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.

REVOLUTIONARY TURD

I guess I just don't get it.

According to the marketing campaign, the movie is a "searing portrait of the human spirit being crushed by the mediocrity of day-to-day experiences". If I understand the reviews correctly, the film "dares to reveal the dark side of The American Dream." It "skillfully and deftly handles the unmentionable anguish of living in the 20th Century." They even gave Kate a trophy at The Golden Globes for it. And she might win an Oscar.

REVOLUTIONARY ROAD sucked. It sucked long, and it sucked hard. Watching Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet try to play a 30something couple mired in the dull, lifeless futility of suburban 'bliss' circa 1959 was like watching a high school drama club attempt to capture the world-weariness and bile-soaked venom of WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF. The dialogue was written by a person who has never heard dialogue spoken by an actor in any kind of production. It is delivered by people who were told to act more angry with their lot in life than they could possibly conceive of actually experiencing. The plot was predictable to the point of being a parody of itself. The fact that they felt it necessary to include scenes where a mental patient spells out the misery that our protagonists are mired in was laughably insulting. Nobody delivered a single line that sounded genuine. REVOLUTIONARY ROAD sucked.

I have a longstanding issue with movies that are hyped by the production company and sold to the American Public as being "avant-garde" and "a new and exciting look" at the way stories are told. Particularly when what we are actually seeing is packaged as a vehicle for the stars who are involved in it. REVOLUTIONARY ROAD thinks it is something bigger than it is, and I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't as predictable and worn-out.

Questions for those who have seen it and feel that they have seen something incredible:

1- Could you have gotten the same message from this film without Michael Shannon's character ever appearing in it?

2- Did you think for even a moment that Leo "Babyface" DiCaprio ever came across as a man in his late 20's/early 30's? Or that he delivered a SINGLE LINE of dialogue that sounded convincing or was in any way a piece of non-exposition?

3- Was there any doubt in anyone's mind that any affairs would NOT occur? That the ending would NOT play out that way? Was ANYTHING that happened a surprise? And if so, HAVE YOU WATCHED A MOVIE BEFORE IN YOUR LIFE?

4- Could they make Kate Winslet look ANY more haggard or fuck-faced? I understand that they wanted her to be stressed... to look "fallen" to a degree. But she looks like a fucking MAN in this movie. She looks more manly than DiCaprio. Christ.

I felt insulted and angry at the end of this movie. I felt like I had been spoon-fed something that might have been more complex and rich if it had taken the time to be subtle. I burst out laughing when the blood hit the carpet.

The movie sucks. If you enjoyed it then good for you, but I'd like to know why you didn't feel like you were being pandered to. And I would like to know why you have never read or seen WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, THE WILD PARTY, THE LOST WEEKEND, MAD MEN, AMERICAN BEAUTY (proof the filmmaker IS capable of doing this stuff correctly the first time), or any other piece of work written between 1955 and the present that deals with couples who want to be more than what they are.

What a mess. REVOLUTIONARY ROAD sucked.

The Catch-Up Thing

FIFTEEN EXCITING BITS OF INFORMATION ABOUT ME, AS OF JANUARY, 2009

1- I over-use the all-caps feature!

2- The Nintendo Wii is a fine, fine game system if you have any grudges against your rotator cuff. Failure to use your strap will result in dents in the drywall. Oopsie.

3- My mother and stepfather are LOOPY NUTS about the HBO Series THE WIRE, which My Lovely Wife™ and I bought them for Christmas. YOU should be too.

4- I was sick as a dog over the holidays. Hence: no blogging. In addition, nothing funny happened to me for a while. Unless you could being sick as a dog as "funny". If so, fuck you. During my illness, I overdosed on codeine and booze, and I had the most trippy experience I have ever had in my adult life. I was loopy on narcotics in the guest room of my father and stepmother (see, Ginny? I describe it like that now)'s house. Ever trip balls in your parents home? Legally? Crikey!

