11/25/02
“You must pay for your sins. If you already have, please ignore this
notice.” --- Sam Levenson
AND THE THEME SONG IS AS LAME AS THEY COME TOO!
To the surprise of no one, Die Another Day opens at number one. For the
most part, the Bond formula remains unchanged, but in a rare instance
there’s a brief deviation as Bond is not only captured, but remains in
a North Korean prison being tortured during the lamest opening credit
sequence for a Bond film in recent memory. We’re told he’s there for a
year before a release is engineered by MI6 (Britain’s CIA), who then think
he’s given up secrets and he has to go on the lam to clear himself. After
this, it becomes just another Bond film, with two exceptions. First, the
sword duel between Bond and the main villain is one of the best Bond action
sequences in years. You actually get the feeling this is a fight between
two men desperate to kill one another, rather than an elaborate exercise
in fight choreography. The other exception: Halle Berry. Lord have mercy,
the world’s most perfect woman (physically, anyway) is here as NSA agent,
Jinx and just looking at her in a number of great outfits is enough for
me (not to mention a nice little catfight she gets into). Despite the
hype she’s been getting for being “Bond’s equal” they’ve actually been
giving Bond female secret agents to match up with for years now (anyone
remember Barbara Bach as Triple X?), but none of them have been Halle
Berry. And if you’re really a Bond aficionado, look out for homages to
Dr. No, The Spy Who Loved Me, From Russia With Love, Thunderball and the
very origin behind James Bond’s name.
NOT WITH A BANG, BUT WITH A WHIMPER
Harry Potter & The Chamber of Secrets is down to number two and I just
don’t care. I don’t care if it’s good. I don’t care if it’s bad. I simply
don’t care. At best I find it very sad this is how the great Richard Harris
ended his career. So much great work and he goes to his grave as…Dumbledorf?
Sigh.
MARTIN LAWRENCE, EDDIE GRIFFIN, CHRIS TUCKER…IT’S A LONG LIST
Friday After Next opens at number three and Ice Cube tried to do a little
preventative work by insisting that no one listen to any critics about
this film. As if anyone needs to be told this is a piece of crap. Hell,
even Chris Tucker has been smart enough not to come back after the first
one and god knows he’s got no freaking idea what a good script looks like.
And that loser Mike Epps, that Ice Cube has tried to replace him with,
needs a steaming hot cup of death something quick. There are far too many
unfunny Black men making movies as it is.
ALSO, STRIPPING AGES YOU
Santa Clause 2 is down to number four, followed by 8 Mile at number five
and let us all give thanks to the stupidity of Giovanni Ribisi’s agent,
who apparently wanted too much money for him to be in this movie, thus
sparing us his fugly face. For that alone, I pray for this to make as
much money as possible. Speaking of which, both Harry Potter and Santa
Clause 2 owe 8 Mile a small sum of money, because kids are paying to see
them, then crossing over (especially Santa Clause 2). On the other side
of the beauty spectrum, expect to see Kim Basinger attached to Curtis
Hanson’s hip from this day on. First, he gets her an Oscar (which she
didn’t deserve) and now she’s in a hit movie for the first time in forever.
And you know it was a favor from him, because Kim Basinger is no white-trash
mom. For one, she’s still attractive at 40. Real white trash beauty is
this odd thing that hits like at thunderbolt at 15 and then is all but
gone by 25, thanks to a hard life of bad food, too many cigarettes and
excessive cousin fucking.
GOING TO BROOKLYN MAKES A BRUTHA ANGRY!
The Ring is down to number six and yes I’m still pissed that Naomi Watts
was on the cover of Vanity Fair a year ago. God fucking forbid we not
have another blonde with fake breasts with no fucking track record at
all, than a woman of color (Black, Asian, Latin) who people might have
actually fucking seen before. I’m not surprised if no one knows Gabrielle
Union or Kelly Hu by name, but if you say “The head Black cheerleader
from Bring It On and that pretty girl on Martial Law” you’re going to
get more of a response than “That girl from Mulholland Drive.” Who the
fuck saw Mulholland Drive!?!
BETWEEN THE SEX, DRUGS AND SHOOT-OUTS, WHO HAD TIME TO LEARN?
The Emperor’s Club opens at number seven and as a graduate of public school
who can find Portugal on a map, I have an automatic bias against movies
that tell us all about the glorious and wonderful education that’s to
had at America’s prep schools. Gee, Zeke, I guess I don’t know nuthin’
with only taxpayer dollars to teach me. Guess I’d better get back to fucking
my cousin and working at the car wash, ‘cause I’m too dumb for anything
else. Needless to say, the trailer and commercials showing Kevin Kline
as the greatest prep school teacher ever waxing poetic over how his students
were like “young emperors” almost make me puke and kept me out of the
theater (I guess public school makes us all “young serfs”). I mean, if
I want this kind of crap, I’ll rent Goodbye, Mr. Chips, the end all, be
all teaching movie. And is that Rob Morrow of Northern Exposure I saw?
