Thursday, March 24, 2011

Guess Who's Going to Bed?

Nobody tells Sidney Poitier when to go to bed

In honor of Elizabeth Taylor's death today yesterday, I dampened my cheeks to the stylings of Katharine Hepburn in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.

The movie was enjoyable and I even laughed out loud a few times, which is rare (ask my biographers that follow me everywhere and never have a good tip on a horse). Sidney Poitier was dashing, aggressive, and effective. Katharine Hepburn killed several monologues and the rookie from Connecticut, Katharine Houghton (Hepburn's niece, whom you might remember from her recent performance as Katara's Grandma in The Last Airbender), was the one who made me laugh the most.

Spencer Tracy, on the other hand, reminded me way too much of Robert DeNiro in a comedy, which is a polite way of saying he turned in a poor performance, but unfortunately one not as poor as those of Scott Baio in Arrested Development, which are so poor they come back around again to be funny and are therefore unique and redemptive.

'Maggie the Cat' indeed

If only Most Hideous Man Alive® Bruce Vilanch hadn't stolen my copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof I might have cut a more respectable figure this evening as four of the world's leading massage therapists worked me over in the screening lounge aboard my jet and my biographers scribbled wildly. Blaming him for everything that went wrong is so fun these days, especially when the accusations are true.

As it was, the only movie of Ms. Taylor's I had lying around was Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and even though she knocks that role right out of the galaxy it isn't exactly how anyone would like her to be remembered.

In your honor, Liz, I am going to bed with this image on my brain instead:


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Delightful News From the Middle Coast

At 1451ft, Chicago's Willis Tower (née Sears) is the tallest building in the Western World

Our associates in Chicago informed us recently that some of the news out there in this cold, dark world these days is good and we felt we should share:
The Sears Tower, lately unceremoniously renamed the Willis tower, is about to pioneer a kind of crazy-innovative window, one that produces power without obstructing the view or letting in appreciably less sunlight.

At first the Willis tower will only replace windows on the south side of the 56th floor; eventually, the whole south face of the building could be slathered in glorious high tech energy generating windows, enough to generate 2 MW of power. The windows have the added benefit of keeping out the excess heat energy that plagues glass buildings.

As incredible as these windows sound, they're only a small part of a larger, $350 million initiative to reduce electricity consumption of the entire Willis tower by 80 percent.
(courtesy grist.org)
So please, Internet, I implore you to take a moment to block out the horrific situations in Japan, Libya, Egypt, Gaza, Saudi Arabia, the Gulf of Mexico, Wall Street, Detroit, Wisconsin, America, Mexico...etcetera, draw in a few good deep breaths, loosen the muscles in your neck, and soak-up a little ray of sunshine before you head back into the courtroom of public opinion and perjure yourself by saying the whole world has gone to shit because it hasn't.

Only most of it has.

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Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Dick Captured by KGB


In keeping with this week's (year's?) penis theme, here is another one for ya--painted on a drawbridge facing the windows of FSB (née KGB) headquarters by Russian art-warriors Voina.

The folks at Voina have also thrown cats at McDonald's employees, staged a pantomime orgy at the Biology Museum, and generally just given the Putin/Medvedev camp the finger as many times as possible, in front of as many people as possible. [Further reading from The Independent. -Ed.]

As a result, Voina are of course on the lam or being beaten by thugs in a damp prison somewhere, but you gotta hand it to them for their Extreme Creativity in the Face of Thinly-Veiled Totalitarianism, which should be an award category next year in one of those self-congratulatory pageants that happen all the time.

Now, I think it's important to clarify that I am not saying defacing public property or throwing cats at innocent people are good things to do in any situation; what I AM saying is that they are far from the worst things you can do to draw attention to the fact that hundreds of millions of your countrymen are getting fucked by the cigar-smoking, vodka-swilling, mother-nature-raping Russian oligarchy every second.

Carry on, comrades!

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Friday, March 18, 2011

Who Doesn't Love a Good Penis?


What would we do without people in the woods who have a lot of time on their hands and know how to use a chainsaw? Answer: Be way more bored.

Thank you, Woodmen of the World (WOW)!

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The Amish Need to Get Real

Easily the most vain Amish people in the entire world

Amish communities in Illinois (which apparently exist) are upset over a law that will soon take effect in the state that will require photos on all firearm-owner identification cards.

Can you imagine being upset over that? It seems like a reasonable requirement (we require a photo to verify you are the correct person driving a car but not buying a gun?) and I'm surprised it wasn't already in place, so...what exactly is the problem?

Well, it seems the Amish--much like Australian Aborigines living off the land in the middle of nowhere, as they have for thousands of years--aren't big fans of photography. While it does not appear they are afraid it will capture their souls (that sounds so stupid, right?) they ARE afraid of what embracing this newfangled technology will mean:
The Amish are also known for being uncomfortable with photography, especially posed photography, which they believe leads to idolatrous vanity, according to AmishNews.com.
(courtesy HuffPo)
If the Amish don't figure something out quickly they might be royally screwed because apparently a lot of them "hunt and they usually use squirrel or rabbit rifles to bring some food back home" as well as "to disperse varmints," according to the Mattoon Journal-Gazette and the Amish America blog.

So let me get this straight--the Amish have a blog, their own news website, and apparently unfettered internet access, but believe photographs of themselves will end the world as they know it? Is a blog not the height of vanity? [Don't answer that. We can't handle it. -Ed.]


Get real, Amish--you've been kicking around for a long time and seem to be doing pretty okay (somehow), but as H.G. Wells once said, "adapt or perish." Either join the real world already or slowly turn your evaporating culture into little more than a quaint museum exhibit fourth-grade schoolchildren draw penises on with Sharpies during interminable field trips.

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Thursday, March 10, 2011

What Would YOU Do with $83,000?

