Wow

How did a random fly girl suddenly rocket to stardom?
Read this for one fascinating hypothesis.

This Just In--Clinton Advisor an Asshole!

Shock of shocks! The top advisor to Hillary Clinton has just been revealed to the 0.5% of Americans who read the newspaper as an asshole with no loyalty or common decency, but plenty of greed.

"Mark Penn, the pollster who has advised Bill and Hillary Clinton since 1996, stepped down under pressure on Sunday as the chief political strategist for Mrs. Clinton’s struggling presidential campaign after his private business arrangements again clashed with her campaign positions."

What business arrangements? Is his toy company making a mint selling plush Barack Obama toys?

"Mr. Penn, who was widely disliked by Mrs. Clinton’s fiercest loyalists and had bitterly feuded with many of them, sealed his fate last week by meeting with officials from Colombia, which hired him to help secure passage of a bilateral trade treaty with the United States that Mrs. Clinton, a senator from New York, opposes."

Oh. That makes sense. But what were the earlier offenses? Are they similarly obscure? No, they are not:

"Mr. Penn met with the Colombians in his role as chief executive of Burson-Marsteller, a global public relations firm. He has refused to sever his ties to the company, which also represented Countrywide Financial, the nation’s largest mortgage lender, and through a subsidiary represented Blackwater Worldwide, the military contractor blamed for numerous civilian deaths in Iraq."
(emphasis mine; source--New York Times)

Also shocking is the fact that Mr. Penn is an overweight, unattractive, white male with a combover. Come on, guys! Stop giving white men such a bad reputation!

(For the full text of the article quoted above, please click on this link)

Finally!

Daytime Emmys add court category!

"For a long time, people didn't really know what to do with courtshows," says Michael Rourke, who exec produces "Judge David Young" and "Judge Maria Lopez" for Sony Pictures TV. "It wasn't really a talkshow or a reality show or a soap opera," he says. "It had elements of all of those things. The genre was an orphan. It's great they're acknowledging it as its own category."

I know...poor things. Here they were selflessly trying to help people resolve their disputes without emptying their wallets, giving freely of their bountiful legal knowledge, 'accidentally' creating 'riveting' television...and unfairly not receiving any kind of meaningless award for it.

So, here's to you Judge Judy--finally getting your due, finally tasting the just desserts your forebears struggled for all those decades (Judge Wapner--you will not be forgotten!).

I mean, shit...what's next?

"Supreme Court judge nominated for Oscar!"

"McCain's Stolen Election Trial nominated for Best Picture!"

Jimmy Kimmel Shits Out #1000!

Thursday night is a very special night, folks. Hero for the everyman, Jimmy Kimmel, will broadcast his 1000th piece-of-shit episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live from the historic Freemason's Temple in Hollywood!

I am proud to say that I have not seen one single episode during the five-year run. Incidentally, this broadcast will make Jimmy Kimmel Live (which is not live, by the way, but taped an hour before airing) the longest-running late-night talk show on ABC since The Dick Cavett Show in the '70s. I would venture this is indicative of the poor taste of ABC creative executives that over a thirty-year period, they have found no suitable competition to Carson, Letterman, Leno, etc. The same poor taste that led them to choose to give Jimmy Kimmel his own talk show.

En garde!

How do you look yourself in the mirror when you know the thing you are most famous for is your girlfriend claiming to have had sex with Matt Damon? And that the thing you are second-most-famous for is that YOU claimed to have had sex with Ben Affleck? Obviously, I know they are both jokes--I'm not an idiot--but still...that has to set some sort of record for 'depressing statistics among television personalities.'

Jimmy Kimmel, please fade into obscurity in the near future. If you do, I'll give you a donut!

The Town that Bruce Bought

A little-known story, as related to me by an ex-girlfriend who grew up in Idaho:

Years ago, Bruce Willis and Demi Moore moved to Hailey, Idaho, to raise their daughter, Rumer, away from the perils of Los Angeles. Aside from their palatial estate outside of town, Bruce gradually bought up most of the main street and opened a restaurant that intentionally operated at a loss, underselling the competition in order to become popular.

As a result of being unable to compete with a rival establishment that does not need to make money to stay in business, every other restaurant in town soon went out of business.

And then Bruce closed his restaurant on a whim one day.

And so Hailey became a town without a restaurant.


(for a more in-depth account I found online, click here)

More Troubling Clooney News

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - George Clooney has quietly withdrawn from the Writers Guild of America after the union rejected his request for a writing credit on his new film Leatherheads, Daily Variety reported in its Friday edition.
(link to entire article)

Which begs the question, why would George Clooney want to take credit for writing Leatherheads?

As the director and star of the film, as well as all-around multi-millionaire, Clooney's not some little schmo who needs the bump in pay, obviously, so...it must be about respect?

And yet, Leatherheads is a screenplay most self-respecting writers would petition to take their names off (yes, this happens), so that doesn't make sense either.

Perhaps it has something to do with ego? Perhaps Clooney wants to be known throughout the land as a fearsome quadruple-threat? Writer-Director-Star-Executive Producer?

I bet when some 'asshole' interviewer asks him why he was so adamant about receiving credit for his writing on this stinker, Clooney will no doubt smile bashfully, look away, look back, and invoke maritime lore by making some witty, rehearsed remark about how 'a captain must go down with his ship.'

The most revolting sentence in this Reuters release is this:

"Despite mixed reviews, it is expected to be the top draw at the weekend box office."

I don't recall seeing any good reviews of this movie...so...where does the 'mixed' come into play? Is it a mixture of really bad and kind-of bad? Are we splitting hairs here?

"Clooney, who received an Oscar nomination two years ago for co-writing Good Night, and Good Luck, told Daily Variety that he felt he had written all but two of the scenes for Leatherheads. His request for credit was voted down 2-1 at an arbitration hearing.

'When your own union doesn't back what you've done, the only honorable thing to do is not participate,' the paper quoted Clooney as saying."

Hmmm...I would counter that 'the only honorable thing to do' would be to humbly accept the informed decision of your union, after it examined the evidence you presented, despite any blow to your ego that might result. That would be the mature, responsible thing to do, anyway; only a child would see his sole option as 'to stop being friends with you then, if you don't agree with me. Nah-nah!'

I mean, why does he need to have it officially listed on imdb to be happy, considering he could simply tell everybody he wrote the whole movie and they'd believe him just as much?

I guess there's no fun in actually being honorable; it's the pose that's most important, and Clooney does it the best.

Let It Fester

I met up with an old friend for drinks last night. We'll call her Rhiannon, after your favorite song. Rhiannon was in town from Chicago, for work, and had a few hours free last night, so we took advantage of the opportunity to catch up.

Eventually, Rhiannon's old roommate, Lidia, came up in conversation. Turns out Lidia recently broke up with her long-time boyfriend and is set to move west at the end of the month, for a fresh start--a good move for a make-up artist, career-wise.

So far she has one job offer--working as a make-up artist for a production company that makes pornos.

I laughed. How can you not? At the same time, though, I figured it must be good money. The hard part would be when you had to put make-up on some guy's ass or...front, dealing with smells, creepy naked people, razor burn...that would all probably be way sick--way sick.

According to Rhiannon, though, Lidia would be into some of the sick shit:

"Well, at least Lidia loves to pop zits. If the guy had bacne, or whatever, she'd be all up in there, popping 'em away. She loves it."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know...she just does..."

"Sick..."

"Let me put it this way, if you ever wanna give Lidia a present, and you don't have any money--just let a big zit fester and let her pop it. Trust me, she'll love it."