Dude, you must so be regretting how you fucked up the small amount of
heat that show gave you. Now Ben Stiller and Jonathan Stewart are America’s
favorite Cute Jewish Boys. And given that America can usually only take
one Ethnic star at a time (we’ve discussed how Lucy Liu was its Asian
Girl of The Moment), they’re pushing it at two, so there’s no way it’s
gonna be three.
…OR CELINE DION
My Big Fat Greek Wedding broke $200M and only now is beginning to die.
This fucking thing is like Jason or Freddy or that weird fungus on your
dad’s foot. It never seems to go away.
THAT TITLE MAKES ALL THE JOKES FOR ME
Half Past Dead is down to number nine and who the fuck ever heard of an
action movie, starring a rapper that was rated PG-13? You know it was
killing Ja Rule not to curse every other second. And given that he was
cast to bring his audience in, how do you think they felt watching him
go 90 minutes without saying “fuck” even once, when he says it every other
second on the albums they bought? And just how short is he? He looks like
a dwarf next to fat boy Steven Segal. And poor Nia Peebles. She was such
the hottie back in the days when she was on the Fame TV show (not to mention
her hit single from the late 80’s “Street of Dreams”). She still is, but
from that, to marrying Howard Hewitt, to Walker Texas Ranger to this?
Every step a step lower. Sigh. See, kids? Being ambiguous ethnic pretty
isn’t always enough. Especially when you’re pushing 40.
I BET THEY ALL WENT TO PRIVATE SCHOOLS
Finally, Frida actually breaks the top ten and it’s starring some of the
most annoying people alive. Salma Hayek is beautiful, but supremely annoying
in interviews. She’s a child of wealth and privilege and it oozes from
every pore of her body. Her boyfriend, Edward Norton, is no better (his
grandfather invented the shopping mall) and do I really have to get into
the pebble in your show personality of Ashley Judd? I swear, if she works
that southern girl shtick one me time…and she was fucking born in California!
In any case, the thought of facing another Hollywood bio-pic with all
three of them was too much for me. It would take lots and lots of Salma
nudity to get me in there. And Ashley Judd. I’d need them both naked.
Yeah, I know they do a tango, but unless that leads to what a guy on a
bus once referred to as “eating at the Y”, then I still have no interest.
TOO OLD TO DO IT AS MUCH ANY MORE. BY “IT’ I MEAN…ANYTHING.
So you got no top ten last week because it was my birthday and I work
even less than usual when I’m actively aging. As usual, I did nothing,
but I was roped into a dinner in Brooklyn by Standard Pretty Girl Name
and Former Miss Pretty Boy. Not just Brooklyn, mind you, but Bed-Sty.
Do or die! Yeah, boyeeeeeeee! And to make it even better, it was on a
cold and rainy night. Oh, joy. My favorite part of the directions was
“knock on the window---doorbell doesn’t work.” Great. It’s like I’m visiting
Redman’s house. Yes, the apartments are bigger, but there’s a catch---IT’S
IN BROOKLYN! The Former Miss Pretty Boy’s birthday is only four days before
mine, so she and I exchanged presents. It was kind of a geek exchange.
First, whenever she comes to my place she complains that I keep my super-pets
(Krypto The Superdog, Streaky The Supercat, etc) in their boxes. Well,
I think the boxes are nice, but she can’t grasp that, so it’s a continual
criticism. In any case, I gave her her very own Comet The Superhorse.
She practically tore the package open to release him. Now maybe I’ll get
some peace. For me, My Comic Book Dealer suckered her into buying me a
hardbound collection of The Incredible Hulk. It’s a very nice thing, as
horror writer Bruce Jones is now writing it and it’s supposedly very good
now and this would be a great way for me to finally read it all---then
came the catch. As a “dealer” his job is to get you to buy more. And what
he didn’t tell Former Miss Pretty Boy is that it’s only the first of two
volumes, knowing that I would be compelled to buy the follow-up. Well,
age has given me some wisdom, so I learned this beforehand and never broke
the seal and exchanged it (sorry, honey) for the Wonder Woman hardbound
you see above and a collection of Birds of Prey (which is so much better
than that crappy, now-canceled TV show)---and somehow I still wound up
spending another $50. Damn my Dealer! In any case, dinner was very nice.
We killed three bottles of wine, looked through Standard Pretty Girl Name’s
modeling portfolio and I met Former Miss Pretty Boy’s new beau, which
is why she’s now Former. He’s a nice guy, but looks like an English
version of Pacey from Dawson’s Creek with that Moe haircut he initially
had. No pretty boy here. Ultimately, my journey to Brooklyn was so traumatizing
that I had to drink another bottle of merlot with my roommate when I got
home---where she presented me with a gift certificate to another comic
shop. Everyone’s feeding my bad habits and none of my good ones. Daddy
needs a new guitar, people! Pool your resources! And no one gave me any
porn at all.
