JANUARY '05 ARCHIVE

1/24/05

“How glorious it is---and also how painful---to be an exception.” --- Alfred de Musset

APPARENTLY HIS AGENT IS HIDING THE GOOD SCRIPTS

Hide and Seek opens at number one and only Robert DeNiro could get away with this much whoredom and still be considered an “A” list star. I mean, the man does just about everything thrown his way and still comes out smelling like a rose. By my estimation, the man has not made a decent movie since 1998 when Ronin came out. Unfortunately, he’s made 13 freaking movies in that time. Showtime, Rocky & Bullwinkle, Godsend…it’s an endless series of absolute crap and I’m afraid this is another one for the pile. Sigh. Oh well. At least it keeps the Tribeca Film Festival going. I’ll never know for sure if this is crap, because “we don’t do the scary” even with something as obviously lame as this. I swear, these things are beginning to look assembly-line. They all “look” the same. Notice how they never, ever take place in the warmer months, never in a warm local and seemingly never to minorities or working class people. So, if you’re Black, Latin, Asian or Poor White Trash and living in California or Hawaii, things that go “bump” in the night will never be your problem. And I can’t decide which is worse: an ending where the killer is supernatural or an ending where it’s just some wacko? If you’re selling a supernatural ending, I need it to end that way. Don’t tell me “ghost” and give me an unknown bastard son killing everyone to get the inheritance. Not that you need a ghost when creepy ass Dakota Fanning is in a movie. With that deep voice and deathly pallor, she’s been an unintentional creep factor in most every film she makes, so her progression to actual horror film was only a matter of time.

BUT HIS CHRISTOPHER WALKEN IMPRESSION ROCKS

Are We There Yet is down to number two and also in this is Jay Mohr, yet another member of the failed SNL Graduate school. The more this happens the more you gotta respect David Spade, who, while making a few movies, went directly from SNL to Just Shoot Me. He took his shot but never forgot where he was at his best. And he didn’t look to be the star of the sitcom either, though he was its comedic center. You can almost understand how he was banging Lara Flynn Boyle before Jack Nicholson. He got her when she was at her freckled-non-bleaching-her-crotch peak. Jay Mohr, on the other hand, is barely memorable from SNL and pretty much peaked with the late, great show, Action, but that’s only because it played well to his whole Jersey asshole persona. Okay, so he didn’t play an asshole in Go (also starring, say it with me, Taye Diggs) but no one saw it.

I STILL SAY IT’S MATT DAMON IN DRAG

Million Dollar Baby enters the top ten at number three after Oscar nominations hit and I keep meaning to see this, but can’t seem to find the time---even though I do absolutely nothing with my life. The truth is, I just don’t like Clint Eastwood’s sparse directing style. Whereas the world is filled with far too many technicians, Clint is far too static. If I want that I’ll watch a fucking play. Take someone like Michael Mann, who took a fucking lawsuit in The Insider and made it interesting to watch. It’s three hours of people fucking talking but you are never, ever bored. Also, there’s a bit of controversy over this because right-wing film critic, Michael Medved, gives away the film’s twist and ending because he was so “morally offended.” There was some worry at the studio because they were afraid it might make people not want to see it. They’re wrong. You freaking know how Titanic ends, but that didn’t stop anyone from seeing it…over and over and over again. No, what keeps me from this is my brother’s dislike of it and his desire that I see it share his suffering. That’s when I know a movie is bad, because he only wants me to see the worst stuff. But critics (with the very notable exception of the late Pauline Kael) love his stuff. The problem is, as an ex-critic myself (the CMJ: New Music Monthly Job is long over) when it’s your job to see so much conventional shit from so many film school grads who feel the need to shoot their wads with every single scene, you learn to appreciate simplicity, like the way I went gaga over the sex scene with Topher Grace and Laura Linney in P.S. But there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing and Clint Eastwood is it. And poor Hilary Swank. Let’s face it, the reason her career didn’t take off after she won the Oscar is because she’s not pretty and seems to have some integrity. In all that time, she’s done one obvious “pay the bills” movie and that was The Core. And in that time Jennifer Garner has replaced her as the new “horse faced actress” (other members include Julia Roberts and Sarah Jessica Parker) and is obviously willing to do “mall material” movies like Daredevil and 13 Going On 30. She probably needs to get Sarah Jessica Parker’s agent, because while a Best Actress Oscar every few years (yeah, she’ll probably win because of Clint and because no one has really seen the others, including Kate Winslet) is just not the way to make a career. With the right movie, people will be looking at her as sexy, with her “My Little Pony” self. Hell, like Sarah Jessica Parker, she’s got a rocking body. Time to use it to pay the bills and not just for Calvin Klein ads where they all but hide who it really is.

