SEPTEMBER '04 ARCHIVE

9/27/04

“A man who exposes himself when he is intoxicated has not the art of getting drunk.” --- Samuel Johnson

DO NOT ADJUST YOUR TV SETS…

The Forgotten opens at number one and, as always, I don’t do the scary. But it was more difficult this time because I was intrigued by the trailer, which showed the ceiling being ripped away and people being yanked into the sky. That seemed interesting. But by the same token, to have such a fantastic twist requires the utmost skill for it not to come across as just plain stupid. M. Night Shyamalan can do it on one of his better days, but even those days are few and far between. And, quite frankly, to reveal in the commercials that there is a supernatural resolution kills the suspense somewhat, no? This is yet another movie that forty years ago might have been a half-decent episode of The Outer Limits (just like virtually every film M. Night Shyamalan has made). Sorry, but if you go beyond 45 minutes with these types of outlandish ideas, then it just gets stupid unless you’re very, very good or simply choose to take it in the direction of satire, like say, Rosemary’s Baby. This doesn’t look either very good or very funny (well, not deliberately anyway). Another thing I’m noticing about serious indie actors like Julianne Moore is, when they go mainstream, the movie usually sucks because they’re so obviously doing it for the money. Think about it. Though I enjoyed Rules of Attraction, I won’t pretend it was that good. And Julianne in Evolution and Hannibal goes without saying. Crap, crap, crap.

EXCUSES, EXCUSES, EXCUSES

Sky Captain & The World of Tomorrow is down to number two and already the Blade Runner type of rationalizations have begun amongst the geek faithful. In case you’ve forgotten, in the twenty years since its release, but Blade Runner has become some type of classic, when in fact, it was great looking, but poorly told. All these fucking fanboys who scream about how much better the non-narrated version is, forget that, without seeing the previous version with the narration you wouldn’t know what the fuck was going on. After all, it’s not like you can make yourself forget all the gaps it filled. And fuck what Ridley “It’s All About The Pictures” Scott says. Dekker was not a replicant. For him to be a replicant kills the emotional resonance of him going off with Sean Young at the end. Now it’s just “robots in love.” A high-tech Heartbeeps. One idiot actually tried to argue the point of view that the style so took precedence in the film it became substance. Bullshit. Either you’re telling a story or you’re not. Blade Runner didn’t tell its story well enough and now Sky Captain barely tells a story at all, but you can’t tell a geek that. He sees some sort of Wizard of Oz allegory alongside another for man versus machine. Sigh. You know, pussy clears your mind of these bullshit intellectual conceits.

CUTTING OFF MY DICK TO SPITE MY BALLS

Mr. 3000 is down to number three and I’m somewhat enjoying the failure of this, not just because it’s evil product from Disney, but also because if it succeeded I’d be a bigger moron than usual. See, this was directed by Charles Stone III, whom I met years and years ago when a mutual friend arranged for me to write a Rock The Vote Spot for MTV. He was the director and it starred Chuck D. Because of this, I wound up invited to an MTV Rock The Vote party where the first thing I saw was a drunk off her ass Sheryl Crowe essentially being carried out by her friends (it was only 6:30). Now, I bear Charles Stone no ill will. He seemed to be a nice guy and I’ve actually enjoyed his success (Drumline, Paid In Full and the original “Wassup?” Budweiser commercial) because it meant that I had once worked with somebody. But I’m enjoying this misstep because that mutual friend has now become a former friend and when he called me up in the spring for what I assume was a chance to work for a commercial production company Charles Stone is starting up, I never bothered to call him back. Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But I finally understand why guys would rather keep working for their carpet company than get back together with their former bandmates on Bands Reunited. To look in that muthafucka’s face every day or for every job and know that I’m only there because of him (not to mention take orders from him) would just have been too much for me. I’m sorry, but I just could not do that. Suddenly my need to be in therapy becomes clear, huh?

IT’S DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN

First Daughter opens at number four and yes, you did see this movie before. It was called Chasing Liberty and it starred Mandy Moore as the President’s daughter looking to get out and have some fun and wound up falling for an undercover Secret Service Agent (but in that one he strangely had an English accent). In this one she’s less of a party girl and only wants to go to college and quite frankly everyone is less attractive (but just as tall with both Katie Holmes and Mandy Moore clearing 5’9” and Marc Blucas and Matthew Goode are 6’2”). I mean you’ve exchanged Gregory Harrison as President for Michael Keaton (do you need another sign your career is over?) and while Katie Holmes isn’t ugly (and has that whole skinny girl with boobs thing going on) she tends to talk like she just had a stroke, with half her face remaining perfectly still. And while I’ll never see either film, I have to say that “on paper” Chasing Liberty seems to have the advantage, because they at least had the sense to rip off Roman Holiday, whereas this is an “original” story (it was either a Nixon or Ford daughter that did fall for a Secret Service agent, but apparently no one wants to tell that story). Please. Let me take a guess: she finds out he’s actually a Secret Service agent, but it’s just before he was going to tell her because he’s also fallen for her. She feels hurt and betrayed. The Secret Service Agent’s career is only the line, but he doesn’t care, oh no! And in a face-to-face with The President he tells him that. The President is so moved by this man in his mid-20’s who’s been boning his 18-year-old daughter that he tells her maybe she should give him another chance, and arranges for just that occurrence. Am I getting warm?

ONE OUT OF FOUR BLACK MEN IS IN JAIL YET THIS IDIOT RUNS FREE

Resident Evil: Apocalypse is down to number five and the most horrific thing about this movie is the presence of ghetto comedian, Mike Epps. Next to Eddie Griffin, you will not find a more tired, unfunny comedian on this earth. This guy is essentially the sweat off the balls of the most lame caricature of a Black man. Needless to say, he does the same overdone, clichéd shit here and if he had an ounce of self-respect he would’ve refused it, but the key word there is “if.” Of course, if there were any justice at all, his character would die a horrible, miserable death, but there isn’t one, so instead it’s perennial supporting pretty girl, Sandrine Holt (if you ever saw the lame TV version of John Woo’s Once A Thief, that’s her) who gets munched to death by a group of zombie school children. Like co-star, Sienna Guillory, she also has a lovely English accent needless kept under wraps.

AND THAT COP’S NAME IS ROD LANCE!

Cellular is down to number six and remember what I said about indie people doing bad mainstream films? William H. Macy, we’re talking about you too. And to give you an idea of just how stupid this is, in real life a man recently walked into a police station talking to his friend who was fugitive (one of the many wife killers). The cops just overheard him say, “Turn yourself in,” and they were all over him. But in the universe of bad writing, cops are lazy, stupid and ineffectual, thus leaving justice to “One Lone Rebel Cop” whose sense of justice won’t let him be.

WHORES, ALL OF THEM

Wimbledon is down to number seven and also sleepwalking through a movie to earn a paycheck is Sam Neil as Kirsten Dunst’s father, who strangely has a southern accent while she does not. Just as well. It would have been embarrassing for the Australian guy to do a better southern accent than the American. Not that Neil does that either. Sometimes he either forgets to do it or simply realized this movie was too lame to warrant such attention to detail. Jon Favereau also got a paycheck and a free trip to England to phone in a performance as---get this---a soulless agent. Whoa! Never seen that before!

SO, WHAT’S THE SEQUEL? RAY OF THE DEAD?

Opening at number eight is Shaun of the Dead and it gets points for the title alone. But if there’s anything I have less interest in than horror, it’s a horror comedy, so I won’t see this either. I mean, it’s just a one joke premise: slacker versus zombies. Unless some seriously satiric writing is going on, it will probably wear out its welcome quickly. And despite Monty Python and Hugh Grant, there actually is a large gulf between English and American humor (we make far less jokes about the ass and anything sodomy related), so I might not get it no matter what. I mean, witness my blank stare at Fawlty Towers and Mr. Bean, by which people swear.

FINALLY, IT’S OVER

Finally, Without A Paddle and Hero close out the top ten at nine and ten, respectively.

THANKS FOR THE MAMMARIES

Death’s rampage continues with the death of Russ Meyer, king of the big-tit movies (Vixen, Supervixen, Beneath the Valley of The Ultravixens). And this was back when boobs had to be real! Faster Pussycat Kill Kill is, perhaps, his best film and a favorite of film geeks everywhere. Still his Beyond The Valley of the Dolls is notable for having a screenplay by Roger Ebert, proving he sucks on both sides of the screen. My favorite film, however, is a very underrated release called The Seven Minutes. I’m surprised it never had a resurgence, given it’s all about how a fifty-year old erotic book is used by a cynical politician as an election year issue.