5- We got our log-in date! As of November 17, 2006 My Lovely Wife™ and I are logged into The People's Republic Of China's adoption database. What does that mean? It means we wait. We wait and wait and wait, and hopefully we get a letter someday that says "Come get this to-go order. Twenty minute. No checks. You want soy sauce?"

6- Thanks to the magic of my mate Mike (alliteration! swish!), a short cartoon that I lent my voice to will be featured on IFC. Want more info? So do I. Details are a-comin'.

7- We now have a built-in "cat box box" in our garage. This means that we have a large wooden box sticking out of out garage wall and there is a pet door in our laundry room. Our little bastards go through a pet door into the box and use the litter boxes in there. What does this mean to us? No more cat litter all over the laundry room! And no more smells! And no more split ends! What does this mean to you? Nothing. Let's move on.

8- If you have been living in Nashville and NOT attending the Belcourt's midnight movie series, you have missed out on a BOUNTY of movies that you can otherwise only see if you have basic cable! Last weekend I enjoyed a 35mm print of THE KARATE KID in glorious screen-o-vision! And two weeks before that? BACK TO THE FUTURE. GREAT SCOTT!



9- Speaking of cinema- a lot of folks have asked me what my pick has been for the Best Movie Of 2008. And by "a lot of folks" I mean "one". And by "one" I mean "nobody". Regardless, I'd like to announce that my official choice for the best movie of 2008 is the Swedish thriller LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. An incredibly well-told story about a lonely 12 year-old boy who is on the verge of snapping and lashing out at his bullies, and a strange 12 year-old named Eli who comes into his life when they both need a friend. It's moody, grotesque, deep, cathartic and mesmerizing. Good news for the morons in the world, the film has already been bought up and is in the process of being adapted for American audiences by the guys who brought you CLOVERFIELD and LOST. Here's an idea- see this movie before they fuck it up.



10- I have nothing for #10

11- Have I mentioned how sore my shoulder is? Damn Wii. Damn Wii Sports. Damn drywall.

12- Here's a photo of two ladybugs humping. JEALOUS?



13- SPEAKING of hot sex-on-film action... well, not really... here is a photo that I posted on Flickr. It's of My Lovely Wife. She is playing with the cats and looking, well... in MY opinion, she's looking just plain adorable. And by "adorable" I mean "hot". And by "hot" I mean HOLY CRAP LOOK AT HER CLEAVAGE.



I put it on my photos page and added the following tags to it: "Wife", "Candid", "Cats".

It got 2... maybe 3 hits in 6 hours.

So as a lark... just to "see" what would happen, I added three more tags to it: "Sexy", "Downblouse" and "Cleavage"...

In less than 24 hours the photo got 10,496 hits. HEY INTERNET! STAY CREEPY!

14- I'm almost done with this post.

15- ... ... ... ... done!

REPO! THE GENETIC OPERA

Last night I saw REPO! THE GENETIC OPERA at The Belcourt. I would like to extend my apologies and a hearty "well done" to everyone whom I asked to come along with me to see it and refused. You chose wisely.

"Hey there 16 year-old clove-smoking upper-middle class private school students! Do your parents not GET IT, MAAAAN? Does the sound of My Chemical Romance accurately express your anger at Fox for canceling [i]Buffy[/i]? Have you ever wondered if a major studio would produce a movie full of songs with lyrics that rival the poetry you post on your MySpace blog? Would you like to see what Evanescence sees when she is wacked out on hoppers and she's strap-on-fucking Gwen Stefani with a dildo shaped like Jack Skellington? Well come on out and see REPO! THE GENETIC OPERA! It'll make you feel like you felt when you watched MOULIN ROUGE with your older sister and she made fun of you for crying!"




Hey look! It's Paris Hilton, appearing as a whorish rich girl addicted to plastic surgery! Fuck you, REPO! THE GENETIC OPERA. Fuck you.

On the bright side, it's only January 16th and I have already gotten the worst movie I can see all year over and done with.