Probably nothing nearly as cool as what this mook did:

Miljenko Parserisas Bukovic at the top of his game

The gruesome details:

Parserisas, a 56-year-old newspaper seller from Mexico, revealed his inked artwork in a photo shoot in Valparaiso city.
He has so far spent a million Mexican pesos (just over £51,000) for the 82 tattoos. The newspaper vendor's obsession with tattoos of Roberts started after he watched her in Erin Brockovich.
In the film Roberts plays a legal assistant who brings down a US energy company single handedly.
The American actress is tattooed all over Mr Parserisas' body in artwork inspired by a number of scenes from the film.
The Roberts fanatic has said that he has plans to get more faces inked on his chest, back and arms.
As long as he has the space on his body and the money, his tattoo tribute will continue.
(courtesy metro.co.uk)
I guess if you can't figure out a feasible way to have sex with your (questionable) celebrity crush, you might as well (semi-) permanently ink her face all over your naked body and get your picture in the papers so she at least has an opportunity to fly down to Mexico and make your dreams come true before you die from unfulfilled lust (the silent killer).
 
Celebrities do that all the time, after all--make dreams come true. They're very generous people who unfortunately cannot afford good public relations personal and so they get a bad rap as greedy selfish millionaire Vanity Smurfs afraid of intimacy, aging, death, and--most of all--obscurity.

If you see your favorite celebrity today, give them an awkwardly-long hug and kiss them softly on the neck with moistened lips. It'll make everything they do finally seem worthwhile. If you DON'T see a celebrity today, cash out your Roth IRA early and head to the nearest tattoo parlor to cover every square inch of your flesh in their likeness (worth it). It's the next best thing you can do for them.

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Brando on Brando, with a little Connie Chung on the side





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The Classics Revisited


Sometimes it's easy to be brilliant--all you have to do is have a great idea that is simple to execute and go ahead and do it. So go do it, Internet! For the kids, so they understand where we came from.


Thanks for the simple brilliance, Videogum/Internet--put another fur in your cap and keep up the good work.

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Fur in My Cap



Catchy little number, interesting visuals, professional, patient, smooth. All tha kiddies at school gonna be sangin' it soon, y'all...which means it is only a matter of time before Rob Roy (no relation) winds up on a reality show about dancing, eating contests, or some kind of Urban Survivor.

The pace of life has been greatly accelerated within my lifetime and I am certain it is a bad thing.

[Thanks for the tip, CMC]


Dessert

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Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Because Why Not?


New York just seems so incredibly boring and normal I don't know how people there can stand it. They should all move to Los Angeles, where things are interesting...



[Thanks for the tip, Videogum]

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The Green Dragon is a Superhero, Not a Villain


The Republican strategy over the last 40 years can be boiled down to one phrase: they are the party of discontent. It's easier to get mad about the state of the world than it is to fix it; it's easier to breed discontent than loyalty to a cause.

It's also easy to create chaos as a smokescreen to legislate morality and advance a selfish corporate agenda that favors the rich.

As the party seems to run increasingly in lockstep with the Religious Right of late, it becomes increasingly difficult to separate the two groups. Although not all Republicans belong to the Religious Right (the smartest ones only sell their souls for tax cuts and corporate socialism), all Religious Right folks are Republicans, and so their fates are in concert.

As such, while I don't find this latest news surprising, I do find it eminently troubling:
Various conservative Christian leaders have united with the Cornwall Alliance for the release of a shocking new 12-part DVD series, "Resisting The Green Dragon," that attempts to debase and discredit the environmental movement by portraying it as "one of the greatest deceptions of our day" that is "seducing your children" and "striving to put America and the world under its destructive control."

In the video, David Barton, founder of WallBuilders, attests that environmentalists' "false assertions are based more on their own morbid pessimistic fears, not on any good science," while the president of the Southern Baptist Convention's Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission, Dr. Richard Land, says, "Environmentalists have a long history of believing and promoting exaggerations and myths" -- statements both so steeped in irony that they are hardly worth parrying.

"One of the greatest threats to society and the church today is the multifaceted environmentalist movement," says Cornwall Alliance founder and national spokesman Dr. E. Calvin Beisner. "There isn't an aspect of life that it doesn't seek to force into its own mold."
(courtesy HuffPo)

Boy, that WallBuilder fellow sure is good at his job...of building walls wherever they can be built, regardless of need. At least, I assume that's what his job is, since no other description seems to fit the bill.

And so it goes that religious groups continue their relentless march to breed discontent between people who would otherwise find substantial common ground.

All religious doctrine, abridged:
Be nice to people, unless they belong to another group of people who also want to be nice to people. In this case, they are your enemy.
And so the ongoing Republican attack on all the "anti-religious" social advancements of the last 100+ years and vital "job-killing" environmental regulations has a delightfully bold ally in their quest to end mankind's tenure on Earth way ahead of schedule.

The Great American Mistake


Coca-Cola is America. Or so they are always telling us.

Can anybody really argue? It was invented in America, patented in America, peddled in America, and mutated into a thriving international megacorporation by generations of enterprising American businessmen over the last 125 years (happy anniversary, btw).

Coca-Cola is a potent symbol of American ingenuity, a shining emblem of American capitalism, and the perfect example of everything that is wrong about where we have come as a nation.

Fact: The syrup used by Coca-Cola bottlers (who are largely independently-owned and operated, although Coca-Cola, Inc. is a minority owner in most of them) is manufactured in the United States, the process involves spent coca leaves imported from South America, and the story is fascinating.

Fact: Foreign bottlers have the option of sweetening their country's Coca-Cola to local taste--the syrup is just the patented secret flavor and contains no sweeteners.

Fact: I buy my Coca-Cola from Mexico because they use real sugar instead of corn syrup.

