively convey the original climax because there just wasn’t enough time to do it right?

Try harder. Alan Moore did. And with all the technology you had at your fingertips, you could have done it for us, and left the original message intact.

You went for a big Hollywood ka-boom ending. Enjoy the paycheck. Let’s see the ‘Director’s cut”.

PROOF OF HOPE. PROOF OF CHANGE.

It's the first week of March, 2009. The GW Bush Presidency is gone and done with, our nation is knee-deep in the worst recession since the 1930's, and somehow fate has decreed that a hard-boiled metrosexual detective from 2008 has ended up in the early 1970's in a precinct run by Harvey Keitel (who's only acting direction in the 6 or 7 episodes I have watched so far redefines the term "phoning it in").

And yet, if you look... heroes are emerging.

Many of you will remember my McDonald's nemesis Marcello. The man is a shyster, a hooligan, and a harried part-time employee at the closest fast-food restaurant to my workplace. Despite the painful way he has treated me in the past, I have not stopped eating at the place. This is because I am a fat, miserable dick. I blame the Scottish Bastard that Marcello works for. Hate the game, folks, not the playas.

The Scottish Bastard's newest ploy in the epic Plot To Give Me A Bypass By The Time I Am 40 involves the Lent-based Double Filet-O-Fish Sandwich. Let's bring this puppy out so everyone can marvel at its' glory...

(image courtesy of McChronicles)

There it is, folks... the answer to the burning question: "Hey, kids! Do you LOVE the taste of fish sticks but HATE having to eat them at home, all alone?"

I wanted a light lunch, since I am currently battling my third head cold in as many months (and worrying tremendously about my immune system and what sort of effect that evening with that Thai hooker with the Adam's apple has had on it), but I am not yet ill enough to stave off nausea. My natural curiosity won out and I found myself at the drive-thru window asking for the five-dollar value meal. With a Dr. Pepper. Because I am sick, after all.

It was only after I had gotten out of the parking lot and was headed back to my cozy little desk when it struck me that in addition to TWO "filets" (I spelled that right, look it up) on a lightly-steamed bun, I was also currently in possession of an entire order of salty, potato-y McDonald's french fries! Oh happy day!

But what to dip them in?

My office has a common area with a shelf that has become a catch-all for fast-food detritus. If you need a tiny paper double-tube of salt or pepper, we can handle that for you. Are you looking for a spork? You are covered. Need a place to deposit the extra 45 packets of "mild" sauce from your trip to Taco Bell? Drop 'em in a bowl and wash your hands of the burden of unwanted sauce-ownership.

Sadly, even though you can acquire a packet of mayonnaise and six fortune cookies in our break room, the area suffers from a ketchup drought. Something about the tomato-and-high-fructose-corn-syrup concoction makes it very rare and succulent in our office. And although you CAN consume McDonald's french fries without dipping them in ketchup, it's not recommended.

"But Ryan", you say around a mouthful of raisins, green salad and lite Italian dressing (fuck you, you health nut), "everybody gets french fries with their meals at The Scottish Bastard's, and nobody ever remembers the ketchup packets!"

Right you are. However: nine times out of ten your greasy, condiment-laden sandwich will drip half of its' contents onto the cardboard container where you have dumped your fries, thus allowing you SOME sort of alternative to eating dry-and-salty pommes frites.

You can't do that with a Filet-O-Fish. Because french fries and tartar sauce is fucking gross.

Seriously. It's horrifyingly disgusting. My guess is that when Steve-O from that MTV show where the two "NOT GAY" guys run around the planet and throw up all the time is about to eat something like a caribou turd or an iguana's dick, the last thing he thinks when it's going in his mouth is "well at least this isn't going to taste like a french fry in tarter sauce". Next thing you know... "Huuurk! Huulll-wik! HORF!" Oh, the ratings!

So here is my sad lament... I am headed up to my desk with a double-decker sandwich that can't even legally include the proper spelling of fillet in its' title, and I know that in a half hour I will need more to drink because of the amount of salt I am going to be sucking down with these delicious Potato Sticks of Death. And there will be NOTHING TO DIP THEM IN, because I was too phlegmy and medicine-headed to say anything about ketchup when I had the chance.

And then I opened my to-go bag...

Yes indeed! Sitting on top of my food, glowing like a beacon of hope...

MARCELLO HAD GIVEN ME FOUR PACKETS OF UNSOLICITED KETCHUP.

This is a crazy world we live in. The Republicans are telling us that Obama is a Muslim. You can't buy sinus medication over-the-counter any more for fear of meth labs. Nobody knows if Ben or Whidmore is the good guy...