TIME TO PLAY A THUG, HOMEY

Coach Carter is down to number four and who the hell is that Latin kid with the big hair and isn’t he tired of playing “Latino Misfit” in every single movie he makes? I’ve seen him as the goofball in everything from Biker Boyz to Old School to Laurel Canyon. Apparently he’s the new John Leguizamo/Michael Anthony, both of whom were too short and ugly to play roles other than this. Fine, I’ll look him up on the IMDB. He’s Ricky Gonzalez and he’s from New York. Oh, yeah, I was totally right about him. Soon, Michael Anthony or John Leguizamo will be playing either his older brother or father.

YOU KNOW THE REST OF THE WINGS CAST IS PISSED

Meet The Fockers is down to number five followed by The Aviator at number six and Sideways entering the top ten at number seven and I’ve been avoiding this movie since August. Sorry, but far too many of my pretentious, pseudo-intellectual brethren just praised this film too much. I hate those fucking people (and obviously myself) and refused to join in their chorus. Unfortunately, I promised myself that if it got some Oscar nominations, I’d see it. It did and to make matters worse, my roommate had a free pass to see it (she’s a SAG member) and I was all out of excuses. Another reason I was avoiding it was do I really need to see a film about a failed middle-aged writer? I don’t think so (I can feel the irony burning in my soul). My apprehensions were totally justified by the annoying art house crowd where I saw it. They were actually laughing at the trailers for the new Woody Allen film, as obvious and clichéd as it was. So. Fucking. Sad. In any case the film is…good. Fuck. I hate that it was. It didn’t bowl me over, but remember; it’s a case of all the other shit a critic has to see then seeing this, which suddenly looks like a masterpiece in comparison. It’s essentially an art film version of a buddy-getting-married comedy, complete with one guy out to get laid and his smarter buddy still reeling from some sort of heartache (in this case a divorce). But because it’s an art film, The Smart One is so goddamn authentically depressing and self-hating (irony burning in soul again!) you hate him at times and wonder how he’s friends with the Dumb Guy and has been for twenty years. The last week of freedom is spent in wine country tasting wines over which the Smart Guy is obsessive and the Dumb Guy is happy just to drink. Along the way they, of course, meet two women, one who’s a party girl (the director’s ugly, but talented girlfriend, Sandra Oh) and the other who’s smart and a wine lover, guess who she likes? That girl is played by Virginia Madsen (yes, Michael’s sister), getting a second shot at the brass ring after being “The Hot Young Thing” for two seconds back in the 80’s and had a minor hit in 90’s with the first Candyman film. Anyone remember Gotham? Slam Dance? Fire With Fire? Creator? Highlander II? The Hot Spot? Now, like her Hot Spot co-star, Jennifer Connelly, she’s been resurrected with an art film and a Best Supporting Actress Nomination. She’s the earthy waitress and wine lover who strangely likes the self-hating, middle-aged loser (ow, ow, ow, more soul burning). Why? Because the movie says she has to, that’s why. Sorry, but I have a very low tolerance for the “regular guy gets hot girl” cliché, especially in an art film, which is supposed to be a Hollywood antidote. She’s very good here, making you believe she could love this schlub (and her speech about why she likes wine is just amazing), but it’s time for Cate Blanchett to get her overdue Oscar (and I’ll be goddamned if Natalie Portman gets shit; she shouldn’t even be there). In any case, it pretty much works out the way any conventional buddy movie like this would (Dumb Guy’s screwing around blows up in his face, etc.), but because it’s an art film there’s no evolution in some characters (like real life) innocent people get their feelings trampled on with no compensation (like real life). But that’s it.

CRIME DOESN’T PAY. DUH.

In Good Company is down to number eight, followed by Racing Stripes at number nine and Assault on Precinct 13 closing out the top ten at number ten and also in this film is Ja Rule and with Ashanti earlier in Coach Carter, they’d better choose better film roles considering their record label is now under arrest. In case you missed it, Irv Gotti and his brother were busted for laundering drug money with their record label, Murder Inc. The money, it seems came from a gangsta going by the name Supreme, who’s already in jail for a few murders. It cracks me up when these dumbasses call themselves “Gotti” and name their label after Bugsy Siegel’s and Meyer Lansky’s criminal organization and think the cops are just going to let this slide. Not to mention every day a rapper talks about slinging rock before starting a record label. Did they ever think that one day a cop was going to ask, “Um, just how did you go from selling drugs one day to running a record label the next?” And how stupid is it to call yourself “Gotti” in the city that puts Gottis away for life? Why not call yourself Dillinger, dumbass, because we know how well his life turned out. Stupid, stupid bastards. They deserve to be in jail just for being this fucking stupid. Oh, and how they suddenly become considerably less thug when busted, pleading their innocence and how well they were raised. Dumbass.