Fact: Any American who tastes Mexican Coca-Cola will never go back to American Coca-Cola.

Fact: This should be phenomenally embarrassing for Coca-Cola, Inc. and yet they don't seem to care at all or have any plans to revert to using real sugar. Why would they? They are making a shit-ton of money ["Shit-ton" = 1 with 100 million zeroes after it. -Ed.] and sugar costs $0.02 more per shit-ton than corn syrup, so it makes NO sense from a corporate-bottom-line standpoint to make their beverage taste the way it used to and always should.

Fact: This is proof that American businessmen have their heads so far up their asses they only think in the short-term and don't care what customers want, only what they are willing to consume because they don't think they have a better option.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

¿Quieres bailar?

Crack open a six-pack of Heineken, put on your headband, and turn this shit up:



The Ex is a Dutch band that has been jamming since 1979 and that will probably live forever, in one form or another. They used to be punk and now they are something else because they are older and more refined. Their first single was called Stupid Americans and their first 7" was called All Corpses Smell the Same. 1983's Gonna Rob the Spermbank might be my favorite title, though.

If you like good live music, check out their upcoming (starts in 5 days!) US tour schedule, get your tickets, wax your private places, and get ready for a cheap double-guitar stompin' good time!

Of special note to my biggest fans:
Chicago: March 8th at Lincoln Hall
Los Angeles: March 18th at The Satellite
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Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

It's March 1st--Do You Know Where Your D-List Load-Dropper Is?


For those of you who mopes out there who don't know what it means when people call you a mope, here is a fascinating education, courtesy of the LA Weekly:
The porn industry is many things. Subtle is not one of them. So when Porn Inc. went searching for a job title for people like Stephen Hill, the choice was "mope." It's based on the off-camera life of these fringe actors, hangers-on who mope around the studios hoping for a bit role, which if they're lucky might bring them $50 plus food — and the chance to have sex with a real, live woman.
The average rate for a mope is $50 a movie, $75 if the porno gods are feeling benevolent. So financially, mopehood is a losing proposition in an industry where just getting the HIV testing required to work costs $135.
"They're worthless, D-list load-droppers," says Jim Lane, also known as Jim Powers, the director of such fare as Young and Anal 39, Ganged and Banged and White Trash Whore 40.
Unlike mainstream Hollywood extras, Lane notes, "Mopes don't know they're mopes." Instead, most cling to a delusion. "They all think they're going to be stars and millionaires."
Mark Kulkis, the head of Kick-Ass Pictures, a company that specializes in specific niche porn such as foot-fetish and gangbang material, says, "We pay $50 for a foot job. And we shoot one a week for the site. There are only so many of those gigs to go around. These guys are hanging on the edge economically."
Hill, whose screen name was Steve Driver, used to say his signature was "monster hands." According to set photographer Gia Jordan, Hill "would wear these hands, like, from a Halloween costume. That was his shtick. He'd jack off on the girl with the hands and when he'd come he'd yell, 'Monster hands!' It was ridiculous."

Wow. Okay. The only thing I would argue there is that mainstream Hollywood extras lack delusions of grandeur, which anybody who has spent any time with extras knows is patently untrue. 95% of extras expect to be millionaire actors, whether those millions come from 15 years of nationwide Verizon commercials, a role on CSI, or the fat paychecks commanded by an A or B-list movie actor they are expecting it one way or another--IF THEY CAN JUST MAKE THE RIGHT CONNECTIONS.

It's good to know foot-job dicks can be rented for only fifty dollars. This is knowledge that's good to have up your sleeve when you run out of other options. It also helps explain how homeless men in the Valley get all their booze money and how male Hollywood extras are able to stretch out their paltry paychecks during lean times.

But just so you know, not all D-List Load-Droppers go quietly into the night, clutching a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, and stretch out on a piece of cardboard along the cement-lined Los Angeles River, never to make a name for themselves.

Todd was a pioneer among the D-List Load-Droppers

Take Stephen Hill (aka Steve Driver), for example, who was mentioned above--the lovable "Monster Hands" dude. Now here is a guy who moped his way to infamy in style.

Check it:
Female porn actor Charley Chase recalls, "I only worked with [Hill] once. It was a boy-girl scene and it was terrible. Mainly from bad hygiene."

Believe It, America

(Glorious HuffPo snapshot courtesy GTC)

I know it's hard to believe, but apparently Oscar©-winner Natalie Portman has allowed a $50 dress to rub against her body voluntarily.

What might cause a woman like her to stoop to such a level? Well, I'm no omniscient psychiatric genius*, but clearly she is going through a phase--a rebellious phase wherein she gleefully thumbs her nose at the absurd world of high-fashion whilst huffing fifty-gallon drums of industrial-strength disinfectants behind a dumpster with a bunch of asexual private-school bad boys in leather jackets.

Do you think she even cares that she is up the stick? No, you don't. Because she doesn't and it shows. She will rock whatever shit you throw over her shoulders to tea with the queen or her cousin's wedding, no questions asked. She's got other things on her mind and knows the world's either gonna roll along with her or she'll tell it to fuck off and lose no sleep.

Don't believe me? Check out this brief documentary about a day in her life.


Now, before you get too excited about the whole huffing thing, please keep in mind that mothers have been huffing industrial-strength disinfectants for centuries and there have been no conclusive studies funded by the international chemical conglomerates that link frequent chemical-huffing by pregnant women to three-limbed children who reach maturity unable to spell or locate themselves while staring into a mirror.

All those liberal communists that claim huffing is bad for children have been clamoring for government action for a while now. Does the government care? Not really. A brain-damaged pool of wage-slaves happy to have any job you throw at them is actually a very desirable underclass in this era of increasingly disgusting income inequality. People cut from such cloth are notorious for being unable to figure out how to cash paychecks or even maintain a mailing address for more than one day, much less mount a well-organized rebellion intent on wealth redistribution.

