Sunday, March 16, 2008

How Much Money Does Patricia Heaton Need?



Let's face it, she's not an artist--she always plays the same character, which is no doubt not very different from who she is in real life. For those of you unfamiliar with her oeuvre, Heaton played 'hilarious' Debra Barone, Ray Romano's wife, on 'Everybody Loves Raymond,' a show that seemed to go on forever, but actually was only on for a finite 9 years. 209 episodes. She made $450,000 per episode in season seven--$11 million that year alone.

'Raymond' thankfully expired in 2005, and it did EXPIRE--it was not canceled and did not even finish out its last season. According to www.patriciaheatononline.com (yes, this fucking website EXISTS, and packs a punch):

"Raymond Falls Short - Despite a last-ditch effort by CBS to lengthen its final season, Everybody Loves Raymond will stick to Plan A and produce just 16 original episodes before signing off in May. "We honestly couldn't think of any more [ideas]," says series creator Phil Rosenthal. "We brought in a couple of people to pitch stories, but everything either reminded us of stuff we've done before or wasn't good enough." Damn you creative integrity. Damn you!"

Now, I know what you're thinking or, at least, should be thinking: where was your creative integrity the last nine years? Did every one of those scripts REALLY not remind you of every other episode you'd ever done? Did the initial concept, and every subsequent idea, REALLY not remind you of every other stock, cardboard character/storyline in the boring-ass sitcom pantheon? Were they all 'good enough?'

After nine years of going to work five days a week to play herself on national TV, you'd think Patricia Heaton would pocket the $80 million and live out the rest of her life quietly, raising her four young boys, eating finger sandwiches with her hubby, etc. But no--she decided to start appearing in commercials that seem to play constantly, even to this day. Was this her 'honing her craft?' She obviously didn't need the money...

To make matters worse, she appeared in a pilot for a TV show that never even received a proper name--that's how bad it was, how quickly the umbilical cord was cut from this 'baby' by the powers that be--even though it was made TWO YEARS AGO--"The Untitled Patricia Heaton Project (2006)." Since I know you're curious, here is a synopsis of this series that thankfully went nowhere:

"A recently widowed woman (Heaton) starts a new life for herself by joining the PTA."

No need for a joke here--the work has already been done. Thanks, Patricia!

Sadly, Kelsey Grammar then decided he needed to add Patricia's 'star wattage' to his new unnecessary show, 'Back to You.' In this show, he plays Dr. Frasier Crane--but with a DIFFERENT NAME! His range is truly stunning. Talk about somebody who doesn't need the money--Kelsey! Go away! Swim around in your vault full of gold coins and leave us alone! You were funny in Cheers, but that's in the past!

Isn't the goal in life to make a bunch of money and retire young, to enjoy life the way it was meant to be lived, as children of paradise, sipping fruit smoothies out of coconut halves and making love in the surf, nary a care in the world? When you have $80 million laying around, shouldn't you just go on vacation for the rest of your life, raise your children, and work on the occasional pet project? TV sitcoms are not art--they are popcorn entertainment created by, and starring, people who are only doing it for the paycheck. Why do greedy-soccer-mom-actress-whores like Patricia Heaton not understand this? Why does she think we need to see more of her one-trick-pony acting? How come she doesn't understand that she has no need for her own website? How come she doesn't realize we all see right through her? How come she had her belly button removed by a plastic surgeon?*

Wait, I know the answer--she's a psychopath.


[*Yes, this is true. Read all about it, and check out some scary photos, by cutting and pasting this link into your browser:
http://defamer.com/366521/missing-one-celebrity-belly-button-and-one-sense-of-inhibition]

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Saturday in L.A.


It's windy and oddly chilly here in L.A, but it's still sunny. It's Saturday, which means the Jews are on foot in Hancock Park. Traffic still sucks.

I was rattled awake early this morning by deafening Spanish-language talk radio and overly-loud old-person conversations invading my eardrums through my always-open windows. Or maybe it was the hangover, and associated unquenchable thirst, acquired after a day of solitary drinking/writing in my apartment. Whatever the reason, I laid in my bed for hours, unable to sleep, unwilling to get up.

At some point, I grabbed my laptop and decided to read the New York Times, figuring that would kill some time. I never read it. Instead, I responded to a long-lost ex-girlfriend's myspace message, read her blog for an hour or so, and then decided to type the entire chapter devoted to Whitney Houston in 'American Psycho' and email it to her for no apparent reason, other than the fact that she mentioned her love for Whitney Houston in a blog entry. I felt like I was wasting a lot of time; I was.

I got hungry and went to the grocery store, where I somehow spent $52 on cold cuts, bread, chips, salsa, granola, blueberries, and yogurt. In the wine aisle, which had a disappointing import selection (nothing from Chile/Argentina, always a good, cheap pick), a middle-aged man was loudly letting a young woman in on his bartending secrets, with regard to the use of sour mix. She tells him she drinks amaretto stoned sours. Who actually drinks that shit after freshman year of college? After they no longer go to huge frat parties and drink cocktails out of ten-gallon gatorade jugs and pass out in bushes on the way home (if they're lucky)? I'll tell you who--unattractive, unintelligent, overweight Ralph's employees who enjoy the conversational stylings of boring, unattractive middle-aged men reeking of a desire to have sex with almost any woman who is not their wife. I had to leave immediately, and so I have no wine.

As I parked my car down the street from my apartment building, the local bum couple was having another in a long series of lover spats. Allegedly, he DID go to visit her in the hospital, but when he got there, she had already left against doctor's orders. And then she didn't come 'home' for three days and he thought she was dead. And THEN he found out that not only was she NOT DEAD, but had spent $7 on Chinese food. Seven dollars! His mind was blown. She didn't say much. He circled her with raised fists, but she was able to expertly keep a palm tree between them. They were remarkably filthy, even for them. I guess it hasn't rained in a while. They didn't seem to notice me, thankfully, as I walked past with bags full of delicious food.

I'm supposed to play catch with a friend this afternoon and tell him about my recent experience as a particpant in a police line-up at the county jail (more on that later, I guess), but even though it's a beautiful day outside, I kinda just want to stay inside and watch movies and listen to records and maybe write for awhile and then go to sleep again. One of those days.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Three Great Quotes from 'La Collectionneuse,' by Eric Rohmer

"For me, an ugly man has no charm. Nothing's possible. It's over immediately...Ugliness is an insult to others."

"I decided long ago not to run after any girl. It tires me out."

"We speak of a leisure society, but when it comes we won't know what leisure is. Some people work forty years for their life of leisure, but when the time comes, they're lost, and they die.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Las Vegas, T.I. pool


It's about 140 degrees by the pool right now. But it somehow feels good, soothing, cleansing. I like it. The imminent dive into the water will be equally and oppositely enjoyed. The Yin & Yang of a desert oasis. A vodka lemonade on ice could save my life right now.

It did. And now I'm thirsting for another. Isn't that always how it goes?

I wonder if the management at T.I. chose the sickly-tangerine color of their towels as a precaution against theft, or if they're just stupid. Either way, as I scan the watering hole to soak it all in, locate beautiful girls in bikinis, etc, I can't help but feel it's the late '60s, early '70s--something about those tangerine blotches permeating the view, as well as the vague '60s vibe the mere idea of Vegas conjures in my head. The brazen excess of Baby Boomer America, the 'desert air' health theories that prompted locust-like migration to the Sun Belt, and the tolerated corporate crookery, nee Mafia crookery, that lords over the city as a hurricane lords over its volatile eye. But I like the '60s. Well, the idea of the '60s, music and other products of the '60s, etc, seeing as I wasn't even a twinkle in the universe's eye when the decade drew to a close.

Bill and I are supposed to start work on a treatment for a movie we want to write, so of course we got high and lazy and distracted and soon-to-be-drunk. We'll see what materializes when he gets back from his expedition to retrieve magazines and cigarettes from our room. Not promising.

I just got a yard of vodka lemonade because Bill asked for 'big ones.' My mouth might be permanently puckered after today. I also might be as red as a lobster. I might never leave. I could look for lounge-singer openings down on Fremont Street. That'd be the life. "I sing at the Lucky Leprechaun, Tuesday and Wednesdays, from 11am to 1pm. Kill me!"

Our waitress' skin reminds me achingly of caramel. Bill's buying two Fosters Oilcans right now, to have two chances at winning a cabana full of Fosters tomorrow. I guess it'd be cool if we win, and it's not like we can lose.

Speaking of, I lost $80 at roulette last night. That usually doesn't happen. Tonight better be...better.

(From the Vault---6/2/07)

_ 

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Not to Be Missed!

What This Is: A treatment for a Britney Spears Pepsi commercial, aired during the 2002 World Cup, but only in Japan.
[A treatment, for those of you unfamiliar with industry jargon, is a 'summary' of the plot of a commercial, music video, tv show, film, etc.]

A Little Context: This treatment not only won the director and his affiliated production company the job in the first place, but was also, afterwards, presented once again to representatives of the top-tier advertising agency BBDO/NY and, for the first time, to the client, Pepsi International, the day before shooting began.
In other words, of all the treatments from all the directors who wanted this job, this was the one that won the hearts of high-ranking, college-educated executives at one of the biggest advertising firms in the United States. And neither the Marketing Manager nor the Creative Consultant at Pepsi International saw any reason to object to their choice.