THIS IS WHY PEOPLE HATE GEEKS AND RIGHTLY SO

So, what actually made more money than all the top ten movies combined was the release of Star Wars on DVD. But it wasn’t the real Star Wars. It was that “new edition” shit Lucas put out a few years ago with a lot of needless changes that made no one happy but him (though I admit, the final assault on the Death Star now makes sense). And it’s not even that, because he’s made more changes in the meantime. For example, the ghostly image of Anakin Skywalker from the end of Return of the Jedi has been replaced by Hayden Christiansen (why not just replace Alec Guiness with Ewan MacGregor, you fuckwit). And there were a bunch of other little things, but the one we hate most of all still looks as bad as ever, even though he says he updated that too. Yes, the scene where Han Solo and Greedo now “exchange” shots still looks stupid and continues to erode the very character of Han Solo. He’s a goddamn gunfighter, you moron! Why the hell would he wait for the bad guy to shoot first!?! What Lucas doesn’t seem to realize is that placing brand new, computer generated footage next to twenty-five year old footage only makes the old footage look worse, because you simply cannot give it the same resolution, no matter how much you clean it up (and they did clean it up well, I must admit). The hardcore tech geeks have also been complaining about the remixing of the musical score. Now, I’m the last person to notice these things, but they’re right. I heard these weird sounds coming out of the background and realized it was just violins cranked up waaaaaay too loud. What makes this worst of all is that it actually gives Lucas an excuse to go back and try it again. Sigh. But I will not be held down by this geek bastard. Yes, I did buy officially release----but only after I went on eBay and found someone selling bootleg DVD’s of the original trilogy (if you’re really hardcore, you can look for guys using the CAV laserdiscs for the best quality possible but I wasn’t coughing up $100 for that)! This works for me because I get the Stars Wars I want on DVD and GEORGE LUCAS GETS JACK SHIT FOR IT! But in this case I’m actually trying to make a statement about art. Seriously. Even Spielberg made the original version of E.T. available after he made his bullshit alterations, but not this asshole.

GARDEN STATE, PART 2

So, Baby Tour ’04 continues with my return to New Jersey to see not just one, but the two children of my good friend, Former Cheerleader & Dancer, who has now become a “Hot Mom.” After last week’s realization of travel and stress, I made sure to get a good night’s sleep before embarking on, yes, the ferry! I have to admit, it was a lovely ride. It was Saturday and the weather was beautiful. I had my discman, a seat on the upper deck. We went down the east side of Manhattan, stopped at Wall Street and then out past Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Sitting near me on the top deck was an attractive, slim girl in a low-waisted sarong and a wifebeater, while on the other side of me was some overaged frat boy, and if he had stared at her any harder he would have burned a hole right through me. Waiting for me at the dock (in the Escalade, currently in more rap songs than the word “bitch”) was Former Cheerleader & Dancer and her adorable daughter (a Future Cheerleader & Dancer, no doubt) who was looking forward to seeing “Bince” (she can’t form “V’s” just yet) because he was the guy who’d gotten her, not just a stuffed super-dog, but super-horse as well. This time around it was a stuffed Superman (the baby girl got a little velour jumpsuit from Baby Gap, which was a little more JLo than I’d intended), but there was the mistake. She doesn’t like boy toys, you see. Nonetheless, I was still invited to the playroom where I was required to be Superman and we got all the other dolls and stuffed animals together to go for a walk. Only I was allowed. Mommy was banned. I was actually enjoying my time, but Former Cheerleader & Dancer felt the need to rescue me and we went for a little drive, taking the baby daughter but leaving the Future behind with daddy---but not without her telling him not to take his daughter for a ride in the Porsche (which I’m pretty sure he did anyway). We first visited her parent’s home, which is a very lovely place on the river, literally just across the river from Jon Bonjovi’s home. Dorothy, we’re not in the land of five digit salaries any longer. Needless to say, the river was filled with all sorts of luxury boats out on a nice Saturday afternoon and there was even a pair of swans. Mom and I bonded over childhood photos of Former Cheerleader & Dancer through all her phases of cheerleader and dancer (I got to see the slow transformation from brunette to blonde), not to mention our disappointment over Miss Alabama winning Miss USA earlier that week (she had a lazy eye). Mom offered to keep the baby, so Former Cheerleader & Dancer and I went into Red Bank, best known as the town of Kevin Smith. And since I was there I had to visit his comic book store (forgive me, My Dealer). Aside from the props from all his movies and the merchandising from it, it’s pretty much just like every other comic book store I’ve been to, if not less. Sorry, but even as a fan, taking up at least a quarter of the floor space with life-sized figures of Bluntman and Chronic in a car is simply a waste. You could fill that with more back issues, toys etc. Maybe the money made from the store is incremental to him (while we ere there, French tourists came in) but if you love comics, you think you’d make a better fucking store for them. After that, Former Cheerleader & Dancer and I stopped at a coffee shop to chat for awhile. We then retrieved her baby daughter----but not before I got to see more pictures, including pictures of mom herself doing a number from Sweet Charity---and headed home. After struggling to get a few pictures to add to my baby files, I was then treated to what could best be described as a series of one-act improv’d plays by Future Cheerleader & Dancer. Her dressing room was a five-foot pink castle that had been erected in the center of the living room. She would go in, change and come out in different characters. You would get prompts (“Ask me why I’m sad”) and then she’d go off into the story behind the prompt. Somehow a change into s sequined top returned her to herself and I was taken back to the playroom, where Superman and his helper, Superhorse, resumed their task of gathering all the other toys for a walk. Things reached an impasse when Blue Bunny occupied the bathroom of Lisa The Horse’s castle and wouldn’t come out so everyone else could go in. Even Superman wasn’t allowed to throw him out. After that mom came and pulled me out for dinner. She remained to play alone while I ate dinner and talked with mom and dad. Not only did I get a reaccounting of a very creepy true life ghost story they’d been through (doors that locked on their own, symbols that reemerged after being painted over, lights shutting off) but a hysterical story of a guy who used to sleep with porn star Asia Carerra in high school (she’s from New Jersey and if you go to her website she talks about her miserable life there). Dad then bonded with me in a way second only letting another man shoot your gun or drive your car: he showed me his sealed copy of Daredevil #1. He also gave me his extra copy of Wolverine #1 (I have the paperback collection, but was actually missing the first issue) and Batman: Dark Knight Returns #1. Bear in mind, you don’t get a Cheerleader & Dancer being a geek. Dad is a real guy. Played football and everything. While Former Cheerleader & Dancer was taking care of the baby and dad and I were talking, the Future Cheerleader & Dancer came up from the playroom and vanished into the kitchen. At one point she came out requesting that the dog be put on a leash. She came out again requesting that a packet of cheese be opened, but kept changing her story as to why. You can guess where this is leading. It seems she’d decided she wanted to wash the dog, but for this the dog needed to restrained and dirty, hence the leash and cheese. She even changed for the task, putting on an outfit that had pockets with toy brushes and a toy hair dryer. After this she switched to art mode, which is how I got the three portraits of myself now on my refrigerator. Finally, I had to catch the train back (the last ferry was a 7:00, which was too bad, because I’m sure the city looked amazing at night from the river), so Former Cheerleader & Dancer and Future Cheerleader & Dancer and I piled into the Escalade once more and big pimped through Red Bank one final time. And the baby tour continues…where will I end up next?

PEOPLE NEVER STOP BEING STUPID

Speaking of beauty pageants, it used to be my hobby to get drunk and watch them, because the insistence that it wasn’t an anachronism never ceased to amuse me. Yeah, nothing says feminism like high heels in a bikini. In any case, maybe if I were still more involved not only would I have tuned in for the Miss America Pageant this week (if I don’t see the first five minutes, I don’t bother watching), I would have known that Miss New York of 2000 had a sex tape leak out. Sigh. If you know you’re going to be in the public eye, why the fuck are you making sex tapes!?! Ladies, I’m going to say this one more time: if you make a tape with your boyfriend, always get it. Always, always, always get it, because his only reason for making it is to show it to his buddies. “I just want it for when you’re not around,” is bullshit. “I want to show my friends you have no gag reflex and are really double jointed,” is the truth. But the good new is, she’s pretty attractive and it’s always nice when attractive women get nekked.

LOVE YOU…TO DEATH

To let you know the level of evil of my friends, despite my very vocal complaints of my battle of the bulge, Former Wild Child sent me a 9” cheesecake. What. The. Fuck? And just when I’d made some progress too. Sigh. Looks like we’ll have to try and continue the insanity of trying to swim every freaking day. And it’s not just swimming. I do sit ups and ride the bike for 20 minutes too. Not that my body shows even the slightest sign of it. I’m like those fat bastards you see jogging every day but not getting any thinner because they go home and eat a fucking cheese wheel. But in my case it’s a cheesecake. Even the horrendous inclusion of pecans in the crust can’t stop from eating it. What the fuck is up with people putting nuts into every goddamn thing!?! I can’t stand it!