If I may be so candid, the real problem with these little huff-baby fellers is that they're so stupid they keep falling into the machines at the plant! Do you know how much more difficult that makes it to abide those job-killing, anti-business FDA/EPA laws regarding pieces of humans in things you sell?

As we all know by now it's pretty easy to get away with whatever you want in taco meat, hot dogs, and shit like that, but once multiple fingers start showing up in bottles of shampoo you're probably going to have to send some handsome-ish publicity wonk around the network talk shows to explain away the situation with a propaganda chuckle and a Beck-ish explanation for the accident that perversely blames the government regulations for causing employees to make stupid mistakes due to stress. Then you pay a $10,000 fine, raise the price of your shampoo, cut employee salaries, and voila--you're even higher up that golden ladder to rich person's heaven.


But I digress. Back to the meat:

- How did Natalie look in the dress? Youthful, vibrant, magnetic.
- Was it a pretty dress? No.
- Does it matter? No.
- Would it look great on my living room floor? Yes.
- Do I care that she is pregnant? No.
- Why not? The likelihood of child support payments are essentially zeroed-out, which is where I'd like them to be when I'm tomcatting my way around the green room at the Kodak Theater. In fact, it makes the exit strategy so much easier it's almost worth converting to a career of cruising prenatal clinics. Also, I have a pregnancy fetish.

Verdict: Success. (Yawn)


In other news...
(Glorious HuffPo snapshot courtesy GTC)


[We're all going to hell. Which means it'll be pretty great, if you think about it. Or would you rather be lonely in heaven for eternity? -Ed.]


* Kidding--of course I am

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Monday, February 28, 2011

Christian Bale Reacts to the Charlie Sheen Situation


"You think you're a fucking badass, Charlie? You're a small-screen trained monkey whose audience is far from discerning. They're gonna replace you with John Stamos, for Pete's sake. I'm Batman, Patrick Bateman, John Rolfe, John Connor, and a boxer from Boston.

"I grew up in Wales and even though you're nine years older than me I was chewing kids' ears off in the park for no reason at all ever since you were in short pants. I beat-up every single person I see, just so they know not to fuck with me. Your Dad is Martin Sheen and mine was a pilot (who later married Gloria Steinem). My Mom was a circus performer. I had to be exponentially more crazy than you could ever imagine in order to escape my humble beginnings and beat you out for all the good roles and all the good girls (the kind you don't have to pay for).

"I think we all know it's been a long time since Platoon + Men at Work, but still you were the highest-paid actor in television history until the other day and I guess that is a commendable accomplishment for somebody in your field. It takes dedication to put up with the grueling schedule of a television show. I know I would never want to do it, that's for sure. I prefer to do my work in intense chunks, in exotic locations, and then take several months off to drink vintage wine and fornicate with native women on a white-sand beach somewhere warm while the footage is edited in preparation for a lavish premiere and I marinate in Cuban rum, fresh pineapple, and rare orchids.

"But I no longer need to fake my respect for your humble dedication because you were fired by your boss--an ugly guy who made even more money than you, had more than enough of your annoying bullshit, and put you in your place on the world stage.

"How does a man respond to this? There isn't one good answer, granted, but surely none of the answers are 'doing the talk show bitch circuit and proclaiming yourself a warlock who's "tired of pretending like [he's] not bitchin."'

"Boy, that must be fun. Can't wait to watch you get shot-down by Barbara Walters on The View before your on-air pedicure even begins to dry.

"Oh! You think you got a comeback for that one? You don't. You never will. You're a puff pastry at heart. You'll never have the fire your dad has and it kills you. Even with a full arsenal of Hollywood stylists at your disposal you look about as bad-ass as an Olsen twin. Proof:


"In conclusion, shut up and go to bed, Charlie Sheen. You're wearing out the world's patience. You're tired. You're broke in every manner of speaking other than financially. Make sure you get a good long sleep by finishing the entire bottle of pills and I promise everything will be better in the morning. The whole world will be a safer, happier place for everyone--especially those closest to you--and it will help set-up another Oscar win for my 'vicious,' 'lifelike' portrayal of you in the made-for-TV movie of your pitiful life."



[Disclaimer: Nothing in this post was written or spoken by Christian Bale although he may have thought it at some point and nobody can prove he didn't. -Ed.]

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Friday, February 25, 2011

Homeless Men of America's 'Great Depression Redux Charm Initiative' Still Going Smoothly


Dispatch from The Michigan Front:
PONTIAC, Mich. — A homeless man in southeast Michigan says a woman accidentally gave him a gold ring laced with diamonds when she handed him a handful of change.
Michael Secaur tells The Oakland Press that he was panhandling at an intersection in Pontiac on Monday when a woman pulled up in a vehicle and handed him some money. He says the ring was among some coins, and that he thinks she "did an oops."
Secaur says he would recognize the woman if he saw her again.
He says he quickly dismissed a plan to pawn the ring. The owner of a shelter where Secaur often stays has locked it in a safety deposit box.
Secaur says he has lived on the streets of Pontiac for nearly two years.
(courtesy HuffPo)

Could you imagine a rich person doing that? Hard enough to squeeze some spare change out of them. You gotta get creative, get your finger poopy, and make quaint signs that say things like "Homeless Veteran Father of Three Mongoloid Preemies Who Can't Catch a Break. God Bless." just to get your hands on some Diet-Coke-greased pennies from the polished-walnut-lined cupholder between the cabretta leather-skinned bucket seats of some old bag's Bentley that could fetch enough bank at auction to feed an entire town for a year.

The kind of old bag that doesn't realize for weeks she lost an extraordinarily expensive ring during one of her 5000 daily moments of carelessness--if she ever noticed at all.