The Director: This commercial was directed by Wayne Isham--a titan in the music video/commercial world--who worked for 'Mr. White,' a subsidiary of Quentin Tarantino's production company, 'A Band Apart.'

The Author: Directors are supposed to write their own treatments, but most working directors hire underutilized writers (also known as PAs) to write them instead. This is a result of most commercial/video directors being unable to write complete sentences, as well as a result of them being 'too busy.' Not sure whether Mr. Isham would want to take credit for this one or admit that he didn't do his own homework.

A Fact That You Should Know: Mr. Isham probably made in the neighborhood of $20,000 per day for his work on this commercial. He also had his own trailer INSIDE the soundstage, for no discernible reason, and was allowed to fly out several Los Angeles-based PAs to sit in said trailer and smoke weed and drink Jagermeister all day long. Mr. Isham joined his younger playmates in these activities frequently, but nobody noticed--he used Binaca.

The Text: VERBATIM, including typos, grammatical errors, a hundred missing commas, scarily uncool '@' signs, inappropriate empty spaces, etc. Rest assured that Goodtime Charlie doesn't make these kinds of mistakes.

Here goes:


"Our Pepsi spot is a roller coaster ride through a fantastically driven landscape of high energy. It is an explosion of energy that is nonstop from start to end. An energetic look @ The world's most exciting pop star combined with the amazing energy and fortitude of the world's best and accomplished soccer players. It is a juxtaposition of images and scale, expressionistic color, and a rhythmic weaving of multiple images.

The commercial is a carefully assembled big bang theory of amazingly choreographed dance moves combined with the amazing athletic prowess both in front of the screen and in the background. It doesn't make any linear sense, your mind is on the lose. It's coiled cohesiveness brought together with an explosive edit. Extreme close-ups blow out into galactic long lens shots with clever transitions to give the whole spot a constant movement. A vibrant color palette packed with an adrenaline pumping energy.

Our ride begins on a seemingly infinite huge white canvas. It is a space with no definition. Off in the far distance we see a glimpse of a female kicking around a soccer ball. Her identity is unknown. She kicks the multicolored red white and blue PEPSI soccer ball straight @ camera. With unbelievable speed, the ball comes straight at us, hitting the screen and taking us into a vortex camera move right back into the moment, revealing our female soccer star to be none other than Britney Spears.

We achieve this action of the soccer ball with a 3d soccer ball that is texture mapped with the real ball's movement and texture.

Britney, kicks into singing and dancing in her signature sexy-style Britney soccer outfit enhanced and designed by her wardrobe stylists Kurt & Bart. Her dance is a combination of both awesome Britney steps and unbelievable soccer moves. Wade Robson, Britney's choreographer will help us to design these unique moves.

As we pull out, we reveal, around her are pixilated huge images of the world's greatest soccer players in today's game. These images will be edited and enhanced in post production. Our soccer heros are stylized graphic portraitures behind and around Britney. The look is inspired by the great pop explosion of Lichtenstein and similar to what we did in the beatbox section of NSYNC's video POP.

We will not treat the footage exactly the same, however, it will be a similar approach. It is a modern approach to background projection. The magic of this spot comes to life in post production. We will design and experiment with the graphic dot pixels enhancing the already amazing footage given to us. This soccer footage is seen ceiling to floor with a unique efx used to enhance their motion.

We will film Britney against a huge green screen cove over a two day period. The first day we will rig, prelight, and bring Britney in for a brief fitting of her wardrobe and harness apparatus. We will achieve amazing soccer moves combined with original dance with the help of a stunt harness. With the harness, we can achieve the PELE moves that are desired. As she bumps the ball with her foot, knee, and then her head, combined with the infamous bicycle-kick our ball crashes into the screen seamlessly becoming a spinning PEPSI logo. ASK FOR MORE...

This Pepsi World Cup 2002 spot will have an explosive impact on television. It will have a uniquely choreographed style that is expressed through the energetic fun attitude of Britney.

Our camera is voyeuristic, invading the moment of fun. It is an abstract visual, combining Britney and the World Cup's finest. It will have a graphic fluidity both in an intimate and grand scale. Thus, creating an organic balance between the extravagance of motion, color and texture."


Goodtime Charlie Says: Wow. Have you ever heard so much bullshit? Can you imagine turning this in as a junior high writing assignment? You'd totally get flunked, drop out of school, drink heavily, never get laid, become a drug addict, and somehow use this to your advantage as you worm your way into the lucrative LA film industry--a scene always on the lookout for another dude 'from the streets, who tells it like it is.' Favorite sentence--"Our camera is voyeuristic, invading the moment of fun."

Reality Check, From the Set: Britney--who was a sweetheart, by the way, and very sexy--stood on a large stage, in front of a greenscreen, moving her knees up and down. Offstage, a female college soccer player bounced a soccer ball from knee to knee, as Britney's $3500/day choreographer (Wade Robson) clapped his hands every time the ball touched the soccer player's knee. Britney's job was to fake bouncing a soccer ball on her knees, by timing her knee-lifts to the audible hand-claps; the soccer ball would be added in post-production, by highly-trained special effects personnel who would charge a lot of money to do so. Behind her--ie, that which replaced the green of the greenscreen--footage of soccer players like David Beckham, Ronaldo, etc. would be playing. The End.

[Editor's Note: I could have performed Wade Robson's duties just as effectively, and for less money. And you wonder why a can of Pepsi costs MORE today than ever before, despite the decreased cost of ingredients and higher sales volume?]

Bottom Line: Even bullies as dumb as Biff check through and rewrite the homework McFly did for them. So, whether he wrote it himself or had someone else do the work, Wayne Isham is clearly a bottom-of-the-barrel idiot. An idiot who is probably worth millions of dollars. [Not the first-Ed]

Further Reading: If you like a good laugh, feel free to peruse a pretty hilarious interview with Mr. Wayne Isham. Copy and paste the following link into your browser:

http://www.boardsmag.com/articles/magazine/20010901/isham.html

Monday, March 3, 2008

For $90K, Who COULDN'T Look Like Heidi Klum for a Day?



Breast Augmentation---$4000-10,000
Tummy Tuck-------------$3000-8500
Nose Job------------------$3000-8000
Facial Rejuvenation----$1000-2000
Body Lift------------------$12,000-40,000
Designer Hair Cut------$1200
Teeth Whitening--------$500

That leaves between $19,800 and $65,300 for clothing, shoes, professional make-up application, manicure/pedicure, smiling lessons, and an extra five inches of leg.

Why the random $90,000 figure, you ask? Because that is what a production company must spend to make Heidi Klum look like Heidi Klum whenever she is to be photographed, filmed, or videotaped (Starbucks runs not included). The $90,000 buys you two wardrobe stylists, a hair stylist, a make-up artist, a manicurist, and a seamstress.

Shocked? I should hope so.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Okay, So Follow Me on this Leap...

What if it wasn't the actual drinking, smoking or inhaling of the alcohol/drug that got you high, but rather the resulting death of brain cells? Would this mean that in the future, when things are naturally more efficient and to the point, drug dealers will simply sell ACTUAL human brain cells? (on the black market, of course)


I mean, if it's the dying brain cells that get you high, and not the drug itself, why not just skip the middle man, right? Smoke the rolled up brain cells of poor people who had to sell them in order to buy rotten meat to feed their family, and get TWICE the high you would from simply destroying your own!

It makes total sense...in a way...

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Planned Parenthood

So, I was at Planned Parenthood recently (great place to meet chicks) and, as I sat in the lobby, reading a magazine, the buzzer sounded and I heard a young woman shout, into the intercom: "I need a morning-after pill!"

This got my attention.

Who is this woman? Who is this woman who is so brazen about the most private of things, one of life's only remaining taboos, god bless it--the ending of an unwanted pregnancy? I mean, she just shouted it out, in the middle of a strip-mall, along a major thoroughfare, in a metropolis of dizzying size.

"I need a morning-after pill!"

"Wow. She is more confident than anybody I could ever imagine, " I thought to myself.

I wondered what she might look like, but before I could form even a fuzzy picture in my head, a young woman walked inside, followed by her thuggish would-be-impregnator (I assumed; if he is NOT, then he's one helluva guy, which means he'll never get the girl, which means he's a chump).

I laughed to myself, imagining their conversation/argument that morning, her telling him he had no choice but to come here with her today, him giving in.

He played it tough, like he didn't care, but I'm sure he felt awkward. I'm sure he realized everybody in the waiting room heard what his girlfriend (fuckbuddy?) said, once the next 'customer' got buzzed in, and he was slapped in the face by the shocking thinness of the glass.

I'm sure she realized it, too. But I couldn't accurately guage whether or not there was any change in her expression, a sudden dent in her armor, a flushed cheek, because I had stopped paying attention to her. I was distracted by the presence of a small child in her entourage.

The boy appeared to be hers, and possibly theirs, and my mind reeled.

Did she bring this boy along to remind herself and her boyfriend about the importance of this day's main activity? To highlight 'the stakes?' Was he 'a pawn in their game?' Were they going to give him 'a speech?'

"Sorry, Bobby. I know how much you want a little brother or sister, but we have to kill this one or we might not be able to feed you both. You understand, right? It's just bad timing."