But in one corner of one town, a guy had the foresight to slip another guy a few packets of ketchup without having to ask for it.

My world is a little bit sunnier. A little bit brighter.

Yes We Can.

THE TV-DINNERAMA UPDATE!

It's already March 4! That means it is DAY FOUR of the:

So let's take a look at how we are doing so far!

...
... ...
... ... ...

I quit.



I really want to impress upon you how much I was looking forward to the


... I bought stuff. I designed graphics. I made templates. I cleaned the TV room up.

What I did NOT anticipate was that I would be out of town for the first two days of March. Furthermore, I didn't pause to consider the quality of the food I was about to exclusively consume for 31 straight days.

Here's what went down last night:

My first day back home! And time to belly up to the Banquets!

I walked into my kitchen late last night and opened the fridge, anticipating a GREAT kickoff to the


... And there was the first contender of the month: A Banquet Chicken Fried Beef Steak Meal.

I'm a fan of chicken-fried steaks and chicken, don't get me wrong. But something in the presentation of the meal started to turn my stomach. Before I opened the box I flipped the thing over and decided to educate myself as to how to prepare my evening supp.


Unpackage. Heat for 4 minutes. Stir. CONTENTS MUST BE THOROUGHLY COOKED!

Somewhere between holding the clammy, thin, cardboard packaging and reading that if I didn't let the whole thing sit for 2 minutes after cooking it (in order to maintain proper heating throughout), my body started to tell me that it wasn't hungry at all.

It went on to tell me that even if I waited for a long, long time, it would not be hungry for this food. My body even made a special effort to assure me that if I was starving to death, it would need at least a six-pack of beer and a hail-mary pass before it would consider letting me put this in it.

Considering that this was coming from the same stomach that sometimes orders me to consume 2 dozen chicken wings and a half-rack of ribs on a Wednesday night, I decided it meant business.

Hence:


... I had a salad.

Fuck it.

THE NEW YORK SHOW (now with snazzy graphics!)

Just a quick 'ELLO! And a poster for Saturday's show:

COME SEE ME LIVE (IN CAPITAL LETTERS!)

Hey there, person I knew when I was growing up in New York! Do you wonder what it would be like to watch me perform a comedy show in the town I grew up in? Have you longed for a chance to hear me talk about things that I find funny and annoying?

WELL LOOK NO FURTHER!

I will be performing comedy at THE RELIEF PITCHER on Saturday, Feb 28th at 9pm.

Here are some Frequently Asked Questions for you to read!

1- Hey Ryan! When is the show again? And where?

Please go back and read this post from the beginning.

2- Hey Ryan! Who else is performing with you?

Tony Liberati, an old friend who got me the gig and who is funnier than a room full of ping pong balls; also your headliner will be an incredibly funny guy named Jamie Lissow. He's got a Comedy Central special! I have a joke about playing tricks on blind people. HOORAY!

3- Hey Ryan! Is it cool if I bring my 6 year-old kid to a 9pm comedy show in a bar?

Certainly! By all means! Especially if they enjoy hearing stories about Paris Hilton's libido and how fun it is to play tricks on the blind! What a great idea! While you are at it, bring Grandma along!

THE RELIEF PITCHER is at 197 Conklin Ave, Binghamton. The show will start at 9. Tickets are available at the door. I have no idea how much it will cost, but if you show up I will probably buy you a drink.

A Major Life-Changing Announcement...

I got married in '04, but I have known My Lovely Wife™ for a lot longer than that. I personally blame her for why I never went through a Heat-N-Serve period in my life.

I shall explain.

In high school, most of my meals came out of a can, or from my mother's kitchen, or from the handful of restaurants I was employed at. In college, if I wasn't eating Ramen Noodles or cans of Spaghetti-O's, I was enjoying whatever they prepared for students in the local Commons. After college I spent a great portion of my time back at my folks' house, and later when I made a (very meager) living as a Radio DJ, it was always a question of fast food. I think in the 2 years that I spent doing radio, I ate a home-cooked meal once. And THAT was only because my roommate was trying to sleep with me and she thought if she made a casserole it would get me hot and horny for room-on-room action. It did not.

After I met My Lovely Wife™ I learned to cook. I pretty much had to. Ask her, she'll agree that if I didn't cook on a regular basis, we'd starve. Wonder why I am so fat now? It's because I am a damn good cook.

But as a result, I missed out on living the life of a "just throw it in and heat it up" kind of existence. I went from "cook it for me" to "I'll get it to go" and straight on to "All you need is a saucepan, some paprika and a good vegetable-chopping knife".