…AND FOUR CAPTAIN AMERICAS, TWO BATMANS AND SIX ROBINS

So though my days of doing nothing but watching TV are long over (and I miss them so much it hurts), I’ve still managed to eek out one more guilty pleasure on TV: Room Raiders on MTV. I know. I’m as shocked as you are. Initially, I looked at it for two seconds before turning the channel. Now, if I catch it early enough, I’ll bunk down and watch the whole thing (maybe it’s just because for some reason they’ve been all set in my hometown of Atlanta recently). Now, I won’t try to see it, but if there’s a marathon and there’s nothing else on, I will watch it. I’m glad I’m too old for this, because despite my anal retentive cleanliness and organization (if one more woman calls my closet the “9 1/2 Weeks Closet”…) one look at the eight different Superman figures would do me in. The weird thing is, I have no natural curiosity that way. You could have a body under the bed, but I’d never know because I’d never think to look. I could really give a shit about your secrets. Your only risk is me and your fridge. There will be no orange juice left when you return, just know that now. What’s really scary and interesting is that so many of the girls have porn and vibrators in their rooms---TO BE FOUND! I mean, you know you signed up for the show, you know they’re coming, so why haven’t you hidden that stuff away (strangely, they never seem to find drugs)? Then again, the only type of people who would want to be on this show are pretty exhibitionistic to begin with, but imagine their parents: “Hey, Bob, Susan, saw your little girl’s butt plug on MTV yesterday. You must be so proud.” But as usual, men tend to be incredibly disgusting. Dude, come-stained underwear? Are you kidding me?

1/17/2005

“The good thing about masturbation is that you don’t have to dress up for it.” --- Truman Capote

THE TITLE JOKE IS DONE BETTER ON THE SIMPSONS ANYWAY

Are We There Yet opens at number one and unlike a lot of stars, this is an indulgence for Ice Cube. He didn’t need to do it. Nia Long on the other hand, needed it desperately. Yeah, she’s got a kid now, but that’s not why she’s here. If anything, it was Ice Cube dealing a little charity (as always, he’s one of the producers) out to his Friday co-star when it’s obviously she’s no longer the Black hottie of the moment (a title she cops to and being frustrated with). I have to give this film credit, it’s a family film that looks like a holiday film without necessarily being one. It looks to take place in winter, so you can associate with the holidays, but it doesn’t seem to have any definite Christmas references which would date it and kill any post-holiday potential for revenue (yeah, I’m talking to you, Polar Express). Needless to say, I’ll never see this. Obvious reasons aside, it looks like shit and those kids look too fucking professional. There’s not a second in either the trailer or commercials where they seem natural, especially when the little girl starts singing “Respect” chock full of attitude. And to be totally cruel, her face is kinda weird. Her lower lip seems to extend four inches beyond the rest of her face. Not to mention the entire idea of nasty little shit kids is totally unappealing to me and watching them torture Ice Cube for ninety minutes (before learning to like him, sniff, in the end) is high up on my list of things never to do in this lifetime.

QUANTITY, ‘CAUSE IT AINT’ QUALITY

Coach Carter is down to number two and there’s no pretending any longer that Samuel L. Jackson isn’t a bit of a whore. First Star Wars and now he’s trumpeting that he’s now passed Harrison Ford on the movie earnings list, meaning all of his movies combined have made more money than any other actor’s film total. Well, when you’re in a hundred fucking films a year that tends to happen. And like Harrison Ford, if you take Star Wars off that list where are you? You think fucking Coach Carter is going to get you there? Hell no. Neither is Regarding Henry. Also, starring status doesn’t count either. This means Jackson gets credit for things like The Incredibles and Kill Bill 2, where’s got a small role or is flat out uncredited.