Had they already given him the speech? I watched the kid for a while longer. He was either blissfully ignorant, too unintelligent to grasp the matter, or so fucking cool that he had long ago decided he didn't give a flying fuck about ANYTHING.

Could these two adults, of working age, not have found a babysitter for this special day? Had all their favors been called in already? Parents/neighbors dead and buried? Could the man not have stayed home with the child while she 'did her thing?' Was she maybe not allowed to drive home from the treatment, and they were too poor to hire a babysitter for a few hours? Should I be sad about this moment? Is it tragedy brought home, or am I just overreacting to it all, like a typical American, and I should just chill out, take a long sip of a long island iced tea, slip on a black turleneck, light up a fag, shrug my shoulders, and softly reveal to the heavens "c'est la vie?"

I wondered what the kid was thinking, assuming he wasn't explicitly told what was happening, and everything was left to the unpredictable magic of his imagination. Ahh, the imagination of children...such under-exploited talent...

I suddenly veered off on a mental tangent when I realized everybody in the room was staring at this child--this living, breathing reminder of why some of them were there that day. Stopping a potential pregnancy, renewing birth control prescriptions, picking up free condoms or spermicidal bubble baths...all to avoid what HE represents. For we all know what He represents--the end of Me.

The end of My selfish existence, My freedom, My solitude, My irresponsibility.

Me becomes We, for at least eighteen years. And that's just too much to handle for some people.

In this most greedy of greedy towns, this kid delivered a knockout blow to the crowd--he put everything into context, brought it home, retrieving it from the cold, but comfortable, world of the abstract.

Quite simply, he embodied the result of sex, the sometimes feared, sometimes frustratingly-elusive, result of sex: human life.

Vulnerable, dependent, human life--something we all fear and avoid (til we're 35 and spend 5 days a month 'trying' for what we spent 20 years 'avoiding')--yet, paradoxically, celebrate gaily when it happens to others, regardless of whether the 'miracle' was expected or desired.

I could no longer make eye contact with the boy. I couldn't face him. I couldn't stomach the uncontrollable guilt I felt about thinking he might be a burden to his parents, even though I had no real reason to feel guilty, because it's probably true. But the truth hurts.

Others must have felt the same. The previously 'light' mood that had permeated the waiting room disappeared. Granted, nobody had ever actually SPOKEN to each other in the waiting room before the boy walked in, but that just seemed inadvertent, a product of our individual, too-cool-for-school cloaks of nonchalance. This was different. This was fear. I could smell it.

In self-defense, my mind wandered...

"Now Xavier, you just sit still like a good little boy. Mommy's talking to the doctor right now. You see, honey, Mommy wasn't smart enough to do this when she was pregnant with YOU, so here you are. And I love you, don't get me wrong, but, hey, I'd do this to you, too, if I could do it all over again--think of all the youth I could have back! But I can't. So I'm doing it now, to your litle brother or sister. Because I thought of it in time. No regrets. Well, not until I'm old and lonely and barren and tormented by the ghost of my unborn child...then it'll be hell."

She breaks into tears, smacks herself in the face, regains a loose hold on her sanity.

"Give it to me, doc! Before I change my mind..."

[gulp]

Thursday, February 28, 2008

More on Everybody's Favorite Diablo

Click on the title above to peruse three hilarious pages of Diablo Cody's next screenplay.

One of the Most Depressing Things Ever

Click on the title above, read post, then thank every god you know that you are not the person who wrote it.

A Serious Evaluation of Vladimir Putin

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

5 Tips for a Healthy Heart

1. Never eat good food.
2. Avoid salt licks.
3. Never fall in love.
4. Exercise a lot--but not too much.
5. Let your partner(s) do all the work in bed.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Mother Knows Best?


Okay, so the woman my mom wants me to marry looked pretty good the other night, at her work function. All these years, ever since my mom first laid eyes on her, I've been hemming and hawing because I just wasn't sure she was sexy enough to "get my engine going," if you know what I mean. Today, I may have changed my mind. (!!!)

Okay, before I continue, I feel like you should know something about me right off: I have certain standards when it comes to the fairer sex. My future wife, god bless her little marathon-runner's heart, will be so attractive, her beauty will feel like a handicap. Her youthful glow will blind me with every gaze, quarters will be easily deflected by any and every inch of her body, her mere smell will turn me into a slavering monster, grotesque with desire. Yet, for her part, she will feel hideously ugly and, therefore, fawn all over me, unfailingly grateful for my tolerance, my against-all-odds love. And she must also be exceptionally intelligent and cool--tres cool.

So you see what a noteworthy day it is when I can confidently state that I am considering taking a bride. Once my assistant, Thrombosis, is able to interview and examine said candidate--and provided she passes the rigorous 5-point inspection test (1. unit, 2. face, 3. brain, 4. skin, 5. that certain, special something)--we'll have a better idea of where this will lead. For now, please clear your schedules for the rest of the year--there may be a storybook wedding in store for you after all!

[Note: Yes, I am fully aware Ms. Heigl married longtime beau Josh Kelly on Dec.24, 2007. If Jerry Seinfeld can steal a bride on her honeymoon, I shouldn't have any trouble with Josh--hence my cool, calm demeanor.]

Monday, February 25, 2008

And the Diablo Cody Award Goes to...


Diablo Cody, heroine of the 'Sideways'-set, onetime stripper (have you heard this?), and scribe of the predictably quirky, awful movie 'Juno,' has brought home the Oscar hardware, thanks to a PR blitz of a magnitude unseen since the days of Matt Damon & Ben Affleck's 'surprise' victory for 'Good Will Hunting' in 1997. Nothing like the triumph of the underdog to warm the hearts of legions of robotic academy voters.

But who is this Diablo Cody? I mean, we all know she used to strip, because that is somehow...important...but I want to dig a little deeper. Who are her heroes? Who inspires her? Perhaps we can learn something from the biography on her imdbpro page:

"Diablo Cody is originally from Chicago, Illinois, and moved to Minnesota to live with her Internet boyfriend, Jonny (now her husband). While there she decided, on a whim, to take up stripping as a hobby of sorts. Meanwhile, she was working in an ad agency.

Within a year she got a promotion at the ad agency, which wore her ragged, and was something she did not particularly care for (it demanded organization, which is something at which she was not very good). Eventually, she quit her day job with Jonny's blessings and began stripping full-time. During the course of about a year she went from Amateur Night, which was her first stripping experience, to a place she refers to in her book as Sheiks, then to Déjà Vu, and so on. She then took up work as a phone-sex operator before returning to stripping.

Shortly thereafter she decided to quit stripping and she and Jonny married. They moved to what she refers to as "the 'burbs, and no one strips unless they're taking a bubble bath." Her stepdaughter was the flower girl in the wedding and, according to Diablo, they are very happy."


Question: doesn't successful screenwriting require organization? Answer: I guess not. I mean, she won an OSCAR! I can see why, what with being able to whip out lines like, "the 'burbs--where no one strips unless they're taking a bubble bath." Gold! Provided you forget the fact that most strippers come from the burbs, and most strip clubs are located in the burbs...

What else can we learn about this fascinating figure, this literary vixen that has the American press under her spell? What previously-unmarketable pet projects will she finally be able to get made, now that her shit has stopped stinking?


Projects in the Works:

1. 'The United States of Tara' (2008)---TV Series---A woman struggles to find a balance between her dissociative identity disorder and raising a dysfunctional family. (Dysfunctional families are so hot right now!) Steven Spielberg created it, boot-strapper Jason Reitman (son of producer/director Ivan Reitman, director of 'Juno') will direct.

2. 'Jennifer's Body' (2009)---A newly possessed cheerleader turns into a killer who specializes in offing her male classmates. Can her best friend put an end to the horror? Megan Fox (from 'Transformers;' sucks as an actress; would make a great stripper) stars. Jason Reitman produces, which begs the question: is Jason Reitman her pimp?

3. 'Burlesque' (2009)---[no synopsis available, but something tells me it's about a stripper...] Diablo is co-writing this gem, along with horribly-unsuccessful-but-somehow-still-working writer/director/actor Steve Antin (example: 'Gloria:' Budget=$30million, Gross=$4.1million). She'll also be working with legendary producer Donald DeLine--he of 'Domestic Disturbance,' 'Italian Job,' 'Without A Paddle,' and 'Fool's Gold' infamy, who is currently producing 16 movies for release in 2008-9, including the much-anticipated 'Brazilian Job' (yeah, a sequel to 'Italian Job'...in Brazil! Crazy!) and a live-action Jetson's movie. How does one person produce 16 movies at once? Easily! He hires overeducated, overworked, underpaid underlings to do all the work for him, while he lounges by the pool at the Chateua Marmont, continuing his unsuccessful quest to bed wannabe starlets.

4. 'Girly Style' (2009)---[no synopsis available] Diablo sold the pitch to Universal, with Mason Novick (Producer-Juno) producing. Mason Novick seems to also have come from nowhere (although I doubt he was ever a stripper, so we won't hear much about him), turned to gold by the Juno touch, to find himself producing 12 films in 2008-2009. Here is a delightful summary of six of those movies, copied from imdbpro:

'Dirty Step Stomp'---A spoof of dance movies, from "classics" such as Footloose and Dirty Dancing, to more contemporary fare, including Stomp the Yard and Step Up.