FAMILIARITY DOTH BREED CONTEMPT

And to continue the efforts of my friends trying to kill me, Surrogate Sister is moving into my neighborhood. Sigh. I made my biological sister move back to Georgia because I felt Brooklyn was too close and now this one’s going to be three blocks away!?! I’m going to have buy and rent all my porn through the mail from now on. I can’t run into her in street or stepping out of the porn section of the video store with “Butt-Stuffing Angels 7” in my hands.

9/20/04

“The longer I live the more I see that I am never wrong about anything and all the time I have so humbly taken to verify my opinions have only wasted my time.” --- George Bernard Shaw

RAIDERS OF THE LOST SATURDAY AFTERNOON MATINEE

Sky Captain & The World of Tomorrow opens at number one and is a technological achievement… but that’s about it. Unlike Raiders of the Lost Ark and Star Wars, which also found inspiration in movies from that same time period, it does nothing more than emulate the past. It provides no post-modern spin, like Harrison Ford’s gently self-mocking performance or simply Spielberg’s obviously superior directorial skills. And while Raiders used old serials as inspiration, it didn’t dwell on them. Sky Captain, however, is all about recreating literally dozens of movies. Just off the top of my head it’s The Phantom Empire, Metropolis, Max Fleischer Superman cartoons, Lost Horizon, The Lost World, King Kong and whatever the hell movie they lifted that clip of Laurence Olivier from. Yes, one of the greatest actors of all time has been resurrected by computer as the bad guy in this, and maybe if had been done well it wouldn’t seem so…creepy. But the real question about this movie is, how dreamy does Jude Law look? Well, ladies (and a few gents) despite the hairline that disappeared soon after Gattaca, he looks good---when you can see him. The first half hour of this movie is 90% percent shadows. Atmosphere is one thing, but when you can barely make anything out, you’ve got a problem. And don’t think they didn’t know this. The footage you see in the commercials is deliberately brighter. And if you’re an Angelina Jolie fan, prepare to be disappointed. She has what amounts to little more than a cameo, and Bai Ling doesn’t fare much better, literally not saying a word. So, who’s in the movie the most? Actually, it’s Gwyneth Paltrow. Yep, it’s like paying to see a movie called Superman and getting mostly Lois Lane. So, not only is this guy an out of control geek, he’s an out of control geek with no fucking sense of priority.

AND KATHLEEN TURNER WOULD HAVE BEEN SLUMMING AS THE LOVE INTEREST

Mr. 3000 opens at number two and is Bernie Mac such a star that anyone anywhere thinks he can actually carry a film? Is The Bernie Mac show that big? I don’t think so. And poor, poor Angela Bassett. Has it come to this? First Halle Berry gets the role of Storm that should have been hers. Then Halle Berry gets the Oscar that should have been hers. Now she gets the role that should have been…Vivica Fox’s (while Vivica got a much-needed boost from Kill Bill). I have no intention of ever watching this film even on cable because it looks like another cookie-cutter product from the Evil House of Disney that they just plug stars into. Think about it and you’ll realize this could’ve, would’ve and should’ve been something Jim Belushi did ten years ago, back when people were deluded enough to think he could be a star. It would have been okay because it looks like crap and anything that slows him down is obviously a blow for the forces of good, but inflicted on someone like Bernie Mac, who really shouldn’t be in anything less than an R-rated film is a crime. Movies should let him cut loose, not slow him down. Most people don’t know this, but when he was doing stand-up, Bernie Mac’s catchphrase was “I ain’t scared of you, muthafucka.” Also, he had no control over this the way he does on The Bernie Mac Show. Guarantee you the next film will have him as a producer and co-writer and he’ll bitch about this one in all his interviews.

BECAUSE THEY AREN’T AFRAID OF A NIPPLE IN FRANCE---UNLESS IT’S GERMAN

Resident Evil: Apocalypse is down to number three and the one good thing I can say about this film is that having mostly European investors (the heavily accented cast is your first clue) means they didn’t pussy out on the ratings and get it downgraded to a “PG” and they even included a little nudity on the part of the leading lady, who had full-frontal nudity in the first one. Unfortunately, this is still a geek movie, based on a video game, so the concept of nudity in the name of sex is still unacceptable. And how would you have a sex scene in a movie about zombies? Listen, if you think you’re going to be dead before dawn and are surrounded by hot European women in mini-skirts with guns, nothing would be more important than gettin’ some pussy before you go. But also, the writer was English, so sex was really out of the question.

NOT SINCE PLAYERS HAS THERE BEEN SUCH A TENNIS MOVIE

Opening at number four is our second American Girl/English Man hook up of the week (Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow was the first) and if you’re surprised by one single development in this film, then you need to get out more (out to the movies, I mean), because this is as by-the-numbers as it gets. This means the film rests solely on the charms of its lead actors, which means it only gets half-way there. Sorry, but Kirsten Dunst (who must have hated that being in sports movie obligated her to actually wear a bra) can get very annoying very quickly. When she’s playing her hedonistic character as fun-loving and predatory she’s fine, but when the drama comes, she sinks like stone (and if you’re going to go braless at least stand up straight). Paul Bettany, fortunately, is the star on the film and he does as much as he can with the little he’s got. Even when the clichés are piling high and deep (yes, we get the celeb sports commentators constantly making sure we know that it’s incredibly unlikely that our hero will win, underdog that he is) he continues to struggle to make it somewhat interesting. It’s a shame this film lacked any depth and chooses to chase clichés, because anyone who genuinely likes tennis knows the people playing are much more interesting and complex than this. For example: if you believe for one second that anyone, anywhere who makes it to Wimbledon is going to put love before a game, you’re crazy. You don’t get to the top by being that freaking soft. When Kirsten Dunst accuses Paul Bettany of wanting to see her, not for love, but because he’s been winning since they’ve been having sex, you know she’s right, but the movie refuses to even hint that their hero has even the slightest heart of darkness, even when he destroys his best friend on the court (“Love means nothing,” is the best line in the movie, because it’s the one time more than one dimension is being used). And nothing is made of the decade difference in the ages of Bettany and Dunst. The idea that an aging tennis pro is somehow seeking his former youth and success in an upcoming star (even when he’s been very vocal about the loss of his youth and success) isn’t even touched upon. This is why this film barely qualifies as light fluff to watch on a rainy afternoon when you’re tired of watching a better sports film, like Bull Durham.

NOT COMING SOON: CELLUAR 2: NOW THERE’S A CAMERA

Cellular is down to number five and all I can think is that William H. Macy must have had a car payment due to be in this. After all, indie film may be fulfilling, but it doesn’t pay for your Lexus. Neither does doing that shit for David Mamet all the time, whom he’s known since college. This has already grossed five times more than Spartan, which was even more improbable. And Kim Basinger is obviously still suffering from the curse of winning Best Supporting Actress, from which even busty, blonde, former models seem to lack immunity. I mean, you understand when Marisa Tomei vanishes or why Marcia Gay Harden was doing TV a year after getting hers, but not someone like this.

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON WHAT GONG LI COULD GIVE US ALL

Without A Paddle is still hanging around at number six followed by Hero at number seven and Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung have played lovers before in In The Mood For Love, a.k.a., Where Sofia Coppola Got Everything For Lost In Translation. And yet again, we are denied the opportunity to see two really pretty people get it on (even in the deleted scene from In The Mood For Love, where they do have sex, it’s just the sounds---which is almost enough). But we do let a brief love scene with Tony and Zhang Ziyi wrapped up in red fabric, which isn’t bad. There is no greater crime than A-list actresses in Asia not doing nude scenes, ‘cause Maggie Cheung is essentially crazy and would have done it in a heartbeat by now.

IT MAKES THE MISSION IMPOSSIBLE MOVIES LOOK REALISTIC

Napoleon Dynamite is at number eight with Collateral at number nine and the original script is was set in Manhattan before Michael Mann changed it to LA. Jesus. And I thought it was stupid before. You can’t go five feet without seeing a couple of cops in Manhattan. How stupid would it have been to see a movie in NYC without ever seeing the police? Especially, post 9/11. And the moron who wrote it is getting paid big bucks whilst I do this for free for you people. See what my intelligence and integrity is costing me?

THE END

Finally, The Princess Diaries closes out the top ten at number ten.