Lunch

I am 2o pounds overweight. I was 30 pounds overweight and I dropped 10 pounds in 2 weeks thanks to a system that actually works, called Not Eating Like A Fucking Pig And Taking A Jog Once And A While. But the last few weeks I have been slacking and lazy and I can feel the fat starting to climb back on. And that sucks. But what sucks worse is being hungry, so off I went.

If you don't have a Harris Teeter in your region, you have something close to it, at least. Harris Teeter is a high-class supermarket. The kind with a deli and a 210-foot salad bar and employees who don't look like they are counting the minutes until they can go out by the loading dock and smoke. Every weekday the deli at HT offers working stiffs like myself a 6-inch deli-made sandwich for only $2.99. Want a footlong? Add two bucks. What a deal!

MY PLAN: Go to HT. Get a 6-inch. Grab a salad at the bar. Go light on the dressing. Feel thin.

THE EXECUTION: Go to HT. See that they special of the day is a meatball sub. Go for the foot-long. Eat it at your desk in less than 10 minutes. Feel your stomach go from a gentle slope to a beachball. Suck down a Dr. Pepper, because nothing says "fatty" like extra air in your stomach.

And JUST as I am downing the last bite, the very MOMENT that I am thinking "So what if I feel a little fat today? I can suck in my belly if anyone important comes around"... that's when it happens.

My morsel of bread and tomato sauce goes rogue.

Boy let me tell you! Nothing in the world says "FAT FUCK" like a splotch of deep red tomato sauce and grease at the most swollen point on your torso.

The fucking diet starts tomorrow.

Oh My! Aren't We Edgy! We're Willing To Lampoon Ourselves!

The best way for me to explain to you how I feel about this article is to paint you a mental picture, if I may.

Let's say that you have a lovely home. Let's say that the house is very large, very modern, and people from all over come and see it because it's just that damn fine. There is marble everywhere and the crown molding is perfect. The bathrooms have those goofy doohickeys that clean your butt off for you when you are done doing your business. The front door is rounded, like the doorways in The Simpsons. And there are lovely plants and sculptures throughout.

Oh, and there is a dead, rotting dog in the middle of the kitchen.

Don't make any mistake about it: the kitchen is all stainless steel and the counter tops are granite, but there's also a 200-pound dead St. Bernard on the floor. He's been there for weeks and he's bloated and gray and there is a nest of mice living in what used to be the dog's ass.

That's not the entire portrait I need to paint for you, but it's a start. The point of the portrait is that there is a family who lives in that house and accepts visitors from all over the world to enjoy it and be entertained by that house, but for some reason... even though the smell of the big dead rotting dog makes people gag and hork... nobody mentions it or even refers to it being there when they walk through the house!

Then suddenly... with no warning or explanation as to why... the owner of the house walks into the kitchen one day... a kitchen that he has been walking through for years... and without any sort of logic behind it he suddenly slaps his palms on his cheeks and his eyes bug out and he says "Oh my god! There's a dead dog in here!"

It annoys the shit out of me when Hollywood seems to come across as if they don't know that they are a shallow, self-obsessed, money-hungry, condescending entity with little to no regard for anything that is NOT superficial or trite.

It annoys m even more when they act like it's news.

Make no mistake: CNN isn't digging into this investigation because they have stumbled across a soon-to-be-released feature film that satirizes Hollywood. This "Oh My, Aren't We Edgy" news was spoon-fed to them by the studio releasing this thing. And that makes it worse because what they are trying to do is drum up business for a movie that otherwise won't make money based on its' merits as a film.

Condescending self-awareness in the face of the obvious is a terrible trait that rarely does any real good. Think back to the mid 90's when Johnathan Demme shat out the steaming turd that was PHILADELPHIA. The movie sucked balls. The screenplay was pandering and arthritic, and the focus of the whole thing was to make you feel sorry for people with AIDS. Which you shouldn't have to depend on a movie to do anyway.