And this guy's who's been living in the street for a year is begging to give it back to her. Shades of that Homeless Radio Announceritis outbreak not that long ago.

Thank you, Homeless Men of America, for keeping it classy.

Seriously, though--how bad do they need to make us feel about ourselves before this increasingly derivative hubbub is over and the homeless men are once again a phantom population everybody pretends is already dead, thinks of as naught but a swarm of charming and smelly holographic reminder of the desperate lives people lead when they don't work hard enough or get born to rich parents.

I'm getting too worked up about this. I might just have to forget about it, erase it from my brain by going to Disneyland til it blows over--tickets are only $100 per day for Southern California residents and they apparently have "carts that sell big turkey legs (fried, I think) for $7 each."

See ya there!

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Thursday, February 24, 2011

For Those a Y'all About to Get Romantic


Clock this, dawg--you done got showed-up fo-show!

And I bet when you woke up this morning curled up under your 2000-thread-count Hermês duvet with a soiled Playboy/girl stuck to your paw you thought you had this little boy right where you wanted him, totally out of contention for Romantic Person of the Year.

But the votes are in and you lost. 7,000,000,000 to 0.

¡Lo siento, cabron!

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Wednesday, February 23, 2011

A Man and a Woman, Indeed


Although he's been directing movies for almost fifty years, I had never heard of Claude Lelouch until the other day, when I rented a movie he made called A Man and a Woman (1966). This exquisite romance was nominated for four Oscars® during the 1966 season and declared Best Foreign Film and Best Screenplay. Not exactly a lightweight.

Much like Michaelangelo Antonioni, Lelouch was a documentary man who found success in art films, although it appears he did not find as much success as good ole Antonioni. Despite having only seen one (1) film of his, I feel comfortable saying that for two reasons:

1. I had never heard of him before the other day and I heard of Antonioni before I uttered my first word (almost).

2. Despite a prolific fifty-year career, he appears to have only made two movies of enduring quality: A Man and a Woman and the 1981 musical Les Uns et Les Autres (aka Boléro). The fact that a 23 year-old Sharon Stone has a bit role in the latter film only piques my curiosity and fear not--it is already on my Netflix queue.

Please do not think I mean to belittle Lelouch's contribution to the world of art, however. Anybody who contributes one exquisite book, painting, poem, photograph, motion picture, building, or sculpture to the global treasure trove can hold their head high in my book.

We should all be so lucky as to be responsible for the crafting of something enduringly beautiful, something strangers the world over can enjoy indefinitely, something that never would have existed without their unique efforts.

In other words, Joseph Heller can rest easy after 38 years of painful (trust me) failure post-Catch-22 and Claude Lelouch certainly has no reason to be ashamed of his cinematic hit ratio.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

A Cinematic Revolution in Sleep Technology


Congratulations, The Lincoln Lawyer; not since 2006's The Wind That Shakes the Barley has the mere title of a movie made me slip into deep REM sleep with such immediacy.

Even if Matthew McConaughey were naked the entire movie and I was a raging homosexual with only McConaughey on the lower brain I would still avoid this movie like the plague.

Who needs to pay for a nap these days? Even if you wanted to, would you choose to take that nap while upright in a chair next to an old woman who smells like diapers? Don't answer that, perverts; you probably would.

In case you think I'm being too harsh, here is the one-line synopsis that elevated this turd from the page to the (now even more tarnished) silver screen:
A lawyer conducts business from the back of his Lincoln Town Car while representing a high-profile client in Beverly Hills. 
(courtesy imdb)
Hahaha! I get it! It has nothing to do with Abraham Lincoln at all! What a curveball! He just works out of a Lincoln automobile! A really old one, from back when they actually had personality! And it's still running really well because in Hollywood things always go according to plan!

Oh, man--me and the fellas totally gotta sneak away from the wives to see that on Friday, March 18...unless I can hack into the Lionsgate servers and get my jollies ahead of schedule...though I would still probably wanna see it on the big screen anyway...

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Monday, February 21, 2011

Chink in Travolta's Armor

The real John Travolta, on a hammock, in repose, with minimal make-up.
(Photo courtesy The Superficial)

You know what they say about dominoes, right? As soon as one falls, they all knock into each other and make a mess or something. I think Sartre probably said it better in the original French, but you get the idea.

Yesterday, in a manner of speaking:
After decades of being an asshole in obscurity, John Travolta was finally outed as a Scientology freak who not only generously supports one of the world's largest, fiercest cults (blackmail's a bitch) but also--allegedly--would rather let his son die than have the medical care he needed. Both those links are must reads, by the way, so take your time on this one.

Today, in the same manner of speaking:
Travolta is outed as hiding for years and years what I would officially consider 'not-that-bad baldness' (see photo above). Apparently, Johnnyboy didn't think he should wear his cute little widow's-peak hairpiece to the beach one day and he was dead-wrong. A guy who demands reshoots of publicity photos because his piece ain't workin' right just doesn't make a mistake like this, folks. Is he slipping? Is he cracking? Are we on the verge of something big here?

[I must insist we also discuss how pale, flabby, and death-like JT's face looks in this photo. Are you trying to tell me those are human eyes? If so, you're wrong--that is clearly a robot from space sent to eat medium-rare hamburgers and destroy squirrels for a greater purpose we will never begin to understand (Dianetics, page 317). -Ed.]

Travolta at his most naked, his most honest, his most creepy. Coincidence?

Tomorrow:
What can we expect? Will His Travoltaness finally be broadcast live in streaming HD blasting some beaverboy between the buttocks on a beach in balmy Bermuda?

Well, as they also say, in Hollywood anything is possible...so stay tuned, people of the ether!