In short, I never fully experienced the majesty of existing solely on TV Dinners.

There is something about the TV Dinner that fascinates me and captures my whimsy. Perhaps it's because they always looked so horrifyingly delightful in old commercials. Maybe it's because the concept of Salisbury Steak just plain sounds funny to me. Maybe it's the 'fried chicken' sitting on a tinfoil square that perfectly captures the notion of "Suburban Bliss" to me.

I'm sure that quite a bit of it has to do with the stereotypical image of a shiny foil tray sitting comfortably on a thin metal folding-tray in front of a 12-inch TV screen. There is something truly wonderful about the idea of coming home, pulling off your shoes, grabbing an inch-thick block of prepackaged edibles out of the ice box, popping it into the oven for twenty minutes, and sitting down to watch The Beaver with a glass of beer and a full meal at your knee. I have a tremendous aversion to network television, and despite the fact that I have scarfed what amounts to roughly 60 tons of pizza, wings, ribs and chips in front of my home theater; I have never actually sat down to a hearty ready-to-eat meal while enjoying the fine programming that Burbank California has seen fit to expose me to.

For whatever reason, I have decided to undergo the following experiment.

Starting on March 1st, 2009, and continuing though the entire month, my evening meal shall consist of nothing but TV Dinners whenever I eat at home, and they shall all be consumed on a tray while enjoying a television show of my choosing.

I call it the:


Yes indeed. For the entire month of March I have decided to forgo "cooking" anything for my nightly meal. Instead, I will indulge myself by luxuriating in whatever the good people at Swanson, Hungry Man, Lean Cuisine, Stoeffer's and the rest of the gang have deemed fit to consume for my supper.

Naturally, I will provide reviews, descriptions, photos, and breakdowns of the experiment. And because I am a stickler for details, here are a few important ones to consider:

1. I will not pass up an opportunity to eat at a restaurant. My TV Dinner consumption is regulated to remaining at home and having my dinner in the evening. To that effect, I will not have a TV Dinner for lunch, breakfast or snacky time. Because it's a TV Dinner, dammit.
2. As I have a long-standing hatred for reality TV, and I am not able to cope with the vast amount of "Stunt Programming" that modern-day TV has to offer, I will occasionally be watching DVDs of TV shows in the place of regularly-scheduled programming. I have several seasons of Classic SNL to get through, and I recently purchased the complete Addams Family series. Plus there is still my collection of Miami Vice, Alien Nation and Firefly to get through. In short: I will be watching TV shows while I am eating my TV Dinners, but they might not be the TV shows featuring Stars Who Dance.
   
3. Some field research has revealed that there is now a very thin line between "TV Dinners" and "Single-serving piles of frozen pasta, cheese, meat and veggies" designed to make you feel like you are getting thinner. For the sake of my experiment: A TV Dinner shall be any meal that requires me to heat it in order to enjoy it properly, and must come in a sectional tray consisting of at least two sections that separate the content. Sadly, this means I will NOT be enjoying Michelina's pasta entrees or very much from Weight Watchers. It also means no Pot Pie. Sacrifices MUST be made.
4. As I cannot imagine doing so without one, each meal will be consumed accompanied by an ice-cold bottle of Rolling Rock Beer. It just feels right, people.
   

I plan on kicking this odyssey off on March 1st. In preparation I have already purchased a few delightful-looking standbys like the Hungry Man Turkey Dinner (the box proudly proclaims that it is MOSTLY white meat, and stands by its' boast by displaying a photo with 3 slices of pink turkey and one very gray one soaking in gravy).

Wish me luck, and send me Tums. I have a feeling we will all become stronger from this experience.

The Joaquin Phoenix Thing

Knock it off.

I'm talking to YOU. You are sitting there at your computer and you are reading this because you are interested in discussing The Joaquin Phoenix Thing. You want to talk about how he is melting down in public, how he has lost grip with reality, and how he's all "crazy" now. "Wha the hell is goin' on?! Mabel! Come lookit this! That feller who done the Johnny Cash is nuts! Look!"

No he hasn't. He's fine. This isn't a hoax or a ruse... it's more of a gambit. And he wants you to get all "goon show" about it. Let's discuss.

Of course I suppose that by discussing it, blogging about it, debating it and watching and re-watching it on YouTube is providing exactly the kind of publicity that Joaquin Phoenix is hoping to gain with his spate of recent stunts in public. The Beast gets fed no matter what. That's not the point of this writing.