I shuddered at the thought. Didn't you?

And then it got worse. Rhiannon continued:

"One time, when she was in her salon, a bum came in off the street and started rooting through their make-up. His entire face was covered in big zits just ready to burst. He was putting lipstick on and stuff--I mean, they had to throw it all out later, but still..Lidia just stared at him, wanting to go over there and pop pop pop..."

I stuffed a sock in Rhiannon's mouth right about then. Some things are just too sick to talk about, even if they're true.

Right?

Only in LA

This is three years old, but still. I'm sure it's still posted around West Hollywood.

Oh, now, come on, before you judge, admit it--every time a handyman has ever offered his services to you, the question popped into your head, too: "Yeah, yeah--but what do you LOOK like? Can I see a headshot?"

The Blow-Up Doll

I am aware of the recent advances in sex-doll technology, for some reason. I'm certainly not a customer, but I do recall reading an article some years ago about some sort of 'lifelike doll' that cost several thousand dollars--Howard Stern bought one, as research for his show I presume. Other prominent men were also listed as clients.

Come to think of it--it makes no sense as to why 'prominent men' would be publicly outed for buying several-thousand-dollar life-like sex dolls, since they can usually afford to hide that sort of information, and would usually want to, but something about the attitude of the article made it seem like buying one of these was something to brag about, a grand and macho joke, and so I stand by the fact that my memory is correct.

Perhaps it was in Playboy or something, where every man seems to brag about things he would ordinarily not want the world to know. They must have very persuasive interviewers (36-24-36?), or maybe they practiced the same methods as reality shows these days--run the cameras/tape recorder, get your subject(s) drunk, gain their confidence, convince them to say things they regret the next morning, then edit out all the boring stuff later.

"No, don't worry--women don't read this magazine. Neither do most men, for that matter, and trust me--the men who DO actually read the articles will find your candid attitude about the whole affair very macho and admirable. And they won't tell anyone about it. Or, at least, nobody they tell will believe them. So, please, once more, speak into the microphone..."

Regardless, that article from my vague and distant past is not the topic of discussion. What I want you to think about right now is this--the guy who invented the very first, super low-tech, cheap, smelly, plastic, ridiculously-un-life-like, blow-up 'female' doll. Not the new-fangled doll that is warm and soft and pliable and 'lifelike,' complete with 'usable' orifi, maybe even with real hair, etc. The first one. The one with neither a bell nor a whistle.

Sick, right? Not that the new ones are not sick, but you must admit the sickness quotient is exponentially increased when you think about the early-adopting pioneers. Some lonely (I would assume) man sitting in his basement, in a soiled wife-beater and jeans, drunk on rye, decided that what he needed, to tide himself over until Sophia Loren finished her messy divorce and his conscience would allow him to make an official pass at her outside of a bar on Hollywood Boulevard at closing time, was an inflated piece of plastic roughly the size and shape of a woman. That he could fuck.

The truth of the matter is, though, that it was most likely invented by a man who the average person thought respectable, intelligent, and successful--at least, that's usually the way it is with serial killers, prostitute-solicitors, gamblers, murderers, embezzlers, corrupt officials, and pedophiles. The inventor was probably a senator, or a leader of industry, or a titan of Wall Street tired of call girls giving him lip when he smacked them, or, at the very least, a doctor, dentist, lawyer, what-have-you. I mean, think about it--whoever it was, they had to go through quite a process to get from A-B:

1. Think of the idea
2. Plan out the idea in his head
3. Draw up the plans
4. Come to terms with the fact that he seriously wants to go through with this
5. Contact potential manufacturers
6. Send them drawings
7. Receive quotes
8. Decide that the outrageous cost of beginning production is worth it
9. Empty bank account / take out a loan ("...and what was that for again, sir?")
10. Eagerly await delivery of first sample product, hope wife doesn't get the mail that day
11. Approve sample product ("Yes. THIS is what men want to fuck when luck fails them at the singles bar! I am not alone! I'll be rich!")
12. Authorize production
13. Contact dirty men in charge of sex-toy stores
14. Convince dirty men to stock his product
15. Drive down to the docks to accept delivery from Chinese manufacturer
16. Load goods into truck
17. Drive away, knowing what is inside back of truck
18. Realize payload of sex dolls only exists because you dreamed it up, you ordered it, you paid for it
19. Deliver product to stores off of rural highways and behind Capitol Buildings
20. Rub hands together and wait for money to pour into secret bank account, to be spent on illicit holidays for him and his plastic mistress
21. Kill himself when his doll leaves him for another man

Now, that sort of lengthy, somewhat-mentally-taxing process typically deters your general lay-about; but a man with a fire under his pants, like a senator shall we say, why he relishes this sort of task, especially since it was be conducted in secret, in his study or rec room, away from the prying eyes of his annoying, life-like wife. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed playing God/Frankenstein and getting away with it. He enjoyed bringing happiness to lonely men all over the world, and making money in the bargain.

Sadly, the creepy questions keep coming:
Who saw the first advertisement, who saw the first sample product in the store, who saw one at their friend/colleague's house--and thought they needed one? Who saw the initial model and said to themselves, "Ha! I could make a better plastic woman than that piece of shit!" and then did? How have we ended up living in a world where a lifeless plastic woman costs more than a top-shelf, 18-year-old, disease-free, Harvard-educated prostitute?

You're gonna have to finish this one. I don't have the heart. The answers are too frightening. And, I mean, shit, what do I know--maybe it was invented by a woman. A cunning woman who knew there were sketchy-ass men out there who would pay for it. And she laughed her way to the bank.

And now here we are.


Hold the phone--turn your brain back on--I just went browsing for a funny blow-up doll photo to add to this entry and stumbled upon this.

It was the second link that came up on Google; the first one I clicked on; the last one I will ever click on. All I have to say is, "OFF THE FARM?!?!"

Item: Woman Afraid of a Mailbox

Los Angeles, CA (Koreatown)---Mere hours ago, on the corner of Western and Fifth Streets, a little old Korean woman hobbled toward me, thrusting a stamped envelope in my face, repeatedly saying the word 'okay' and smiling.

I pointed to the mailbox--she said 'okay.' I opened the mailbox--she said 'okay' and then dropped the envelope down its throat.

The little old Korean woman resumed pushing her shopping cart from the nearby Korean supermarket down the sidewalk. The door to the mailbox swung shut as I released my grip. The 'walk' signed lit up, and I crossed the street, chasing down a couple tacos, wondering why the old woman was afraid; have they begun the revolution? So soon? Are the mailboxes taking over?

Stay afraid, stay tuned.

Life Imitates Art

I read something once about hip-hop/rap videos that interested me. The article discussed the phenomenon of poor rappers renting Rolls Royces, hiring fawning booty girls, talking about how tough and famous they are...and becoming famous, rich, and sexually desirable as a result. The age-old idea of life imitating art. [Is it in fact 'age-old?' I wonder how to verify that...]

Unattractive men have become musicians to get girls ever since music was invented, so it's not like that aspect of it took me by surprise; it was the fact that even an attractive man can benefit from such posing, because he can not only increase the number of women after him, but he can also become rich. Shouting about how rich you are, even though you are not, can make you rich; such a music video can turn a liar into a mere fortune teller. Presto. Fascinating.