BASEBALL: THE DEADLIEST GAME

So, in what is now a semi-annual occurrence, my brother came to town and forced me to go to baseball game. This year, lacking a job to weasel out of it, I was subjected to not just a baseball game but a freaking doubleheader. Sigh. Because it was a doubleheader beginning with a day game, the place was hardly full so we didn’t sit in our seats, but right near them. This is important because when a couple showed up they then sat in our seats. Okay, so as the game progresses there are an inordinate amount of foul balls. I’ve been dragged to these games for years and I’ve never seen as many foul balls hit into the stands. You can see where I’m going with this, right? Yes, the girl sitting in my seat got wonked in the head with a foul ball. And if you ever need confirmation why you’re not a star athlete or any sort of hero, it’s a moment like that where a split second decision followed by an action makes all the difference in the world, and you do jack shit. I mean, foul balls had been coming all day, so it’s not like we weren’t aware of the possibility, but when it came, not one guy was prepared to stop it, least of all the boyfriend sitting right next to her. Granted, it wasn’t one of those lame pop flies, but a line drive foul ball, but still, we all knew there was a possibility that a ball might come our way, but when it finally did, no one could react in time. Hell, it happened so fast, I can barely remember it happening. The ball hit her so hard, the imprint of the stitches were left in her forehead. And to add insult to injury, the guy who got the ball wouldn’t give it up. The crowed yelled at him, but in true New York fashion, he just encouraged them to bring it on, ‘cause he wasn’t giving up shit. Eventually, security not only made him give it up, but they escorted him out. She came back briefly, but left for obvious reasons. And her boyfriend will be buying her something nice, because it was his job to stop that ball and don’t think it won’t come up in a fight from now to the end of their relationship. “Remember that time I got hit with a baseball and you didn’t do a damn thing about it?”

“‘CAUSE I’M THE FAXMAN/YEAAAAH, I’M THE FAXMAN”

So, I’ve actually started looking for a job. I use my computer to fax out resumes. Or at least I thought I did. It seems that not every fax machine works with my software, so I’ve just been sending shit into cyberspace. This is why I had no choice but to buy a fax machine. Oh, shut up. Considering it was costing me a dollar a page to go outside, getting one on eBay for $21 ($15 and $6 for shipping and I had it in two days) was a bargain. In fact, I kinda felt bad getting it so cheaply because the guy selling it is a 7th Grade science teacher (he was using the school’s email and it showed up). And because I suffer from buyer’s remorse no matter what, I checked how other auctions ended with this particular model and the only guy who did better than I did, got it for literally a penny---but then had to pay $22 in shipping. eBay rules! Of course the downside of this is I might actually find a job now.

NOT SO LONG AGO ON THIS PLANET RIGHT HERE…

So taking a break from porn, VH1 aired When Star Wars Ruled The Earth to tie in with the DVD release this week. My childhood is now officially over because Harrison Ford, Han Solo, Indiana Jones, is now doing the comb-over to hide the fact that he’s bald! This is proof we’re all going to die one day. The funniest part was everyone trying to hide their utter disappointment with the third film---except Harrison Ford who openly criticizes ending with “a teddy bear picnic.” But of course, the saddest part had to be the geeks. A Star Wars wedding? What’s amazing is that he found a big a loser as himself on the female side of it to marry. Of course fucking Kevin Smith was all over it. Jesus. If I’m the geek king, he’s The Pope. And they delicately left out that Sir Alec Guinness hated, hated, hated the Star Wars films and bemoaned his involvement in them until the day he died. Believe it or not, I’d never seen Peter Mayhew (Chewbacca) and he looks like a fucking Wookie in real life. He got lucky with the role, because he’d never had made as an actor otherwise.

SERIOUSLY MIDDLE-AGE CRAZY

So, I’ve found a connection between my recent bouts of nausea while traveling, because it happened again recently. On each occasion, I was literally working on a little more than two hours sleep. I know that seems obvious to some people, but I’ve been running on five hours or less a night since I was 17. Is this another entry into the “but you’re middle-aged now” category? I now absolutely have to get some sleep. How will my friends cope? It’s been almost 20 years of being able to call me at three in the morning knowing I’m wide awake. Also, since my current schedule of swimming three times a week wasn’t taking any of the cheddar off my ass (slow metabolism), I upped to it trying to swim every day. I only did four days straight, but I’m wiped out! This may have to go into the noble attempt category, ‘cause I don’t think I can do another week of this. I suppose sexual performance will be the next to go, but since I don’t have sex that’s not really a problem. Besides, I haven’t maintained an erection without scaffolding and a crew of twelve since I was 30.

DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO GET TO LONG ISLAND

So the Former Miss Pretty Boy got married this weekend, sending me off to Long Island on a Sunday morning in search of The Vanderbilt Mansion. First of all, if you haven’t dressed up in a loooong time and have a tendency to eat a lot of cheese, waiting to try your suit on the night before the event is not a good idea. It wasn’t nearly as roomy as it once was and my days of a 15 1/2 neck are long over. But I would just have to endure because it was too late to do anything (I didn’t wan to wear the blue suit because, Cerrutti it might be, it was a little too business like). But that wasn’t my only problem. I have to admit some stress, as I’ve missed at least two weddings already for being late or just oversleeping. I had to catch a 9:00 am train to make a theoretical 11:30 wedding time. I made the train, but tension remained high because I had to transfer at one point. I felt better after locating a fellow wedding traveler (I was on the lookout for others inappropriately dressed for that time of morning) and we hopped on the train together. On that train we found other travelers I’d met before at a party at Former Miss Pretty Boy’s, but we didn’t sit with them. Instead, I was forced to listen to some seriously inane conversation, which hit a peak when one woman voiced her disapproval over a bachelor party where one guy brought his platonic female friend who was curious to see what happened at them (and to potentially meet a single guy). She then said she would never let her husband do this and she wouldn’t let do that… Do you need me to tell you she was single? I had to struggle mightily not go over there and tell her dumb ass that her control bitch personality could be seen from a mile away, which is why her ring finger remained bare. Not to mention, that there was no way in the world she would know what happened if he didn’t want her to. Needless to, say The Vanderbilt Mansion was beautiful and the few previous days of rain gave us a beautifully cool day. Great if you’re in a wool suit. Bad if you’re in a short dress. The wedding started within a half hour of its target date and was not very religious and brief. All very good things, as I have suffered through a few Four Weddings & A Funeral moments in the past. Now, as professional eater there is a cardinal rule about well-stocked events: pace yourself. There’s a lot to gorge yourself upon, so you must pace yourself. The cocktail hour before the actual meal was one of the most gloriously stocked events I’ve ever seen. But just because you see appetizers of cordon bleu, teriyaki chicken, spinach and cheese quiche, fresh brie and crackers, proscuitto, mozzarella balls, cantaloupe, pineapple, strawberry, apple martinis, and frozen margaritas, doesn’t mean you just dive right into them because then you won’t have room for the open bar or the seafood, hummus, chips and salsa, honeydew and tenderloin, much less the actual meal coming later. Sigh. But sometimes you’re stupid, so I wound up having to get my filet mignon, bleu cheese potatoes and asparagus wrapped up to go. Fortunately, my appetite had returned by the time dessert rolled around. In the meantime, however, I kept drinking. I had to. The bride’s father saw me with water (when I was lining my stomach with food before booze) and asked why I was drinking water. “If you don’t drink it’s a waste! After all, it’s all paid for!” When we sat for dinner, I initially spent long moments alone at my table. Seriously. Every table filled up but mine and I was wondering what Former Miss Pretty Boy was saying to me. Eventually I was joined by three couples, the maid of honor---a.k.a, Star Trek Woman, from many, many months ago---and Around the Way Girl, who was a bridesmaid and sang “The Look of Love” during the wedding ceremony (which was the only time I came close to crying). One couple had a beautiful little girl named Esme who had eyes that will one day cause civilizations to crumble and she had my attention for the rest of the day. The other great beauty at the table was the girlfriend of one of the couples. She was a stunner. Her boyfriend was a very nice guy, but couldn’t dance and of course, she loved to dance. At the sight of it his buddy (who could dance) shook his head and said, “Now I know what I’m getting him for Christmas. Dance lessons.” I had to tell him that, even if you can’t dance, if you’re still willing get out there and embarrass yourself in an attempt to dance for them, you’ll be Fred Astaire in their eyes. He did and you could see it in her eyes how much she appreciated it. As I said, Star Trek Woman and Around The Way Girl were both at my table and I soon regretted it because they both took issue with my tie. Sadly, I’d been advised not to wear it the night before during a fashion consult with Former Wild Child. Since the foot injury, I decided not to listen to the women in my life any more. That may be a mistake, because first Star Trek Woman attacked it, then brought Around The Way Girl in, who in uncharacteristic directness said it was ugly, and not her usual passive-aggressive attack of “It’s okay, I guess. I mean, I could never sleep with someone wearing that tie.” Actually, Star Trek Woman was on a roll. In addition to the tie, she decided to tell the entire table of how I ripped her by calling her Star Trek Woman because she wore a shirt that looked like a Star Trek Next Generation Uniform, when she’d actually worn it for me. Then she blurted out, “So what’s up with the porn?” when the small daughter of the groom’s brother was sitting right behind her. Needless to say, we had to cut off her alcohol supply because she was driving Around The Way Girl and myself home. While there were quite a few entertaining moments during wedding, ranging from a guy I call Austin Powers (an English guy with glasses wearing a multicolored shirt, but doing it well) who was married, but encouraging me to use the wedding to get laid, to The Father of The Bride who claimed that dancing was one of the three things he loved most in life (the other two being food and beautiful young women) dancing up a storm with beautiful young women, to the little kids every wedding brings running around like crazy, none of these things amused me more than when Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” came on and Around The Way Girl and The Bride began dancing up a storm to it together. Why? Well, when you have two already attractive women done up to the nines and dancing together, what do you think is the male response? I swear, so many men were either watching them or taking pictures (including The Groom and Best Man), you’d think they were naked, covered with oil and wrestling. What it really that hot? Of course it was! But at least pretend to show some restraint. I was fortunately too distracted by the cake I was eating to join the vouyeristic frenzy. Finally, it all came to an end and everyone began to depart. Star Trek Woman’s car was at the hotel where they bridal party had stayed the night before, so I caught a ride there with another group of guests, including one stunning woman who was fitness trainer and proved it by wearing the shortest skirt of the day displaying two of the most finely toned legs I’ve ever seen. Also in the car were two Irish girls, one of whom kept a stereotype alive, by getting sick and forcing us to pull over. Because it was a nice day, the traffic back from Long Island was a bit more congested than it should have been post-summer, so it was a longer drive than expected. Around the Way Girl fell asleep, having been up since five. So had Star Trek Girl, but she had to drive, so I stayed awake to keep her company. During our conversation she shocked me by saying she liked talking to my people (geeks) because we were smart. I was horrified, reminding her of the hideousness of my people, not to mention the poor dressing, non-existent social skills and tendency to obesity and emaciation. This she when she clarified herself. “Hey, I’m not dating them. I just like talking to them.” That made me feel better. Yes, I am the geek king, but I’m horrified by the idea of them dating attractive women. I hate it so much that I’m not sure I even want one for myself. I was totally exhausted when I got home, but wanted to eat my filet mignon, blue-cheese potatoes and asparagus---so I actually took a quick nap, woke up, ate it and went back to sleep. Yes, it was good.