The point of this writing is intended to discourage the public from engaging at this particular time in the schadenfreude of watching a celebrity experience a meltdown. Because he's probably not.

For the uninformed, I will briefly explain the situation.

A few months ago, a haggard-looking Phoenix gave a red-carpet speech to a reporter where he publicly announced he was no longer going to pursue acting. Instead, he was interested in developing his musical career. The reporter naturally took it with a grain of salt, which was exactly what Phoenix was looking for, so he used it as an excuse to walk away in disgust (but only after flashing the words "good" and "bye" backwards on his knuckles) and acting like 'yeah, I expected as much' from his interviewer.

His publicist confirmed it the next day, which gave the Media a happy little celebrity news blip. And then the public promptly forgot about it, because nobody gives a shit about Joaquin Phoenix. Except, of course, for Joaquin Phoenix.

A couple of weeks ago, another video clip surfaced on the web; this time it was footage of a very furry and stiff-looking Phoenix appearing on stage in Las Vegas, where he was attempting to perform a hip hop song. Naturally, he makes a fool of himself but refuses to acknowledge that anything off-kilter is occurring. Even after prat-falling on his ass.

Last night Joaquin Phoenix appeared on national television on Letterman, where the self-indulgent and only marginally-talented actor decided to act as if he was above being interviewed, and more than that, acted as if he wasn't all-there. The chances that you have seen the clip, either when it aired or almost immediately afterwards on about 50 websites, are huge. I won't go into details other than to say that he went above and beyond in his attempts to make something out of nothing. Pay attention to how he responds when Dave slices into him. Letterman has an inkling of what's going on here, and he isn't impressed. A guy who is that far-removed from reality wouldn't break out in a smile and attempt to shift the focus back to distant melancholy the way that Phoenix does. Letterman jokes that he owed an apology to Farrah Faucet, but at least Faucet stayed in character.

I could be very wrong about this. There just might be a chance that Joaquin Phoenix is legitimately unhappy with his lifestyle and that he wants to center himself back into a personal, non-superficial reality. But I doubt it. There are two reasons why I doubt it...

Kristen Stewart appeared on Letterman a couple of months ago. The attractive and down-to-Earth actress has publicly admitted being bedazzled by the amount of attention she has received for starring in the teen-heartthrob-laden TWILIGHT. During her interview you witnessed a young woman who was uncomfortable with the superficiality and distanced-from-reality world she has been in, and while avoiding eye contact and actually taking moments to think about answers that Letterman was asking her about- she managed to come across as someone who is unhappy with the accolades and attention. The interview wasn't awkward as much as it was steeped in a more direct and non-bullshit-laden tone. Dave even seemed impressed at her capacity and honesty.

I mention her in full-knowledge that as of late, Stewart has been exposed by the press as a pot-smoking hippie stoner-girl who might not serve as a role-model for young women who are flocking to see her get seduced by a diamond-shiny vampire in a shitty Hollywood movie.

With that comes even MORE reason to believe that a person under the influence of narcotics is able to function when he or she is asked to participate in a televised interview.

The second reason I have for believing that Joaquin Phoenix is making the choice to act like a spoiled brat instead of being genuinely affected: the mere fact that he appeared on the show AT ALL.

After the weeks and weeks of booking, agents, publicists, pre-show rehearsals, discussion-point cards and everything else, only a guy with an AGENDA to act like a compete and utter tool would be able to actually appear on a show and get away with acting the way that he did.

I'm not saying that Letterman himself was in on it. He certainly didn't act like he was, and he fabulously refused to play into any of Pheonix's attempts to derail the moment. It was a prime example of "I think I see what's going on here and I don't think you have the stones to pull it off, buddy."

All in all, the consensus with doubters seems to be that if this IS a stunt that is being perpetrated for the purposes of a mockumentary, it's not going very well. And in addition, I would go as far as to say that it is a fucking waste of time and talent to even try to pull this off. It's been done before, and by smarter participants.

See? It's NOT just me, dammit!

I admit it. I'm nitpicky. I pick at nits. My OCD is set to eleven. Being a slave to my own preferences for having things just-so has cost me friends, relationships, and many a delicious meal at a local eatery. My cross is heavy, but I bear it well, and you must admit, the wood is wonderfully polished and thumbprint-free.

And I am not alone.

At least, not in all things. I might be the only one who gets physically nauseous when the Idiot In Front Of Me doesn't pull far enough ahead at the drive-thru to give me ample room to be face-to-speaker when I come up. I stand alone in my belief that a person over the age of 60 shouldn't comment on my vegetable selection at the check-out counter at Publix. And I dare say I am the only person at my workplace who has a problem with the concept of talking at the top of your lungs with your fellow salesman in the bathroom while someone (me) is trying to take a quick dump.