Years later--last night, in fact--after I watched an Eric Rohmer movie, A Summer's Tale, and then thought about the life and loves of Woody Allen, I was struck with the same realization about filmmakers. Self-doubting, overly-intellectual, unattractive men tend to write movies where a 'physically undeserving' man must choose between two or three beautiful women. He debates their respective virtues among friends, finds reasons both--or neither--would be the right choice for him, but the fact that they are both far out of his league is a topic that is never broached. Therefore, even the most gut-wrenchingly raw, realistic movie about an intellectual in love (I'm thinking Rohmer and Woody Allen here) is total fantasy, because the fundamental conceit is flawed from the start.

Yet, by craftily avoiding the question of their worthiness, they ultimately prove themselves in the right when, as a result of their movies, the directors are able to effortlessly lure beautiful women into their beds. Life imitates art once more. [Note: It's sadly not quite the same for writers; not enough beautiful women read. Yeah, I said it. If it'll make you feel better, the same is true of handsome men. It's just too hard to find time to read when you're always fucking supermodels...]

And so, just as Mick Jagger would never be able to bed any girl under nineteen stone were he not in the Rolling Stones, and John Mayer would never get a first look from Jessica Simpson (much less a second) were he not a millionaire recording artist, Woody Allen, Michaelangelo Antonioni, Peter Bogdanovich, and others would never have had their pick of the ladies were it not for them making movies about guys like them having a shot with their beautiful leading ladies. [Note: I'm not sure if Rohmer ever got to have sex; too little is known about his personal life. It wouldn't surprise me if he dies a virgin, or at least never explored beyond missionary with his wife.]

It's not a bad strategy, I must admit. Since I don't play guitar, I better get cracking on those film scripts. Ladies, I will win you over yet--simply by telling you that I will win you over.

Yet Another Reason to Kill Yourself at the Multiplex Next Weekend

George Clooney's Leatherheads is set to release on Friday, April 4th. It's a period piece about the birth of the NFL, but also a screwball comedy with romance! Something for everyone! All dollars accepted, thank you very much! Clooney directed the film and plays the lead role--a hunky, aging football player with a fearsome grimace on the field and a familiar Cheshire grin while wooing the young ladies post-game. I know--it's a stretch, but I think he can pull it off. Remember--not only do they edit the images to make people look better at the game they are pretending to play, but they also use stunt doubles, AND--the coup d'gras--every actor has to follow a script approved by Mr. Clooney! So he always wins! Or loses humbly and handsomely and gets the girl anyway. What a life...

The poster alone--ubiquitous in L.A.--makes me want to punch the movie in its face (what a cute dog! OMG!). Since this is impossible, I will instead hit this faceless entity where it really hurts: I will give it bad PR to at least ten people!

For a fascinating history of the Leatherheads movie--the script, written by Sports Illustrated writers, sold in 1991 and has been 'in the works' for the last 17 years, with Steven Soderbergh attached to direct it TWICE, and Mel Gibson initially tapped to play the Clooney role--then click HERE. And I suggest you do, especially if you hunger for insight into the 'process' of making shitty movies in Hollywood.

The $50 million-dollar(?)--plus $50mil(?) marketing--juggernaut was pushed back from its initial December launch due to 'George Clooney's busy schedule.' I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that the movie is a piece of shit. Why release a piece of shit when good/big movies are out, in December? Why compete with pre/post-Oscar extended releases of big movies in Jan/Feb, especially if you're in one of them (Michael Clayton)? Any idiot knows you should release a bad movie in the spring, although preferably not during the first three weeks that a big animated movie (Horton Hears a Who?) is in theaters!

December, 2007 releases included: Atonement, Juno, I Am Legend, Charlie Wilson's War, National Treasure, Sweeney Todd, Walk Hard, Bucket List, and There Will Be Blood.

Alternatively, here are the current Spring 2008 releases, with commentary, for your consideration:

March 7
10,000 BC--didn't even make $10,000 profit!

The Bank Job--who is Jason Statham's audience? Who cares about heist movies anymore? They're all the same! Let me guess--they get a bunch of money/jewels/gold/information, but then something happens, somebody gets squeezed, loyalties are tested, a villain chases them down, our hero gets away, with or without the treasure--and along the way, sexy women with tits are involved for various reasons.

College Road Trip--Martin Lawrence stinker, with annoying grown-up Cosby kid who thinks we like her.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day--this one is so stupid, it deserves to fend for itself:

"In 1939 London, Miss Guinevere Pettigrew (played by Ms. McDormand) is a middle-aged governess who finds herself once again unfairly dismissed from her job. Without so much as severance pay, Miss Pettigrew realizes that she must for the first time in two decades seize the day. This she does, by intercepting an employment assignment outside of her comfort level as social secretary. Arriving at a penthouse apartment for the interview, Miss Pettigrew is catapulted into the glamorous world and dizzying social whirl of an American actress and singer, Delysia Lafosse (Ms. Adams). Within minutes, Miss Pettigrew finds herself swept into a heady high-society milieu and, within hours, living it up. Taking the social secretary designation to heart, she tries to help her new friend Delysia navigate a love life and career, both of which are complicated by the three men in Delysias orbit; devoted pianist Michael (Mr. Pace), intimidating nightclub owner Nick (Mr. Strong), and impressionable junior impresario Phil (Mr. Payne). Miss Pettigrew herself is blushingly drawn to the gallant Joe (Mr. Hinds), a successful designer who is tenuously engaged to haughty fashion maven Edythe (Ms. Henderson) the one person who senses that the new social secretary may be out of her element, and schemes to undermine her. Over the next 24 hours, Guinevere and Delysia will empower each other to discover their romantic destinies."

Married Life--hackneyed step-grandchild of Divorce, Italian Style and Crimes & Misdemeanors with four actors who don't belong in a movie together (Pierce Brosnan, Patricia Clarkson, Rachel McAdams, and recent whore Chris Cooper). Remember The Holiday?

March 14
Doomsday--Does this plot synopsis not sound like Children of Men/21 Days/3 Kings, but worse?

"A lethal virus spreads throughout the British isles,infecting millions and killing hundreds of thousands. To contain the threat, acting authorities brutally quarantine the country as it succumbs to fear and chaos. The quarantine is successful. Three decades later, the Reaper virus violently resurfaces in a major city. An elite group of specialists, including Eden Sinclair, is urgently dispatched into the still-quarantined country to retrieve a cure by any means necessary. Shut off from the rest of the world, the unit must battle through a landscape that has become a waking nightmare."

Horton Hears A Who--It's animated, so it'll make at least $100million, but that doesn't mean it's good. In fact, the only thing good I can say about it is that at least Mike Myers wasn't in this one. This movie will fade just in time for Clooney to sweep in and get all those horny old ugly moms back in the theater again.

Never Back Down--Karate Kid meets Fight Club, but in a high school, and involving mixed martial arts. Looks like Daniel-san has gotten hotter and finally watched Ultimate Fighting Championship. Hits the coveted 'dumb, testosterone-soaked young male' demographic, the rare pack of gutsy, super-horny tweens who will see anything involving abs, and nobody else.

Funny Games--a glaring exception, although I did not love it. It's at least worth seeing; nobody will see it.

March 21
Drillbit Taylor--Owen Wilson didn't refuse to do the press tour due to his still-frail psyche; he refused to do it because this movie clearly SUCKS and he'd like to forget he was ever associated with it, much less gracing 100-ft tall billboards in L.A, in character. So he told the executive producers to suck it, and they did.

Meet the Browns--King of the box office Tyler Perry strikes again, with yet another movie only black people will see; but not just any black people--only those black people who will go to the movies to see anything starring other black people, regardless of quality.

Snow Angels--Can't stand David Gordon Green; and neither can 99.9% of the country. For once, we agree!

