Review in Brief: 'Moon'

[Fair warning--spoilers abound]

Alright, so all those people bitching about how the Sam Rockwell indie movie Moon was ignored at the Oscars need to shut the fuck up right now, because that movie was a piece of worthless shit.

Not that it didn't have potential--a man all by himself on the dark side of the moon for a three-year jag has all the makings of a fantastic character study.

First mistake: They chose Sam Rockwell to play the lead (only) role and he has absolutely no charisma or depth. They needed Jack Nicholson, they got a pet rock.

Second mistake: They forgot to make the story compelling, letting the air out at all wrong moments--which completely removed any tension--and never building toward anything to root for or against.


Major spoiler here, but Sam Rockwell is a clone. In real life. Ha! (I think he is a clone of the world's first semi-socialized douchebag, actually. -Ed.)

Luckily for you, this revelation doesn't actually ruin too much of the movie because a big part of the problem with it is the fact that this is revealed way too soon. Not only that, but it is revealed by a recently "woken-up" clone, who should be the most innocent character, but is instead inexplicably more savvy than all the other identical 'people' that came before him. I say inexplicable because this incongruous situation is never explained, a reasoning never even hinted at.



Basically, this movie was somebody's ill-advised, wet-dream cocktail of The Shining, Multiplicity, and 2001: A Space Odyssey. The twist here, stay with me now, is that Jack Nicholson is completely alone with no personality, there are only three clones instead of four, the original isn't around anymore, and HAL (aka GERTY) is inexplicably pathologically devoted to the nearest human, rather than the mission.

There is never any explanation as to why GERTY (admirably voiced by Kevin Spacey, albeit as an Admiral going down with the ship) was programmed to do whatever the human told it to do, which seems like uncharacteristically bad business-sense for a corporation that thought far enough ahead to build an array of remote-activated signal scramblers and stock the moon base with 200 clones to run it for the next 600 years with minimal trouble/expense.

I know somebody thought it would be 'awesome' to have Sam Rockwell play two versions of the same person (the third one never really participates), but they forgot that he is not Michael Keaton, that he is not a good actor. Sam Rockwell is good at playing a dimwitted rogue and that's about it. You know why? Because that is exactly what he is like in real life.



Quite a few popular actors, quite a few fringe actors even--Mr. Rockwell being a prime example--make a good living playing a barely-clothed cinematic version of themselves. This is not to say that they are completely without talent--since it takes a certain amount of talent to not shit yourself on camera, remember all your lines, draw a gaze, etc--but it is worth pointing out that there is a deep divide between a Sam Rockwell and a Daniel Day-Lewis.

There is a reason why range is such a coveted talent among actors--it implies that the person can actually act. This skill is the main reason actors get nominated for awards (most of the time) and also why Sam Rockwell was deservedly not nominated for Moon.


Aside from that, can we get into the issue with cryonic freezing? Who the hell would ever think there is a need to be in cryonic suspension for a mere three-day trip back to Earth?

I mean...the concept of freezing people for space travel exists as part of a theory of how to get the human race to other solar systems that are light-years away, so as not to require generations of space travelers to get shit done--not to go to the fucking moon.

Yet we are supposed to be affected by the fact that the clones in Moon are vaporized in a faux cryogenic chamber, killed just as they think they are going home? Spare me--ignorance is bliss...

"Oh, you're going to Africa? Well, step right into the cryogenic chamber and you'll be there before you know it!"

"Okay!"

Mind you, this might have worked if the clones were proven to be extremely stupid, but come on--they had to be programmed with a certain level of intelligence to operate an entire space station by themselves. This intelligence precludes the notion that they would be so ignorant as to blithely go along with the cryonics ruse simply because a some dude smiling on a video screen tells them it's cool.

On a related note, if the clones have an average life expectancy of three years and there are ample stocks below, why wouldn't the powers-that-be not just let them peter out and then replace them as needed? What need is there for the cryonics ruse in the first place? Based on the evidence presented, it all seems too forced.


One of the more interesting ideas in the movie--and, sadly, one that was never fully explored--is the notion that people in solitary confinement on the moon appear to have an average life expectancy of only three years, which is potentially based on the life-span of the initial, fully-human Sam Rockwell, or on the lifespan of an engineered clone...we never know.

Which means we never get to know exactly what Sam Rockwell #1 is struggling against--is he fighting a man-made life expectancy or a psychological life expectancy? If we don't know, we can't really care that much. Apparently the filmmaker didn't care about this either...in a movie about the psychology of being alone on the moon...huh.

Come to think of it, what exactly were we supposed to care about in this movie? The fate of a dying robot? I could never really climb aboard that notion, since there was nothing about Sam Rockwell that seemed endearing, relatable, or significant. He and the director seemed more concerned with the detail of the experience--the model of the town, the exercise, the programmed video messages, the sleeping--than the emotions of the affair, which is certain death for a movie that depends entirely on emotional thrust. After all, this is not an action movie--it cannot rely on explosions, danger, bravado, and tits--it needs to mine the depths of the human psyche and in that task this movie fails miserably.


If the whole point of the movie is for Sam Rockwell to escape the lunar hellhole and get back to Earth, back to loved ones, why is it that it took Sam Rockwell #2 to make Sam Rockwell #1 even think about getting home early, even think about the fact that maybe his superiors have been lying to him?