But when it comes to parking, it looks like I have found a comrade.

Let me set the scene:

The building I work in isn't as crowded as it used to be. I'm in a 5-story behemoth that can accommodate approximately 1600 persons at a time, according to the information in the janitor's closet (don't ask, I drink a lot, okay?)... currently I estimate there are only about 200 employees scuttling about in the four separate businesses occupying the property. It's big and it's pretty empty, and I like it that way just fine.

The layout of the parking lot is a sight to behold. Aside from the spaces right against the edge of the building, there is no such thing as a "close spot". Oh, it LOOKS close when you are parking 20 yards from the smoking area... but you have to work your way around 30 additional yards of shrubbery and ornamental mulch in order to actually get to the door. It's annoying, but tolerable, to a degree, because as empty as the building tends to be, it means there is ample parking as long as you don't mind getting mulchy once and a while.

With so much parking space, you'd think that everyone would know about "the empty parking lot rules".

The Empty Parking Lot Rules are not sacred, and they aren't as revered in song and legend as, say, the Bro's Before Ho's Rules... but they are still pretty much self- evident. You KNOW when you are violating them, even if you have never seen them listed out.

Here's an abridged list of some very well-respected Parking Lot Rules:

1- If you are over 200 pounds and you are walking to/from your car through a parking lot, move the fuck over, because people are trying to drive past you.

2- If you are headed back to your car with packages at Christmas and a car is following close behind you, it is your job to let them know if you are leaving, or if you are just dropping off our load of packages and meeting Your Lovely Wife™ for an Orange Julius. That way they don't follow, at a CRAWL, watch you dump your stuff, then wait until you go back in the building so they can key your car.

3- Anyone who thinks their car is so important that they need to park SIDEWAYS across TWO OR MORE spaces is just asking for a broken tail light. Seriously. I mean it, unless your fucking car is dipped in gold and the Dali Lama is in the back seat waiting for his slice of Sbarro, don't park like a fucking retard.

And the most important Parking Lot Rule ever?

4- When there is ample space in a big, empty lot... SPREAD THE HELL OUT.

It's really annoying when you don't. I can't tell you why. But look at any lot at the mall on a Tuesday afternoon in Spring and tell me you don't see the pattern: Up close to the doors? Lots of clusters of cars, in space after space... but the further out one goes, the more space opens up between cars. By the time you get to the Logan's it's a desert of asphalt. It's the way that God intended things.

In the miasma of strange and difficult-to-access parking zones at my building, a handful of employees have taken to a semi-empty patch of concrete on the East side of the place that I like to call East Jesus.

Up until 2 weeks ago, only 4 cars have found a permanent place in good 'ol East Jesus. And we have all lived in harmony, faithfully obeying Fourth Law Of Parking Lots... we have spread out. Sure, we all want to park as close to the door as possible, but we still know the rule, and each car has courteously left a parking space open on either side of each other. And sure, we trade off actual SPOTS from day to day, depending on who shows up on time and who doesn't, but the entire mood has been friendly and accommodating to each other. It's a fine system! See:

What I mean to say is- This WAS a fine system. Until a week ago. When THE RED CAR showed up.

THE RED CAR has been seen before. It has been closer to the door in other parts of the lot, but for the past few days, THE RED CAR has taken up residence in East Jesus. And all hell has broken loose.

THE RED CAR has started parking next to other cars. We are in the middle of nowhere and THE RED CAR wants to snuggle. We don't even know who THE RED CAR belongs to, but that doesn't deter it from abandoning all reasonable etiquette and parking it's ass right next to the other cars in East Jesus.

What does this mean for the rest of us? It means we have to over-compensate and park even further from the building, which wouldn't be such a hassle except that it is, goddammit. And it's all THE RED CAR's fault. It shows up and fucks up the whole layout of cars by parking itself right NEXT to other cars in an empty part of the lot.

And all this would mean nothing, other than being of minor annoyance to me, if it weren't for what I just saw on my way back in from lunch today.

See, as much as I complain and nitpick, I'm a realist. I know that these things really only bug me, and if I complain about things on my little bloggity-doo, I can usually cope. I assumed that the existence of the touchy-feely RED CAR would be something only I would have trouble with, and that it would never even escalate to becoming a blog-worthy consideration.

But then I discovered something wonderful, something as delightful as discovering that your brand new college roommate also digs The Housemartins or that your mail-order bride is also into light bondage.