And a special message to all the beaverboys out there: Please do not underestimate the seriousness of your task to capture your delicious deeds on digital video. Truthseekers and anti-cult crusaders (whose memberships admittedly overlap considerably) everywhere are counting on you; you're our only hope.

Image courtesy LucasMonster Egocentric Vanity Enterprises, Inc

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Sunday, February 20, 2011

Nothing is Ever Easy


For those of you that have been in a coma for the last five weeks (you know who you are, I hope), please catch up on Nothing is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli's "Operation Minsk" right here or none of the rest of this will make sense and you'll wind up calling the authorities on me and that just ain't cool. I'd much rather you just sat back, picked your teeth as you read a few stories, and delivered me a good steak, a case of wine, or something pretty for the wife. So, you know, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Toodles,
GTC

Independence Day in Minsk looks like fun

19.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0003

Okay, readers, I guess this is going to be more of an "every three weeks" kinda thing, just to keep it sounding regular and not scare you away with its actual, frightening randomness.

I am trying my best over here, but things move slowly when you're poor. Seriously. The other day I watched a wrinkle form on a ladybug's cheek. I had been staring at her (him?) for a while and I guess it was a longer while than it should have been, in polite company, because I actually saw that otherwise-inconsequential insect age before my very eyes.

I couldn't help but notice the precise onset of world-weariness in a breathe-eat-shit-procreate-die mindless insect and I'm still talking about it. That's how much time I have on my hands. I'm fucked.


Needless to say, the ladybug experience (and several others like it) made an indelible impression and I have all the evidence I would ever need to conclude that time is not to be wasted, that life is precious, that things that must be said must be said no matter the cost.

As soon as I can save up for a servant with younger legs than toothless old Mikhail to run these illicit missives across the border without the need for a nap every fifteen minutes, I assure you I will keep better pace with both your expectations and my desires (a weekly column rich with charming insight?).

It's depressing to think I not only had to hire Mikhail--a gnarled old coot I found muttering to a pet dead bird inside a garbage can in the park where he was "staying warm"--but also some strange enterprising young woman in Vilnius--Vita K.--with internet access, discretion, and a dangerous desire for the finer things in life.

I haven't made a penny in six weeks and I never even had one to start with yet here I sit master of two dedicated servants helping me upload these letters to the Nothing is Sacred servers indefinitely in exchange for a pair of Levis each.


That's all! How desperate are these poor Belarusians? What does it say about their station that they are willing to risk so much for so little? Do they hear the footsteps of Lukashenko's hounds chasing me through the Minskian sewers? Will they do any and everything to silence those hounds once and for good and live like normal people for a change?

If so, they may be gravely disappointed when I sneak away as the road to freedom becomes more arduous; I am way too selfish to actually risk my life for anything other than the perfect croissant. I came over here on an adventure and I was rewarded with way more than I bargained. As soon as I can get out I will be out and I will never come back. If I see an officer of the law I will run as fast as I can and I will never think killing somebody is a good idea, even when it is.

Regardless of all this depressing bunk, though, this recent spate of involuntary internet silence due to my being the target of a relentless government-funded manhunt has been as bad for my general health and happiness as it has been for my porn consumption--i.e, the worst.

While out from behind my desk these past few weeks, floating knock-kneed through a pock-marked landscape reeking of the dark side of human resilience, virtually alone, I've been robbed, beaten, intimidated, and completely cut-off from my family and friends. If I have two coins to rub together before exchanging them for a shoeful of porridge it is only due to the kindness of peasants.


Life is never easy, I guess. Like they say. Except, of course, for the people in underwear and fragrance advertisements, whose pure enjoyment of the simplest things the world has to offer is always effortless and delightful. I'd say they were lucky if I didn't know they earned it; they are beautiful beyond reproach.


By the way, I saw legendary gymnast Vitaly Scherbo outside a gelateria the other day. He had some swooning young model on his arm and drove a glistening Audi A8 coupe. I drooled on myself a little and then a wave of embarrassment washed over me as I realized how vital he is at 39. Will I even live that long? Am I doomed to end my days frozen to a park bench in Gorky Park, my pants around my ankles?

Well, since I can't predict the future and I'm not sure what else to do right now, I think it's high time I finish this can of paint thinner, strip down to my finest suit, and paint the town naked like I just don't give a damn. I'm worth it.

Over and out,
Fab

FS/vk


FABIO SANDRELLI - FIELD CORRESPONDENT - NOTHING IS SACRED

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Monday, February 7, 2011

My Favorite Movie of 2010


Although Black Swan was a fantastic cinematic experience--the best ending since There Will Be Blood?--and a just-in-time tour-de-force effort from Darren Aronofsky (I also loved Requiem for a Dream, but that's about it), after watching the vast majority of the movies I wanted to watch from this past year I can confidently state Blue Valentine was my favorite.

Sorry, Clash of the Titans, but I don't need to see you to know you suck and that says a lot about what you are!

Much like the equally-brilliant A Prophet (2009, France), Blue Valentine is gritty, real, and uncompromising. The actors are allowed to breathe in the frame, the camera records the action free of any agenda, the audience feels like intimate participants in a drama with limitless possibilities. There are tears-of-joy-inducing moments of beauty and there are moments that hurt your soul a little bit, irreparably. In short, it is a lot like real life--which is astonishingly difficult to recreate onscreen even when that is your goal.

Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are both reliably-talented actors, but there is something particularly engaging about their performances in this movie, something about the air that exists on-screen between these two fictional lovers that is truly something special.

How was this delicate feat accomplished? Well, an insightful piece from HuffPo Entertainment Editor Katy Hall today--reprinted in its entirety--explains a lot about the method behind such success:



Saturday, February 5, 2011

Every Little Bit Helps




 "What do I look like, the President?"