'Curve'---A woman finds herself in certain danger after she offers a ride to the stranger who helped fix her car. Her situation worsens when the emergency maneuver she pulls finds her trapped in her car in a ravine, with her assailant waiting for her time to run out. (No actors have been attached yet, but 10 brave producers have started cashing checks.)

'Untitled Treasure Hunt Project'---A group of childhood pals reunite in search of a treasure they were unable to find as kids. (Five producers onboard so far for this Big-Chill-meets-Goonies shitfest).

'Y: The Last Man'---A young escape artist and a Capuchin monkey become the only male survivors of a deadly plague that kills every mammal possessing a Y chromosome.

'In the Stars'---A fake psychic becomes famous after one of her phony predictions comes true.

'Razorwire'---The script centers on a group of small-time drug dealers who discover that vampires, who also happen to be cops, have been feeding on the disadvantaged people in the ghetto. When the vampire cops start framing them for the murders, the dealers go to war with their new immortal enemies.


[And you ask why the movie business is in trouble? The plot synopses of those six movies are funnier than 99% of the comedies that were released in the last six years...]


In closing (sixth-grade book-report style), I have learned that Diablo Cody will be in our faces for at least the next 2 years. I look forward to hearing many, many more times that she was once a stripper. I have also learned that a lot of people are riding her leopard-print coattails to much fame and fortune, despite lack of talent and/or business acumen, and I am reminded of a famous, unattributed quote: "success has many fathers, and failure is an orphan." I have also also learned that I should avoid the mutliplex like the plague in 2009. The End.

* Tune in next week to hear about what I did on my spring vacation! *

Monday, February 18, 2008

The Yowl of Unresolved Cat Life

I took an eight hour nap today, after an extraordinarily late night, and now lie awake in the middle of the night, acutely conscious, being driven to the point of insanity by the guttural moaning, screeching, and mewling of an alleycat in heat. An alleycat that has dogged me for three accursed years now, disappearing occasionally, randomly (or is it according to some obscure pagan fertility
schedule?), seemingly only to ensure her vocal yearnings will never be so constant as to blend in with my sonic environment and cease to retain their full effect.

In my lonelier moments, as I lie unattended in bed, forced to compare my own sex life to that of cats, specifically to that of the one insatiable cat begging for cat-dick* outside my window, I find the plaintive wailings reverberating through the cement and brick alleyscape unbearably depressing for a host of reasons.

1. Why is it so easy for this cat to unabashedly ask for what it wants, while I find the mating process so fraught with awkwardness, difficulty, and disappointment?
2. Why is it that this cat seems to have so much trouble getting laid, despite its clear intentions? A human female would not have the same problem, should she spread her legs in an alley and shout for all comers to have a go. Maybe she's a really ugly cat?
3. Why can this cat never get enough? Are all cats this horny, or is this cat some sort of rare sex-obsessed feline? And, if so, is there a lucrative black market for these rare animals?
4. Would it be a good thing or a bad thing, for myself as well as for the species, if women behaved like this cat? Would I really care if it was bad for the species but really, really good for me?

The big question on my mind lately, though, is this: how can this cat get away with keeping hundreds of people awake for years? Am I the only one who dreams of leaning out my window with a night-scope-bedecked sniper rifle and putting her out of her/my misery? Are my fellow forced insomniacs so cowed by the threat of PETA-sponsored legal ramifications that they just grin and bear it? Or is this cat simply an expert at hide and seek, or some sort of preternatural master of disguise? ("I heard the cat moaning, but then all I saw was a discarded Fendi handbag, so I moved on...")

Another big question: does this fucking cat ever sleep? The easy answer, supported by years of circumstantial evidence, is 'no.' Or maybe minute-long catnaps throughout the day are all she needs, fittingly. Or maybe this is the real reason she moans and screams: she hasn't slept in three years either.

Regardless, I have no sympathy for this cat for any reason. I am bigger than it, and I will kill it if I get the chance, animal-rights supporters be damned. I'm no Randy Lenz, mind you--he of 'Infinite Jest' cat-stomping infamy--but, all the same, I wouldn't mind it too much if he came 'round my place sometime soon and did his thing.


*I never even thought about cats having dicks. And I now wish the thought had never occured to me, or that I could wash it from my brain. Oh, forgetful mind, don't fail me now!

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Only Rich People Can Wear Pajamas Around All Day Long, Even In Public, and Not Pay A Price



I know this because I am not rich and also, not coincidentally, cannot imagine the day I would be able to wear pajamas around and get away with it (let's face it, there are dress codes for burger-flippers).

I'd like to think, even if I temporarily lost my sanity and tried to make the pajamas thing happen, that some long-forgotten kill-pact signed in blood at a dirty fraternity house / cockfighting pitch somewhere in the world would kick in and an overqualified, up-and-coming rent-a-ninja would swoop down from the towering eucalyptus trees and disembowel me, mid-stride, as I peacocked across the henyard, Starbucks-ward, wilfully flaunting my flaunting of convention.

Let's face it, I'd deserve it.

Up Is Down, Down Is Up!?!


A Beagle Won the Coveted Best In Show at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show!

A beagle!

'The dumbest canine breed ever created in a test tube' has finally won the official approval of the notoriously snobbish, but dutifully just, dog-judgers!

"Despite the popularity of beagles in the U.S., none has ever won the top spot in the 100 year history of the prize." -abcnews.com

"The fix is surely in," thought naive young Miami cocaine smuggler and part-time dog breeder Miguel Caliente Ferrari-Caballero. And didn't we all agree? (I mean--come on! A beagle? What Russian mafiosovich tugged those strings to line his pockets?)

But then, only widget minutes later(!), after a bit of off-the-clock surveillance at the nearby Sunset Towers retirement community, risking his life to sniff out the truth for all of us out here in the real world, M. Ferrari-Caballero discovered that the fix most assuredly was NOT in. The brittle puppeteers behind the more media-friendly judging panel had simply become too senile to know the difference between a puppy and a box of rotting cow tongues.


Now, the meat:
What Does This Mean For You, As A Discerning Individual?

The short answer:
Only Time Will Tell

The likely final answer, revealed weeks from now for most, but right now just for you, because I like your face:
Nothing. Life will continue as usual. Time will pass. Slowly, but quickly, once you stop to think about it. You are still a loser. Your job is still a disappointment to you, however secret that evaluation might be. You are still short. You still sweat too much. Your girlfriend is still cheating on you, or trying to. You still don't know what it's like to be a real, live human being. But things can get better--once you embrace the deceptively logical tenets of Scientology...

7 Reasons Dane Cook Should Not Be Invited to Your Notoriously Licentious Leap-Year Party


1. The SUperfinger (aka SU-FI). Yeah, the U is supposed to be capitalized. Yeah, he didn't even invent it, but he DID trademark it...

2. 'Dane Cook Gear' exists.

3. This gear is for sale on his own site; it's not some woefully-misguided/money-laundering Taiwanese operation ignoring a cease-and-desist.

4. 'Danespace: 2.2 million friends'

5. He has the most negative entry I've ever read on wikipedia (yes, even Hitler's is more forgiving)--a freely-changeable website his PR people (as well as himself) have total access to and, therefore, the ability to alter at a moment's notice. They, the 'PR people,' for all their I-went-to-Bard-and-I'm-gonna-be-somebody-someday- even-though-I'm-only-making-$21,000-a-year-and-living-off- my-wealthy-parents-in-a-trendily-dirty-little-Brooklyn-apartment- while-looking-for-a-rich-banker-boyfriend-who's-not-too-geeky gusto, can't seem to keep up with the less-dedicated, but far more numerous, anti-fans that safeguard the authenticity of the Internet for us all. While we sleep.

(Thank you, by the way...).

Here is a lengthy, but warranted, excerpt from said entry:
Plagiarism

After the release of his CD/DVD Retaliation, similarities were noticed between Cook's work and material recorded on Louis C.K.'s 2001 album Live in Houston. The bits in question are Louis C.K.'s "Itchy Asshole", "Guy on a Bike", and "Naming Kids". In 2005, Dane Cook performed and released three similar routines on Retaliation. These are "Itchy Asshole", "Struck by a Vehicle," and "My Son Optimus Prime", respectively.

In 2005, on the message boards of comedy web site A Special Thing, C.K. posted a response to his fans who accused Cook of plagiarizing from him writing "Okay, this kid is stealing from me. And making lots of money. Three bits on one CD." Later, C.K. wrote "Just so you know, guys, I'm not going to do anything about this.... I'm not going to court over a bit called 'Itchy Asshole.'" In an interview on the Free Beer & Hot Wings Morning Show in February 2007, C.K. stated that while the jokes are similar, the issue was "overblown" and may stem from a backlash against Cook's popularity. However, C.K. accused Cook of being "bullyish" and litigious towards comedians for having similar material to his despite Cook claiming elsewhere that comedians often have similar material and it is not a big issue to him. C.K. also stated "Too bad the guy [Cook] can't write enough." After much pressure by the hosts for a derogatory statement, C.K. ended the interview by finally adding, "Fuck Dane Cook, he's a cunt."

Comedian Joe Rogan has spoken on many occasions about Cook performing a bit on an episode of Premium Blend that Rogan had developed on I'm Gonna Be Dead Someday (sketch titled "Tigers Fucking"), and claims to have performed the routine earlier in clubs with Cook present.