AND NOW…GRACE BECOMES A WIDOW
As always, a special edition of Will & Grace brought out the best in their
writers. Granted, this show is just about over and has been coasting for
the last two years, but even for the forced plot of Grace getting married
to Harry Connick Jr. (another gay guy, but that’s just a rumor) they managed
to make it funny. And for a child of the 80’s like me, the quoting of
Human League lyrics in a tender moment (and it actually worked) was icing
on the cake. Minor quibbles: neither of Grace’s sisters showed up and
none of Will’s family. Granted, Will’s parents are played by Blythe Danner
and Sidney Pollack, but you knew you were going to do this last year.
You could have planned for it.
WAIT AREN’T WE THE ONES SUPPOSED TO BE DRUNK TO BELIEVE THIS?
Ben Affleck is People’s Sexiest Man? Give me a fucking break. How hard
up are we that this is the case? I mean what happened to that glut of
young actors a few years ago? Oh, yeah, they all turned out to be just
a flashes in the pan. Hey, it could be worse. If his career had gone better,
this could be Freddie Prinze Jr. You know I’m right.
OUT LIKE FLINT
Damn, James Coburn died. Damn. And you know the roll of the dead at this
year’s Oscars is going to be pretty fucking long at the rate they’re dropping.
You know the guy who played Dr. Smith on Lost In Space died too, right?
Oh, the pain, the pain!
YOU MADE YOUR BED, NOW SLEEP WITH HIM IN IT
So I’m sitting in front of a couple and I’m listening to a woman suffer
though what every man who’s ever chosen looks over brains has to go through:
stupid conclusions from the person you’re sleeping with. This moron, who
was admittedly better looking than she was, was pontificating on how married
men engage in aggressive sports, like boxing or martial arts, while single
guys like to play golf. Listening to her trying to get him to explain
why this was the case (when it’s actually the opposite) had to be some
of the best comedy I’ve heard in a long time, because, like an idiot,
he has no idea why he thinks 2+2=5. It just does in his dim little mind.
In the end, she began to force logic in to fill the gaps (actually it
was illogic). You just know she was telling herself over and over again
in her mind, “He’s nice to me and he’s cute. He’s nice to me and he’s
cute. I can deal with the rest.” Oh, no you can’t, honey. Eventually
it will become too much and like me, you’ll find yourself getting drunk
at dinner to kill that headache his annoying talking is causing.
11/11/02
“I believe in luck: How else can you explain the success of those you
don’t like?” --- Jean Cocteau
COOL AS ICE
8 Mile opens at number one cementing Eminem as this generation’s version
of Elvis, a comparison that neither he nor the movie ignores (he raps
about it on his album, while he’s continually referred to as “Elvis” throughout
the movie). But if you’re looking for an original movie, look elsewhere.
It’s your classic “I’m gonna make it” story. When the film opens with
Eminem choking onstage in a rap battle, you’d have to be an idiot not
to know exactly what’s going to happen in the last five minutes (rematch,
perhaps?). Also, this is reportedly based on the life of Eminem. I’m old,
so I wouldn’t know, but I remember they once said that about Prince and
Purple Rain and it was total bullshit. First of all, I sincerely doubt
that Eminem’s mother looks like Kim Basinger, who plays his total white
trash mom. We see her for the first time boning a guy Eminem’s character
went to high school with---then handing her son a beer to help ease the
shock of it. Needless to say, it ain’t rated “G”. Also along for the ride
are Brittney Murphy as his love interest, a would-be model (only in the
movies) and Mekhi Pfeiffer, his best friend who realizes the White MC
is their ticket out of the hell that is this depiction of Detroit. The
most notable thing about this film, however, is not how Curtis Hanson
turns in a solid variation of an old story, but that it actually has a
sex scene! A real, honest-to-god sex scene, and by that I mean, no music,
no quick cuts to clutching fists, and no Calvin Klein-perfume-commercial-type
of cinematography. Just a straight-up sex scene between Eminem and Brittney
Murphy (which had been rehearsed offscreen, if you know what I’m saying)
in a dirty factory, complete with the dirty details of real sex (she uses
her saliva as lubricant). Whoever thought the long lost sex scene would
make a comeback in a movie like this?
IT’S LIKE FEEDING A STRAY ANIMAL
The Santa Clause 2 is down to number two and don’t people realize that
these type of results will only encourage more Tim Allen movies!?! He’s
like the new Chevy Chase, an unfunny man whose very name indicates a bad
movie, yet he never seems to stop working.
LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES
The Ring is down to number three and very quickly creeping up on $100M
and do you think maybe Neve Campbell should call Naomi Watts and advise
her to choose her next few roles very carefully? Horror queen currency
is perhaps the most fleeting. “And whatever you do, girlfriend, no
movies with any cast members of Friends…”
ACTUALLY, HIS EXCUSE FOR THAT WAS FUNNIER THAN THIS MOVIE
I Spy is down to number four followed by jackass The Movie at number five
and it’s gotta be a dose of reality for Eddie Murphy to be outgrossed
by a movie where guys shove things up their asses for a laugh (there’s
a transvestite hooker joke in there somewhere, but I’ll leave it to you
to make it).
PROOF THAT INDIE FILM IS TRULY DEAD
My Big Fat Greek Wedding holds at number six and now this fucking thing
is creeping up on $200M. Oh, the humanity!
SORRY, JULIANNA, BUT YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE
Also holding at number seven is Sweet Home Alabama, followed by Ghost
Ship (I keep accidentally typing “Ghost Shit”---calling Dr. Freud) at
number eight.
THE ONE MAN WHO TRULY DOES NOT LOVE BLONDES
Opening at number nine is Femme Fatale, starring Rebecca Romijn-Stamos,
and the last thing any budding starlet needs to do is to make a movie
with Brian DePalma, the Hitchcock rip-off artist who continuously cast
his own wife (Nancy Allen) as a whore in film after film. Ladies, he doesn’t
like you. He also doesn’t care too much for what we like to call plot,
usually leaving holes big enough to drive a truck through. I think it’s
somehow fitting that this movie debuted the same week as a remake of probably
his best film, Carrie, appeared on TV (though there’s a place in my heart
for The Fury). Antonio Banderas continues to prove that any good movies
he’s made were flukes and that he can no more pick a good script than
Eddie Murphy. Dude, you must have Amodolvar’s phone number somewhere.
Call the man and beg him for a job. But the funniest aspect about all
this is how Rebecca Romijn-Stamos mentioned in an interview in Elle how
the lesbian scene in this movie didn’t bother her because she’d messed
around with women earlier in her modeling career. Since then she’s been
backpedaling on that statement like a clown on a unicycle. Big mistake
because that was the closest she’s ever come to demonstrating an actual
personality. Again, Neve Campbell needs to make a call: “Making out
with a woman in a movie is good for your career. Just avoid any cast member
of Friends.”
MORE PROOF WHY INDIE FILM NEEDS TO DIE
Finally, closing out the top ten and going away until the Independent
Film Awards try to convince people this is some sort of artistic accomplishment
by nominating it for multiple awards is Punch Drunk Love.
DID I MENTION YOU’RE ALL STILL A BUNCH OF CHEAP-NO-MAGAZINE-BUYING BASTARDS?
Now that the new issue of CMJ: New Music Monthly is coming out and you
cheap-no-magazine-buying-bastards have an excuse, I’ll give you my reviews
from the October Issue. First up is Rules of Attraction: Remember how
in college we told ourselves that those beautiful rich people having lots
of sex and partying were actually miserable inside? Well, the surprisingly
entertaining Rules of Attraction pretty much confirms that rationalization
for all the nights in your dorm room alone on the internet. Based on one
of Bret Eaton Ellis’s series of horrible books about miserable people
of privilege (the college the Andrew McCarthy attended in Less Than Zero
is the setting of this one), we follow the intersecting lives of three
college students as they drink, drug and party, but all the while sadly
looking for love. Director Roger Avary (better known as Quentin Tarantino’s
co-writer on Pulp Fiction) gives this movie a heart and soul the book
never had and unlike so many directors, has some substance behind his
stylistic flourishes. Most notable among these is a sequence at the beginning
that sets up the characters, wherein we follow one down a road, then at
the climax of the scene (usually that character’s humiliation), the scene
literally runs backwards until the beginning where we then follow another
character and then another. And then the whole film jumps back months
to see what led up that that particular night and the decisions made therein.
There’s also an hysterical five-minute sex & drugs tour of Europe on digital
video with Kip Pardue (that’s going to be released full-length) and a
split screen that depicts a tender encounter between James van der Beek
and the always wonderful, Shannyn Sossamon. van der Beek may have given
himself a life beyond Dawson with his portrayal of Sean Bateman (brother
to Patrick Bateman, the lead character of American Psycho). Like Richard
Gere before him, he seems to learned that his callow good looks and limited
range are best suited to playing narcissists who discover themselves---only
here he sadly realizes there’s not too much of him to discover.