Why is it that Sam Rockwell #2 is apparnetly the first of many clones to suggest that he is a clone, only minutes after being 'born?' Why is Sam Rockwell #2 immediately savvy to everything, full of ideas, hopes and dream, etc?

Shouldn't it be the case that Sam Rockwell #2 benefits from the well-earned wisdom of a dying Sam Rockwell #1 and is ultimately able to escape and lead the rewarding life Sam Rockwell #1 desired for most of his brief life? That would seem to make sense...


Minus the whole 'life and death' element, think back to the plot of Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom right now and now imagine if Short Round had to tell Indiana Jones what to do at every step of the way, had to let Indy know what was going on, and then Indiana dies and Short Round escapes.

Huh?

I know, but that is sort-of what happens in this movie. The only thing epic about this movie is its disappointment.


Dessert:

- Does it even take 3 days to get to the moon now? Wouldn't they find a way to do it even faster 200 years from now, or whatever vague futuristic period in which this movie took place?

- Why did Sam need further proof that he is a clone (ie, driving outside the scramble zone to call Earth and discover his 'daughter' is 12 years older than he thought) after he finds an entire secret room full of hundreds of clones that look exactly like him?

- Wouldn't the rescue team see the four sets of footprints in the moon-dirt (that never blows away, since there is no wind, mind you) leading to-and-from/to-and-from the crashed rover and know something was up, and then maybe check the clone inventory, realize something was up, and send a warning to Earth to be on the lookout for a clone in the fuel launch? Just sayin'...

- Note to the Director Dude: What the fuck was with that lame ending audio? You should have chosen one great, emphatic soundbite and gone with it. Let the point soak in, let the audience slowly realize/confirm what you are saying with this movie. As is, it just comes off like a bad sci-fi movie with no purpose, which in this case seems sadly appropriate...

-

Watermelon Deathstar

For your consideration.

_

Is America Ready?

As shocking as it may be for you to hear, my reaction to the news that North Korea executed its finance chief by firing squad recently is one of conditional envy.

Americans disgusted by the gross inefficacy of their supposed representatives in supposedly-democratic Warshington should be so lucky as to have decisions made so swiftly, responsibility bestowed so irrevocably.

Lloyd Blankfein's Money Bin

Imagine if we had executed the smug criminals of Wall Street when they came to the Hill to beg for help in their continued quest to rape and pillage the working class. Imagine the fear their fate would have placed in the hearts and minds of their would-be successors, imagine their good behavior.

Alabama Senator Jeff Sessions

Imagine the sudden tidal wave of morality that would wash the mountains of filth out of the halls of Congress, should a handful of hypocritical philanderers, inveterate racists, and corporate lapdogs face the gallows on FOX News. Imagine respecting a politician for the service he performs for his country.

Jon Stewart for Dictator?

Yes, sir--provided your dictator is benevolent and intelligent, change can be swift, justice attainable, and the world a better place.

Too bad they never are...

_

Pirate's Booty

These are some of the interesting images I encountered while writing blog entries this past week or two. They were too cool not to share, yet I couldn't find much of a use for them at the moment.

Enjoy!








_

21st Century Jesus

_

Breaker: Hollywood Has Been Turned Upside-Down

How do I know? What is the evidence?

Look no further:

Guaranteed blockbuster The Marriage Ref is failing.

WHAT?!!

I know. But it is. And it needs our help.


So, America, if you are listening, Jerry Seinfeld (yeah--the King-Midas maestro behind that killer bee movie!) really needs you right now.

Luckily for you, helping him out has never been easier. Just follow these easy steps:

1. Become a Nielsen family.

2. Have your TV tuned in to NBC for this show--every week--while you take a nice hot bath or nap in the other room. Or just have your DVR record it and never even watch it because they'll never know or care, right? Right.

While you're at it, America, please also make sure to watch Jay Leno--he needs our support now more than ever. Thank you.


In other news, Warren Buffet lost $10,000 today. Please donate here to help him get back on his feet.

_

Oh, How I Yearn for a Caveman Parliament...

I see they have the same problem across the polluted pond, as one anonymous--read: cowardly--conservative politician in the British government recently objected to an anti-poverty bill and it is now dead.

Say wha?

Well, I guess I shouldn't be that surprised, since we have discovered this year that one little prick in Congress can ostensibly shut down the entire legislative process (I'm looking at you, Jim Bunning. And you, too, Joe Lieberman. And you, too...just about every Republican Senator...).

Why is it that one person elected by the people of Kentucky or Connecticut or Leeds--or any region, for that matter--has such power over the fate of an entire nation?

It doesn't seem that far-fetched to say that Jim Bunning is more powerful than President Obama right now and what fucking sense does that make, considering the number of supporters each had in the last election?


I guess parliamentary procedure was written in stone long before it became so easy to be a lazy, sniveling, rich asshole owned by corporations and nobody ever expected it would come to this?

Could be.

Could be we're in need of some major reform--or widespread rebellion. I guess it's up to those in charge these days to choose their fate and something tells me they won't choose wisely.

Or, at the very least, one of them won't. And one person's opinion is all that matters in a democracy, right?

We're fucked.

_

Fateful Urination

I think there are more pictures of cats on the internet than naked women.
Anybody want to count for me?