Less publicized accusations of comedic plagiarism by Cook emerged in September 2006 on Saturday Night Live by Demetri Martin of Daily Show fame. Clips on YouTube show a stand up bit Cook lifted from Martin's These Are Jokes (released September 26, 2006, four days before Cook's SNL appearance), on some trouble buying shoes, where Cook goes as far as using the same incorrect shoe size (size 9) that Martin used.

Rob Sheffield criticized Dane Cook's material in a Rolling Stone article from October 2006, claiming a joke he performed was originally done by Emo Philips.

In addition to such specific claims of plagiarism, numerous commentators have characterized Dane Cook's humor as unfunny, banal, and lacking jokes.

6. Because I heard a few minutes of one of his stand-up routines once and I mistakenly thought it was a send-up of stand-up routines--and not a very good one at that.

7. Because, while admittedly a savvy businessman, he is dumb.

_

Thursday, February 14, 2008

My Favorite Valentine's Day Ever

The year was 1980. I was one year old and deeply in love with Susan Lucci... Kiding. The year was 2003. Boston. A cold and dreary winter. A lonely winter. I had just moved there in January with a good friend of mine, Angela, and her friend from college, Laura. We knew noone and, therefore, had decided to give ourselves til Valentine's Day to make enough friends to have a real party, figuring we'd all probably be single then anyway.

We lived in a huge three bedroom apartment on Hancock Street in Porter Square. After several weeks of impoverished laying-around-and-drinking-a-lot, I got the lowest-paying job possible ($19,000/yr!) as a travel agent for STA Travel, answering phones at the National Reservation Center off of Boston Common. Angela found a job as a receptionist at a hair salon AND as a dogwalker, as well as an internship at a local film production company. Laura ended up in childcare.

We invited our new friends who lived across the street, the three nurses that lived upstairs, people from work, random people we met in bars, and friends from school who lived nearby (New Hampshire and New Jersey). We bought a ton of alcohol. I dusted off my favorite records. We were set for the best party in Porter Square history. But it didn't quite end up that way...

Around 11pm, after much pre-partying with my roommates, my girlfriend, and our old friends from school, I noticed that nobody had arrived. Whatever. Between 11 and midnight, maybe a dozen people wandered in, none of whom I knew. They were all friends of people we invited, not those people themselves, who never bothered to show up. The most notable of these friends-of-friends was "Adele's Friend."

Now, I know he was Adele's friend because he was wearing a large homemade button that identified him as such. He was about 5'5", Indian, and wore a Mr. Rogers-ish sweater vest and bowtie combo. Not sure who Adele was, and painfully aware that this guy was a loser, I hesitated to let him inside when I answered the door. Angela came over and said Adele was a girl she interned with, who wasn't here yet, and that we should let him in.

"Why not? We need SOME people here..."

About half an hour later, I sat on the couch in the record room, in the dark, listening to Daft Punk, drunk, chatting with my friend JJ. Out of nowhere, Adele's Friend (whose name I never got, by the way), perched on the edge of a papasan chair as if in some kind of posture contest, interrupted.

"Excuse me, but...you know I can do parlor tricks."

"What? Like what? Billiards? Darts?"

"Like that game where you go like this..."

He then pantomimed rapidly moving a knife between his fingertips.

"Oh, mumblypeg?" [note: I only knew this name because of a video game from my childhood, about pirates, called "Monkey Island"]

"Yeah."

“Well, let’s fucking see it!”

I led a curious entourage out of the record room, down a narrow hallway, and into the kitchen. Now, the kitchen was a totally different scene from the record room--fluorescent lights on full-tilt, people standing around wrapped in shawls, drinking Diet Coke, talking about the differences between cats and dogs and stupid things like that. We marched in there and took over.

I reached into a cupboard and grabbed the biggest knife I had--a large chef's knife that may as well have been a meat cleaver, and presented it to Adele's friend. The cat-and-dog librarian set audibly hushed at the brandishing of said knife and watched this new, dangerous scene raptly.

“Oh, no...I can just use a pen...I wouldn’t want to...scratch your table.”

“JJ--grab a phone book.”

JJ plopped the 4-inch-thick Boston yellowpages on the table and we all stood back to observe. Would he actually do it?

Whether he wanted to or not, Adele's Friend hefted the knife, set down his hand, spread out his fingers, and went to work. He moved the knife with impressive speed, fearlessly plunging it toward his fingers time and time again, increasingly faster, until he suddenly dropped the knife and hid his hand behind his back. I saw a telltale drop of blood on the tip of the blade. The show was over. Adele's Friend turned to me sheepishly.

"Do you have any bandages?"

"I don't think so."

"Duct tape?"

"In the toolbox in the pantry, if I have it..."

The crowd began to melt away, their bloodlust sated. I turned to head back to the record room when my roommate, Laura, who had been holding court in the kitchen, sipping wine, grabbed me by the collar, her face flushed, her mind reeling.

"What...just...happened?!"

"Nothing. He was playing mumblypeg and he cut himself. It's not bad, though, or he'd say something. He'll be fine."

"He stabbed himself?"

"No--I wouldn't use that word. I think he just cut his thumb."

Laura looked shell-shocked. She released her hold on me and seemed to lose herself in her imagination. Was she perhaps thinking back to the only warning our landlord had given us when we informed her of the party?

"Do whatever you want, as long as nobody gets stabbed."

She actually said that. Turns out, when she and her husband lived in the apartment, before they moved downstairs, they threw a huge party the night before sending their son off to the Navy. At some point, in a haze of alcohol, swords were pulled from the wall and somebody accidentally got stabbed, the paramedics came, the police came, people were caught pissing off the balcony and drinking underage...so, no stabbing. Please. Sorry, landlady!

I retreated to the record room, sat back on the couch, and resumed talking to JJ. There was still almost nobody at the party, and very few people there were drinking or having any fun. After a time, Adele’s Friend appeared in the doorway, his thumb and first two fingers duct-taped together in a huge bulbous mass. He tried to make it look natural that he was intentionally keeping the wound above his heart at all times, to lessen the flow of blood.

I watched as he struck awkward pose after awkward pose, acting as if everything was perfectly normal, as if we hadn’t all watched him slice his hand in the kitchen. I turned to the three nurses who lived upstairs, who were somehow all sitting in the papasan chair at the same time--not drinking, of course. Luckily, I guess, since I had to put one of them to work.

“I think one of you should check him out and see if he needs to go to the hospital.”

One of them took him into the bathroom for inspection, and we all eagerly awaited her diagnosis.

A couple minutes later, the examining nurse returned and plopped down in the papasan without saying a word.

“Well? Does he need to go to the hospital?”

“Oh yeah.”

Adele’s Friend returned, holding his injured hand high above his head and using the other to flip through the phone book, looking for ambulance phone numbers. Obviously, I felt sorry for him, but I also knew he’d be alright, just a bit ego-bruised and perhaps superficially scarred. So I didn't feel too bad for laughing when I realized he was looking for help in the very same phonebook he stabbed himself on, just fifteen minutes prior. Something seemed fitting about that.

He said goodnight, apologized for not being better at Mumblypeg, and disappeared. None of us ever saw him again.

By the next morning, when it was painfully clear how lame the party had been the night before, because it never got any better in the wee hours, I had totally forgotten about Adele’s Friend. Suddenly, the memory came flooding back to me and I laughed the hardest I’ve ever laughed in my entire life. Granted, I was stoned, but I found the idea that he went “from zero to hero,” in a matter of an hour, hilarious. He was the biggest loser at a party full of losers; yet because he stabbed himself, he was the only fond memory I would ever have from that party. He was kind of a hero to me--the man that saved Valentine's Day.

The American Male, 1500 Years in the Future


Although the actual date of the fall of the Roman Empire is still passionately debated among a dwindling number of Roman History scholars, it is acceptable to say it was around the year 500AD. In March, I believe. On a Saturday. 1500 years ago. What can we learn from this, you say? Well, luckily I am in lecturing mode. Stay with me here...

For 1000 years or so, the Romans ruled the known world--Europe, Eastern Asia, and Northern Africa. They were ruthless imperialists, cunning businessmen, and persuasive orators. The world was their oyster. Until it wasn't. Until they were beaten down, ignored, and irrelevant. After that fateful Saturday in March, for centuries, the men of Rome stewed in their limestone villas, cobbling exquisite shoes, vintning fine wines, designing the finest dresses, suits, ties, capri pants, etc. They built the finest automobiles in the world. Ditto for bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, hats, espressos, sandwiches, pizzas, pastas, apertifs... The only thing they worked harder at than luxury goods was LOVE. They turned love into an art form (Italian Opera is no accident). If everybody's going to ignore them anyway, they figured (they told me), they might as well spend all their time looking good, driving fast, and falling in love. And who can blame them for that bit of logic?

The rest of Europe passed them by without so much as a wave. Germany rose to prominence, Spain, Holland, England, France--hell, even Portugal was on top for a bit. Italians didn't mind, though--they had been there, done that, and now they were content to be ignored and live in the lap of their own hand-made luxury, falling in love a hundred times a day, groping any young woman that passed. Over a 1000 year period, they went from being the best soldiers on Earth to a peaceful band of dilettantes, hanging out in cafes, smoking cigarettes, discussing various love affairs, tickling each other with ostrich feathers while sipping cappuccinos (only before 11am, of course). All this idleness led to a deep appreciation for both the natural world and the man-made world around them which, in turn, led to an exceptionally rich army of painters, sculpters, metalworkers, photographers, and filmmakers.