ONLY CRAZY PEOPLE PAY TO WHINE

Finally, I’m still seeing my therapist if only once a month and sometimes I wonder if she hates me. Well, not hates me but is annoyed by me and all her other patients with our silliness. I half-expect her to start screaming at me, “What are you fucking whining about!?! You don’t have any problems! People in fucking Sudan have problems! You’re a relatively healthy person, not only living comfortably in Manhattan despite having no job whatsoever, but you can actually afford therapy! You’re a single, straight man in a city with women so desperate that if you bothered to leave your apartment, you’d be swimming in pussy. You do nothing but swim and watch TV all day. Exactly what is your problem, you whiney little bastard!?! So no sleep and a little stress makes you nauseous! Boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sure people in Iraq dodging car bombs feel your pain. Now pay me and get the fuck out!” I’m telling you, it’s coming.

9/13/04

“Sin is a dangerous toy in the hands of the virtuous. It should be left to the congenitally sinful, who know when to play with it and when to let it alone.” --- H.L. Mencken

DEAD LIKE ME

Resident Evil: Apocalypse opens at number one and why did I see this when I avoided the original like the plague? Because of the unashamed ridiculousness of hot, mini-skirted chicks with guns. Well, just one, because I’m not really a fan of Mila. She just annoys me. She’s a B-lister who doesn’t seem to know what a B-lister she really is. I mean, you’re the star of a sequel to a movie where you were also the star and your name still isn’t over the title? And then there’s this habit of sleeping with and marrying directors. At least Luc Besson (director of La Femme Nikita,16 years her senior) has some minor skills. This latest loser, Paul W.S. Anderson (director of Alien Vs. Predator, 10 years her senior) is totally talent-free. And even though he was a producer and writer of both films, her name still isn’t over the title. If you must fuck your director, make sure he’s someone who can advance your career. The movie is presumably inspired by the video game, but I wouldn’t know because I’m not playing any scary video games either. This doesn’t go for scary so much as for action, but it doesn’t work there either because of the over-cutting designed to hide the fact that your actors can’t really fight and hold their guns like props and not like the instruments of death they really are. Looking good with her gun is pretty much all Sienna Guillory does. She plays Jill Valentine, the halter-topped, mini-skirted cop I actually paid to see. Too bad she wasn’t allowed to use her natural English accent. Then it might have held my interest more, because even at 84 minutes I was wondering when it would be over. And whenever I see a movie about zombies and the inability of people to stop them, I always as one think one thing: ever hear of fire? Hello? Since the very beginning with Night of the Living Dead, no one ever really uses nature’s greatest cleansing element, not to mention napalm. I mean, if it’s dead tissue, fire is just going to have a field day with it. And even with guns. You can tell these wuss-boy movie makers really have no idea how destructive guns can be in the hands of people who know how to use them by the fact you see cops and soldiers constantly being overwhelmed by staggering zombies. And what about tanks and steam rollers? Seriously, there are so many ways to do.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Celluar opens at number two and this joins Collateral as another suspense movie that only works if you totally “suspend” your disbelief. Okay, the plot is this: a woman is kidnapped and put into a room with a broken phone. She goes MacGyver on it (she’s a high school science teacher) and manages to dial out and gets some kid on a cell phone. If he hangs up or loses her signal, she dies and so does her family. Uh-huh. Now, if you’ve ever been on a cell phone in your life, you know the slightest movement can cause you to lose the signal. If a bee farts, you can lose the signal. This guy is driving through freaking LA and doesn’t lose the signal? Not to mention, if this happens to you, what’s the first thing you do? Run into a police station and scream what’s going on, right? Well, like most movies, for this stupid plot to work the cops have to be both dumb and non-existent. Is it any surprise that the same idiot who wrote Phone Booth wrote this (and was almost sued over it)? And then there’s the fact that the trailer shows the kid getting a gun and all but rescuing her, so what’s really the point in seeing a “suspense” movie where there’s no suspense? Poor Kim Basinger. First marrying Alec Baldwin and now this. The curse of Best Supporting Actress lives on.

THE SINCEREST FORM OF MAKING MONEY OFF SOMEONE ELSE

Without A Paddle is still here annoying us all, while Hero drops to number four and how insulting is it to the director of this film that most moronic Americans think this is a Quentin Tarantino film? This is film filled with original visions, which means you can expect to see Tarantino rip them off---I mean, pay homage to them by using them in his next film.

YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL TO ME, HONEY---JUST NOT TO ANYONE ELSE

The Princess Diaries 2 is down to number five and Heather Mazzarato is back and how ugly do you have to be before your own father comes out and says, “Heather’s got a long career ahead of her because she’s a ‘character’ actor.” Translation: my daughter is fugly and will always be around to play The Best Friend of the pretty leads who come and go. He may be right, but damn. At least pretend you believe your daughter could be a star. Little girls need that from their fathers. You’re lucky she’s not doing porn with that attitude. Oh, yeah. She’s too ugly to do porn.

BETTER TO COLLECT BIG PAYCHECKS IN HEAVEN THAN CRITICAL PRAISE IN HELL

Anacondas is down to number six, followed by Collateral at number eight and making an appearance in this that borders on cameo if Peter “Pigface” Berg, who should have found it a humbling experience to be on-set with a real director. Also all-but-cameoing is Javier Bardem learning that you can be the biggest star in whatever country you’re from, but if you’re a minority, you will play minority roles in Hollywood. This man is superstar in Spain, the latest in a long line of Spanish actors, had a Best Actor nomination a few years ago for Before Night Falls and what’s he playing here? A Latin druglord. I hope they paid him a lot.

I HATE MYSELF, BUT CAN ONLY DO THAT FOR MAYBE TEN MINUTES, TOPS

Entering the top ten is Napoleon Dynamite and while on one hand, I do believe some geeks deserve to be cruelly mocked for the totally unsupported arrogance they display, I cannot get behind a movie that’s ninety minutes of it. Hell, people who hate geeks don’t invest that much time in hating them. And while this is technically a huge hit based on its $400,000 budget, the $30M earned does not factor in the cost of transferring it to 35MM, then to market at promote it. After all, those non-stop commercials you’ve been seeing on MTV for the last four months were not free. At the very least they’ve spent $10M marketing and promoting this damn thing, if not more.

HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR CAREER THROUGH BARNYARD LOVIN’

Paparazzi closes out the top ten at number ten and exactly what did Tom Sizemore (the most porn name of a non porn performer I’ve ever seen) do for every major league player in Hollywood that he is not only not in jail, but continues to work? This comes from Mel Gibson. Michael Mann not only had him in Heat, but his own show, Robbery Homicide Division. Ridley Scott had him in Black Hawk Down. Steven Spielberg had him in Saving Private Ryan. And Robert DeNiro literally showed up on his doorstep to force him to go into rehab. Why do so many heavy-hitters support this drug-addicted beater of women? My theory is that there was a huge post-Oscar party once and everyone got drunk and took a shot at banging a goat and Sizemore got it on tape. There’s just no other reason. He’s not that good.

FANTASTIC DAY

Bands Reunited is back and they’re talking my language. This run was seriously, seriously early 80’s. The very first episode was Haircut 100. I never knew their whole English prep boy thing was just a shtick. I thought they were just dressing like the fey English bastards they were. The band ended when the lead singer had a breakdown. He recovered and had a successful solo career. The rest of the band wasn’t as lucky, but still, considering they all met at college weren’t failures either. Hell, the sax player works so much he could barely make the reunion. And the lead singer is still crazy as shit. You could tell, but they all came back and performed. I could have cared less about New Kids On The Block. First, it’s not my generation; two, it hasn’t been long enough, and three, THEY SUCKED. Now ABC gave me serious wood. I always loved them. They were a great, great group, but went through a few incarnations and wound up duo before the end. For this they went only for the original “Lexicon of Love” quartet and ignored those two losers who joined for “How To Be A Millionaire.” Sadly, only the lead singer and the drummer came back, but they still performed. No reasons were given why the others didn’t, but if you paid attention to lead singer Martin Fry’s very, very subtle dissing, you could make an educated guess why one member decided not to walk a few blocks and attend a reunion. Ten years of that shit was probably enough for him. And they looked great too. In fact, the drummer actually looks better now than he did then. And Martin Fry (who is currently touring Europe with the lead singer of Spandau Ballet and if they come here, I'm so going) suffered through cancer and still looks great. See, drugs are bad, kids. But the bassist for Kajagoogoo is hysterical. Not only was he dying for his band to reunite in the first season, but he shows up here because he knows Martin Fry, and when the bassist doesn’t show up, he steps in. Yeah, I’m sure he wasn’t hoping that would happen to begin with. And I think that’s his girlfriend onstage singing too. Hell, given a chance I’m sure he’d like to be a regular on the show, sitting in with every band. He could have done it for The Beat, a.k.a., The English Beat (because there was already an US band called The Beat here). I loved The English Beat. My favorite song was “I Confess” off the album, Special Beat Service. It had a great opening of “Just out of spite/I confess I’ve ruined three lives/Don’t sleep so tight/Because I didn’t care until I found out one of them was mine…” They broke up and became General Public, which gave us the one great single of “Tenderness” and not much else, and Fine Young Cannibals, who had a number of nice songs, including a great cover of “Suspicious Minds.” The lead singer of English Beat (who actually turned up for the Haircut 100 show) fully admits money was a factor in the break, but everyone else said it was the only factor. Well, everyone but the two guys who created Fine Young Cannibals, because they didn’t come back, but the other four guys played together anyway. It was easy because the other lead singer performs regularly under the name “New Beat” which is kinda sad actually. The final episode of this run (another five are coming in November) was The Motels, whose biggest hit “Only The Lonely” is still one of my favorite songs. They broke up because of booze...and money. All of these guys came back and the one thing I noticed about the reunions is that English bands are as reserved as the English are supposed to be. They may shake hands, but that’s about it. America bands, however, curse and hug. It’s all out there, baby. And if you’re still not getting sound, then you’re not hearing at least two of these bands---who were on the same disc of Living in Oblivion.

THE SPIRIT IS UNWILLING, THE FLESH IS SOFT, ONLY EMBARASSMENT KEEPS ME SWIMMING

Losing yoga, quitting aerobics because I didn’t like the new instructor and not being able to walk like I used has cost me. I’m starting to get even fatter than normal. As if losing my ability to be totally mobile (I can’t beat the lights any more or cross against red---what kind of fucking New Yorker am I?), Entenmann’s has come out with new flavors in its cakes (caramel, strawberry shortcake), I’ve rediscovered the beauty of the cheeseburger and I simply cannot watch football without cheese-covered nachos. And to top it off, when my brother arrives in town at midnight and says he’s hungry, I wind up having grilled cheese and fries. I’m lucky I didn’t have a stroke in my sleep. Sigh. As soon as my foot heals I’m going to have return to a martial art. Swimming is nice, but it’s simply not burning the fat off my middle-aged ass. Besides, in the absence of sex, I need to hit something.

GARDEN STATE PART ONE

So, phase one of the “Baby Tour” began this weekend with my trip to New Jersey to see the son of Another Former Wild Child and her husband, Pretty Fin. I’d planned on seeing the babies of all my friends in Jersey (my bill from Baby Gap proves this----okay, fine so I bought some stuff for myself but I needed five more pairs of boxer briefs), but it was not to be. The first mistake was that I decided to take the 8:30 bus to what was actually her mother’s home in a gated community (where, I as a negro, was stripped searched upon entry). Not good for a man who goes to bed when the sun rises. So after only two hours sleep, I dragged myself to Port Authority to catch the bus---and promptly developed motion sickness on the ride out. Okay, maybe having a grilled chicken Caesar salad with roasted peppers and goat cheese at 1:00 am had something to do with it. In any case, I arrived sick and almost immediately had to go back to bed (after a trip to the bathroom to see my salad again). Unfortunately, I can’t sleep when I’m ill, so I spent two out of the four hours I was in bed with the last episode of “Bands Reunited” running through my head. After that, however, I was fine. Good thing too, because the seventh month old boy would prove to be a tough customer. He woke up from a nap at 12:30 and didn’t go down for good until 9:30 that night. There was maybe one ten-minute nap in that time. Other than that, he was busy wearing out a house filled with adults. He was fed, he was juiced, he was played with non-stop, but he just would. Not. Go. Down. It was more of the same the next day when I went from Hackettstown to Frenchtown to at least two other towns or villes I’ve forgotten. Yeah, it was nice and pretty and green and everything, but so was Georgia and look how that turned out. And I have to go back because there are more babies to see, albeit in a different part of the state.

AND SCRUBS STILL RULES

I had to pay the price of seeing my beloved Drea De Matteo everywhere from New York Magazine to Esquire to Vogue. Yes, I had to sit down and watch the season premiere of Joey. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t that Friends was awful, but so incredibly, fucking mediocre but praised like it was fucking Seinfeld. And did I mention how incredibly racist it was? But I don’t know LA, so I can’t comment on what it looks like ethnically, but given that it has neighborhoods so ethnically concentrated that they have names like K-town (“K” for Korea) I suspect the same “White-washing” is going on. They had to recast the part of the potential love interest even before it aired. They say it was chemistry, but it was probably more she was in her twenties while Matt LaBlanc is now A MIDDLE-AGED MAN. He’s almost fucking forty! Sigh. Looks like I’ll have to do what I did when Lisa Bonet was on TV in 80’s. I hated both The Cosby Show and A Different World, so I was would have it on with the sound off. This is a pain, because one of the things I like about Drea is her accent. But the new Fall season is beginning and if you think I was excited about Lois Lane joining the cast of Smallville, you know I have serious geek wood now that Margo Kidder is appearing and The Flash will show up. It’s geek-a-licious!

9/6/04

“Never having been able to succeed in the world, he took his revenge by speaking ill of it.” --- Voltaire

OH, I FORGOT “WIZENED ELDER FILLED WITH INSCRUTABLE KNOWLEDGE”

Hero holds at the number one spot and how happy is everyone in this cast who tried to crossover? Especially the women. Two straight weeks at number one in America! Granted, there’s absolutely nothing else to see, but still, the next time your next ugly little Hong Kong producer or director says you’ve got to fuck him for the part (and you do; there’s no pretense about this in Hong Kong) you can throw it in his face that you were number one in America for two weeks and have offers there where you don’t have to fuck for roles (well, at least not to the same extent). Too bad those offers will only be either “Dragon Lady” “Daughter of Martial Arts Instructor” and “Hot Girl.” Zhang Ziyi will be the next to try and transcend this (having already played “Dragon Lady” in Rush Hour 2), joining Michele Yeoh and Gong Li in Memoirs of a Geisha and yes, it is ironic that all the Japanese roles are being played by Chinese actresses. Don’t think some Japanese aren’t going to be a little pissed about that. I’d be too. You’re saying that in all of Japan and America there were no Japanese women more capable for this? Somewhere Tamlyn Tomita is crying (she was in Karate Kid 2 and just popped up in Day After Tomorrow). And it’s going to be in English, so we’re going to have women with Chinese accents playing Japanese. It’s like having someone with an Italian accent playing Spanish and Japanese and Chinese aren’t nearly as similar.