BUT THEY’RE ALL EVIL

Meet The Fockers is down to number three, followed by In Good Company at number four and one minor detail that never ceases to annoy me in movies is the lack of resemblance between stars who are supposedly related. Granted, it’s next to impossible, especially with major roles, but is it so fucking difficult to match hair color!?! Well they get it right here. Marge Helgenberger is the mother of Scarlett Johansson and they at least had the common sense to make Johansson’s hair red. Also, the other daughter is a redhead. Now, was that so fucking difficult!?! One tiny detail and you actually get the feeling these people are family. Now, when are they going to cast Helgenberger, Eric Stoltz and Suzy Amis as family members, because they look so much alike it’s scary. And the ultimate irony in all this is Dennis and Randy Quaid bear little to no resemblance (believe or not, it’s the same nose and smile).

SCARS OF MY YOUTH

Racing Stripes is down to number five and also whoring themselves out for a quick family film paycheck here are Michael Clarke Duncan and Jeff Foxworthy, who probably did this before that Blue Collar Comedy money started rolling in. Now, Foxworthy was hot for a moment with his “You Might Be A Redneck” bit and had his shot at the brass ring with a sitcom, but unfortunately let them change it too much (the man is as southern as moonshine but they wouldn’t let his show be set in the south). This is his second shot and you know he’s going to make the most of it. Sorry, but I can’t watch it for very long. Foxworthy can be amusing, but that Cable Guy is just creepy and no matter what he says, you just feel the next statement out of his mouth will be, “So we wuz lynching some Jews and niggers and…” Sorry, but you know it’s true. They way he’s so quick with an Arab joke just proves it.

AND EVENTUALLY IT BECOMES THE WORLD OF ROBOCOP

Assault on Precinct 13 opens poorly at number six and this is a remake of John Carpenter’s movie, which was take on Rio Bravo with John Wayne, which is one of my favorite movies. Never having seen the original, I can only imagine it had to be better than this, though there are worse ways to waste an hour and a half. In the original, it’s set in Watts in the summer and it’s the gangs coming after the cops. That shit’s kinda scary because you can actually envision it happening. In the remake, it’s improbably bad cops in Detroit in the winter and I have to ask, is there a spring or summer in Detroit? As this is going on, I can just imagine Ray Liotta and Jason in Narc in another part of the city and Eminem in 8 Mile in another. As I said before, this is Detroit in the 21st and you simply have a hard time accepting an isolated precinct now. Yes, they do what they can to explain away the use of cell phones and computers, but the very reason the precinct is being assaulted this time is because of a major league criminal in their jail, who received all sorts of media coverage. It makes no sense that a major underworld head is going to be shuffled off to some dinky little jail---that they know has no personnel---and no one bothers to check up on him. And even if you let that go, what’s the most secure part of a police station? The cells! So why are you upstairs trying to defend all that space when you should just bunker down in the freaking cells? If this is Rio Bravo, then Ethan Hawke is a combination of both John Wayne and Dean Martin. He’s the lead guy like Wayne, but like Dino, he’s a burnout from a undercover operation gone bad medicating himself with drugs and alcohol. Brian Dennehy is Walter Brennan and Maria Bello is Angie Dickinson, with a little help in the sex appeal department from Drea De Matteo. Okay, Drea was the sex appeal, playing the slutty secretary who, when accused of “bedding down felons” corrects them by saying, “I fuck bad boys…there’s a difference.” Just hearing her say that was worth the price of admission to me. If you remember, Claude Akins was the bad guy in jail in Rio Bravo. This time it’s Laurence Fishburne, which is a massive step up. At one point you think he and Drea De Matteo are going to hook up in the scene where they’re paired off and start talking about sex and death, but alas, there’s no sex in American movies any more. This movie could have worked had they kicked up the pace and sense of urgency, but the bad guys (the dirty cops are out to silence Fishburne) seem to have all the time in the world to take down the precinct (where apparently no one lives, because the gunfire, explosions and fire all go unnoticed). And the bad guys may be cops, but they act like typical bad guys, which makes them boring. A big deal is made by lead bad cop, Gabriel Byrne, of protecting his cops and their families. Given that he “cares” so much, why isn’t every death by Ethan Hawke and co., met with a greater reaction. You’d think that when cops see their buddies die or hear that they’re dead, it would be met with, “Tony!?! Tony’s dead!?! I’m gonna kill these fuckers! I’m gonna kill ‘em all.” Nope. Apparently only good cops act like this. These guys are like the stormtroopers in Star Wars. They are anonymous and die silently. Though I didn’t care for it, there is one impressive, gritty twist in the film that is a throwback to the movie’s 70’s roots (and reminds you that the director is French). Basically, the one character you think is definitely going to live dies, and dies in a cold, brutal fashion. Not to mention another character who should die, lives.