Once upon a time, back when I was living with my friend Pierre, I was chasing a girl named Cat.

Pierre and I were supposed to meet up with Cat and her friend Robin (yes, they are a superhero team) at a Sigur Ros show at the Riviera Theater in Chicago, not long after I met Cat while working on a McDonald's Diner commercial shoot in the southern tip of Indiana (aka Fattown, where all the fast-food companies test-market new products).

I got back from work later than expected that evening, Pierre and I pounded some drinks, and we took off for the show. We were running late, had trouble finding parking, quickly took some puffs from Pierre's trusty inhaler, and speed-walked toward the theater.

After only a few blocks, Pierre and I both had to piss so badly that we didn't feel we could make it the remaining two blocks, much less wait in any line that might have formed at the theater. We noticed a dark alleyway nearby and did our business.


Well, it wasn't exactly an alley, more like a dead-end sort-of alley in between a couple buildings that formed a U-shape. That's an important detail because, as soon as I zipped up, a car came barreling into this 'alley' and trapped us, temporarily blinding us with its headlights.

It was the cops.

'Shit,' I thought. 'Am I gonna get a ticket for public urination? Nah...they don't really do that...'

The two cops leaped out of the car as I, for some reason, tried to casually squeeze past the passenger door as it opened, as if they were there for somebody else.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"We're late for a show..."
"Not so fast. What are you guys doing back here?"
"Pissing."
"You know I could give you a ticket for that."

I just looked at him, as if to say, 'I bet you won't.' His partner spoke up.

"Alright, hands on the hood."

Pierre and I put our hands on the hood of the idling cruiser and I got really freaked out because Pierre had a bag of weed and a one-hitter on him.


The driver shined a flashlight on us as his partner frisked me and found nothing. He searched Pierre and found...nothing.

Huh?

As if reading my mind, the cops shared a confused look.

"Alright, stay right there. I'm gonna run your IDs."

He ran them and nothing came up. Layers of confusion.

"You know this alley is the number one spot in the city for dealing heroin."
"No, I didn't..."
"Well, now you do."
"You're free to go, but use a toilet next time or we'll write you up."
"Okay."

The disappointed cops climbed back inside their car and peeled away. Our hearts dropped back into place and we hauled-ass around the corner and down the street.

"Shit, that was scary."
"Yeah."
"I thought you had the weed on you that whole time. Where'd you put it?"
"In your glovebox."
"Damn, man--thank God. I was freakin' out."
"I don't think I'm high anymore."
"I sure am. I can't believe I tried to walk away from them..."

We laughed and headed into the theater, where the show had not only started, but Sigur Ros were already onstage.

The crowd was exactly what you would imagine--indie hipsters in their 20s and 30s--but instead of milling about and chugging beers, they were staring unblinkingly into the void, hands at their sides, entranced by the lead singer's lyrical made-up language, Hopelandic.


As we made our way through the sardine-packed, standing-room-only crowd and I searched the dark room for Cat--a girl I had only seen in person a few times before--I felt like an intruder at a funeral for the King of Sweden or something.

The annoyed glares from audience members may have been withering, and the search may have taken way longer than it should have, but at least we had a killer story to help break the ice with a coupla foxes when we finally found them.

The night certainly could have turned out far worse...

_

Et tu, Brute?

How do you know when a straw is your last?

Just when I thought all the straws were long gone, this uber-depressing news comes via Huffington Post:

A central figure behind the Center for Disease Control's (CDC) claims disputing the link between vaccines and autism and other neurological disorders has disappeared after officials discovered massive fraud involving the theft of millions in taxpayer dollars. Danish police are investigating Dr. Poul Thorsen, who has vanished along with almost $2 million that he had supposedly spent on research.
Thorsen was a leading member of a Danish research group that wrote several key studies supporting CDC's claims that the MMR vaccine and mercury-laden vaccines were safe for children.

His study has long been criticized as fraudulent since it failed to disclose that the increase was an artifact of new mandates requiring, for the first time, that autism cases be reported on the national registry.

Mainstream media, particularly the New York Times, has relied on this study as the basis for its public assurances that it is safe to inject young children with mercury -- a potent neurotoxin -- at concentrations hundreds of times over the U.S. safety limits.
The discovery of Thorsen's fraud came as the result of an investigation by Aarhus University and CDC which discovered that Thorsen had falsified documents and, in violation of university rules, was accepting salaries from both the Danish university and Emory University in Atlanta -- near CDC headquarters -- where he led research efforts to defend the role of vaccines in causing autism and other brain disorders. Thorsen's center has received $14.6 million from CDC since 2002.

Leading independent scientists have accused CDC of concealing the clear link between the dramatic increases in mercury-laced child vaccinations beginning in 1989 and the epidemic of autism, neurological disorders and other illnesses affecting every generation of American children since. Questions about Thorsens's scientific integrity may finally force CDC to rethink the vaccine protocols since most of the other key pro vaccine studies cited by CDC rely on the findings of Thorsen's research group.

You know, when you can't even count on doctors and scientists funded by the CDC to be honest about their research into the effects of drugs on children, I think you need to doubt just about everybody out there, no matter what they do.