He was a moron. A friendly-enough-seeming guy with fantastically devious puppeteers and a name enough dumb people recognized to sweep him into the highest office in the land by a whopping...oh, by a questionable margin, actually; perhaps even a negative one. Twice.
Bonus Trivia:
The 2000 US Presidential contest was the closest in US history since Rutherford B. Hayes up and stole that shit in 1876. Huh. Same old shit...
This being the case--especially once you throw in everything else that transpired from 2000-2008 and consider that I am a man with blood coursing through my veins--I always enjoy hearing tell of every. single. slight. to His Idiocy George W. Bush, no matter how trivial.


These small gems certainly don't make up for what should happen to W--Navy SEALS should hold him on the bronze knee of the Lincoln Memorial while everybody in the world gets three whacks on his bottom with a weapon of their choice--but they are gratifying nonetheless and life is about the simple pleasures, right?

The Best Movie of 2009?

Malik & Cesar, who both deservedly won Césars

Finally watched Jacques Audiard's gritty 2009 2hr35min masterpiece, Un Prophète (A Prophet). Yes, I said masterpiece and I am aware that is not a word that should be used as often as it is.

What made it so good? Well, it's interesting you ask because I was about to tell you...

Let's start with something a lot of reviewers neglect to mention about movies they are discussing: the feel. This movie opens unapologetically in medias res--gritty fly-on-the-wall footage of a young man entering prison for a six-year stretch. The camera lingers, unhurried, soaking up every detail, every expression, every nuance. We don't need to know why he's going there--the point is he is headed to prison and we are going to watch what happens as it happens. The audience is instantly cast as voyeurs who have no idea what to expect, no desire to have their hands held through predictable plot devices, no fear to watch unapologetic and sometimes-gruesome reality unfold in front of their eyes without mercy.

Un Prophète was one of those rare movies that picked me up by the collar and stared deep into my life-force without blinking, without promising anything but a raw, beautiful, visceral experience I will carry with me forever.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Minsk, the Pearl of the Tundra?

Imagine this cell, but much smaller and pitch-black.

Finally got another missive from Nothing Is Sacred Field Correspondent Fabio Sandrelli, currently stationed in Minsk, Belarus for 2011. For those of you that missed his first dispatch, check it out here.

Enjoy,
GTC


04.02.2011 - OPERATION MINSK - DISPATCH 0002

My most sincere apologies for the delay in my second dispatch from this frozen hellhole, but I spent the last three weeks in a damp prison cell only slightly larger than my body and darker than a black steer's tuchus on a moonless prairie night.

As it turns out, Dictator Lukashenko has very little patience for people who write things down or have opinions on things. The trial was brief and consisted of little more than a billy-club blow to the head, but my guilt was never in question.

Did I learn my lesson? No. I don't learn lessons. That is why I had to volunteer for this unpaid internship that puts my life in danger every second. Let this be a warning to all of you out there in the ether--learn how to learn lessons and learn them well. Get a job as a pencil pusher in the back office of some corporate laundromat empire based in Omaha, Nebraska.

It may sound boring, but at least you can go home to your rented trailer after work and watch reality TV while getting fat on deep-fried Doritos-flavored donuts. That sounds fairly heavenly right now, in fact; save me some.


Instead of living the dream--getting fat, masturbating obsessively, making excuses for myself, and taxing the bloated US health care system with my diabetes-ridden walking corpse--here I sit under a camouflaged blanket in Chelyuskinites Park, burning stacks of Communist propaganda to stay warm, hoping the wind doesn't blow away the pile of leaves hiding my satellite dish, wishing I had purchased a round-trip ticket, regretting the fact that I agreed to surrender my passport at immigration.

But, as it is with most people who have no other option, I grin and bear it. I persevere. I am young and strong and smart and fortunate my assignment here is as vague as one could imagine and I can write almost anything.

For example:
Earlier today, tasting my first moments of freedom, I watched two old women wrapped in wolfskins play chess on a blanket under a nearby tree for over four hours. By the time I realized my eyelids had frozen in place and I had an alogical erection that would not go away, it was too late--they decided to pack up and head back to the brothel to catch the lucrative rush that always happens when there's a shift-change at the neighborhood police station. When you live on $0.85 a day, after all, a Zip Loc™ bag full of leftover chili tossed in your swollen face can mean the difference between survival and a life of (relative) luxury.
But it's not all loneliness and poverty here in Europe's last Cold War outpost. There seem to be a number of trendy vodka bars, dumpling houses, limbless street vendors spooning stew into unwashed plastic bags in the alley, discothèques full of lusciously-emaciated prostitutes, rich corrupt assholes in furs, persecuted collegiate intellectuals, etc. I occasionally hear laughter, even, although I never know for sure if it's just in my head.

I wish I had enough money to join the party but, alas, I blew most of my graduation money on the decommissioned Soviet icebreaker to which I'm now too afraid to return. I really hope I don't have to wear the same pair of underwear for the next eleven months, but a guy's got to do what a guy's gotta do, right? Right?

Anyway, I'm going to roll up some of these dead weeds I found buried under the snow, have a smoke, and think about what sort of black-market activity I can engage in to make my time here more comfortable.

Until next time,
Fab

FABIO SANDRELLI - FIELD CORRESPONDENT - NOTHING IS SACRED

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Common-Sense Cagematch #1: Castro v. Berlusconi


Question: Who's more out-of-touch with reality--an 84 year-old oft-hospitalized Communist dictator under a decades-long trade embargo or a womanizing Italian billionaire president?