So, what does this have to do with America? A lot. We have ruled the world for two hundred years now--not in the old-fashioned imperialist sense, but in the newer, more potent cultural-imperialist sense, as well as in the corporate-imperialist sense. The density of our 200 years is fairly comparable to their 1000. Our corporations, our way of life, have taken root in countries all across the globe, almost overnight. Who cares what flag they fly? They eat McDonald's, make copies at Kinko's, and care who Brad Pitt is dating. But we have taken things too far, become too greedy, placed our armies where they don't belong, allowed arrogance to replace common sense. And so our downfall has begun; we are now, believe it or not, in the post-Imperial phase. England and the European Community have risen back to prominence and taken the reigns from us. London is the global center of finance--not New York. Manhattan is being taken over by wealthy Europeans taking advantage of the weak dollar to buy second, third, or fourth homes, which keeps prices high and squeezes out hard-working Americans. Real wages are at the 1950 level. China is the new center of manufacturing. We are a nation of communication consultants, hedge-fund managers, gossip columnists, and burger-flippers. We are not the wealthiest nation on Earth, the strongest nation on Earth, the most populous nation on Earth, the hardest-working nation on Earth; we are a nation in decline, a nation of fading importance; a nation lacking in love.

So, gentlemen of the United States, let's get cracking. Let's spend less time at work and more time with our ladies. Let's only appreciate the finer things in life. If you can only afford one pair of shoes, make them Ferragamo--they'll never go out of style and they'll last forever. Make your suit Armani, your ties Gucci. Pick up a Vespa next time your car dies--not only will it help you pull all the ladies, but think of the fuel economy! Over time, directly proportionate to our idleness and irrelevance, we American men will find ways to improve on these items and our own domestic craftsmen will flourish and dominate. Our creative types will become such wilfull dandies that your local cinema will once more become the domain of artists, not businessmen. There WILL be an American Renaissance. History repeats itself, no?

But, Goodtime Charlie, you say, I found a flaw in your comparison--what about all the immigrants? America, unlike Italy, is a nation of immigrants. Doesn't that throw off the whole comparison? No, my child, my adorable little child, it does not. Let us not forget that Italy was a nation of notorious slave-gatherers and, as naturally follows, slave-fuckers. There was a fair amount of diversity up in that peninsula. And, similarly, after 1500 years of mixing and matching Hispanics with Asians with Africans with Whites, perhaps Americans will all be lustrously olive-skinned. How do you think the people of the Mediterranean got that way?

Tom Brady Might Have Lost the Battle, But He Sure Won the War

100 out of 100 men agree--even though he lost the Super Bowl to golden-gened Eli Manning, any man who would rather be in his shoes than those of Tom Brady should be slowly suffocated to death for the good of the species!

Here's why:


Yes, sir...when you come home to that, does it really matter if you brought the hardware?


To save you the trouble, I located a photo of Eli's new sweetie, Abby McGrew:


I'm sure she's very nice.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

I Don't Know About You, But It Offends Me When People Drink Kittens


Please help stop the madness--donate to Goodtime Charlie immediately!

Goodtime Charlie
c/o Obama for America
P.O. Box 802798
Chicago, IL 60680

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The Reason Office Depot Only Stocks Wireless Routers

I went into an Office Depot after work today, looking for a good time. I mean, looking for a router--preferably one that was not wireless, because we didn't need that for our office and those sometimes lead to trouble, with forgotten passwords and such.

The first helpful salesman seemed baffled by the word 'router.' He gave up immediately. "Oh, that's actually more of a technology question--you want to talk to Dennis. Hey, Dennis!"

Dennis broke away from the coworker he had been talking to, strode over, and smiled.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

"Hi, there. I'm looking for a router. But not a wireless one; just a simple splitter for several ethernet cords."

"Right this way. Follow me."

We snaked through several aisles and wound up in front of a huge display of routers that I somehow missed on my three trips around the store earlier.

"This one right here is the bomb, man. The BIG one. Look."

He pointed to a drawing of an apartment building with 'powerful signal' lines radiating from it.

"Okay, yeah, but do you have any routers that AREN'T wireless?"

"Nah, man--everything's wireless. I mean, you know why everything's wireless now, right? So they can keep an eye on us...off the record..."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

So much for the 'technology whiz.' I scan the wall of boxes, searching on my own for a wireless-less router.

But Dennis didn't give up. "I mean, you know--they wanna know where you're at, what you're doin', what websites you're goin' to...everything. Off the record, of course."

I realized Dennis had become visibly nervous. He started looking over his shoulder a lot, looking me over, perhaps aware his crackpot theory might get him into trouble with his manager, aware I might be the type of guy who would turn him in. I didn't want to argue with Dennis, but nor did I want to agree with him. I avoided the issue.

"So...are you sure none of these other ones down here--"

"--You know that was off the record, right?"

"Yeah."

I crouched down to look at some boxes on the bottom shelf, hoping Dennis would take his cue to leave. Luckily, another customer interrupted us, holding some kind of shitty-looking plastic-organizer-case-thing, shrink-wrapped.

"Can I open this to see if I like it?"

Dennis laughed. "You'd have to buy it! I mean..." He looked at me for help. I avoided his eyes, leaving him to his fate.

"But how do I know if I like it?" The guy mimed scratching his fingers across the shrink-wrap as he stared at Dennis for permission to do it for real.

Dennis was bewildered. "You can't just open it..."

"I want to buy it. I just need to know if I like it first." The customer was confused as to why this was unacceptable.

Their mutual mystification was too much for Dennis to handle. "Let's go ask my manager..."

They both walked away, thankfully. I can only take so much wisdom in one day.

Who Cares?

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Two Brief Quotes from David Hasselhoff



"Everyone goes crazy when I put on my blue shirt."

"This is The Hoff, signing off."

Oh, and he has the words "BACK HOFF" embroidered on the back pockets of his blue jeans. In case you were wondering...

Saturday, January 26, 2008

The Only Dream I've Ever Written Down

I often have ridiculously wacky, intense, complex dreams, but rarely remember much of what happened once I wake up. Here is a glaring exception:


Dream I Had the Morning of November 20, 2004


I was trying to sell some scripts/ideas with my friend Kenny to a guy who ran a production company in a huge, opulent, modern skyscraper with a hotel, casino, offices, and condos. I had all the paperwork in a bag on the end of a fishing pole or something, that’s how I was carrying it, for some reason. Security was tight and I couldn’t get down the hall to the man’s office from the grand staircase. I was hanging out on the landing, waiting to see if Kenny could sweet-talk the doorman into letting us in. We were determined to see this guy.

The lobby was huge and old-fashioned--dark wood everywhere, kind of like the lobby to a swank hotel. Some guy came up to me and asked what I was doing there, what was in the bag. I told him it was full of great ideas and scripts for movies and that we were trying to meet with the guy at this production company to see if he would buy them. The guy was really pessimistic about our chances and said that we would never get in to see him and even if we did he would just steal our ideas and not give us any money. Office-type people kept breezing past us on their way up or down the stairs. I kept looking down to make sure my bag was still there, on the end of the fishing pole-thing. I kept looking over to see how Kenny was doing. And looking at this guy next to me who seemed to be waiting to see how it all turned out. Then I looked down at my side and the bag was gone. All our ideas! I got pissed. I ran down the stairs and told Karl the bag was stolen. The guy who had been hanging out with me, watching, came with me. “I just had it on the end of this fishing pole and then I looked down and it was gone!”

The doorman follows us as we walk slowly up the staircase and then run past the security guards just in time to see Skeletor pop out of a room, look at us, and immediately run away, turning the corner, leaving a trail of evil laughter. We chase after him. As soon as we turn the corner, we see this petite woman dressed kind of like Peter Pan. She is Skeletor’s second-in-command.

She doesn’t actually ever attack us, I don’t think. But she seems to be in charge of making sure all the evil things keep after us (flying things, snakes, etc.). She runs into a door and we follow-- the doorman and security guards are now not really chasing us, but on our side against what they immediately identify as pure evil.

When we enter the doorway, it leads immediately to a rickety, old, narrow staircase in a house in the rundown suburbs somewhere. There is a window and it is open. The petite Peter-Pan-girl floats outside the window, above the driveway, watching. I am now alone. I come down the stairs and everything starts to shake, things are falling over, kind of like an earthquake. There is a chest of drawers with a display case/glass-doored-cabinet thing on top of it, on the next landing below me. Things start falling out of it and crashing to the floor. I’m dodging huge stuff that suddenly starts flying at me. I grab a brick and heave it right at the Peter Pan girl, knocking her to the ground. I race through the doorway on the lower level and into a narrow hallway.

The hallway leads to a huge open area on one side of a large, modern office building that has a wall of windows looking out over the city, kind of like an observation deck, but not; there’s probably one on every floor, just an open area with desks, tables, chairs, lamps, kind of a lounge. The other five people (Kenny, the watcher, the doorman, and 2 security guards) are suddenly with me again and we run into this area. All kinds of huge flying insects start coming at us. Thousands of them. Some are big, some are smaller, they’re sort of not easy to see, almost transparent, and you can really only see the flutter of their wings.