So, the next time your doctor says you'll feel much better with a new horse-pill down your gullet once a day, the next time your banker says you should take advantage of a great new opportunity, the next time your mechanic says you need a new thingermajigger, tackle him to the ground, stick the tip of a knife into his throat, and ask him again, when his life depends on it.

It sucks that things have come to this, but these days, you need to be sure.


By the way, since I haven't had a chance to mention it before, I had the great fortune of hearing Robert Kennedy, Jr. give a speech once, and it was not only eye-opening, but downright inspiring. I thought to myself that, if it weren't for the speech impediment and the Conservative bent of the deluded common folk, he would be president right now, could be president right now.

He was speaking at the 2008 Border Governors Conference in Universal City, CA, and damn if he didn't--off the top of his head--spend fifteen passionate minutes telling the whole auditorium, in great-yet-completely-accessible detail, how to greenly solve the energy crisis--at a profit--in a mere ten-year span.

It involves updating the nation's admittedly archaic energy grid--at great initial expense, but easily recouped over time--to allow for energy to be soaked up (via solar panels, wind turbines, etc) where fewer people use energy (deserts, the Great Plains, etc) and sent back into the grid to supply those areas where more energy is used but less is generated, which is something that is impossible right now.

It is a simple solution to our problems that the oil companies--and those invested-in/owned-by them--don't like. Meanwhile, Israel--among other small nations--are in the process of converting their energy grid to do this (RFKJ's company is helping them do it) because it makes sense, damnit.

Did the U.S. and Mexican Governors at the conference listen?

Well, let's put it this way--despite the fact that it was a conference focused mainly on better stewardship of the environment (per The Governator), most of the governors weren't even pretending to listen and the Governor of Texas walked out after two minutes.

Maybe RFKJ should have chased him down, tackled him, put a knife to his throat, and...

_

Gotta Re-Post This...

Forehead Tittaes w/ Marion Cotillard from Marion Cotillard

_

Fat Friday: Vol.4

Beware that bottomless pasta bowl at Olive Garden this weekend, America--it will catch up with you!

_

Prepare to Gouge Your Own Eyes Out

Magda from There's Something About Mary is real!

As if I needed another reason to avoid Florida...

_

God Goes Fishing for Hos

...and scores a real beaut!

_

Lifetime Bullshit Artist Has a Lot to Say About Bullshit, Suddenly

It being a Wednesday evening, as I lapped my customary spot of cream from my St. Nicholas saucer and caught up on my religious propaganda, I couldn't help but notice that the Vatican's chief exorcist has declared, in no uncertain terms, that the Devil is about--in the Vatican hallways, no less!

Frightened nearly to death, probably by the Devil himself, I quickly regained my wits and closed all my windows, bolted my front door, lit a few pumpkin-scented candles, crawled under my desk, and smoked a joint the size of your leg.

As my beautiful bloodshot eyes crossed back and forth, and the Lord protected me from within, I read these horrible words over and over, hoping with every fiber of my being that they were false:

Sex abuse scandals in the Roman Catholic Church are proof that that "the Devil is at work inside the Vatican", according to the Holy See's chief exorcist.

Father Gabriele Amorth, 85, who has been the Vatican's chief exorcist for 25 years and says he has dealt with 70,000 cases of demonic possession, said that the consequences of satanic infiltration included power struggles at the Vatican as well as "cardinals who do not believe in Jesus, and bishops who are linked to the Demon".

He claimed that another example of satanic behaviour was the Vatican "cover-up" over the deaths in 1998 of Alois Estermann, the then commander of the Swiss Guard, his wife and Corporal Cedric Tornay, a Swiss Guard, who were all found shot dead. "They covered up everything immediately," he said. "Here one sees the rot".

Father Amorth told La Repubblica that the devil was "pure spirit, invisible. But he manifests himself with blasphemies and afflictions in the person he possesses. He can remain hidden, or speak in different languages, transform himself or appear to be agreeable. At times he makes fun of me."

He said it sometimes took six or seven of his assistants to to hold down a possessed person. Those possessed often yelled and screamed and spat out nails or pieces of glass, which he kept in a bag. "Anything can come out of their mouths – finger-length pieces of iron, but also rose petals."

(courtesy TimesOnline)

Oh, Mylanta! Well, if ole Gabe had a Ziploc bag full of rocks and glass and little pieces of metal, then it must be true that the Devil exists and spat them out of people's mouths behind closed doors.

Right? Why would a priest ever lie?

More to the point, however, is that this guy is still working for the Vatican, still working...for the Devil?


Gabey-baby seems to be so close to a fantastic epiphany here--so close!--yet seemingly fearful of that last delirious step toward heaven on Earth.

He must be a gambler playing the odds, figuring he will be dead shortly (he's 85 for Christ's fucking sake), hoping he was right all this time, that his life wasn't an utter catastrophe, that he'll be able to confidently tell St. Peter he wasn't part of this whole "Catholic clergy sinning like the Devil and loving it" thing that's been going on, like, forever, and that he even deplored it on the record (maybe he'll have a clipping stuffed under his tongue for proof? And a Snickers bar in his ass for St. Peter?). Maybe he'll still be able to get into heaven.

If he's wrong, well, he'll soon be worm-food either way, so who cares. Right?

I'm totally okay with that, I guess, as I firmly believe the pleasures of an 85 year-old Catholic priest are best left to the imagination.