Shutter--Stupid horror movie. Doesn't need to be good; will make money in first few weeks because people go to see horror movies even when they will clearly suck.

The Grand--Improvisational comedy centered on people playing poker--starring Shannon Elizabeth, Woody Harrelson, and Werner Herzog. Ugh. I feel bad that David Cross and Cheryl Hines felt the need to be a$$ociated with this bad idea...

The Hammer--Adam Carolla as a boxer? Even as a joke, it's an awful one. Who cares about this guy? Who can listen to his voice without wanting to puncture their ear drums with a fire-hot dagger?

March 28
21--A great book, based on a fascinating, supposedly-true story, that I just know will be an awful movie. Why? Because that's what Hollywood does! There's too much money at stake not to turn a unique story into an exact replica of some other movie the 60 year-old producer saw part of once--but with more tits.

Run, Fatboy, Run--I don't understand people's fascination with Simon Pegg. Shaun of the Dead was awfully unfunny. So was Hot Fuzz. I wish Michael Ian Black wasn't involved with this (story+cowriter), but I guess he needs some dough, and you don't get that for writing good stuff. Best factoid about this movie? David Schwimmer directed this surefire piece of bunk.

Stop Loss--Much like Syriana, from what I hear, this movie blunders through a great issue without saying anything concrete, without making much sense, and always shoots for style points and fails. Essentially, it's half-ass; but, OMG, whatever, it's got Ryan Philippe in it! And he looks so hot in the poster! What a fucking tween-female-targeted poster, totally out of sync with the subject matter/style of the movie. Brilliant marketing...
[Question: Has 'tween' ever been used to refer to 'tweenage' boys? I feel like the term itself is feminine, but...maybe I'm wrong? Help!]

Superhero Movie--Can they stop making these movies? Can people stop going to them so they will stop making them? Even a short clip is like watching helplessly as somebody stabs me through the eye socket with a dull knife and twists until I can flawlessly recite the Gettysburg address. They. Are. Not. Funny. At. All. Nor do they have any point--a reference is not a joke! Go to joke school, for Criminy's sake!

Flawless--So flawed. A caper that's no fun is not a caper. And Demi Moore cannot act, so why put her in a period piece? Even though she's old enough to remember the '60s, god bless her, that doesn't mean she can act! Can Michael Caine retire already? If you can here me, Mike, stop ruining your legacy!

April 4
Leatherheads!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah!!!

Nim's Island--"A young girl inhabits an isolated island with her scientist father and communicates with a reclusive author of the novel she's reading." Through her imagination! And the author overcomes her agoraphobia, finds her on the deserted island, and helps locate her missing father! Abigail Breslin plays Nim; Jodie Foster plays Alexandre, the author; Gerard Butler plays Nim's father AND Jodie Foster's schizophrenic alter ego, Alex. Oh, Lord. Enough already with the Lord of the Rings/Harry Potter-fueled fantasy genre. Were Narnia and that awful DeNiro movie not enough? Not every idea is good! They cause studios to lose hundreds of millions of dollars and prevent them from releasing dozens of movies that are actually GOOD!

The Ruins--Well, it's been 2 weeks, so it's time for another horror movie, with the same poster as all the other ones. I think it's the same dude that makes them. If not, it's even more depressing. This one is about a group of sexy young people who stumble upon mysterious violence and some of them die, the girls get stripped and sweaty, and then it ends at some point and you wonder why you sat through it instead of just playing video games in your bedroom in your underwear for 91 minutes. Because you're a loser. Because you saw this movie.

Shine a Light--Another rare exception (that makes only 2 so far), in that I would like to see it and I imagine it will be good. Plus, it involves the Rolling Stones, so every dumbass, overpaid, McMansion/'luxury' condo-dwelling 35-55 year old man will either see it in the theater with his Texas-Hold-Em buddies or rent it later so he can watch on his 60" HDTV with surround sound, so this will make some money. But it won't ruin The Leatherheads coming-out party, that's for sure. Read: Leatherheads=Women, Shine A Light=Men. Women win. They will drag their men to see Leatherheads on 'date night,' and the guys won't mind because it involves football and George Clooney is a 'man's man,' if you believe the PR spin he pays people to make you believe, so this movie isn't gay like most of the other movies she wants to see. He will either see Shine A Light the next weekend, or decide to rent it later. Trust me--I can see the future.

Meet Bill--Aaron Eckhardt's American Beauty-but-funnier low-budget independent vehicle that doesn't seem to have been advertised yet, so it's highly unlikely this will be in many theaters, or will make any money. They've already changed the title to Bill. Why? Shit by any other name smells the same, First Look International.

My Blueberry Nights--I want to see this because it's a Wong Kar-wai movie, and I've been waiting a long time (almost a full year since its premiere at Cannes), but I don't think it will be super good. It's his first English-language movie, and it has Jude Law and Norah Jones in it. Even if it IS good, however, nobody will go to see this. How many people do you know who have even heard of In the Mood for Love? It's no Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, buddy, I mean--come on!


With all these other choices (above) at the multiplex next week--well, let's be honest, Leatherheads and Horton Hears a Who will be on 75% of the screens--who will be this movie's audience? Who loves George Clooney enough to go wherever he goes, as long as it doesn't require thinking too much (Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Syriana, Good Night and Good Luck, Darfur)?

Well, as if expecting this question, Clooney touchingly premiered the movie in tiny Mayberry, Kentucky--where his father was born. Somehow tracking down a red carpet to stand on, outside the town's opera house, Clooney had a few well-tooled, humble words to say. He even memorized them!

"They really are family," Clooney said of his Kentucky fans. "If you're from a small town, you don't really ever shake that. It's the best support system and they're always the biggest critics, which is kind of the fun of it."

The townspeople lined up for the show, namely Ronnie and Ellen Compton, of Jenkins, KY, swooned--

"We were staying in Florence (Ky.) to go to the Creation Museum and thought we'd see if we could get lucky and get in," Ronnie Compton said.
(source of both quotes: The Courier-Journal)

And so there you have it--Clooney's fans clearly are all idiots who not only believe in Creationism, but also feel the need to visit a museum devoted to the odious myth. Here's to hoping they aren't too numerous next weekend.

Cheers!

8 Sweet-Ass Ways to Use Coke!

Considering bourbon and Coke is my favorite cocktail ever, believe me when I say this news saddens me deeply. I will never get over it. I will never drink Coke again. My life has been irrevocably altered--for the better, I guess, although blissful ignorance can be pretty cool sometimes.

Pay attention, as these tips may save your life some day:

1. Blood on your street/driveway from last night's little 'what-have-you?' Pour Coca Cola on the offending pavement and smile as the phosphoric acid eats away the evidence in minutes. An old highway patrol trick I picked up as a boom operator on CHiPs.

2. Blood, grease, or noxious odors on/in your clothes? Treat them with Coke, throw 'em in the washer, and rest easy. Nobody will know. Except you. And me. I can see you. Always. But it's cool. Seriously. Forget about it. And put some clothes on.

3. Bathroom sink draining slowly because your sketchy girlfriend sheds like a golden retriever on meth? Pour 2 liters of Coke down the pipe, wait an hour, run the water. Cheaper than Draino, easier than finding somebody else who finds you attractive.

4. Mineral/rust stains on your toilet/tub? Pour a can of Coke in the bowl, let sit for an hour, lightly brush, and flush. I believe you--it's just...mineral deposits...

5. Engine clogged? Clean it with Coke! Why not, that's what the Coca-Cola Company has been using to clean the engines of its trucks for decades! BUSTED! I mean, I don't have any proof, but that's what people tell me.