I discovered a fellow East Jesus resident ALSO has a problem with THE RED CAR.

Getting out of my car after lunch (3 spaces down from where I would normally park, thanks to that crimson bastard) I noticed a piece of paper was attached to THE RED CAR's wiper blade, flapping in the breeze.

Curiosity overtook me and I wandered over to the windshield to see what it was.

Someone left our scarlet offender a message. And as God as my witness, I could not have invented such a wonderful note if I tried.

It was just a simple piece of paper with black Sharpie and it read, in block letters:

HI, NICE CAR, CAN YOU PLEASE STOP PARKING OUT HERE LIKE AN ASSHOLE? THANKS!

Thank you. Thank you, fellow Parking Lot Rules Abider.

I am not alone.

I GOT IT

I THINK I HAVE IT ALL FIGURED OUT!

So all in all, here is what it seems like we got:

IN THE BEGINNING there was an island with incredible magnetic powers that probably slows down time or something or other, and people on the island are kind of like living in the Garden of Eden, maybe. Or something.

Then in the 1950's a douchebag America decided to test a nuke called Jughead on the island, but the 'original inhabitants' fucked all that up. So they buried the bomb about 15 minutes from the shore.

Then the Dharma Initiative showed up and made a bunch of stations around the island. They somehow harnessed the energy of the hydrogen bomb and put The Swan over it, and after Ben wiped out the Dharma guys they set up some super-science stuff that tapped into the magnetic powers of the island and caused the whole island to "stop" in time... literally to loop every 108 minutes as long as someone pushed a button. Or something.

But some Scottish guy ended up forgetting to push the button right when an airliner was traveling OVER the island, and since the island was becoming "unstuck" in time, it freaked shit out and caused a crash. But Desmond punched in and reset the loop again just in time so now the airline passengers are stuck on the island as it cycles through an 108-minute loop.

At least until Locke shows up and let's the whole thing go kerflooey... but at the last minute, before the nuke nukes the place, Desmond hits a 'fail safe' which probably jumps the island OUT of it's loop and back into the normal time flow. Jughead blows up, but at a different point in time, so everyone is safe. The bad news is that the island is now back in 'normal time'.

The bad guys (Widmore, who left the island when the Dharma kooks started taking over and driving the "original Others", including Richard, away) can find the island now, as long as they follow the right magnetic bearing to get into that crazy island. Or something.

But Ben 'moves' the island as an emergency last-defense. Which is a lot like bumping a record on a turntable, and now the needle is bouncing all around the record, and it can't find the right 'groove' because all the ingredients aren't in the bowl like they should be.

They only have a short amount of time to get back to the island, because the island will kind of do like what is going on in Juliet, Miles and Charlotte's heads. And since the island is basically the world's brain, the world will start bleeding out of it's nose and flopping around in the solar system.

Who's with me?

I hate this fucking show.

Um... Hi... 'Sup? Um... I made you a mix tape...

I realized what sucks about modern mix tapes: They don't exist any more.

If someone makes you a mix nowadays, you get a playlist. Playlists suck. If I send you a playlist, all you are going to do is listen to the stuff you like and not follow through on listening to the whole thing. There's no fun in that at all. "Oh... you made me a mix... how nice... let me just zap through this weird Peter Gabriel section and get right to the Soundgarden."

Screw that.

Here's the thing... when you got a mix tape from someone in high school- you earned that shit. Most of the time what you got was a damn 60-minute Maxell Cassette tape with hearts and smiley faces drawn on the label with a felt-tipped pen. You didn't have a CLUE what was coming on that thing, and all you could do was pop it in and listen to it with your headphones on and pray to god that nothing sappy would make you cry in front of your little sister.

So this afternoon I was experiementing with some new software I have 'aquired' and I decided to put it to use. I made you a mix tape. Yup. A real-life, true-blue Totaly Awesome Mix Tape. Just for YOU, my loyal blog-reader. It's a full hour of delicious 80's goodness, and it is 100% FREE of nightmarish pop bubblegum-laced crap from the era. You get 17 of the coolest songs in the world, and ZERO Madonna.

And you gotta listen to them all, because it's one long track, dammit.

LISTEN TO IT HERE (or better still)

DOWNLOAD IT HERE (MP3) unzip it and enjoy.

Come on. You'll love it. And to sweeten the deal:

I offer hearty prizes galore to whomever is able to list a full ARTIST and TITLE of each song, and send it to me as a reply to this post. Extra points if you can name the title of the film that the song comes from, if applicable.