My main concern, as a red-blooded, freedom-loving American, is how this news will affect the stock market. Oh, wait--despite the fact that billions of souls are at stake here, it won't affect it at all.

Do you know what that proves? Religion is irrelevant.

_

Finally, There Is Justice

Courtesy Huffington Post:

NEW YORK — The president of Brooklyn has declared Beyonce an official Brooklynite.

Borough President Marty Markowitz said Beyonce is a Brooklynite by marriage and by moxie. Beyonce's husband, Jay-Z, is from Brooklyn.

The superstar visited the New York City borough Friday for the opening of the Beyonce Cosmetology Center at a residential substance abuse treatment center.

The Phoenix House offers programs for residents in carpentry, building maintenance, computer technology and culinary arts.

Beyonce said she thought it also should have more programs geared toward women. She said her mother's Houston salon helped so many people feel good about themselves and better their lives.

Beyonce first spent time at Phoenix House when preparing for the role of Etta James in the 2008 film, "Cadillac Records."

I wonder what the President of Brooklyn is doing right now. Is he getting up before the sun, practicing his speech for a long-overdue lunchtime banquet honoring the Beastie Boys as "Official Cool Dudes" as he shaves?

Probably.

_

My Second-Favorite Valentine's Day

As I drowned myself in rum and coconut milk in my favorite South Pacific watering hole the afternoon before last, waiting for something to happen, occasionally stealing glances at an emaciated Pauly Shore as he danced laconically in an unlit, dung-encrusted cage in the corner, next to the photo booth, my long-lost friend Pierre--now a drug runner for a band of Filipino pirates and a snazzy dresser for sure, with a god-given gift for accessorizing--sidled up alongside me at the bar, out of nowhere, and we got to talking.

At one point during our grand revelry, Pierre reminded me of an interesting incident from our past that had somehow wholly escaped my brain. He was a bit foggy on the details, as was I, but I had to have a go at it anyway, so please excuse any potential inaccuracies, people of Earth.

Here goes, from the beginning:

February 14, 2002. Chicago.

I was living in the then-sketchy Uptown neighborhood with a good friend from college, Pierre. We lived steps from Montrose Harbor, in a lake-view apartment. Pierre had his car broken into at least four times, once on consecutive nights. I worked as a freelance production assistant in the local film industry. Pierre worked as an exotic dancer. We were young, handsome, and fearless. We had a great time.

We were both single and without plans for Valentine's Day (oh, no!), so another friend of mine from college--Alice--invited us over to her apartment in nearby Wrigleyville for a party.

Now, Alice is very attractive and a very good friend of mine, but she is definitely on the straighter side of the coin--she grew up in Wheaton, went to church every Sunday during college, etc. I don't recall her having a drink until her junior or senior year, despite all her friends being your typical college bingers, and I don't think I ever saw her drunk.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it definitely has an impact on whether or not I want to go to a party, seeing as I'm the sort of guy who likes to tear it up and I prefer the company of others who feel the same way.

This being the case, Pierre and I were not exactly in a hurry to get to Alice's apartment, didn't want to be the first ones to get there and get stuck talking to the kind of people who show up exactly when a party starts, find ourselves under a microscope, etc.

You ken the score.

Instead, we hit up a cool little diner near her place around 8pm--the official start time of the party--and devoured gigantic cheeseburgers, killed some time, discussed strategy, etc.

After dinner, we smoked some weed in the car outside her place and, now that we had our heads on crooked, prepared to casually slip into the dance party, scare up a drink, and see what was what.

When Alice let us in, I immediately realized she was wasted. Her face was beet-red and her movements were sudden and excessively forceful. She was thrilled to see us and gave me a big hug.

But something was wrong--I couldn't hear any music and all the lights were on.

What the...I noticed three girls sitting around the dining room table drinking wine and glaring at Pierre and I. There were six unsullied place settings.

Gulp.

It turns out it was a dinner party and everybody had been waiting for us for over an hour, hadn't started eating yet. Even though Alice didn't seem to mind, the other guests were supremely irritated. I searched my mind and could find no recollection of dinner being involved in this affair, but that hardly mattered now.

Adding insult to injury, the only other guests were Claire the Bear, Claire the Scare, a kinda-boring-but-kinda-sexy girl named Maria, and us. I had struck out with Maria once already and Claire the Scare and I, to put it nicely, had a rocky opinion of each other. To make matters worse, Pierre had a 'thing' with Claire the Bear not too long ago--a thing which didn't end so well.

How's that for a hit ratio? This was going to be ugly.

Alice announced to the room that she was drunk, that she had been chugging wine as she cooked, and that she hoped the food wasn't too burnt, too cold, etc. The other girls all shared intense looks as Alice brought the food out from the kitchen and slammed the dishes onto the table, one by one.

She offered Pierre some food--gentlemen first, I guess--and it became immediately apparent that he had disengaged his brain at some point:

"No thanks--I'm not hungry. We just ate a huge dinner...we didn't realize it was a dinner party..."

Every single girl at the table--not big fans of us to begin with--glared at us as if Pierre had just called them the latest in a long line of fat, diseased whores with no fashion sense and I smiled sheepishly, wishing Pierre had kept his fucking mouth shut and just picked at his dinner like a five year-old boy confronting a meatloaf, as I had planned.