On a side note, I can recall sitting in a packed movie theater watching a rail-thin Tom Hanks collapse out of the witness chair and unintentionally letting out a snorting guffaw of amazement that a 'major studio release' had the gall to stoop that low. I was treated to a stern "You must be Satan" gaze from the blue-haired Jewish lady in front of me for that one. Sorry.

A movie shouldn't try to drum up press for itself for being controversial unless it actually IS a controversial movie. And in that case, the studio doesn't need to do the work because some other useless organization that wants attention will step in to field that. For every AMERICAN PSYCHO and KITE RUNNER (both had ad campaigns and publicity junkets that claimed that the studio itself is worried about the effects of it's impending release upon the general public) there are SCADS of legitimately good films that will draw flack from controversy for simply being (see: THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST, A CLOCKWORK ORANGE).

But to be so self-effacing and gregarious as to try to drum up wobbly controversy regarding a Hollywood movie that might... heaven forbid... poke fun at Hollywood movies... and to act as if that might be a sin in the eyes of the system... as if nobody would have ever noticed that The Industry might have more than a few exploitable flaws... as if THIS is the movie that is going to open one's eyes to the self-absorbed underbelly that IS 'Hollywood'...

Pathetic.

Quick game for you to try playing: Come up with some big studio movies about making movies that don't make cartoon characters out of its' stars. Come up with some independent movies about making movies that don't come across as bitter and angry with how Hollywood treats itself. I get as close as SUNSET BLVD before I give up. And that movie is 60 years old.

Marcello...

A McTale

In an effort to NOT appear as a conglomerate that doesn’t give a damn about the common consumer, McDonald’s Corporation has been rolling out an interesting option to their franchises over the past few weeks. They call them “The Manager’s Specials”. The logic behind it is that McDonald’s will look more like a non-corporate, non-by-the-book cancer factory and more like a big, lucky company that has a LOT of stores but who gives their local managers some leeway with the menu.

They destroy this concept by printing and selling six-foot-by-four-foot full-color posters that advertise the manager’s specials on them, along with giant photos of whatever heart-attack-in-a-bag you happen to be able to purchase for a reasonable fee, but that’s not really the point of this tale. I only needed to mention that the Manager’s Specials are in play in order for you to appreciate the following true story.

Our local McDonald’s is pretty heavy on the Mexican and pretty light on the “Ugh” factor. The “Ugh” factor usually consists of phantom poopie smells when you walk in and a general sense that you just missed the cockroach parade. I work in Brentwood, which is a pretty nice part of Nashville, and the McDonald’s is in pretty good shape. It’s forgivable that our servers don’t speak English because at least there isn’t a sticky floor is what I am saying. Stay with me, I’m almost ready to start making sense.

This week’s “Manager’s Special” is a doozy. TWO Triple Cheeseburgers for ONLY $3.15. Yes indeed! For only Three dollars and fifteen sense you can enjoy SIX all-beef patties smothered in pickles, re-hyrdated onions and processed cheeze-food. And don’t get me wrong, I LOVE’S ME SOME CHOLESTEROL, so I am all for the deal. The only problem is that I don’t like cheese on my burgers. There’s something about the gooey, slimy, tangy taste of the slices of cheeze-food that McDonald’s has opted to use on their products that reminds me of industrial lubricant. The cheeze-food they use is more adhesive than Super-Glue. I defy you to pry a bun off of a freshly-served cheebooga from The Scottish Bastard without ripping it’s underside off. It’s not natural, I tell you. Not a bit. What I am trying to say is that I am not a fan of cheese from McDonald’s. I only hope I have made my point.

In the past, I have ordered a double-cheeseburger and asked them to “hold the cheese” and I have encountered no problems at all, apart from an occasional funny look. It’s an understandable request; I want all the benefits that twice the meat will offer me, but without the messy, sticky goo. A double cheeseburger with no cheese? Comin’ right up, pal! Thanks for shopping American!

But nothing could prepare my server for a request to hold the cheese on a TRIPLE CHEESEBURGER MANAGER’S SPECIAL.