6. Need to dissolve a nail for some reason? Maybe he squealed on your brother? Let the bastard sit in a resealed 2 liter bottle of Coke and it will cease to exist in 4 days, due to the carbonic acid. Way more effective than cement shoes, trust me.

7. Are you a vegetarian seeking vengeance against your roommate? (I'm talking to you, Vengeful in Vancouver!) The next time he goes away for the weekend, or sleeps over at his 'best friend's' house, destroy his coveted Omaha steak without breaking your solemn vow by simply leaving it in a sealed container full of Coke. The steak will no longer exist in 2 days time.

8. Tired of having all those pesky teeth in your mouth? Drink a few cans of Coke every day and they'll be gone eventually! So will all the calcium in your bones, but it's not like it matters--you'll be so fat by then nobody will even care whether you have teeth or bones!


[Coke and Coca-Cola are registered trademarks of the Coca-Cola Company, duh]

I Have Seen the Future, and It Wore Zippered Pants

Last Saturday, I had to return a minivan that had been rented for a film shoot I was working on. It was my last errand for the day, and I looked forward to starting my weekend.

I rolled into Enterprise at 11:30am, parked the vehicle, and walked into the office. Another young man patiently waited in front of me, at the counter. I hung back and listened as a smooth-talking sleazy salesman type--27 going on 40, wrinkled cheap suit, inability to make eye contact--was in the middle of a pitch. He spoke into a phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, as he typed something into a computer.

"Yeah, I mean, I got nothing right now. We're slammed. I could give you a pick-up truck. I could give you a pick-up truck for $40, just to get it off my lot, you know? No sense lettin' it sit around takin' up space, might as well get it on the road."

A middle-aged couple, clearly from out of town, came into the office. I was immediately glad to be in front of them; they looked like the type who never do anything fast, and always have problems. The man wore shiny grey polyester pants with zippers all over them--zippered pockets, zippered flare-bottoms, and zippers to cut off the pants at a capri length.

This is a disturbing trend I have noticed with a certain portion of the 'middle-aged man' demographic. Why does a man think he needs convertible pants? At what point does he feel the need to zip off into capris a mere four inches shorter than his pants? What does that accomplish? What do you do with the removed anklets? Do they become stylish bracelets? And why does he tuck a Polo shirt into these pants and think it's a cool look?

His wife looked like a real bitch. She had a narrow bird-like face, which I am pre-disposed to hate. Maybe because every woman with that look lives up to the billing. [For those of you curious, I would say the 'rodent face' would be the male equivalent. Hate 'em.] She also looked older than her husband, but who knows whether or not that was true. Maybe it's a just a simple case of him getting the bad zipper pants, and her getting the bad genes. Hey! Ho! Zing! I'll be here forever! Try the shrimp!

The point is that they both looked patently unhappy, by sight and behavior, but her scowl ran much deeper. She struck me immediately as the kind of woman who leaves fifty-cent tips for their waiter at Olive Garden, writes mean notes to her mail carrier, and doesn't understand why she can't return a soiled shirt she no longer wants at Target.

As the sleazy car salesman babbled on, she walked in real close to her husband.

"We need to bring the car with us."

"What car?"

"THE CAR WE'RE PICKING UP RIGHT NOW!"

"Oh."

"Traffic better be good on the way to San Diego--we're late."

Her husband didn't say anything, didn't care, probably has zero tolerance for his wife at this point in his life. I smiled--what a life these two must have together. Endless love...

The Salesman rambled on.

"Yeah, yeah, you could pick it up today. A Jaguar? No--the Jaguar's ninety. Well, it was probably the only thing we had left, but now I got some pick-up trucks. Look--forty bucks is the cheapest rate, so I'll give you the truck for that, since I got no cars, you know? Yeah. Alright, no sweat. Let me know what you wanna do. Cool."

He hung up the phone, handed the man in front of me a printed receipt, said goodbye, then looked at me. It was my turn.

"Hey. I just need to drop off a minivan."

I handed him the key.

"Alright, I just gotta check it out."

He left to inspect the vehicle.

The Wife sat down on a nearby bench seat, which must have been removed from one of their minivans, and began tapping her foot. The husband leaned against the counter and stared off into space.

A young woman walked into the office, another customer. She wasn't unattractive, but I wouldn't say she was attractive; she was kind of a Goldilocks. The Husband, however, seemed to be a big fan of her immediately--I noticed him surreptitiously checking her out several times. I guess the older you get, you start to appreciate any young woman, if only because of the natural attraction of the flower of youth, the lack of cellulite, the unfamiliarity. Compared to his wife, this girl was a supermodel.

As Goldilocks had walked inside the office, I heard a loud, irritating BEEP. I figured it was a motion sensor intended to inform people in the back room when a customer or thief has arrived, but then the BEEP happened again.

And again.

And again.

The Wife winced and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"What is that God-awful noise? Where is it coming from?"

"I think it's the phone. I see a light on the phone flashing."

"Well, is anybody going to answer it?"

"I don't know."

The Wife squirmed uncomfortably on the bench seat, occasionally peeking outside to see if the Salesman was coming back. Her Husband turned around to face the speaker emitting the noise, raised his arms like a zombie, and said, in a monotone voice:

"Yes, master, I will do as you command. I am your slave."

He looked at Goldilocks and smiled. She didn't smile back. I don't think she even made eye contact with him, which greatly deflated the Husband, since the 'joke' was clearly designed solely for her benefit. He turned back around and leaned on the counter.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

His Wife had had enough of that loud noise--which was, in her defense, annoyingly loud and unending--and was on the move. She crept behind the counter, keeping her eyes peeled for the Salesman. She glanced at the phones, she looked up, she looked at the others in the waiting area, she reached for the handset and paused.

"Do you see him coming?"

As soon as she spoke, she realized he was on his way back and scurried back over to her bench seat.

"I was just going to answer the phone for him," she said to nobody in particular.

Right...I'm sure she wasn't going to pick up the handset and accidentally drop it back into the cradle...

The Salesman returned, but he was not alone. An intense, petite young man in a shirt and tie steamed in behind him, shot tremendously brief glances at the assembled customers, and accompanied each look with a curt, "Hi." It sounded something like this:

"Hi, hi, hi, hi."

The young, hip, lip-service version of Wal-Mart's infamously unnecessary Greeter.

The Greeter immediately fanned the ire of the Wife when he moved straight to the back of the office without helping her. She rose, and was about to say something, when he cut her off.

"Who's next?"

The Husband and Wife both angrily said, "me." The Greeter took one look at them and realized they deserved each other, and must therefore be married.

"And what can I do for you two?"

My Salesman typed a hundred things into the computer, as he smooth-talked another customer on the phone, but I didn't pay much attention--the Greeter's conversation was much more interesting.

"Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes."

The Husband handed him a folded printout, and the Greeter analyzed it intensely.

"Hmm. A one-way."

The Greeter handed the paper to the Salesman, for his input.

"Mmm-hmm. One-way."

"Wait a minute--we can't do a one-way on GPS."

"Nope."

"We can't do a one-way on GPS. It's our policy."

The Husband looked the Greeter dead in the eyes.

"This isn't our home planet--WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?!"

The Greeter looked at his computer screen, looked over at the Salesman, looked back at the Husband.

"You could...get a map?"

"A map? We need a GPS. How are we supposed to get to La Jolla?"

"I'm sorry...I...can't do it. It's our policy."

"Well, can you call someone?"