As if I thought it would somehow help our situation, I took a generous helping of food and began effortfully piling it on top of my burger and fries, feeling my belly distend like the fat guy in The Meaning of Life (watch the whole thing), hoping I wouldn't explode in a hurricane of vomit.

Alice sat down with a crash, declared that she wasn't even hungry, downed some more wine, and, thankfully--since this was the toughest audience I'd ever encountered--started talking.

It wasn't quite a toast, but more of a 'casual monologue.' The gist of it was that it was Valentine's Day and she was, very suddenly, alone. She revealed that the older, married(?) man she had been secretly seeing at work recently broke things off, on account of his being really fucked-up about his best friend's recent death.

His best friend was Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal journalist who was beheaded in Pakistan a mere 13 days before this dinner.

The room was as silent as a cemetery, yet throbbing with discomfort. Pierre and I swallowed this fascinating fact with great difficulty, completely unsure how to respond, suddenly hyperaware of every molecule in our body.

How does one react to such an admission?

Apparently by gulping down wine, as that is what everybody at the table did--even the girls, who no doubt already knew the score since they were all thick as thieves.

I tried to change the subject:

"Hey, whatever happened to that guy you were dating before, the long-distance guy who lived in Houston?"

"Well, it's funny you mention that. It turned out he was dating somebody else the whole time. He was dating her before I even met him."

Gulp.

"The worst part is, I even met her once, when I was visiting him for a football game in Houston. I had no idea. Neither did she. But she found out about it and called me up."

Double gulp.

"I mean...and to think I wanted to marry him..."

The heart breaks for this poor girl. Again, how does one react to such news?

Pierre and I couldn't hazard a guess, and left not long after this admission, a bit sad, a bit rattled, lucky to be alive.

I still can't decide whether it was a good or bad thing that we were stoned during the entire debacle, but I certainly would not like to go back in time and repeat the evening with a clear mind, so I guess it's irrelevant.

Anyway, how's that for an awkward evening?

_

Suspicion Confirmed

As I feared not two weeks ago, it seems that masturbation deaths are, indeed, on the rise.

This just in from across the pond (my dial-up connection is really slow):

BBC presenter Kristian Digby was found dead in his apartment On Monday morning. Cause of death is still "inconclusive," however, a belt and bag were taken away by forensics, and police sources told the Daily Mail that they believe Digby died during "a solo sex game which went tragically wrong." Police say that there are no suggestions of suicide.

Digby was an openly gay television presenter and director most famous for his work on British reality television series To Buy Or Not To Buy.

(courtesy Huffington Post)

Hutchence, Carradine, Digby...who's next? Russell Crowe? Robert Duvall?

Place your bets here, ladies and gentlemen, although I must stress that no money will be changing hands, as I don't need the Nevada Gaming Commission on my ass again.

_

Now THIS Is a Movement I Can Get Behind!

(photo courtesy Goodtime Charlie archives)

Students belonging to the group Atheist Agenda are offering porn in exchange for Bibles at the Student Center at the University of Texas-San Antonio, of all places. This has been going on since 2005, but I must have forgotten about it.

Did you, too? If so, more here.

Now, I don't have much use for porn, since my available sexual partners are so numerous they have splintered into factions, but if you ask me, that's a pretty fair trade. Hell, it might even get me to start collecting those stupid Bibles people plant in motel rooms, trying to scoop you up and drop you right into the gnashing teeth of the Lord when you're at your weakest, about to pay for porn in a depressing and filthy room somewhere...

Speaking of porn...again...still...it appears there was a study of pay-porn sites that shows red states are much bigger fans of the sinful stuff than their bluer counterparts. Surprised?

Also, in sexual news today, another Republican hatemonger was busted with a double whammy--getting a DUI while taking a man home from a gay club for sex. And let's keep in mind that link is from FoxNews...

_

They Can't All Be Rocky...

Ladies and gentlemen of the ether, I introduce you to the one, the only--Sage Stallone.

Yes, his father is Sylvester. Yes, his mother is Jon Lovitz. Yes, his father got him into the business.

Curious to know more?

His nickname is Stoney. His middle name is Moonblood. He is friends with Vincent Gallo and Quentin Tarantino. He was born in 1976, seven months before the premiere of Rocky turned his father into an international superstar. He was married to a woman once, until it was annulled less than a year later. He is obsessed with exploitation films.

I feel like I'm writing his match.com profile here!

Ladies? Any takers?

[Legal notice: I get ten percent of both your living allowance and divorce settlement, should you one day take that plunge--GTC]

_

Can't a Soldier Get a Break Over Here?

According to Huffington Post:

The Uniform Code of Military Justice prohibits sodomy and oral sex, even among consenting adults and married couples.

Say, what? Do you know how many soldiers should get their asses arrested right now?

Would there even be an army left?

Talk about some pointless bullshit--is spitting also against the rules?

_

The Asshole Parade Continues

The funniest (scariest?) thing about all these leaked internal memos/talking points (not to mention health care bills and AmEx statements) the Republican Party has had to scramble to explain lately is not that they exist--we realists figure this shit happens every day--but that they keep getting caught.

Case in point:

The entire powerpoint slideshow delivered on Feb.18 by the RNC Finance Director at a luxurious fundraising retreat in Boca Grande, Florida ($2500/head), is available here, thanks to Politico and the guy who sent it to the right people after he found it laying around the hotel afterward.