I pull out a Nerf Dart Gun and start shooting them out of the air. The Peter Pan girl watches and laughs, in charge of all these bugs. Everyone else starts shooting Nerf Dart Guns and throwing anything they can find, and just trying to kill them all, and we seem to be doing a good job, despite the fact that we can barely see them and there are thousands of them. I keep shooting the darts at them and the dart carries all the way to the window and smashes them against it. I am amazed at how accurate we are. But some of them miss. I only have three or four of them, so I have to repeatedly run over and pick up or peel off the window all the darts and reuse them. I keep doing all these unnecessary somersaults and barrel rolls and looking over at everybody else, in the shit, swarmed by them, but killing them slowly and steadily. We finally kill them all. Peter Pan still floats outside, chuckling deviously, unfazed.

I go to pick up a dart by an overturned desk and see a bunch of the bugs in some kind of cocoon/larvae stage, clinging to the underside of the desk. “Oh, shit, guys. Check it out. We have to kill all these before they mature.” I lean in to get a good shot at one of them and hear a hiss and see movement. An enormous black Cobra snake is coiled up menacingly in the shadows. “Fuck! Look out for snakes!” We start killing the larvae but some of them shed their cocoons and fly out at us.

I decide everyone here is fine, they’ll kill them all eventually...maybe I should keep up the pursuit of Skeletor. So I run out this door at the other end of the U-shaped hallway/lounge area and suddenly find myself in the same old rickety staircase, staring out the same window, at Peter Pan, the earthquake happens again and I throw a brick at Peter Pan and run into the hallway and find myself in the same lounge, with everybody still fighting off these bugs. I keep doing this, in a loop, over and over, and every time I keep asking if anyone’s killed the snake yet, if anyone’s seen the snake. And nobody answers me and I keep expecting everyone to be killed by this scary big snake the next time I run through.

One of the times through the staircase, I hear Peter Pan say something like “one of these times you’ll make a mistake, you won’t be so lucky.” And then I hit her in the face with a brick, but I’m scared. Wondering if my accuracy will fail me next time. Then I run into the hallway/lounge and see the snake slithering off the way I have been running my laps, towards the other door. I run up behind it--I’m running super fast, by the way, barely even touching the ground, breaking all laws of physics and my shoes have wings on them now, like Hermes/Mercury. I catch up to this rapidly escaping snake and stab a letter opener through its neck and keep flying by. It hisses and flails around, pinned to the ground, and I get the feeling that it isn’t going to die for some reason, from this should-be-fatal wound. I run through the door again and this time I’m outside, in scrubby grass along an empty rural highway. I’m flying right above the ground, all I see is this patch of grass, as if I’m in a speeding car and just looking out the window at the grass on the side of the road as it whizzes past. I don’t see any farms or buildings or sky or anything. And I see a huge rat running along in the grass. And I hear Peter Pan say, “He doesn’t even realize that he’s the rat now.” The rat is Skeletor, I say to myself. And I’m right along with it, moving at the same speed, flying above it, and I don’t know what to do. Should I swoop down and catch it in my hands? What do I do next? What will happen? And then I woke up.

Evidence That We Are Fucked

A newspaper article from September 29, 2004, that I, for some reason, copied into a Word file many years ago, and which seems to support my claims in the 'Vault' entry which follows this one:
Family Chicken Feud Turns to Gun Battle

BLUEWELL, West Virgina (AP) - A family meal erupted into a gun battle after a father and son clashed over how to cook chicken.

The two men argued Sunday over the best way to prepare skinless chicken for dinner.

"It started out as a physical confrontation, but it escalated until both of them were shooting at each other,'' Detective Sgt. A.D. Beasley of the Mercer County Sheriff's Department said Monday.

Beasley said each man fired a .22-caliber handgun at the other. Harley Shrader was struck by a bullet that went through the upper part of his right ear and lodged in the back of his head. He was treated at a hospital and released. The elder Shrader was not injured.

Jackie Lee Shrader, 49, was charged with malicious wounding and wanton endangerment. Harley Lee Shrader, 24, was charged with wanton endangerment.

...I wonder who they're gonna vote for in the upcoming primary. Is Larry the Cable Guy running? How about Jack Meehoff?

From the Vault-- Thoughts - 11/14/05

Not quite sure where to begin here, except to say that right now I feel I am holding on to my sanity like a hopeless bum clings to a fifth of bourbon, as he huddles next to a fiery trashcan in a filthy alley on a blustery Northern night, wrapped in a urine-soaked Army jacket. I know that’s all so poetic and exaggerated, as I sit in my comfortable, tastefully-decorated Los Angeles apartment, listening to good music, drinking bourbon and Coke, and typing on my thousand-dollar laptop. All the same, the sentiment rings true, the emotions are there, for however long they may persist, and there you have it. From the heart. Honest.

I have some work lined up for three days this week and plans to drive up to San Francisco to spend Thanksgiving among friends, so it’s not like I am going to lose my shirt and/or starve to death and die alone and be forgotten. But there’s just such a dreary, world-weary, give-up-the-fight, what’s-the-point-of-trying-to-make-it-in-this-shitty-world wave of emotion riding up through me that I can’t ignore it. I must explore it, I must put it to paper and see where my thoughts lead me.

To clear up a point, I am not suicidal. In fact, as I sat through “Good Night and Good Luck” this afternoon, as the report of one of the newsmen’s suicide came across, I thought to myself “what the fuck is the point of suicide? Why would anyone choose to give up on life? Why not live for your ideals, live for yourself, live for the possibility of something better to come along?” Move to Mexico, hide in the mountains, and live off the land.

I say this because I feel just as cynical about the world today, a world far worse than the world of McCarthy-era Red Scare politics and the fear of nuclear war, if you can believe that.

Because I live in a world--“we” live in a world--that has swallowed that whole now-hilarious episode and not learned from it one bit.

Because we live in a world that is, in actuality, MORE vulnerable to nuclear annihilation, or some other worse fate our beloved scientists might be dreaming up right this very moment--beneath a football stadium near you!

Because we live in a world where people believe what their corrupt politicians tell them, what their corporate-biased news anchors tell them, what greedy deranged televangelists tell them, and what their own debased morals and warped thought-processes lead them to believe all on their own.

Because we live in a democratic world where the majority rules and the sad reality is the majority of this country, and the world, aren’t intelligent and tolerant enough to prudently govern themselves. Not that I’m saying I know of any political system that would rule more effectively than our American pseudo-democracy--I’m not that arrogant or deluded--but rather that this world has arrived at a point where we are unable to effectively function at all, under any political system, with any ruling class, elected or otherwise.

I was reading “Point, Counter Point” earlier this afternoon, as I could say of almost any afternoon for the last two months because it has been taking me an inordinate amount of time to read through this particular Huxley novel, and not for the first time, a passage struck me as particularly astute, even today, many decades after it was written. The two most intelligent characters, of the dozens that play a part in the story, were having a discussion about the future of the world, the future of society, the future of man, and the causes of the problems man and society are facing. A very broad topic that essentially boiled down to the fact that, over the last several hundred years-- or more, but at the very least since the onset of the industrial revolution-- man has been systematically bringing about its own demise with great ignorant glee by subjugating itself to the machine and absurdly specialized labor, all in the name of progress.

One of the characters, Mark Rampion, suggested that if the world is to be salvaged for his children, then we must abandon the machine and the youth must be taught to exist as “natural beings.” In other words, as I understand it, as men and women who are able to survive in this world by themselves: hunter-gatherers, free-thinkers, versatile laborers, consummate social beings. They must learn to have emotion, tolerance, free-thinking critical intelligence; they must know how to love and respect and provide.

Decades later, things are much worse than probably even Huxley could have imagined. Men and women across the globe have master’s degrees in useless fields like “communication consulting” and “public relations” and “financial management.” Where would these people be, should the fabric of society be rent irrevocably and we were to subsist on our individual skillsets? If money couldn’t buy you respect and admiration and survival? They would starve to death, they would have no idea how to survive on their own, and, ironically for some, no idea of how to actually, effectively communicate with people who aren’t begging to be TOLD something, to be brainwashed.

“Communications” today is a one-way street. People study how to convincingly TELL people what they want and how they can give it to them for X dollars. The American people, and by extension all those in Europe and Asia and beyond who have become an extension of the great corporate-conquistador, America, no longer devote any time to actually thinking for themselves, doing research, DOUBTING what somebody in authority tells them, thinking critically about issues of political, social, or moral importance. They are too busy consuming, keeping up with the Joneses, escaping into one of the many products put forth by the $10 billion a year video game industry, or the inane world of homogenized television sitcoms or forensic dramas or tough-cop series or manipulated-“reality” shows. They are too busy racing cigarette boats across man-made reservoirs or sun-tanning on billion-dollar cruise ships or downloading crappy over-produced drivel from the corporate music industry or being scared of terrorists or trying to survive after a hurricane wiped clean their life’s slate. Or, as is the case for most, too busy working two or three minimum-wage jobs to afford baby formula, McDonald’s cheeseburgers, and a volatile tenement home.