When was the last time someone gave you a mix tape.

Come on. Will you go out with me or not?

THE WRESTLER

Gene Siskel is often quoted by his surviving partner as saying "It's not what a movie is about, it's how it's about what it's about."

I mention this because of the woman who sat in front of me when I saw THE WRESTLER last night. She was obviously there as a favor to her boyfriend, who was already paying the price by listening to her say things like "If this is one of your ROCKY BALBOA things or another KARATE KID I'm making you go see CONFESSIONS OF A SHOP-A-HOLIC with me when it comes out."

Charming!

I feel good for the guy, actually, because by the end of THE WRESTLER his shrewish lady-friend was just as affected as the rest of us in the audience, and I think he got out of having to watch a spunky chick buy boots for 90 minutes.

What THE WRESTLER is about has been done before. How it is done this time is pretty much perfection.

Mickey Rourke is Randy "The Ram" Robinson; a professional wrestler who has fallen out of the limelight since the late 80's when he was in his prime. He still wrestles, but it's not in the arenas and stadiums any more. Mostly it's high-school and civic center auditorium bouts. Places where hard-core fans still show up and pay $10 a head to see musclebound characters "pretend" to beat the shit out of each other in (and out of) the ring. Sure, wrestling is "fake"- the athletes are shown in their makeshift dressing rooms discussing the outcome of the fights and working out details with each other. But the hits they are taking are still real hits. The chairs to the head and the drops from the turnbuckle still take it's toll on the human body, and Randy's body is just about all used up.

The guy is a walking junkyard, figuratively and literally. His face is ripped, scarred and swollen. His body is still pumped up, but his skin is starting to look puffy and leathery from years and years of tanning and toning. He's using steroids and enhancers. He needs a hearing aid. He's dying and highlighting his stringy 80's hairdo. He's falling apart.

Randy lives for the rush he gets in the ring. He is a pile of hamburger, but it's worth it when he's flying through the air and tossing an opponent over his shoulders. But during a particularly horrifying exhibition match, something terrible happens to him, and THE WRESTLER is the story of how he tries to cope with losing the only thing he still has in his life.

My wife is a tremendous fan of movies about misfits and losers who manage to find kindred spirits and come together. One of the first movies we ever saw together was BOOGIE NIGHTS and it touched her that so many lost souls could find a safe place to be themselves. She has an affection for ED WOOD for the same reason, and a slew of other "loveable losers" who find a way to cope with the harsh realities of not fitting in.

What is most poignant about THE WRESTLER is that it's titular character isn't the lovable loser. He's a hard-headed bull of a man. He never found anywhere to fit in after his fall from grace. He can't cope with any sort of reality. Without wrestling, he has nothing.

Randy knows a stripper, played in an Oscar-worthy performance by Marisa Tomei. She's exactly like him: aging, in over her head, losing the ability to effectively do what she knows how to do. We first see her attempting to please a group of young bachelor-party revelers who are openly insulting her for being so old. She insists that she can still get the job done, but they are only interested in being crass. Randy identifies with it and tries to help. But he's just another guy, and Cassidy's "rules of conduct" force her to keep him at a distance.

As a person who's worked in a strip club and seen women attempt to make a living competing every night for the attention of clients, let me just say that I have never seen a more realistic depiction of a topless dancer on film before in my life. Tomei knows about the subtlety of being polite to men who have cash, and she knows how and when to let someone in long enough to feel special. Most importantly, she thinks she has the ability to put a stop to someone getting TOO close to her. Most strippers who have been around the block end up seeing a customer outside of the club at least once, and it almost always turns out the way it does here. Real and raw and forlorn.

There is a sub-plot involving Randy's estranged daughter that feels forced, at first. And contrived after a second encounter. It takes patience and a willingness to appreciate how it resolves itself to put the rest of it in perspective.

Has anyone said enough about how amazing Rourke is in this thing? I am a long-complaining curmudgeon when it comes to people heaping praise on a movie solely for an actor's performance in it. In this case, Rourke carries the weight of the film on his shoulders. It would truly be nothing without him. This isn't a case of a bad script or a plot-driven story with a single noteable performance. This is a beaten, nearly broken-down old warhorse who has made a decision to play a beaten, nearly broken-down old warhorse. He deserves every word of praise that he has been given for this.