Answer: Silvio Berlusconi

Viz:
"I hope that in Egypt there can be a transition toward a more democratic system without a break from President Mubarak, who in the West, above all in the United States, is considered the wisest of men and a precise reference point," he said.
-Silvio Berlusconi
"Mubarak's fate is sealed, not even the support of the United States will be able to save his government. The people of Egypt are an intelligent people with a glorious history who left their mark on civilization. 'From the top of these pyramids, 40 centuries of history are looking down upon us,' Bonaparte once said in a moment of exaltation when the revolution brought him to this extraordinary crossroads of civilizations."
-Fidel Castro
(courtesy HuffPo)
The wisest of men does not do...hmmm, let's see...just about anything Mubarek has been doing recently. Does the wisest of men reap millions of dollars from running a nation and then insist on sticking around to get his head chopped-off?

I think not.

If what Berlusconi said were true, Chateau Mubarek in the south of France would be bustling with activity right now, dozens of humble servants preparing for the master to retire there indefinitely and enjoy his spoils.

Instead, 'rental guillotine' has been the most searched-for term on Google Egypt for weeks now--among those with pirated internet access, of course.

Bon voyage, imbécile. May your blood stain the sands of Egypt sooner rather than later. I hope it was all worth it.

And somebody in charge of such things please grant Fidel Castro +16 cool points right now for understanding the will and power of the masses. Bravo, señor.

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Men Just Shouldn't Strip


I'm not saying there aren't any women out there who enjoy a good ole-fashioned heterosexual strip-tease, but what I am saying is I've never met one. So I have to assume those types of women are rare.

Mostly, male strippers work bachelorette parties (aka the most boring parties ever) and the girls get really drunk and red in the face and pretend like they are enjoying what is happening, when really they are supremely uncomfortable, perched on the end of their seats, every cell in their body on high-alert, hoping he completely ignores them, living in fear that he might try to touch them.

And so they sit on the fringe of the group and watch their one "whore" friend (apparently there is always one) have some strange man grope her breasts, as he dances like a tone-deaf arrhythmic epileptic and throws his briefs in her face.

In case you've never seen this sort of thing in person, here is a delightfully-vintage video I shot during the Eighties that illustrates what I'm trying to convey here:



Notice how she never uncrosses her legs? There is no way she's giving him anything to hold on to down there--and it appears she is some sort of adult model or porn actress. Imagine how your average woman would react to that dude...


[Thanks for the tip, Videogum]

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Thursday, February 3, 2011

I Think I Won't, Thank You


Okay, so longtime friends Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston have paired together for the first time (!!!) in a please-go-to-it-on-Valentine's-Day romantic comedy called Just Go With It.

Could that title be any more on-the-nose?

All you need to know, America, is that Jennifer Aniston, Adam Sandler, and some hot chick in a bikini are in a new movie where some schlub has to decide which sexy woman to marry. Just go with it, buy your tickets, and maybe you'll even enjoy a few parts of it!
"Help! The multinational corporate conglomerates running the studios need your support!" -Corporate Flunky #3102
It is interesting that recent-box-office-dud Adam Sandler (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, Funny People, Grown-Ups), who also exec-produced this turd, chose to align himself with an actress who has the same problem (Love Happens, The Bounty Hunter, The Switch) in what is apparently an effort to make a successful movie.

Or is that not even the goal anymore?

Maybe simply making a movie is enough for them these days, regardless of quality. I mean, they both got paid millions of dollars, right? They got to spend some time in Hawaii on somebody else's dime, eat some killer free food on-set, have a few laughs, feel like they're being productive...it's the little things in life that they are concerned about at their age, I guess.

"Haha--all you stupid people make us rich, America!"
 "There's always gonna be haters, Jen, so what the fuck? Let's just hang out in Hawaii for a while and wipe our asses with 35mm film." -Adam Sandler

"As long as I can bring my yoga instructor, hair-stylist/best-friend, a couple lap dogs, and my scrapbooking supplies I don't give a shit what we do there." -Jennifer Aniston
Jennifer Aniston craps shitty romantic comedies in her sleep and I guess just enough overweight women with cats watch them that her gravy train continues its incremental slide toward the fiery pits of hell. So, what does she care what anybody thinks about them? The 'elitist' critics will always hate on her; jealous women will always hate on her; men will always hate on her; she just needs to persevere and eventually some happy accident will redeem her in the end.

Right? Well, that's what she's hoping for, no doubt. Let us ruminate on what that happy accident may be, shall we?

Possible entertainment-rag quotes from the future:
At age 56, Jennifer Aniston has finally found her niche--and Oscar gold--as a bronzed, sultry, embittered Miss Havisham in Baz Luhrman's dramatic retelling of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. With a guaranteed 14-year contract on Broadway and a traveling ice-capade in the works, Miss Aniston finds it bittersweet that the secret to her happiness lies in the glorification of the loneliness that has dogged her for what seems like centuries.

Former actress Jennifer Aniston, 52, was spotted dining at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills over the weekend. As always, her characteristic printed-silk Gucci bandages obscured her entire head but there was no doubt in anybody's mind as to who was living it up with Jesse Eisenberg during a jovial four-hour martini-and-painkiller lunch. Was having acid thrown in her face by Angelina Jolie the best thing that ever happened to her? Probably. Her besties freely admit "we've never seen her happier."

After a marathon 14-day bidding-war cage-match atop the CAA Death Star, Jennifer Aniston, 68, has finally outlasted the competition and secured the rights to Angelina Jolie's unfinished autobiography. Who will play Hollywood's most notorious vixen, who took her own life as soon as she showed sign of aging? Why, Jennifer Aniston, of course. "I'm thinking no make-up on this one," the wrinkly old actress quipped.
Regardless of how things turn out for Jen in the end, one thing is certain: Just Go With It will suck and you should probably hang out at the mall next weekend to intimidate/eliminate anybody interested in purchasing a ticket. After all, a tragic opening weekend box office tally is the best way to ensure this sort of bunk won't tie-up our silver screens in the future.

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