OKAY MAYBE THERE’S HOPE FOR INDIE FILM STILL
The other film you cheap-no-magazine buying bastards didn’t read about
was Tully, and normally the description “character driven” is synonymous
with “plotless” not to mention “boring as hell” but in writer/director
Hilary Birmingham’s feature debut, (based on the award winning short story
“What Happened To Tully”) is the rare exception to this rule. A bit predictable
in some spots (gee, I wonder if skank magnet Tully will run from real
love with a nice girl?), it is actually filled with rich, heartfelt performances
(even with his accent coming and going, Anson Mount gives a career establishing
performance. trying to wipe being Britney Spears’s love interest in Crossroads
off his resume) and an intelligent script that understands we don’t need
every single thing spelled out to us. If you don’t need a bang a second
(and god knows I usually do), it’s well worth your time. It’s also one
of those rare films that understands that just because someone speaks
with a twang, it doesn’t mean that they’re idiots (but a Boston accent
is always the sign of an asshole).
NAH, INDIE FILMS SUCK
And the final film you cheap-no-magazine buying bastards didn’t read about
was Love In The Time Of Money. Sporting an all-star indie cast (Adrian
Grenier, Rosario Dawson, Michael Imperioli and the ubiquitous Steve Buscemi),
it’s the latest adaptation of the old “ring” story where we follow one
person, then the person they encounter, then on to the next, until we’re
back to our original character. In this case, the common bond isn’t a
passing ring or currency (as in the much superior 20 Bucks---and 20 Bucks
wasn’t all that great), but sex. There was a porn film twenty years ago
based on the same idea called Ring of Desire and it wasn’t until seeing
this that I realized just how good that film was (it too sported a large
all-star porn cast). The viewpoint of sex here is so dull and relentlessly
bleak, I can’t believe it’s not French. And being shot on digital video
doesn’t help any. Supposedly, the director wanted it to be this way, to
communicate some pretentious idea that love cannot coexist with financial
prosperity, which I guess means only the poor can have really hot sex.
Well, I’m poor and somehow I don’t think Ben Affleck envies me right now.
Trust me: JLo booty on three hundred thread count sheets is better than
JLo booty on polyester sheets. No fabric burn on anyone’s knees. Or back.
Or ass. Or breasts. Or…
SEX, RACE, MONEY & FAME 101 WITH PROFESSOR A. GEEK
Speaking of Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck, I watched the “Making of The
Video” for her new song “Jenny On The Block” and when this woman falls
from grace, it’s going to be ugly. Divas don’t fare well when no longer
the main focus of the public (can you say “Whitney?” how about “Mariah?”)
and all her complaints about the press amounts to a “methinks she doth
protest too much” (Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2, Line 230---who’s the muthafuckin’
English Major!?!). She also protests too much about being just another
homegirl from The Bronx. Listen, if you really were, you wouldn’t have
to talk about it all the time. And isn’t this the third or fourth song
where she goes on about this? And while Puffy may no have no real musical
talent, but he knows how to take it from people who do. He’s not around
any more, so expect this album’s success to reflect it. And Ben Affleck.
Engaged? Dude, there’s a reason you’re not supposed to date until being
out of rehab for at least a year. That way you don’t fall for the first
piece of hot booty that comes your way. You know Gwyneth didn’t put on
him what JLo’s puttin’ on him. Sigh. He’s so whipped he’s whupped. And
what does she see in him? Well, aside from finally being an equal, he’s
an equal who’s not going to take her to places where she might get shot.
Also, there’s the sad truth of the cultural aspect. I can’t tell you how
many times I’ve had Irish, French, Jewish and Asian women tell me they
couldn’t marry one of their own because eventually he’s going to expect
her to be subservient to him, no matter how open minded he acted. I think
it’s the same with JLo. Even though she usually had more money, her Latin
husbands probably expected a certain amount “I’m the man, you’re the woman”
behavior from her. Even Puffy would have wanted her to stay home eventually.
But with the White Boy, however, he’s got no expectations this way because
she’s coming from a different culture. They’re so happy to have something
exotic, they don’t make any of the usual demands they would of a Muffy
or a Buffy. Yeah, she won’t be able to reminisce with him about growing
up on grandma’s rice and beans, or what clubs in the Bronx she went to
as a teenager, but again, no one’s going to be shooting at her and he
has no need to prove how manly he is to his friends at her expense. Just
dating a Puerto Rican woman is enough to knock the boys at Miramax on
their asses (Matt Damon’s dating of Penelope Cruz doesn’t count because
Spaniards are Europeans, she ain’t got that booty and she looks like a
duck). And do I have to mention that it probably won’t last?
IT’S STILL NOT MY KERMIT, THOUGH
How much do I love that Verizon commercial where the curly-haired woman
---with what I think is an English accent---wants to say “Hi, my name
is Jen, now be a good little boy and come over here and sit on momma’s
lap” in Italian? Almost as much as I love that MasterCard commercial
with the Muppets in New York. And of course, anything said by Animal is
the icing on the cake. “Drive fast!”
NEXT: DRUMS
Okay, so why is there a bass in my closet? Because fucking Musician’s
Friend gave me $1200 in credit that’s why. And because my guitar teacher
said it would help my playing if I learned how to play the bass as well.