WATER SEEKS ITS OWN LEVEL

Without A Paddle actually rises a notch to number two to give you an idea of just how sad this weekend is. What’s really weird is that the majority of the audience of this film has been female. Well, I guess fat chicks need screen idols too. Oh, come on. You know I’m right. These guys, being fugly, are assumed to be more accessible than your Paul “Pretty Boy” Walkers, Ashton Kutchers and Orlando Blooms. You know you can’t get them, but how many choices does a Seth Green or Matthew Lillard really have? The kinda hottie that can pull Orlando would sooner go home alone than compromise her standards with the loser who played Shaggy and he knows it, so he’s got to be a little more open to that “second tier” of female fandom. And while Seth Green is funny, let me tell you now, that and $2 will get you on the train, but he’s probably got a better chance then Matthew Lillard. Notice I didn’t even mention that last guy, because he’s got no chance at all unless Ashton Kutcher is in the room to say, “He’s my friend. Please fuck him.”

AND HIS OLDER SISTER IS NAMED TAO, SWEAR TO GOD

Anacondas: Hunt for the Blood Orchid is down to number three, followed by Paparazzi, opening at number four. Jesus. Mel Gibson just doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks anymore, does he? First, Passion of The Christ and now this obvious wish-fulfillment movie about killing paparazzi. Gee, think it’s directed at those guys who caught him out drinking with college girls in the 80’s. Yeah, it’s totally their fault, Mel. But look who’s starring in this. Cole Hauser. Yep, that’s right, son of B-movie legend Wings Hauser. And while he’s making a stab at breaking out his father’s bad guy legacy, it’s not gonna work. Sorry, Cole (Cole, Wings…what the fuck is up with the Hauser family?) but you just look like a mean bastard. It’s why this role works and few others will. Good guys shouldn’t look like they’ll kill you for looking at them funny. But you know what? He would have made a great Punisher. Better than fucking Thomas Jane.

POOR TIM MEADOWS. SUCCESS NEVER RETURNED YOUR CALLS?

The Cookout opens at number five and there’s a whole sub-category of Black film that involves packing in as many B, C and D list celebs (poor Danny Glover, doesn’t Mel return your calls?), ranging from rappers to comedians to athletes and a few token White celebs (poor Farrah Fawcett, doesn’t sanity return your calls?) around the flimsiest of premises and have them run through every single fucking stereotype you’ve every heard (Black people are lazy, White people can’t dance, etc.). The sad thing is, if this didn’t make money on some level, they wouldn’t keep doing it. But Queen Latifah is A-list, you say. She wrote the story and probably produced it, is my reply. She’s here merely to protect her investment. And again, what’s really sad is, the community for which this was made, is the very community that’s going to bootleg the living hell out of it.

YOU CAN’T QUIT BEING A TEEN IDOL WHEN YOU’VE BEEN FIRED

The Princess Diaries 2 is down to number six, followed by Wicker Park opening at number seven and I was thisclose to seeing this movie. See, I thought the original trailer was a bit intriguing. Then came the new trailer which pretty much told you the missing girl was murdered or kidnapped by psycho. Now it could be totally different and do some mind fuck twist at the end (someone is crazy and this is all just a figment of their imagination) but that “too much information” trailer just ruined it for me. And remember what I said about the cast of Without A Paddle being destined to be the comic relief for movies starring better looking guys? Well, guess who’s here as Josh Hartnett’s best buddy? Yes, Matthew Lillard. Somewhere Freddie Prinze Jr. is feeling very betrayed. Lillard was always his second banana. And what is this bullshit Josh Hartnett is spouting about walking away form big action movies because they weren’t for him? Ben Affleck too. Hmm, weren’t both you sorry fuckers in Pearl Harbor? And didn’t it and all the other attempts you two made at big mainstream films just flop? Yeah, it’s easy to walk away from a wreck. Stepping out of a purring Porsche is something different. Somehow I think if you had a string of hits you wouldn’t have moved back to fucking Minnesota and taken back up with your high school sweetheart. I mean, it’s not like either one of you will ever be confused with Lawrence Olivier. You’re just tall young guys in a business filled with a lot of short old men. And if you think you’re going to have a future in indie, I’ve got bad news for you. First, it doesn’t pay, so you can forget that “take a year off’ stuff. Second, it takes talent to have a career in indie. And indie people tend to do theater too. You get a lot of that in Minnesota? Sorry. “Mini-sodah?”

IT’S A SUCCESS BECAUSE HE SAYS SO

Collateral is down to number eight and this will stay out for as long as it takes for it to reach $100M for the sake of Tom’s ego. It only cost about $60M (and you know $25M of that went to Tom alone), so overseas could still make this a success. But it’s really not bleak enough for Europe.

BLIMEY, Y’ALL

Vanity Fair opens at number nine and this was another maybe for me, but something kept gnawing at me. I finally realized what it was: I’m sick of Americans trying to prove their chops by playing Brits. Not to mention, Reese Witherspoon suffers from Sean Connery disease, which means her accent comes through no matter what she does. I’d spend this movie either being annoyed by her English accent or her Southern accent cutting through her English accent (like Holly Hunter’s accent in The Piano). Then there was the aesthetically challenged English cast. I’m sure they’re all great actors, but nobody is winning a beauty contest. Once again we learn a new appreciation for Liz Hurley and her non-acting self. But I’ve no doubt it was beautiful. Mira Nair directed Kama Sutra which was flawed as a film but visually stunning. This appears to be the same. But I’ll never know. I probably won’t even watch it on cable months from now.

THE END

Finally, The Bourne Supremacy closes out the top ten at number ten.

YOU’RE GETTING OFF LIGHT THIS TIME, YOU CHEAP BASTARDS

You’re still a bunch of cheap bastards, but it seems my column doesn’t necessarily appear in every issue of CMJ these days. It certainly wasn’t in the one I saw, so this is what should have appeared in the August issue---not that you cheap bastards would have known:

Code 46 is the latest excursion by director Michael Winterbottom in love and longing. His films are always beautiful and rarely end happily ever after. This is no exception. In this case we’re in a very near, very multi-cultural future, where you need “cover” or passports to enter and leave every city. “Coverage” is given or denied by the mighty Sphinx (government? corporation?) with no explanation (get it? the sphinx is a puzzle). This, of course leads to a black market for those who refuse to accept such an answer. Samantha Morton is giving these things away and Tim Robbins is the investigator who finds her out, but falls in love with her at first sight and doesn’t turn her in. Instead, he shares one night with her and goes home. When circumstances force him to return, he goes looking for her only to find her gone, because of her violation of “Code 46.” This type of Orwellian future may not be to your liking but one thing totally justifies this film: when Tim Robbins and Samantha Morton visit a dive karaoke bar in Shanghai, you hear the strains of “Should I Stay or Should I Go” come up and the drunk onstage with a martini glass in his hand singing is none other than fucking Mick Jones! And while I normally applaud the propensity of English actors to get completely naked at the drop of a hat, I could have died without knowing Samantha Morton prefers the full Brazilian wax. Ugh. The romance suffers when you find out just what “Code 46” is (it’s actually revealed in the opening titles) and why Tim Robbins and Samantha Morton violated it. In this case no happily ever after for the two is a welcome relief rather than despair. It’s just plain icky.

A PRINCESS OF GEEKS

For those of you who doubted by claim to geek royalty, let there no longer be any resistance. My baby sister (so what if she’s 28, she’s still my baby sister) attended a comic book convention (something I no longer do) and was surprised at the reaction she received. She was asked for her number, geeks asked to take pictures with her and cast members of science fiction TV shows flirted with her. I had to break it to her that she was a geek princess. I am king, so my siblings are princesses and are to be treated as such. One geek had the nerve to try and test her geek knowledge of Ash (from the Evil Dead series) and she, of course acquitted herself with all the dignity and honor of the House of Geek (the insubordinate whelp will be flayed alive tomorrow and then left for the birds on the castle walls). What’s sadder still, if she’d called me and told me she was going, I could have made a phone call and gotten her in for free. Yeah, that’s right. I can swing it like that. I’m king, baby.