Wait a minute--somebody claims to have found it laying around? It's probably bullshit, right?

Nope--the RNC stupidly acknowledged its accuracy, while trying simultaneously to distance themselves from it:

"The document was used for a fundraising presentation Chairman Steele did not attend, nor had he seen the document," RNC Communications Director Doug Heye said in an email. "Fundraising documents are often controversial. Obviously, the Chairman disagrees with the language and finds the use of such imagery to be unacceptable. It will not be used by the Republican National Committee--in any capacity--in the future," Heye said.

(courtesy Politico.com)

I'll tell you what's obvious, Mr. Heye--not only does the Republican National Committee not give a shit about its own supporters, or the actual governing of the country, but they have trouble keeping track of incredibly important documents.

As word of the gross irresponsibility and slander reached the Republican base, unemployed overweight white people across the middle of the country inexplicably reached for their checkbooks and the Dark Side rolled on, ever more confident in its divine inability to derail itself...

*****

Slightly-Related Sidenote: Does the U.S. really need an Ambassador to Luxembourg? It's a tiny city-state full of nothing but banks, forests, and an old castle. I'm sure the Ambassador to Belgium or France can handle whatever is going on over there.

_

Oh, My Garsh--They're Drinkin' at the Olympics!

Confidential:
The legendary, quadrennial Olympic Games has a dark side and it is really, really dark.

As countless reporters/teetotalers have noted recently, the Winter Olympics were a veritable orgy of booze and sex and endorphins.

Viz:

- 100,000 condoms were distributed in the Olympic Village, for 7,000 athletes and trainers/coaches.

- A US bronze medalist was sent home for getting photographed 'disrespecting' a medal by sticking it in a girl's mouth as if it was his dick, which is, most likely, the exact same punishment he would have received if it actually was his dick, which is funny to think about. Should have!

- The IOC is investigating the fact that the Canadian women's hockey team drank beer/champagne and smoked cigars on the ice after their victory over the only other team in the competition, let's be honest.

As if that wasn't enough to make you laugh, check this out:

Two minutes. That's all it took for an intoxicated Canadian to start badgering me. On Friday evening, I was on my way to Vancouver's Waterfront Station to catch a train to Robson Square, the downtown area filled with bars, restaurants and nightclubs that was sure to get a little wild if Canada beat Slovakia in the men's hockey semifinals. A young man wearing a red hockey jersey and red paint on both cheeks staggered over to me as I walked toward the station. "Hey, how do you f______ get downtown?" he asked slowly, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I wriggled free and pointed toward the proper train. "F___ yeah, I'm coming with you," he said. Terrific. As I walked, and he stumbled, into the station, he yelled "Woooooo!" at disturbed passersby. We got on the train, and he turned his glazed eyes toward me and said he was meeting friends. "Want to come with me?" he asked. Um, no thanks.

The city of Vancouver and the ski village of Whistler are terrific hosts for these Olympic Games. The air is clean, the public transit is scarily efficient, and the harbors, with snowcapped mountains for a backdrop, are picturesque. Whistler, two hours to the north and home to the skiing, sliding and Nordic events, is a winter wonderland. But let's face it: if public intoxication were an Olympic sport, Vancouver and Whistler would own the podium.

I'm not saying this because of the photographs of a few Canadian female hockey players sipping champagne (and chugging Molson) on the ice after winning the gold medal. Those images, however, seem to encapsulate the spirit of the host country. Throughout the Olympics, drunken revelers have overrun the streets of Vancouver. Local hospitals are reporting spikes in emergency-room visits for alcohol-related sicknesses and injuries; most of the intoxicated patients are males between the ages of 15 and 24. In Whistler, the partyers have turned what should be a cozy village into rows of frat houses in need of soundproofing.

Yes, the mood is festive. And for the most part, law and order is being maintained. In Whistler, police have said arrests are lower than what they would typically be during New Year's Eve or, for that matter, your average rambunctious summer weekend. Still, while walking through downtown Vancouver after a long day's work, you can't help but think, These must be the drunkest Olympics ever.

Believe me, I'm no prude. But all the yelling and screaming and woo-wooing becomes grating. These are the fourth Olympics I've covered, and Vancouver drinks Athens, Torino and Beijing under the table. I asked a few journalists who have covered more Games than I have to rate Vancouver on the intoxication scale. Vahe Gregorian of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, who has covered eight Olympics, dating back to Atlanta in 1996, agreed with my chart-topping assessment. In reference to downtown Vancouver's main strip of nightclubs, he said, "Granville Street itself is unlike anything I've seen at an Olympics." And he noted that all the drinking has led to a lot of public urinating. "I've personally witnessed about 8 to 10 guys whizzing at once along a fence half a block off the main street," he said. "It's like the infield at the Kentucky Derby."

Bonnie D. Ford, who is covering the Games for ESPN.com, has been to every Winter Olympics since 1998 in Nagano, Japan. "There's no second place," she said when asked where Vancouver ranks on the booze barometer. (In fairness, you can pretty much strike from the debate Salt Lake City, the abstemious host of the 2002 Olympics.) Ford's hotel is near Granville Street, close enough for her to hear the "Can-a-da, Can-a-da" shouts at 3 a.m. "It's been a two-week tailgate," she said. "I've covered a lot of college football, and this is like the Dante's Inferno version of tailgating."