Also, I’m Black and there’s a law that says a brutha must learn bass if
he picks up a guitar. Needless to say, the first thing I did was try to
figure out how to play Chic’s “Good Times”---which is sampled for “Rapper’s
Delight” and was ripped off by Queen for “Another One Bites The Dust.”
Speaking of my instructor, should I have paid him for the time spent teaching
me “867-5309 (Jenny)?” I mean it was one of the first times I’d already
learned a song on my own. Granted, he taught me how to play it better,
but I had to listen to crap about playing it for a girl named Jennifer.
Ewww. I’m not 15. I just have 15 year old’s comic book collection. There’s
a difference.
FILE IT UNDER “NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.”
So a recent study indicates that poor self-image leads to a career in
art. Well, fucking DUH! When you’re tall, good-looking and doing models
two at a time, you really don’t have much motivation to learn to play
the guitar, or paint, or write fucking poetry. I can’t believe someone
paid for that. This is why we can’t find a cure for the common cold, people.
This is right up there with that study which discovered chicken soup was
actually good for you when sick.
IT’S THE TIME/OF THE SEASON…
The seasons have turned and while I will miss the braless-sweat-soaked-tank-tops,
it’s now time for something I love even more: calf-high black leather
boots (yes, mistress, I’ve been bad. So very bad…). They’re everywhere
and on wondrous occasions, worn with a short skirt. Short leather skirts
if you’re really lucky.
HELL, EVEN “BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER” IS BETTER
Bohemian Rhapsody best rock song? Listen, I love Queen, but there is no
song better written than “In My Life” period. Hell, Queen doesn’t even
make the top ten. Top twenty even . I mean, half of those would be Beatles
songs: In My Life, Let It Be, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Yesterday,
Nowhere Man, Here Comes The Sun, Eleanor Rigby, A Day In The Life, All
You Need Is Love, Hey Jude, The Long And Winding Road and Something. Okay,
so that’s twelve, but you get the idea. Then we have The Rolling Stones,
Elton John, David Bowie and dozen or so more before I’d even think about
Queen.
REAL SLEAZY WORLD
Every year (or twice a year as it now seems) I try to watch at least the
opening episode of The Real World, and every year since the beginning
I recoil in disgust at the losers they manage to get. This year was no
different. At least they’re no longer pretending it’s not about looks.
I don’t think there’s one person on the current show with a bodyfat level
over four percent. Do you know how hard you have to look to find a straight
man with a body like that? And the women combined wouldn’t add up to a
hundred pounds. At least they avoid the need to have the Black Guy be
either a “thug” or a “playa” and actually got someone somewhat smart and
sensitive. I can only imagine he slipped in under radar and next time
it will just flat out be some guy from jail. Also missing is the Angry
Black Girl who has apparently never met a White person in her lifetime
to get into lots of screaming fights with everyone. This time they’re
light-skinned, half-black, half-Italian girls. And everyone, with the
exception of the Sensitive Black Guy and the Creepy White Guy is a skank.
Complete and utter skank. I don’t want to think of the diseases in the
obligatory hot tub and can only hope the heat will kill them.
11/4/2002
“I have so much to do that I am going to bed.” --- Savoyard proverb
WHAT NEXT? HUNTERS CAPPING RUDOLPH?
Opening in the top slot to no one’s surprise is The Santa Clause 2, a
sequel that took so long to make that we were deluded into thinking it
would never happen. Remember this lesson, children: evil never rests.
Aside from my general dislike of Tim Allen for becoming rich and famous
for being funny when he’s anything but, I hated the first Santa Clause
movie because it’s all set into motion when Santa dies. How the fuck can
you make a holiday movie whose catalyst is the death of Santa Claus!?!
It really didn’t matter what came after that, because I was still with
the dead Santa (but in case you’re wondering, it sucked). Now we have
the sequel, but ten years later, I’m still with the dead Santa, so it
doesn’t really matter what goes on here (but considering it’s Tim Allen,
I’m sure it sucks).
SOMEWHERE YAHOO SERIOUS IS WONDERING WHAT HE DID WRONG
The Ring holds at number two and yet another Australian is becoming a
star here. First she got critical reviews for Mulholland Drive and now
she has a hit movie that cost relatively little and is succeeding by word
of mouth (not that they didn’t advertise the shit out of it). And while
I have no interest in seeing either film, she gets special props from
me for banging Heath Ledger, who’s a decade younger than she is. I’ve
always supported that type of hook-up.