I’M JUST FEELING MEAN

Phantom of the Opera is actually up to number seven after holding for weeks at nine. I have to say I’m impressed, but I still think it’s all closeted gay teenagers and their fat girlfriends.

MARTY, YOU’RE BREAKING OUR HEARTS

White Noise is down to number seven followed by The Aviator is at eight and this talk of Oscar for this film for Best Picture disturbs me. We all want Marty to get his Oscar, but not for a lesser work like this. Not how like Paul Newman finally got his Oscar (also for one of Marty’s lesser works). His time was Raging Bull and Goodfellas, but not this stuff. The problem is Scorsese sabotages himself these days, being so intent of telling one particular story, he doesn’t tell a complete story. It’s obvious that with The Aviator he wanted to show the giant stride of Howard Hughes and the OCD he had to fight along the way. But so intent is he on telling this story, everything else gets shortchanged. There was actually more to Hughes story, but god forbid we sacrifice an endless sequence of tissue boxes and milk bottles to explore it. Oh, no. Not to mention, unlike most stories where a character grows as time passes, Hughes actually shrinks and if there’s any change in his personality over the years after victories and defeats, finding love and losing love, it’s nowhere to be found in this film. And his choice of leading man leaves so much to be desired. He’s gone from Robert DeNiro to Leonardo DiCaprio and preponderance of vowels in the surname is all they have in common. Even when he was young, DeNiro was a man, but Leo looks, sounds and acts like a boy.

IT’S CALLED “VAGINAL DENTALIS” BOYS

Elektra closes out the top ten at number ten and I’m sure the accountants at Fox are shrugging this off because money can still be made of video, but it’s still a theatrical flop no matter how you slice it. Another comic book flop, I might add. And I’m loving every single one of them. Maybe this will stop development of the Hulk and Punisher sequels that are in the pipeline. Elektra was borne of the barely success of Daredevil and the odd popularity of the manly Jennifer Garner (who displays a little thickness in this film, but not enough to overlook that man-face; how does Ben Affleck do it?), but it’s time to accept that she’s just a TV star. She’ll never make the crossover to films. Yeah, she had 13 Going On 30, but if Reese Witherspoon had made the same movie, it would have done twice as well and you know it. Hell, I would have seen it if Reese Witherspoon were in it. And what’s wrong with being a TV star? If you’re the star of a successful series, you can make literally hundreds of thousands of dollars a week (before taxes, agents, managers, publicists and accountants) and you’re only working half they year. But my favorite observation about the failure of this film has to be that action heroines actually scare the young male audience they need to succeed with their strong sexuality. In the words of Homer Simpson, “It’s funny because it’s true.” I mean, lots of bad male action films succeed. Look at freaking National Treasure. It’s so sad that when a bad movie fails, we actually have to try and decipher “Why?” because so many equally bad movies make a fortune. There was also some attempt at cheap prurient interest by having Typhoid Mary (a schizo Daredevil villain whose weapon is to spread disease) kiss Elektra to kill her. Sigh. One reason it doesn’t work is because with the manly Jennifer Garner, it just looks like a normal kiss between a man and a woman. Also, it doesn’t work without the proper intent…which is two girls in a dorm room with a bottle of wine looking to explore the possibilities…

LAZIEST BASTARD ON EARTH

I hate working. It’s just my luck that I get a temp job that begins on the coldest day of the year, of the coldest week of the year and the first major snowstorm of the year. And it’s not the job, because it’s relatively easy and I don’t have to answer any fucking phones. Hell is having to answer Satan’s phone calls for all eternity because he refuses to use voicemail (like the witch I unfortunately temped for once). No, it’s the very idea I have to get up and work that I resent. If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing except to budget better so I could have remained unemployed for longer. It’s a miserable fucking existence and I totally understand why people would rather steal than work a nine to five job. Hell, in retrospect I realize the only reason I survived my job as long as did was that I didn’t give a shit and had gotten to the point where I could do it with absolutely no mental effort on my part. That and the fact I would walk to work in just 15 minutes. This meant I was spared the horror of commuting. I cannot understand how you people do it day after day after day from all over the tri-state area. Some of you do literal hours of commuting. Shit, thirty minutes to city hall is killing me and I’ve lost the all-important ability to sleep on the train. There was a time I could doze off for the few minutes it took for me to get from the Upper West Side to midtown, now I’m wide awake for the whole miserable fucking half hour. This really fucks me up because now I have to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Or rather, I should go bed at a reasonable hour, but I just cannot get to sleep before 2:00 am, if that. I haven’t done that since I was 12. Not to mention I’m back into the habit of eating out of boredom at my desk. So much for that ten pound weight drop since I was fired. Shit. I have to get rich quick. Who wants to knock over a bank. Wait. That’s too much work. Okay, time to start that porno website. Who’s in?