(courtesy Time.com)

The obvious question on every sane person's lips is...so? I know--you are confused. Why is this news, you ask yourselves.

Well, for those out there in the ether that talk to themselves every night before they go to sleep at 9pm, believe in magical beings, and don't understand what the word 'celebration' means, please read on, as I have provided some Helpful Information TM for you.


Helpful Information TM:

Fact--People who ski and snowboard generally drink more than people who run track and field. I know--I've seen it firsthand and these guys are 5'10' 210lbs for more than one good reason (they drink, gravity helps you get downhill faster). That being said, fans of skiing and snowboarding also drink more than fans of long-jump...not sure why, but that is the case. Scientists have proven it.

Fact--Vancouver has more people than Salt Lake City and Torino combined.

Fact--People in Vancouver are more into partying than people in Salt Lake City, Torino, Atlanta, Athens, and Beijing. Love it or hate it, it's indelibly part of the laid-back, outdoor-enthusiast culture.

Fact--The games aren't often in North America, so our binge drinkers are more prominent in these games. Mostly that is the fault of the puritanical United States--if the age limit wasn't 21 and parents weren't so black-or-white on the alcohol issue, our citizens would learn from an early age to be more responsible. Look at Europe! [But not Britain--something in the blood over there... -Ed.] Similarly, marijuana is semi-legal in Holland and the only people who have a problem with it are the tourists who come in from elsewhere and get fucked-up (mostly the Brits); your average Dutch person doesn't even smoke weed--they just think people should be able to, although they are changing their minds on the issue thanks to the ridiculously excessive Brits.

Fact--There is nothing wrong with chugging a beer and drinking champagne after you just won a gold medal. If the media thinks it sets a bad example, they can turn the cameras off--I'm sure there's always some figure skating going on somewhere...

Fact--There is no way there was more drunkenness in Vancouver than there was in Sydney in 2000, which I notice wasn't discussed at all in that Time.com article. Australia is a country, after all, that measures distances in the Northern Territory not in kilometers, as you might expect, but in the number of cans of beer you would consume if you chugged one right after the other, with no breaks, as you drive from Point A to Point B.

Example: "How far to the next roadhouse?" "Ahhh...case and a half."

Coincidentally, they also have the highest rate of alcoholism in the world. I was in Australia during the end of the games in 2000 and met many Canadians (oddly enough) who moved down there to party for an entire year; there were also many Dutch, German, English who did the same. Needless to say, even months after the games had ended, there were tons of people from all over the world getting fucked up every night all over the city and most of these people were only there because of the Olympics (and the convenient fact that Commonwealth/EU residents could stay for up to 1 year, while Yanks were only allowed 3 months). Perhaps the fact that Sydney is TWICE THE SIZE of sprawling Los Angeles helped keep the teetotaler journalists out of the thickness of it all?

Reactions:

- "Oh. My. God."

- "WHY ARE ALL THESE YOUNG, SEXY PEOPLE DRINKING AND FUCKING!!! I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND IT!!! OR MAYBE I JUST CAN'T TOLERATE IT BECAUSE I'M UGLY AND BORING?"

- [Yawn]

Developing...

_

Boot-strapper Breck Eisner Finds a Way

In today's economic climate, independent artists have generally gone the way of the dodo and, due to the modest and measured release slate, even companymen have dwindled in number.

Despite all this, the virile Breck Eisner has found a way to flourish. He's got a movie out right now and potential tentpole Flash Gordon in the works at Sony, on the slate for 2012.

On his experience as the director of the universally-loathed (except by this someday serial killer) Sahara:

I wanted to ask you about Sahara. Looking back now, the dust having settled, what have you learned about the perils of launching a franchise, and working from pre-existing material?
For me the biggest lesson in the perils of making any movie, whether it’s a franchise or costs a dollar or a $100 million — you got to have a solid script going into production. It’s crucial. That’s your blueprint. You can make a bad script an OK movie if you work really hard, but it’s really easy to make a great script an OK movie. Which is not the goal any of us want. But what happened in Sahara is that we had an author who by contract had absolute script approval, and who wouldn’t approve any script. And they had a date they had to shoot by before they lost the rights. And those two do not mix well. And so on production we were having to make it up as we went. We didn’t have a clear path. We were only allowed to make script changes once we started photography, and at that point it’s just too late. So the perils of that is that you have to be sure you have a good script no matter what it is you’re making. That was the biggest lesson I learned from Sahara. And it’s a lesson they seem to forget over and over again in these big movies. They figure out a release date, they figure out the rights, and sometimes a script doesn’t come together but the commitments have already been made. And that’s a dangerous situation.

(courtesy movieline)

He is the son of Michael Eisner, former head of Disney/ABC for 21 years, who is worth over $800 million, and he didn't know he needed a good script when you start shooting a movie? He had to learn that lesson while on the payroll of an enormous corporation, as captain of a coulda-been blockbuster?

Huh. I wonder what the future has in store for the ruggedly handsome young Eisner, one of the finest artistic minds in the vanguard of his generation...

Only the fates know for sure, but I'll bet whatever it is, it's of a rosy hue.

_