IT COULD HAVE BEEN WORSE---COSBY COULD HAVE BEEN IN IT
I Spy opens at number three and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen
a movie so totally lacking a second act, but not so long since I’ve seen
an Eddie Murphy so totally lacking in laughs. Maybe he should stick to
making those dumb-ass family films if this and The Adventures of Pluto
Nash are the best he can do (I can hear the scripts for Dolittle 3 and
Nutty Professor 3 being Xeroxed as we speak). Why in the world someone
thought this TV show (which I’ve never seen) was worth remaking is beyond
me. It was considered somewhat edgy in it’s day, due not just to the interracial
makeup of the team (Robert Culp and Bill Cosby back before he became a
sanctimonious prick), but because the Black guy was the openly superior
part of the partnership (as the series progressed, Culp began to emulate
Cosby). This type of situation worked for Eddie Murphy twenty years ago
so that may have been his attraction to it, but judging by the way everyone
involved just sleepwalks through this; it’s obviously an exercise in just
general greed. The closest thing that comes to a laugh is the scene where
Eddie tries to help the odious Owen Wilson (please, please, please just
stick to writing) seduce Famke Janssen (who managed to avoid the disaster
of Men In Black 2, only to be trapped by this) by feeding him the lyrics
of “Sexual Healing” through an earpiece.
THE TRUE MEANING OF JACKASS HAS YET TO BE REALIZED
jackass: the movie drops down to number four and I’d love to see these
guys in a couple of years when their bodies start sending them the bill
for the shit they’re doing now. It ain’t gonna be pretty.
ETC.,
Dropping to number five is Ghost Ship, followed by My Big Fat Greek Wedding
at number six and Sweet Home Alabama at number seven.
THE FIRST REFUGE OF A DESPERATE ACCOUNTANT
Punch Drunk Love is down to number eight and how much am I enjoying that
Red Dragon is already down to number nine, outgrossed $30M by Sweet Home
Alabama which only opened a week earlier and cost half as much? Needless
to say, the producers will try to counter with “worldwide grosses.” Listen,
falling back on overseas grosses is like saying your band is big in Japan.
It means you’ve failed at home, period.
THE END
Finally, Brown Sugar holds on a number ten, probably because so many Black
people would rather see Taye Diggs twice than see Eddie Murphy once. I
am one of them. Just not this particular movie. And did I mention the
lack of nice sex scenes between any of the gorgeous people who populate
this film?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BEING A NASTY BASTARD ISN’T SEXY?
Not breaking the top ten but generating loads of good press is the indie
film, Roger Dodger. Starring Campbell Scott (son of George C. Scott, and
if you wondered what the “C” stood for, well, now you know), it chronicles
a day in the life of a would-be ladies man who takes his 16-year-old nephew
out to teach him about women. What the nephew quickly learns is that his
uncle is a misanthrope whose mood had been worsened by being dumped by
the woman he was sleeping with---who was also his boss (played by Isabella
Rossellini). Despite the good performances and refreshingly unsympathetic
ending (if you’re hoping for a Spielberg-like scene of redemption for
him where he realizes the errors of his ways and becomes a new man, dream
on), the end result is like spending a night drinking with an asshole.
Writer/director Dylan Kidd was maybe a little too successful in conveying
the atmosphere of smoky bars (all the way down to the muted thud of annoying
music in the background). I had a headache and could almost imagine the
smell of smoke in my clothing by the time it ended and had overwhelming
distaste for humanity. Oh, wait. I came in with that last one. In fact,
perhaps the most amusing part about it for me was recognizing the technique
of reading people and breaking them down to their basic components for
your own amusement. But I don’t do that anymore. I swear. Campbell Scott
has always been an underrated actor (who I think lives somewhere in my
neighborhood, as I saw him once at the Food Emporium), perhaps a bit too
conventionally good looking to succeed in the indie arena he’s chosen
to make his milieu. This should force even those Steven Buscemi-loving
muthafuckas to pay more attention to him now, not to mention giving Jennifer
Beals and Elizabeth Berkley new leases on life.
MY FAVORITE SHOT IS THE ONE WITH THE LITTLE GIRL IN BACK
I first heard that “Breathe” song in the Mitsubishi car video awhile ago
when I first saw the year-old video (it came out in Europe in 2001). If
you’re upset about the commercialization of it, don’t be. When left to
their own devices, Telepopmusik (the group behind the song) were a disaster.
Their video for the song consists of a pool surrounded by models and beautiful
children---and one skinny ugly guy who seems to hate it all. When he kills
a butterfly, one of the children decides she’s had enough and with the
approval of her model-mom, she poisons him. End of video. I kid you not.
Yeah, they needed this car commercial something bad. And it’s still a
nice song.