AMERICA, WATCH YOUR BACK

Death’s vicious rampage continues with Virginia Mayo and Johnny Carson dying. Johnny fucking Carson, the king of late night. Man, David Letterman must be a mess right now, because even I’m a little sad. There were some old Bollywood stars who died as well, proving that Death is not regional about this shit. Also, Jimmy Griffin, one of the founders of the group Bread died. Apparently God also likes serious AM radio. Or hates it. It’s hard to say. And I hope everyone noticed Paul Newman race car caught fire. He survived, but is now obviously on the list.

THERE IS NO TOMORROW

ARRRRGGGGHHH! My Falcons lost! There is no joy in my world! Sigh. I won’t be able to talk to the other boys anymore for almost eight months. On the upside, I get to finally go through this backlog of In Style and Elle magazines I’ve got here. I swear, if one more 80’s style comes back….

LIKE FINE WINE

Finally, as I was saying to my boy, O.G. (Original Geek) have you ever had a song you heard all your life suddenly impact you because you were finally old enough to understand it? I loved Prefab Sprout. They were a great pop group who never made it here in the states. In any case, they had a song around 1990 called “We Let The Stars Go Free” and while it was nice enough, it wasn’t on the level of “Appetite” probably the best song from their best album “Two Wheels Good” (called “Steve McQueen” in the U.K. and produced by Thomas Dolby) from 1985. The lead singer and writer for the band was a guy named Paddy Joe McAloon and when the song came out he was in his early 30’s, whereas I was in my early 20’s and a song about lost youth and regret had no meaning for me. Now, I can’t stop listening to it.

“[Leisure is] the best of all possessions.” --- Socrates

STILL WAITING FOR “WHITE SHADOW - THE MOVIE”

Coach Carter opens at number one and how many of these “rule-breaking-caring-successful” teachers are there in America to support all these “based on a true story” movies? And if there are so damn many, what’s with all the bitching about the educational system? Oh, that’s right, these teachers are alone in a school filled with bureaucrats who stopped caring a long time ago. Then who keeps hiring all these “rebel teachers?” And when are we ever going to see that movie about the rebel teacher who completely and utterly fucks up? In any case, I couldn’t bothered to see this any more than I could be bothered to see Dangerous Minds or any of the others. Not to mention, nothing is less interesting than a non-cursing Samuel L. Jackson. Now, if this were rated “R” and you could promise me a Samuel L. Jackson coaching scene to rival Full Metal Jacket for it’s relentless profanity, now that I would pay to see. And didn’t Rob Brown play the smart basketball player in Finding Forrester? How many times is he going to do this? Also, unless there’s an extended scene with Ashanti oiling up her big thighs, I don’t see any point in giving her this role over a real actress, and given how outspoken Jackson is about rappers taking jobs from real actors, I’m surprised she’s even here. Then again, he’s in his 50’s and probably didn’t know who she was until it was too late.

PLAYBOY 2022: LINDSAY LOHAN

Meet The Fockers is down to number two and Teri Polo is in Playboy this month. Why, do you ask? Why do you think? The first one was a huge hit, but did jackshit for her movie career. I mean, it took almost two year just for her to get that lame TV show created by Brooke Shields’ husband and base on their life. That quickly died and then she was reduced to guest appearances on the fucking Practice. Trust me, no one wanted this sequel more than she did and this time she’s going to ride this wave for all its worth. I was glad to see it myself. I’ve always been a fan of Teri Polo. Ever since the was in the movie Quick doing some serous justice to a pair of checkered shorts (which was impressive considering she’s a skinny, blonde White girl). This also has to do with the fact that she’s 35 and recently divorced, so she kinda needs this reaffirmation right now. She needs someone to say, “Hey, you’re so hot we’ll put you on the cover of Playboy.” Unlike say, poor Jodi Whatley or Carnie Wilson, who both posed nude and didn’t get the cover. Hell, Carnie’s layout wasn’t even mentioned on the cover. Yes, men are pigs and pigs with short memories when you start to get old, but there is a group of middle-aged men delighted to see this. As my buddy O.G. (Original Geek) is fond of saying every time some middle-aged actress decides to bare all, “I’m waitin’ all these bitches out.” Okay, maybe he put it badly but the message is clear, even in your 30’s and 40’s some of us still want to see you nekkid. We wanted to see it in our 20’s and we want to see it now---even it if is a few inches lower than it used to be. The layout is typical Playboy, airbrushed to hell and back (she had more wrinkles than this when she was in freaking Mystery Date thirteen years ago with Ethan Hawke), but big ups to Teri Polo for realizing there’s a difference between being topless and being nekkid and she’s nekkid. And no, the carpet does not match the drapes, but the fact that there’s any carpet at all is something. And at her age, to have that freaking lower back tattoo like some dumb sorority girl is just sad. But my biggest complaint is that I actually bought this to see her ass and there are no good shots of it. But amazingly, the centerfold has public hair, no tattoos, large, real breasts, isn’t blonde and has a little bit of a pudge (that they try in vain to hide). She looks like a real woman. Hefner must have been out that day. And Esai Morales is my new best friend because in the issue he talks about loving Devin Devasquez, who was a Playmate back in 1985 and I loved her too! And the Nicole Kidman interview may be her most honest, probably because she knew she was in the one magazine her ex-husband would never read.