"No--that's just our policy. There's nothing we can do. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? What good does that do us--WE'RE SCREWED!"

The Wife, tired of throwing out occasional, irrational requests from the bench seat, stood to ask the same question everybody unfamiliar with the perils of Internet booking ignorantly asks.

"Why would they tell us we could have a GPS if we can't?"

"I...don't know. We don't do one-way rentals. Most places don't. I don't know why they would tell you that. It's always been our policy."

"Well they did."

The Salesman finally chimed in:

"You're lucky we even have one. We can't even guarantee that we will ever have one. But we do. But we can't give it to you."

This didn't help. He resumed typing up my paperwork, which seemed to be taking on Dickensian proportions.

The Husband threw his arms up in the air. "We're screwed!"

The Wife got crafty again."What would happen if we said we'd bring it back, but we didn't?"

"Then we'd charge you $300 to replace it. That's the cost of the machine."

"We're screwed!"

A lightbulb illuminated over the Greeter's head. "Wait--I know! I can Mapquest directions to where you're going and print it out for you. It'll give you the exact same directions as a GPS."

The Husband leaned in, "We need a GPS because Mapquest is 100% unreliable. I use to use it but I never use it anymore."

The Sales man and the Greeter both stared at their computers, not sure of their next move. "Uhmmm..."

The Husband suddenly screamed at his wife, who was typing something into her cell phone. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!"

"I'M LOOKING UP CAR RENTAL PLACES!"

She was frantic. Tears were nigh. I couldn't stop smiling.

It was at this point that I nearly inserted myself into the mix. I couldn't take it anymore. These two old fuckers were so clueless--as if these two Enterprise schmucks decide 'the policy' and can bend the rules for them, as if that's how things work in corporate America. And even if they did have the power to negotiate, was this really the way to persuade them to cut a deal? I don't like people who project their own unhappiness on others--especially when they're at work. Especially when they have a shitty job.

What would I have said? Why, exactly what should be on all your minds right now:

"What the fuck did you guys do before GPS was invented? For the 50+ years of your life before you ever used a GPS device? Did you never leave your house? Did you never travel anywhere? I bet you did. I bet you used a map, asked people for directions, FIGURED IT OUT. Now just take the car, leave these guys alone, buy a road atlas and some snacks at the gas station on the way to the highway that is THREE BLOCKS AWAY, get on that highway, merge onto another highway, and wind up effortlessly in beautiful, sprawling, McMansioned La Jolla, 105 miles later. Call your daughter when you get off the highway and she can guide you in--I'm sure she has GPS at home. But hurry--I bet her husband can't wait for you to get there!"

But I didn't. The Salesman finished his novel, handed it over, and offered me a ride back. I said I'd rather walk and left--the old couple is probably still there.

The most frightening thing about this whole unpleasant affair? If people in their sixties are this unnecessarily dependent on technology, imagine when children alive today grow up. All a terrorist would have to do is shoot down the GPS satellites and our entire nation will starve to death because they won't know how to get to the grocery store. We're doomed--begin senseless fornication with the most attractive person nearby.

What Does the Shoe of an 8.5' Tall Man Look Like?

It looks kind of like this (the one on the left).

Once Again, No Humbling Winter...

...and so the egos in Hollywood continue to flourish, unabated, for the 155th consecutive year. The moral/intellectual gulf between Hollywood+environs and the more-sensible Midwest/Northeast/Northwest (sorry, South--you're on a whole 'nother page of dumbness!) continues to expand, once again outpacing the growth of the universe itself (pay up, Hawking, or I'll break your legs!). More and more people move here, more and more people grow up here, more and more people never leave here. Why?

"Cuz the weather's so great! OMG--I'll do anything to stay out here! I'll not only be more anorexic than you, and therefore hotter, but I'll do your shitty job for longer hours and less pay, since my family supports me anyway. I just want to stay out here and lay on the beach all day and go clubbing and buy a new designer handbag every Saturday, but my parents said I need to have a good job, with growth potential, or they'll cut me off. Hey--is that Zach Braff? So totally hot, but, I mean, only cuz he's on TV, or he'd be totally like YACK! I wonder if he needs a new third assistant..."

And so the ranks of Hollywood's coveted 'fiscal upper class, intellectual lower class' demographic continue to swell, unperturbed by the current financial crisis that, let's face it, doesn't affect rich people. How did this all start? What made the first selfish, idiotic fame-whore come out here to El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora Reina de los Angeles sobre El Rio Porciuncula?

Curious? Well, dig in to these pointless highlights of Hollywood's past (courtesy wikipedia.org), edited and fruitlessly commented upon by yours truly:

"In 1853, one adobe hut stood on the site that became Hollywood."

Such arrogant beginnings...it's no wonder we are where we are today. Adobe?

"The name Hollywood was coined by H.J. Whitley, the Father of Hollywood. He and his wife, Gigi, came up with the name while on their honeymoon, according to Margaret Virginia Whitley's memoir. As they stood on the hill (which is now the center of Hollywood) admiring the view they spied a rickety old wagon pulled by one horse with a Chinese man driving pell-mell down a narrow path. As he approached them he stopped his wagon. HJ Whitley asked what he was doing. In broken English with a Chinese accent he said, 'I up sunrise. Old trees fall down. Pick up wood. All time haully wood.' With an epiphany HJ declared he would name his new town Hollywood."

First of all, are we sure that wasn't just Mickey Rooney driving the wagon?


Second of all, who the fuck asked this guy to name the town he was visiting on vacation? Is this some kind of unprecedented hubris, or what?

Wait...it isn't.

While we're on the subject, why was this arrogant rich dude honeymooning in a town that recently had only one adobe hut and wasn't even incorporated yet? Were all the oceanliners to Europe booked? Did his wife force the marriage due to a pregnancy, and he brought her to this remote spot so she could 'accidentally' fall into the ocean on their honeymoon? I guess we'll never know...until his great-great-great-great grandson makes that moment in time into a highly-fictionalized movie, starring Francis (Frankie) Coppola-Barrymore-Pitt II as 'plucky' H.J. Whitley.

"Hollywood was incorporated as a municipality in 1903. Among the town ordinances was one prohibiting the sale of liquor except by pharmacists and one outlawing the driving of cattle through the streets in herds of more than two hundred."

That explains why there's so few cattle in the streets and such a lack of liquor in my mouth. Prescient, Hollywood--very prescient. If you don't start out completely intolerant, you'll foster misbehavior and wind up with valueless teenagers running all over the place, driving drunk, bearing unwanted children, and shaving their heads.

"After many years of serious decline, Hollywood is now undergoing rapid gentrification and revitalization with the goal of urban density in mind. Many new developments have been completed, and many more are planned, and several are centered on Hollywood Boulevard itself. In particular, the Hollywood & Highland complex, which is also the site of the Kodak Theater, has been a major catalyst for the redevelopment of the area. In addition, numerous trendy bars, clubs, and retail businesses have opened on or surrounding the boulevard, allowing it to become one of the main nighttime spots in all of Los Angeles. Many older buildings have also been converted to lofts and condominiums, and a W Hotel is currently under construction at the famous intersection of Hollywood and Vine, including The CBS Columbia Square which is being used as the new site of MTV's Real World: Hollywood which will likely serve to even further revitalize the area."

Don't get me wrong--eight years ago, Hollywood was nothing more than a sketchy neighborhood full of stripper-lingerie shops, sleazy sex clubs, souvenir shops, 'Maps to Stars's Homes!' stands, and abandoned storefronts; it sucked. Fast forward eight years--it is now the character-less, traffic-clogged, avoid-at-all-costs nexus of corporate consumerism/tourism. Notable example: the venerable Oscars ceremony is now held in a mall! Choose thy poison.