MORE OBSCURE SATURDAY MORNING SHOWS TO COME…
So, in my continuing attempts at adulthood (as I slip slowly into middle-age)
I learned to make a new dish: baked salmon. Fearful of seafood, thanks
to its detrimental effects on those around me (yes, roommate, I’m looking
at you), I’ve avoided making it part of my repertoire, but longing to
complete the quartet (I’ve already got beef, chicken and pork dishes)
I finally broke down. My friend, Jason of Star Command, was ecstatic,
as he’s been trying to get me to leave red meat for awhile now. I call
him Jason of Star Command because we have a running joke that we’ll one
day adapt that into a major motion picture (and Jason was an offshoot
of what show? Yes, Space Academy). At least once a day there’s a “We’ll
have to put that in Jason of Star Command,” joke. In any case, I found
a recipe for Baked Salmon with Dill Mustard Sauce online and he shared
with me one for Roasted Asparagus. I made them Friday night for Standard
Pretty Girl Name. Normally, Miss Pretty Boy would join us, but she’s a
little busy these days (filling in for her was my own Actress Roommate).
It came out well, though it’s been a long time since I’ve set off the
smoke detectors in my own home (too much olive oil on the asparagus).
Also, I used salmon steak instead of fillets. It was all washed down by
two bottles of white wine and followed with a nice Applesauce Carrot cake
from The Little Pie Company. Now that I know how to make it, the next
time will be for actual booty. Or because I’m bored. The two coincide
so much I really can’t tell them apart any more.
MORE THEE-ATE-TUH
Also on the night of my big dinner experiment, was seeing my Actress Roommate’s
show: The Tragedy of Frankenstein. The plot is self-explanatory, but what’s
missing is the fact that the writer/director has some god issues that
he’s working out and using the classic story to do so (bloody Catholics).
The actors and the story itself are fine (and I’m not just saying that
because I’m afraid my Actress Roommate will kill me in my sleep), it’s
just the use of a narrator who goes on incessantly about “God and man”
that is tired after a few minutes, and downright annoying as the play
goes on. And it was freaking cold in that theater. The actor who plays
The Creature (Frankenstein is the man; the monster never has a name) spends
most of the first act half naked and I felt so badly for him, I wanted
to go down and give him my jacket. Then again, great art is not accomplished
without great suffering. I don’t suffer to practice guitar and I suck
at it. He’ll be a better actor for this experience.
THE STORY YOU’RE ABOUT TO READ IS TRUE; THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGE ‘CAUSE
SHE’S A DAUGHTER OF ABRAHAM
I have to admit I’m a little interested by this whole Winona Ryder trial.
I tried to avoid it, but you read one article, which leads to another
and then you find yourself trying to figure out just why they’re so obsessed
with putting some dumb little actress in jail for trying to rip-off and
overpriced store. And if you’re an overpriced store who likes celebrities,
why would you press charges against one? But the main reason is because
it’s being revealed just how fucking nutty Winona Ryder really is. She
did a brief stay in a nuthouse, but perhaps it wasn’t long enough. The
part that sucked me in was when they described how she got blood on the
clothing she was stealing because she had a cut on her finger. She was
walking around Saks sucking on a bloody finger and shoving shit in her
bag. Picture that for a minute and realize just how fucking insane she
really is. This like Gene Tierney crazy. And let’s not forget she continually
wears the designer she was stealing to court everyday (especially the
see-thru stuff for some reason). Marc Jacobs must be wondering if this
is good or bad. I’m hoping she’ll take the stand so the prosecuting attorney
can ask, “If you’re not crazy, Miss Horowitz---excuse me, I mean Miss
Ryder---if you’re not crazy, why do you fuck so many musicians? I mean,
only groupies fuck them more than you do.”
THIS SPEECH IS MY RECITAL/I THINK IT’S VERY VITAL…
Jam Master Jay is dead. Damn. Now, I’ll tell you honestly, I could give a shit
about the deaths of Tupac, Biggie and even Kurt Cobain, but this one, this one
hurt. A major part of my adolescence died in Queens and that shouldn’t happen
to anyone. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: leave the ‘hood and those
people behind once you make it. Country music stars don’t stay in trailer parks
and hang out with white trash after they make it (or at least the white trash
they’re not related to), so why do bruthas think it’s some fucking badge of
honor to stay at 145th & Lenox when their album goes platinum? I don’t care
if it’s a middle class neighborhood. You’re not middle class any more, so leave.
I kept reading in the paper about how all the people in Hollis were proud of
how he stayed. Please. You cannot have a million dollars in the bank and stand
in line at a bodega right next to someone who doesn’t have shit. He will not
like you for it. In fact, he will hate you for it. Yeah, as it turns out he
owed people money, but it’s still a lot harder for them to collect when they
have to drive out to your Long Island beachhouse or Jersey mansion to get you.
This fool who shot him probably got there on the “F”. Sigh. Needless to say,
they’re running the Run DMC Behind The Music again. I can’t watch it, ‘cause
you know it now joins TLC and Milli Vanilli with the “amended ending of death.”
I’ll just listen to “Rockbox” again. It’s always been my favorite Run DMC track.
“…’cause Calvin Klein’s no friend of mind/Don’t want nobody’s name on my
behind/Lee on my legs/Sneaker on my feet/D by my side and Jay with the beat…”