This is a terrific movie. It's rife with metaphor (the title alone suggest more than just the profession of the main character). THE WRESTLER is the kind of film you would have seen in the 1970's at the height of Hollywood's "Second Age", when character pieces and studies of human behavior took precedent over special effects and catch-phrases. Director Aronofsky and cinematographer Maryse Alberti capture some amazing and legendary iconic moments that will be discussed in years to come. Everyone will comment and mention the moment where The Ram walks through the "backstage" and emerges into his new profession. I found some subtle glory in some more personal moments as well, though. Randy flipping his daughter's photo over and revealing a string of phone numbers; The expression on Cassidy's face when she sees what he goes through in the ring. The harrowing moment of relization that crosses Rourke's beaten, weathered face while he lies crouched in the woods, unable to even jog any more without it hurting.

THE WRESTLER proves that you can make an effective, moving, emotional story without resorting to cheap reaction shots and orchestral cues on the soundtrack. It shows that you can tell a story that you have seen before, but tell it in a way that makes you wonder what will happen next, even though it might be obvious. And it earns its' ending. That's all I will say about that. Sure, it's a wee bit exploitive... predictable, and a touch melodramatic.

But so is professional wrestling.



NOTE: I tried not to be crass in this review because it's rare that I see and enjoy a movie that I feel has been over-hyped. But it seriously bears mentioning that Marisa Tomei is easily one of the most beautiful actresses working in film today. A lot has been said about her decision to appear nude in this movie. All I can say is that when you look that incredible at 43, you should show off as much as you want.

Who?

I think I'm beginning to sympathize with my wife.

The back-story:

One of my strict requirements when I am dating someone is that she is attractive to me. I can't tell you how many times I have passed up a wonderful opportunity at a long-term relationship based solely on the fact that I was not in any way, shape or form attracted to my would-be companion.

My Lovely Wife™ (at the time, still My Lovely Girlfriend™) had the edge and good fortune to be very attractive to me. I met her in '98 while Living The Dream as a DJ in glorious Alabama. We hit it off and things progressed quickly.

Several weeks into our new found love affair we got on the subject of celebrity look-alikes. I mentioned that in my college years, I got quite a bit of flack for looking a heck of a lot like Jim Carrey. I'm spoiled and egotistical enough to assume that THIS is why I didn't get a lot more choice dramatic roles in college (it had NOTHING to do with my lack of talent, or course). By the time Alison had come into the picture, I was starting to put on some weight (you can't be a radio personality without consuming McDonald's and Wendy's at least twice a day. It's a law, look it up) and the illusion was fading, thankfully. I have never been a tremendous fan of Mr. Carrey, and although I admire the man for becoming famous by pretending to talk out of his butt, I had hoped that I would achieve fame and fortune without resorting to impersonating the guy. The extra tonnage was helping.

I asked my wife rather innocently if she was told she ever looked like anyone famous. I had posed the question because I was about to remark on the fact that she resembled Olive Oyle, complete with the "OoOoOH!" noises she made when she got flustered. She rolled her eyes and said "Yes! And I was surprised I didn't hear it from you sooner!"

I was all set to say "Aw Popeye!" in a shrill falsetto when she drew her head back and said "I can't believe they forgot my fucking birthday."

I hadn't seen the Molly Ringwald resemblance at ALL until then, but for the past decade I can't watch anything she's in without thinking I am looking at my wife, to a degree. I could do with the red hair, but Alison is a brunette. And I'm sure that if My Lovely Wife™ made as much cash as Ms. Ringwald has on hand, life would be better too. Because the only thing that is important in the world is money, kids. Write that down.

Okay, so when I was enjoying The Salad Days with my significant other, I was content to have a rapidly-fading resemblance to a bombastic physical comic with double joints, and I was more than pleased to be sharing a bed with a woman who looked like a member of The Breakfast Club.

But then "adulthood" stepped in. And by "adulthood" I mean 50 pounds. And by 50 pounds, I mean I have become a big fat bastard.

I'm not HUGE, mind you. But I am definitely not 170 pounds of combustible sex any more, either. Okay, I'm huge. Dammit.

That's the back-story.

Today, for the tenth time, someone has out-of-the-blue stopped me and told me that I remind them of Seth Rogan.

Seth. Rogan. The fat guy from KNOCKED UP. And PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. The huge Jewish guy with curly hair and a big fat chin who is hilarious, I will admit, but who looks NOTHING LIKE ME.

I mean really? Seth Rogan? I don't see the voice, the hair, the mouth, nothing. And yet on TEN SEPARATE FUCKING OCCASIONS I have been told by strangers that I look like him, or I have been asked if I AM him, because why WOULDN'T Seth Rogan be living in Nashville and working as a Graphics Designer who drives a Civic?

I think I preferred being Jim Carrey.

... I think I forgot my point.