I’M TOO GEEKALICIOUS FOR YOU

If you noticed something was strangely amiss with the world this week, it wasn’t the hurricane. Nor was it the Republican Convention. No, I actually left Manhattan. Not once, not twice, but three times. And all to fucking Queens. My Surrogate Sister has perfected a very common technique to get what she wants without making any actual effort. She just complains about it constantly. This recently got her an iPod, but before that it resulted in my promising to upgrade her computer (it fell upon me because the boyfriend that built it and gave it to her is now an ex). It took her a year, but finally even I broke and decided to grease the squeaky, chain-smoking wheel with a 40 gig hard drive and a DVD burner as a birthday present (eBay purchases of course). However, things did not go as initially planned. In fact, it was very much like a bad date. I showed up with wine, she made dinner and I set about trying to give her what I’d promised her for months. In the end, I left her unsatisfied, possibly worse off than before and went home in a cab at three in the morning. You have to understand, for a geek, not being able to make a computer work, even if I’d never touched that type of computer before (a fact I’d neglected to mention), is worse that not being able to get it up. Hell, at least there’s a pill you can take for that. Sexual failure and I are old friends, but computer failure was new to me (even though I pillaged an old computer she still had, increasing her ram form 196mb to almost 500mb). Needless to say, my ego wasn’t having it, so I did some internet research and some geek consulting with others, most notably, Pretty Fin (so called because he’s a tall, blonde, Finnish, pretty boy with a name filled with fighting consonants that you cannot hoped to pronounce without help). Pretty Fin is married to one of my friends from college, another former wild child herself turned suburban mom. Between him and my internet research I figured out the freezes were being caused by conflicts arising from the sound card and network adapter card and simply moving them to different PCI slots solved all my problems. I fixed it the next day and it was smooth sailing from that point on (I even showed her joy of VH1 Classics). At least until she called me the next day with new complaints about saved documents and her Palm Pilot. Sigh. Honestly I had to go back again, because I had to replaced her broken mouse and disgusting keyboard (there was literally stuff caked on it), but I spent another afternoon figured out what was wrong with both the documents (a virus) and Palm Pilot (it needed a “soft reset” after sitting in its cradle for four months) and uploading almost 800 songs from my own computer. But now I’m not going back. All the complaining and whining in the world isn’t going to get me back on the “R” train. And if you think this means I’ll come to your borough, you can forget it. She used your turn. I’m done for the ’04.

THREE PARTIES? YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TWO

Aside from not being able to take the bus up 8th Avenue, the Republican National Convention really didn’t bother me that much. And to be honest, it’s not the Republicans I feared, it’s the damn protestors. While, in theory I do admire what they do, in practice far too many of them are just smelly anarchists who use any opportunity to vent their spleen. They can usually be found in the East Village marching for weed or the right to live somewhere without paying rent, but events like this allow them to blend into the mainstream. This is the difference between the left and the right in America. The right is united by money and power. No matter how they differ on the details they still have that in common. All the left has in common is they’re not the right and that’s why we tend to lose more. I mean it’s hardly a banner under which to march. “Hey, vote for us ‘cause…um,…we’re not them!” And quite frankly, it’s not enough to get a liberal like myself (who has no problems with the death penalty or guns) to sit next to some smelly White guy with dreadlocks who probably has a fucking trust fund. Besides, I believe the real way to control a politician is to simply own him or catch him doing something and blackmail him. Someone who disagrees with you, isn’t going to give a shit about marches unless it’s people from his actual constituency. And since New York is a lost cause anyway, the RNC could give a shit about you people in the streets. There’s only one person who should be worried and that’s Bloomberg, who only became mayor when Giuliani anointed him, and that trick only works once. But I don’t march. I vote. Something my dad was pleased to hear when he asked me last week. “You better,” he said, “with all the damn marching I did.” See, my dad did it when it mattered, before it was essentially a social event to brag about in a coffee shop or use to pick up girls in your dorm (“Hey, didn’t I see you in the March For Choice? Or was it the Ryan Adams concert?”). He marched with Martin Luther King and faced water hoses from the infamous Birmingham Police Department. I feel that pretty much frees me from any obligation. My kids, however will have to get fuck out there, because that only covers one generation.

MONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING

David Chapelle’s new special sucked. Not like Chris Rock’s latest sucked, but it still sucked. And part of it had to be that he wrote it all himself. Unlike his last great special “Killing Them Softly” (which HBO wisely ran that same night, while Comedy Central ran a Chapelle show marathon) or his still good half-hour special, this one wasn’t about anything. The last one was about actual things, police brutality, 911 calls, cartoons, Sesame Street, Bill Clinton, sexual politics, actual politics, Washington D.C. etc. The only irreverent silliness was about a weed-dealing baby. This one was all totally irreverent silliness (people fucking monkeys? are you kidding me?) and it simply didn’t work. It reminded me of the first season of his show, which was five minutes of good comedy stretched out to half an hour and you killed ten with the music act. Whomever helps him with the show should have helped him with the special, because it’s too soon for him to be running out of steam. It took Richard Pryor a decade and a crippling drug problem for that to happen. Granted, Dave Chapelle smokes far too much weed, but it’s not quite the same as cocaine. Just ask the late Rick James.

WHERE’S DANO WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

So, the first new show of the fall season I watched was Hawaii and boy did it suck. I knew it would suck, just not that much (will they ever stop this stupidity of 26-year-old detectives?). Also, I was curious to see how the only state in the union where White people are a minority would be depicted. North Shore manages to have just one Hawaiian (and this guy was actually raised in Iowa). This is a bit better, because outside of the White detectives, almost everyone else is Hawaiian or Asian, including one of my favorite actors, Cary Hiroyuki-Tagawa as the captain. But if you’re one of the hot, young detectives, you’re not. Even if you’re the older, veteran detective you’re not. You can even be a Black guy from Chicago (and couldn’t they find a better lookin’ brutha for this role), but you cannot be part of the island’s MAJORITY population. The one prominent Asian cast member? The woman of course. The woman who’s first fucking one of the White detectives, but ends fucking the brutha (so much for what my uncle taught us last week). But not anyone who looks like her. But you won’t hear the state of Hawaii complaining. It’s very obviously filmed on location, so the money is pouring into the economy.

IF IT AIN’T BROKE, DON’T FIX IT.

I made a startling realization concerning my love of Drea DeMatteo this week. I recently purchased a couple of old-school porn DVD’s on eBay and before the lectures start, I was the only bidder, so they cost me .99 each. No, I’m not kidding. I’m sure the seller expected more, but it wasn’t to be. Hell, the shipping was $6, but the two movies only cost me $1.98. They both starred my favorite porn star, Veronica Hart, who I mentioned before, looks a helluva lot like Debra Messing. Granted, the bodies (especially the male bodies) weren’t as taut as today’s, there’s a lot more pubic hair, and they’re burdened with actual plots (having an actual story is what stopped you from being prosecuted under obscenity laws in many states), but they have their own charm. This made me check my collection for any other old porn that I hadn’t sold online and in doing so I realized that Drea DeMatteo was a dead ringer for a minor porn star named Lee Carroll. A hard-looking blonde, she even had a thick New Yawk accent and a filthy mouth. What can I say? I know what I like and I’m damn consistent about it.

YOU’RE ALL A JOKE IN THIS TOWN

I’m not a fan of reality TV because people are morons and I can see that anywhere. In any case I had to take a look at the first episode of The Surreal Life just to see the Flava Flav/Bridgette Nielsen hook up. My god. Could it get any weirder? And if it seems strange to you that they would get together, remember that they both gave up their citizenship on planet Earth years ago when they both fucked up their shot at the brass ring. But stranger still is they might actually have some decent looking kids. But who still cares about Charro to even put her on this? Her time was thirty years ago. That loser from Full House needs to pull his head out of his ass. The Olsen Twins aren’t your kids, shithead, and I sincerely doubt they’d even return your phone calls now (the same way Chuck D doesn’t return Flava’s). If I thought you were ever funny, I’d wonder about your lack of humor about them. That’s strange for a comedian, no? And what the fuck happened to Jordan Knight? He just had a minor hit a few years ago with a nice tune by Terry Lewis & Jimmy Jam, “Give It To You.” Since then he’s puffed out. So much for him being gay. No gay man would ever let that happen to himself. I’ll never watch it again, so I appreciated scenes from future episodes where they’re supposed to make a record and Ryan Starr gets upset because “Jordan made a pop song! I’m not a pop singer! I’m a rock singer! This is just like American Idol all over again!” And then storms off crying. Oh man, this never-was totally deserves the obscurity that’s coming for her. By the grace of god you’re not the stripper you were meant to be (her name choice pretty much confirms this). When you’re unwilling to work for your success, you really can’t bitch about how it comes. You tried to jump to the head of the line by winning a contest rather that paying your dues and this is what happens to you. Pat Benatar was a rock singer, honey, and she didn’t get to where she was by winning contests. These damn kids today. No patience. But I do agree with her on one thing: Flava Flav is disgusting and I couldn’t imagine seeing his face every day.