“IT’S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY/AIN’T A DAMN THING FUNNY”

Racing Stripes opens at number three and has there been an apparently less amusing children’s film? And didn’t Disney do this movie already with a racing Zebra? Not to mention what is more disgusting than a couple of flies being prominent characters in the movie? Whatever happened to cute mice? Now, it’s pretty much common knowledge that family films only attract two kinds of stars: those indulging their kids or their own amusement and those looking for any sort of financial stability. When Will Smith does a family film, you know it’s for his kids. When Vin Diesel does a family film (The Pacifier where he’s essentially a NAVY Seal nanny comes out this spring) you know he’s looking to halt a career slide. The absence of any current moneymakers lets you know the deal here. Frankie Muniz barely made it with the first kiddie spy flick, while the other died on the vine. Dustin Hoffman could just be here for his grandkids, but with the exception of Meet The Fockers when was the last time he made money? Granted he’s kinda beyond this now, working pretty much as a supporting character actor these days, but this isn’t a Disney product of substance, as much as a cute-money-in-the-bank-with-kiddie-film-clichés corporate film. Whoopi Goldberg is lucky to be working anywhere, as she doesn’t amuse anyone but herself. Joe Pantialano works enough so that he’s probably here to give his kids some G-rated product to see. Mandy Moore is making a car payment after Chasing Liberty failed and Saved gave her indie cred, but no cash. And David Spade and Snoop Dogg are just a whores (though I am curious to see how his starring family film, Coach Snoop, turns out). Joshua Jackson is here and missing Dawson’s Creek something awful right now. And for his defense of Michael Jackson, Steve Harvey deserves to spend an eternity in the purgatory of bad kid’s films.

BECAUSE AMERICAN PIE WAS SO DEEP

In Good Company pops up in the top ten at number four and Damien Rice makes his second soundtrack appearance this winter in this film and if I remember correctly the song this time is “Cannonball” the great song about reticent love, which has those opening lyrics that still knock me out, “There’s still a little bit of your taste/In my mouth…” Damn. When you can write that, you deserve groupie sex. And as I said before, this movie is all about the performances, as the story goes nowhere and is about as deep as a puddle. Selma Blair is in it for two seconds as the wife who leaves Topher Grace and is never seen again. A better film would have had her return in the third act. I know a lot of you can’t think straight when you look at Scarlett Johansson, but in the context of the film, Selma Blair was his freaking wife. You’d think she’d mean a little more to him than some 19-year-old. And given that her dissatisfaction with the marriage is partially due to Topher Grace’s obsession with his career, you’d think when it falls apart (please, I’m not giving anything away in this wannabe Capra­corn) he’d seek her out, now he has an awareness he lacked at the beginning. I mean, he adores Dennis Quaid’s home life with the family and kids, but not so much he looks at what’s was wrong with his marriage. And that joke about Dennis Quaid being older than his father becomes incredibly out of place when you learn that he hasn’t seen or heard from his father since he was four.