"The population of [Hollywood], including Los Feliz, as of the 2000 census was 167,664 and the median household income was $33,409 in 1999."

That seems really small. And poor. And true.

"Notable Residents:

• Rob Dyrdek, professional skateboarder
• Erik Ellington, professional skateboarder
• Eric Koston, professional skateboarder
• Andrew Reynolds, professional skateboarder
• Kat Von D, tattoo artist"

Really? That's all the entire web community could come up with on wikipedia? Are we really that sad? Let's see...since Hollywood proper now contains the hills and Los Feliz...I could add, off the top of my head...Jack Nicholson, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Cristina Ricci, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Lee, Crispin Glover, Gwen Stefani, Gavin Rossdale...and thousands more! Let's get going, people! Put that gelato down--this is urgent.

[gunshot to own head]

ISO A Good Food Taster

Five People Who Probably Already Have Food Tasters:

1. George Bush
2. Tom Cruise
3. Hillary Clinton
4. Jerry Bruckheimer
5. The Pope

Five People Who Probably Don't, But Should:

1. Oprah Winfrey- somebody's gotta be thinking about it...maybe Jonathan Franzen? Or Tom Cruise? Or...any other man who lives and breathes?
2. George Clooney- have you read the article in Radar?
3. Tyra Banks- I feel like even the winner of America's Next Top Model would want to kill her
4. Simon Cowell- because he tells it like it is to a bunch of talentless, crazed wannabe divas yearning for press of any kind
5. Seth Rogen- cuz I'm totally gunnin' for him!

Crystal Meth and Shuffleboard

Back in November of 2005, my girlfriend knew a guy who was selling four tickets to a Rolling Stones show in San Diego for a ridiculous $25 each. This seemingly-reasonable price is only ridiculous because the face value of these nosebleed seats weighed in at a whopping $120/each. Ah, the Rolling Stones...after all these years, all those millions upon millions of dollars, all those quasi-legal offshore Dutch tax shelters... It's good to know they still do it for the love of the music, for something bigger and purer than all of us. Rock on!

For the record, to come clean from the start here, I love the Rolling Stones, despite their greed; they are human, after all. That being said, I am not one of those annoying, get-a-life, super-obsessed fans, not by a long-shot. I only own a few of their records; but I love those records. They are bluesy, they are rock, they are pop, they are guttural, they are sweet, they are everything all at once, which is quite a feat. This is one of the few scenarios where it is okay for somebody, a neophyte, to believe the hype and swim into the deep waters of their catalog without hesitation. I do think they are the biggest and best band in the world, if only because they are a true band, which is pretty rare in and of itself. I would not say the same about the Beatles, for example--they were more of a 'brilliant, volatile duo with passable back-up band.' Ditto for Elton John/Bernie Taupin.

But I digress...this is not a music review site. I apologize. Back to the point:

The reason nobody else wanted to buy these tickets for more money, and why the owner of them couldn't attend the show himself, was that we all lived in L.A. San Diego is a two-hour drive when traffic is great, and traffic would not be great at rush hour, since these babies were being unloaded day-of and the other two people in our group had to work til five. Whatever. We figured it'd be worth it--mostly due to the affordable price, as well as the fact that we had nothing better to do, so why not choose a little adventure?

I was not working that day, because it was a day like most others, and so I volunteered to drive out to the Valley, to brave the Girls and the heat, in order to pick up the tickets from the seller, who was an actor my girlfriend had met on a film set.

As I pulled up to the house at the address I had been given, a chimney sweep van parked in front of me sent my mind reeling. ‘Chimney sweeps still exist? I guess it makes sense...I mean, chimneys still exist, and I suppose they need to be cleaned every once in a while, but “swept?” Have there really been no advances in chimney-cleaning technology since Mary Poppins?’ Maybe--there seemed to be a vacuum involved.

I was further surprised to discover the guy I was looking for was not the one having his chimney swept but, rather, the one doing the sweeping--soot on his face and everything. Hey, brother’s gotta make a dime on the side, right? Acting sure don’t pay the bills...

Mr. Chimney Sweep lamented the fact that he could not attend the show, but was glad the tickets would not go to waste. He had seen them twice on this tour already, in San Francisco and LA, and they were both awesome shows.

Huh? This chimney sweep bought 4 tickets to three shows, at a minimum of $120 each? That’s like...a million dollars!?! How sick is his obsession?

I left as soon as possible, feeling like I had just caught him performing a strip-tease dressed as Little Bo Peep, for some sleazy 60-year-old children’s movie producer, in order to afford to buy his fourteenth ‘mint-condition Castle Greyskull (in box)’ on eBay.

I drove home and waited for the others to gather at our house in Silver Lake. As soon as the traffic got unbearable on the freeways, we embarked on our voyage with high hopes.

Luckily I had remembered to bring a handful of CDs because, let me tell you, as the man behind the wheel, this was one of the most excruciatingly boring drives of my entire life--and I've logged more miles in the last 13 years than most people will in their entire lives. [Editor's Note: He's not lying. It's true.] It was bumper-to-bumper for 126 miles. 126 miles. Bumper to bumper. It is therefore a testament to the caliber of friends in my car that day that it turned out to be a very enjoyable ride.


Representative Slice:

Tito and I rocked out to Thriller at ear-splitting volume in the front seats, while Bertie and Pedro played a movie-themed guessing game in the backseat. We had just stopped at Wendy's, because it was dinnertime and we couldn't fuck around and had to get fast food, and Tito had ordered a large Coke. After making a little room, he quickly emptied a flask-full of Jim Beam into his cup and we drained it. Oddly enough, this was my first bourbon-and-Coke; it was a transcendent experience; I haven't stopped drinking them since; I think it might be the most perfect cocktail in existence; seriously.

Bourbon-and-Coke fan-boy-exultation aside, here we were, laughing, singing at the top of our lungs, dancing in our seats, riding the brake inches at a time, but not complaining, because it wasn't like we hadn't expected the drive to take forever. Also, we knew our patience was to be rewarded with the music of the Rolling Stones, at a cut-rate price, so we didn't care about a thing.

I pulled a joint out from the console between my seats.

"Look what I found!"

Eyes lit up. It was no accident, and we all knew that, but it was fun to pretend like it was. We all got high. Life instantly became that much more enjoyable. The certainty I felt about the fact that we were having more fun than anyone else on the road that day only intensified. While normally I don't indulge quite so much while/before driving, for obvious legal/survival reasons, I felt okay about this exception. After all, this 'drive' amounted to little more than piloting a well-rehearsed pony down a trail with 13 of his barn-buddies, at a kindergarten-field-trip pace. Besides, considering how much fun we had, and how we all arrived in one piece, it was totally worth it; the drive was easily 1/3 of the fun on this adventure, which is rarely the case.


The second third of the fun was the show itself. As we pulled up near the stadium, the historic PETCO Park (hahaha, lol, rotfl, seriously, kill me!), we could hear the Stones had already begun their set. Shit! Somehow, we found a parking spot right across the street and were able to get inside quickly, not that it mattered. Why didn't it matter? Because, despite their advanced age, the Stones played for at least two and a half hours! It was pretty amazing.