I literally blew his circuits. I asked for the Two-Triple-Cheeseburger-Special with NO cheese and my Latin friend went blank and all the life drained from his eyes. I might as well have said that I didn’t think 2 Fast, 2 Furious was a very good movie. Or that some companies offer insurance and dental care. Or that you don’t need tinfoil to cook food on a grill.

He was really shocked, that’s all I am trying to say.

He was SO shocked, in fact, that he spent the next TWO SOLID MINUTES trying to type this into his food-ordering-thingy. Every twenty seconds he would raise his head back up and say “Okay... two triple cheeseburgers... no cheese?”

“No cheese,” I would reply. “And a 6-piece chicken.”

“No cheese?” He’d ask again, in awe and wonder.

“No cheese, and a 6-piece chicken.”

That happened every twenty seconds. For two minutes.

A few minutes later, I got my to-go bag. I didn’t remember to ask for it “to-go”, and I am quite familiar with McDonald’s unwritten policy of sending lunatics and homeless people on their way without a tray, so I let it slide.

I DID, however, want some sauces with my McNuggets.

Oh- hold on, I guess I should cover my reasoning and logic behind why I ordered TWO TRIPLE CHEESEBURGERS WITHOUT CHEESE and IN ADDITION, a 6-piece order of Chicken McNuggets.

I am a fat fucking pig, that’s why. Ok, let’s move on...

So my server, who has spent MORE than enough time judging me, hands me a bag with my food in it and says “Thank you”. It is a known fact that it is impossible to eat Chicken McNuggets without sauce. It can’t be done. My sauces of preference? For the last 20 years it can only be One Barbecue and One Hot Mustard, please.
Marcello looks temporarily pained, opens my bag, reaches under the counter, and shoves his hand into my bag in a gesture of full pleasure to be serving such an upstanding and undemanding client. Then he very quickly turns his attention to the incredibly busty and financially questionable Latin-American Mom standing behind me. I leave the establishment.

Here’s where it gets awesome.

Back in the office, I open my bag and plunge a hand into its steamy depths, and I retrieve the first of my two Cheese-Free-Triple Cheeseburgers.

You know, the one that is COVERED in cheese.

Frustration rising, I dive into the bag again and pull out the second burger. THIS one has so much cheese on it that it is almost impossible to separate it from the paper it is wrapped in.

MAAAAAARCELLLLLOOOOOOO!

It finally dawns on me how all this went down. My dude is behind a counter, working his ass off and hating every second of his life, and I stroll in and make a completely unreasonable demand for a cheese-free namesake. He can’t find the buttons on his amazing ordering device and after TWO FULL MINUTES, he just says “fuck it” and decides I will be better off if he ignores my request completely. I can confirmed this by looking and the receipt and noticing that there is no account of “no cheese” on it. Marcello knew what was best for me. I can’t possibly fault him for THAT.

But here’s the best part...

The best part is that I decide to forgo the cheeseburger experience and I toss them aside... “oh well, I think to myself. I didn’t really need two goddamn burgers AND Chicken McNuggets. I am supposed to be watching my weight as it is.

I know you are thinking that this ends with Marcello not giving me my chicken. Oh no, no the 6-piece was in there all right. Right on the bottom of the bag, all by itself.

Not a damn sauce packet in sight.

I wish you were there when I asked for the 2 sauces so you would believe me when I tell you that I LITERALLY WITNESSED MY SERVER PRETENDING TO INCLUDE SAUCE PACKS IN MY BAG JUST SO I WOULD GO AWAY.

I can’t stress this visual enough! I was LOOKING across the counter to the prep area and I PHYSICALLY SAW several packs of sauce in containers back there. I ASKED my harried server for a couple of them and he REACHES below the counter as if he is grabbing some (All the while I am thinking “Oh, he must have a supply of them under there as well so he doesn’t have to turn around”)... and he MIMICS PUTTING CONTAINERS OF SAUCE INTO MY BAG.

Marcello... YOU are the Manager’s Special in MY book.