We shake our heads with disbelief at a time when McCarthyism went unchallenged by the popular media (til Murrow), without stopping to realize (most of us) that we live in an even MORE restrictive media environment today. One that derides “leftist” protests against our President or our Congress or our nation’s foreign policy. Any attempt to question a matter of policy, or speak out against an alleged wrong, is met with dismissive ridicule. Rights are violated, speech is suppressed, events are fabricated. These “crazed leftists” (read: Communists! Terrorists!) threw stones at honest blue-collar policeman! They hate freedom! They wish Al-Queda lived in the White House! They all read these ridiculous things on the Internet, these lies, these fabricated stories that say your government is dishonest, manipulative, greedy, selfish, and hypocritical! Never mind the truth behind it; the truth will never get out. Nobody believes the educated and honest minority.

At least, until they become the majority. As soon as the opinion poll of 100 people at a North Carolina NASCAR event reveals that 51% of the “country” doubt their President’s integrity, wheels roll into motion. The “hard-working, truth-seeking” press that “works for you” suddenly starts to question the President and our government. But not before, because until that number breaks fifty those 49% are all communist quacks who hate freedom and don’t believe in God. Why? Because, as an obscure man named DJ Quik once said, “if it don’t make dollaz, it don’t make sense.”

Our media panders to the majority because that is where the money is. They are businesses. The media is not unbiased, can never be unbiased, as long as they exist to make money. They are, in fact, INHERENTLY biased. They depend on advertising revenue, which is based on viewer/readership. Why would they report unfavorable information, no matter how true? Do you think FoxNews would ever report that NewsCorp was found guilty of tax fraud? That would be absurd. Do you think Universal Pictures would ever release a movie that showed the world the environmental atrocities committed by its parent company, General Electric NBC Universal?

Media aside, however, the scariest thought I had today is that even if 100% of the country thought our President lied to us, and our government helped him lie to us, and the media and corporate world conspired to help them all accomplish this, what recourse is there? Are we to fire our entire government and start over? Are we honestly to believe that this new government wouldn’t eventually end up equally as arrogant, manipulative, and selfish? Who, when given the power men and women in government have, would not end up serving their own interests?

And what does it all matter anyway when the country is actually ruled by big businessmen who are not elected, people who never do the time for crimes even when they’re convicted? Occasionally, when offenses become too egregious, are too obvious, can actually be proven, accidentally get leaked to a rival media conglomerate that acts out of pure self-interest, corporations go down (Arthur Anderson, Enron, WorldCom, etc.). But do the orchestrators of these massive swindles ever truly “pay the price” for their arrogance and deceit? Nope. They get a slap on the wrist, pay a fine equal to perhaps 5% of what they stole, if we’re lucky, and then move on to head up some other company, the taxpayers foot the bill, if any, and we all collectively forget.

We forget because nobody in the media follows up or demands that anything be done. Because the entire system we have set up feeds into the corporation. Who funds political campaigns? Powerful corporations and the individuals who are rich as a result of working for or owning stock in those corporations. Who owns the media? Powerful corporations. Who pays for television shows, radio programming, newspapers, magazines, websites? Powerful corporations, through advertising dollars. Who can afford, in this competitive environment, to lose a sponsor? Who wants to shoot themselves in the foot?

How do we expect anyone to serve justice when everyone lives only to serve themselves? When everyone strives to make it rich at any cost? When job security preempts any moral judgment? How do we ever expect to change this? Socialism? Right. The mere word would cause 80% of this God-fearing, terrorist-fighting, “freedom”-loving nation to hurl rocks at each other until we all lie bloody and cold.

And yet, socialism is no worse and no better. It is just as flawed. Why? Because at the heart of it lies faith in your fellow man. We would have to have faith that everyone does their fair share, that those who work for the state have the interest of the people at heart, that nobody will become corrupt, that nobody will take advantage of anyone else. How on Earth would that ever happen? Man is too corrupt, too selfish, too lazy, too gluttonous by nature to ever allow any kind of fairness into the world, to ever allow harmony and ‘goodwill toward men’ to actually overpower the evil within us.

And so here we are...hopeless. Pessimistic, negative, demented...or is it? Has there ever been an organization of men that could prove wrong anything I have said? Has there ever been a period of man’s existence where there was no war, no fighting, no back-stabbing, no gluttony, no dishonesty, no selfishness? How could we ever think that by INCREASING the population, INCREASING the ethnic, religious, and political diversity, that we would have a BETTER chance at peace and harmony? Who would ever think that by downgrading every man, woman, and child to a cog in the wheel of industry, we would increase happiness, satisfaction, morality, and honesty? The only way we can combat the dreary conclusion to the human experiment which at this point is, more or less, unavoidable extinction by our own hands, a suicide of sorts, is to, as Mark Rampion, and by extension Aldous Huxley, suggests-- rewind to a simpler time. Forget the machine, forget specialization of labor, forget “progress.” Get back to nature. Invest in man, instead of the machine, instead of profit. Would it work? Doubtful, but it seems our only chance.

Do you think we’ll take it? Do you think 51% of the world would ever request that opportunity? Doubtful.

Why? Because there ain’t no money in it.

For All Those Tweens Out There That Wanna Learn How to Make Love

Check out the following movies*:

1. Masculin Feminin
2. Carnal Knowledge
3. My Night At Maud's


*if you have good taste and enjoy movies not made by the Wayans Bros. or DisneyInc.

Goodtime Charlie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Month

This month has not been one of my best. It seems as though, in one near-fell swoop, the universe is desperately trying to offset the bottomless bounty provided to me upon birth (eyes, lips, hair, brain, humor, abs, nose, buttocks, charm, fashion sense, unit, fingernails, etc etc etc etc hahahaha...).

There is no God [or if there is, may he strike me dead on the spot...I DARE HIM! See? He didn't. That's just as much proof that he doesn't exist as anybody can offer me that he DOES exist], but if there were, I would tell him to go fuck himself. Why? Here are 9 reasons why:

(1) Until a few days ago, I hadn't worked in six weeks. I was (am) broke. And that was after taking a few months off to write a script. So I've been semi-paralyzed by financial woes present and future. Which is why I was looking forward to a free week-long trip to Big Sky, Montana. Montana was fabulous--skiing, relaxing, New's-Years-Eveing it in the hot tub--until mile number 2499, when (2) my car stopped working 2 miles from home.

Don't worry, though, it got fixed rather quickly, and (3) for only $1200.

No sweat. I'm loaded. Well, at least I thought I was--then (4) my only two paychecks for fall 2007 bounced because the payroll company went out of business due to yet another embezzling corporate asshole. Subtract $1000 from my bank account, leaving my balance (5) at an impressive -$660.

"Shit, dawg, my life majorly sucks right now," thought the douchebag inside of me, but he was wrong--it was actually pretty good at the time. Everything is relative. I went out to my car a couple saturdays back, only to find (6) my front license plate missing, as well as the license-plate holder. Huh. Whatever. Then I noticed (7) the tickets on my windshield--one for parking in the spot for more than 2 hours, the other for having no front license plate.

Later that night, despite the vortex of negativity ominously swirling around me, spirits were high after seeing 'There Will Be Blood' and having a few drinks with a friend. I drove home, parked my car, and walked three blocks to my building, thinking about whatever random shit runs through my head at any given moment (the lyrics to the theme song to Mr. Belvedere?). Well, right across the street from my place, a couple kids from the neighborhood decided to (8) stick a knife in my throat and relieve me of my new iPod, my phone, my car/house keys, my wallet, and the $6 cash that was inside.

Luckily, when I pleaded for my keys back ("Leave me my house keys or I'll pee on you through my pants!"), one of the gentleman was kind enough to throw them into the street for me. As a result, I thankfully didn't have to spend the night clutching my knees and muttering to myself, in a pool of my own filth, on a sheet of cardboard outside the post office, but instead was able to get inside and grab change to cancel my credit cards and such. Well, except for the one that was closed "until 9am Eastern for a system update," which was then rung up for a hundred million dollars worth of gas all around Los Angeles (you're welcome, oil cartel!).

I don't have to pay for the gang's gasoline addiction, obviously, and I have complete confidence that the police detectives who pound on my door every other morning at 7:45am "to get a few more details for the case" will catch the little shits and get my $6 back, but it still sucks. That little iPod was so cute!

Oh, (9) and I'm fat now, by the way. So that ain't cool neither.

The Assassination of the Oscar-Nominators by the Hero Goodtime Charlie

So, I have something to get off my chest, despite the fact that I hate whining:

No Oscar nomination for Brad Pitt?
No nomination for Jesse James for Best Picture?
Juno and Atonement? Really?

I mean, I realize nobody saw this movie ($3.9 million domestic, $10.2 million foreign) (budget=$30million, for those of you keeping score at home)

But nobody saw There Will Be Blood ($9.8million worldwide)
or No Country for Old Men (OK, so people actually saw this one...but still...), either. And they got nominated for all the big ones.

Can anybody in the know explain to me why this movie was so secretly released, so quickly pulled, and so glaringly ignored? It was my favorite movie of the year. And I'm a genius, so I know what I'm talking about.

Hal Holbrook for Into the Wild? Really? Really? Was that necessary? Does he have ass cancer or something? Are we supposed to feel sorry for him? Is he even an actor? What were Sean Penn's directions to him? "Act old, dude. Great, love it, print it."

No nominations for Gone Baby Gone? Despite thinking it would be a total pile of shit, due to my feelings toward Ben Affleck, this movie was great. Casey Affleck was great. The writing and directing were great. Great great great, great; great.

Maybe I should hold my own awards show this year...I'll keep all my fans out here in cyberspace posted. Assholes.