Not only was their stamina impressive but, it being a stadium show, Mick worked the crowd with stunning ease and success. The stage was at least 100 feet long, and Mick patrolled it like a guard dog, keeping everybody excited. The stage even moved from the outfield to the pitcher's mound, to switch up the hot seats and share the love. Nice. Don't get me wrong--had I paid face-value for these tickets, I would have been pissed off. We were miles away from the stage, up in Bob Ueckerville, surrounded by people who paid $120 to sit there. Ouch.

The most interesting thing that happened during the show, however, had nothing to do with the music. It had nothing to do with Keith Richards slurring incoherently through the lead vocals during his moment in the sun. It had to do with the second joint I had rolled for the occasion.

Now, this joint was specifically intended for the show, so I had used a special blend of herbs and spices, anointed it with the unsullied tears of an albino newborn...kidding. I'm not one of 'those.' I just thought we would want another one, and we did. It being an open-air concert, and a Stones concert to boot, I figured a little pot would be tolerated. I was wrong. Sort of.

Almost immediately after we found our seats, which took quite some time due to somewhat-understandable confusion among the various minimum-wage-'I-don't-give-a-shit' venue representatives, I lit up the joint and leaned back to savor the scene we had traveled so far to enjoy. A Hispanic man seated behind me leaned forward.

"Oh, man, that smells so good. It's been so long. Can I give you five bucks for a hit? I just gotta have some of that."

"Sure. Sure."

He opened his wallet.

"Do you have change for a fifty?"

"No..."

I gave him a hit anyway. Whatever--I'm all into sharing. Most of the time. As long as the person is nice, which this guy was. I couldn't help but notice, as I watched him puff away a little too liberally for my taste, that he was on a date. There was a woman next to him, and she didn't seem too familiar, you know what I mean? It seemed like they were definitely together, but had maybe just started dating, maybe this was even a first date 'meant to impress,' due to the cost. Another Hispanic couple sat next to them and they seemed to be a foursome, on a double-date.

The guy handed the joint back and it was passed among my friends. On its way back to me, as I waited for Pedro to hand it off, my spidey-sense started tingling. I looked over to my left and saw two cops talking to each other. They were pointing in our general direction. One of them had a flashlight. I knew what was about to happen before it did, luckily.

"Pedro--throw it. Throw it!"

Pedro hesitated, saw the cops, hesitated again, and dropped the joint at his feet just as the flashlight beam lit up his priceless face. I was so disappointed--we were so close! All he had to do was throw it! One of the cops walked over, bent down to pick up the joint, and shined the light in all our faces.

"You, you, you, you...and you...and you, come with me."

Wow. That was thorough. He even pulled out the guy who 'bought' a hit from me and the other guy on the double-date with him, who had nothing whatsoever to do with the affair.

As we all paraded out from our seats to the nearest access tunnel like misbehaving schoolchildren, we were completely unsupervised; the cops walked in front of us. If any of us had had any contraband, there was ample time/opportunity to dump it. But we had been 'smart;' we had only brought in one joint--evidence we had intended to completely incinerate.

Out in the tunnel, near the concession stands, the cops lined us up against the wall. Shit seemed grim. Luckily, I was high. Also luckily, I realized he had nothing on us--none of us had any weed in our possession and he couldn't prove where the remains of that joint had come from. It was found on the ground, it could have been thrown there by somebody else--it was circumstantial and not enough to justify an arrest. A wave of relief washed over me. I smiled and listened to the mouthpiece-cop's hilarious speech as his partner looked on, glad he didn’t have to deliver it.

"Now, we're not going to arrest you guys--we just want the rest of what you've got. So I don't care who has it, just hand it over and you'll all be free to go. I'm not even gonna pretend we're gonna arrest you; if we were to arrest everybody here tonight who was smoking pot, our prisons would be filled. We simply don't have the space or the manpower to do that."

I laughed. So did my companions. Nobody else was smoking pot! Why do you think we were so easily located? We were in a baseball stadium! These tickets cost a minimum of $120! This is a show for law-abiding yuppies! This is hardly some kind of counter-culture 'happening,' where laws are being flouted left and right, in the shadows, and the cops 'just can't keep up.' In fact, I thought, this might actually be the least-cool audience in Rolling Stones concert history. I mean, it at least has to be right up there, in contention, and I was a part of it--this was a thoroughly depressing realization.

I told him we had nothing. He didn't believe me.

"Alright, empty your pockets."

I emptied my pockets, cruelly disappointed him, and he said I was free to go. One by one, he checked through what everybody held out in their hands. It seemed to be taking a while. I could hear the music blasting from down on the field and was itching to watch the show, so I decided to head back out to my seat, to wait for my friends there. I might as well have, right? It's not like they needed my support right then, we were all going to be immediately released, so, whatever, I left.

As I sat back down in my seat, the three teenagers in front of me whipped around, checked me out, looked like they had just seen a ghost, and immediately turned back around and whispered to each other. Aha--it was them. Straight-edge punks by sight, meddling tattletales by deed. What kind of a cool-ass 'I don't give a shit' punk teenager, straight-edge or otherwise, gives a shit whether or not somebody else smokes pot at an open-air concert? I mean, isn't the whole punk ideology based on the individual's intrinsic right to freedom? What a bunch of lame-ass wannabes. I laughed to myself. 'Haha! I got away!' I wondered what they were thinking, those little assholes.

"Do you think he killed the cop? Or bribed him or something? Do you think we will somehow get in trouble as a result? Do you think he might hurt us? Do you think he might break our brittle little skinny-jean-clad legs? I'm scared! Hold me, Jarvis!"

My friend Pedro walked back out and sat down next to me, scared sober. After a while, we headed back over to the tunnel, to see what was taking so long with the others, and saw one of the cops handcuffing somebody against the wall. What the fuck?!

As it turned out, the Hispanic guy who had never even touched the joint was rolling with a rock of crystal meth in his pocket. For some reason, he hadn't felt the need to dump it as we walked from our seats to the tunnel and decided not to leave it in his pocket when the cop asked him to empty his pockets. The cops didn't reach into our pockets to see if they had actually been emptied--I could have had kiddie porn in there and he wouldn't have known. It was on the honor system. What an idiot.

Well, I guess if you're tomcatting around town with a bag of meth in your pocket, you're not exactly smart; and even if you were intelligent to begin with, you probably don't have your wits about you after you've cooked up. And so it goes...the one person totally uninvolved with 'the crime' gets handcuffed and taken to prison, because he was dumb. Kids, if you're listening--don't be dumb. You will pay the price at some point.

I wonder what the meth-dude's date did when he never came back? I wonder if she knew. San Diego is, after all, the methamphetamine capital of North America, and has been for decades (according to The Economist, in issues from 1989 & 2000, as reported on wikipedia.org).

Post-concert, trying to find our way back to the freeway, we stumbled upon the third and final phase of our great evening--a dirty, cool-looking bar called The Jewel Box. Aside from cheap drinks, a diverse clientele, and a decent jukebox, they had a shuffleboard table! I had never played before, but it was not hard to learn; nor, for a stud like me, was it hard to master. We played for a couple hours and discovered it might be the perfect game to play while drinking with friends. I often think about driving down to San Diego just to hang out, drink, and play shuffleboard. The same way I often think about driving up to San Francisco for Chinese food at House of Nanking.

But, as is the case with both establishments, they were discovered at random and therefore greatly exceeded my meager expectations. Now that I have built them up so greatly in my mind, can they possibly hold up? It would be far easier for them to disappoint. But, why would they, why should they? Plenty of places are great and stay great and I go back over and over again. Hmmm.

I pondered this conundrum as we drove home. It was much faster this time, thank Jason Bateman. I went to sleep content--it had been one of the best nights in recent memory.

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 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.