ELEKTRA SLIDE

Elektra opens at number four and the best I can say about it is that it’s better than Daredevil, but that’s saying nothing at all giving how unbelievably bad Daredevil was (I was reminded by a cable showing this weekend). But how can you make an entire film about a character named Elektra without exploring the reason she’s got the freaking name? The classical origins are even mentioned at one point, but nothing ever comes of it. Ironically, this film is all about Elektra’s mom, whose death apparently had something to do with why she is the way she is, but again, it’s never truly explained, nor is the reason for her mother’s death. More time is spent showing how Elektra is secretly a good guy despite being a paid assassin who tends kills people she doesn’t even have to. If you’re wondering how she survived Daredevil (when Ben Affleck’s career obviously did not) it’s because of Terrance Stamp. Yes, Zod (and now Jor-El on Smallville) himself saved her. But in this incarnation he’s Stick, the blind martial arts master who actually trained Daredevil as well, but oddly enough, he’s given no mention in this spin-off. He saves her, then kicks her out because her spirit is still too dark, which is kinda how it happened in the comics. In the film, the bad guys are The Hand, an evil ninja organization…who meet in a boardroom. Which is housed is in a pagoda. Which is built on the top of a skyscraper. What the fuck? Yeah, don’t hurt yourself trying to figure it out. It’s obvious a case of people choosing what “looks cool” over what “makes any sort of freaking sense.” In any a case, in the comic book Elektra goes to The Hand looking to prove herself to Stick by infiltrating and destroying them, but they successfully continue her spiral down into darkness (they trick her into murdering a former lover). She’s eventually killed by Bullseye, then when Daredevil attempts to resurrect her, he fails, but in trying cleanses her soul and another member of the good guy ninjas, Stone (who is actually made a bad guy in this film for some strange reason), sacrifices his life to bring her back. But she made too much money, so Marvel re-corrupted her so she could be brought back to have her own series, and the last I saw she was working for Nick Fury and SHIELD currently tracking Wolverine, who was brainwashed by The Hand and fighting everyone in the Marvel Universe. Why am I telling you this instead of talking about the movie? Because this is more interesting. The movie picks up a little when the girl Elektra is protecting turns out to be a youthful doppelganger of herself, but they don’t take it anywhere, apparently unaware that the only thing more fun than watching a girl kick ass is watching a kid kick ass. Not to mention the fact the girl seems to have a bit of a dark side, thus furthering the similarities, but this goes unexplored so we can play with our CGI toys. Not to mention subject two generations of recognizable Asian actors (my fave Cary Hiroyuki Tagawa and new pretty boy, Will Yun Lee) to play one-note martial arts villains to pay the rent. I suppose they thought having the bad guy team working for them all be non-Asian to be some degree of progress. They were wrong.

THAT FARAWAY LOOK IN HER EYES? WONDERING HER PANTS ARE.

White Noise drops to number six and also starring in this is Deborah Kara Unger, who is a supporting actress I like a lot. She’s got a spooky faraway kind of look in her eyes, which is probably why she doesn’t have more mainstream success. You really can’t plug her into a Julia Roberts/Meg Ryan type of romantic comedy. On the other hand, it made her perfect for James Spader’s wife in Crash or the wife Mel Gibson made the mistake of cheating on in Payback and the girl Michael Douglas may not be able to trust in The Game. Yeah, that’s her. She also did a memorable turn as Ava Gardner in The Rat Pack, complete with full frontal nudity and I have to say, I respect the actors who go all the way like that. Movie stars worry about nudity, while real actors just do it. But ironically, it’s always the people you want to see naked the least who do it the most. My god, if I see one more pale, muscle-free Englishman waving his willy about onscreen…

IF AVA WERE A STAR TODAY, SHE’D BE NAKED ALL THE TIME

Speaking of Ava Gardner portrayals, Kate Beckinsale does it for five seconds in The Aviator, which is down to number eight, but no full-frontal nudity from her, but it’s not like she hasn’t done it before. It’s odd how English actors are naked forever in English films, but when they crossover to Hollywood, the pants stay on. Kate Beckinsale, Elizabeth Hurley and even Keira Knightly all did nude scenes in cold-ass England, but strangely remained clothed in the California sun (though Liz Hurley did rock the hell out of an ice cube in The Weight of Water).

THEN HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN ERIN BROCKOVICH?

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events is down to number eight, followed by Andrew Lloyd Weber’s The Phantom of the Opera at number nine and Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s 12 at number ten. Okay, so he didn’t call it that, but in an odd bit of spin control there’s a rumor going around now that when Soderbergh gets too successful he likes to sabotage himself. While that would go a looooong way to explaining Full Frontal and Solaris, it’s just a cop out for the general resentment of Ocean’s 12 from critics and audiences alike. Yeah, $112M isn’t chickenfeed, but when the original made $183M domestically, it’s a disappointment. But who amongst the actors takes a hit here? Both Julia Roberts and Matt Damon can point to films they’ve carried on their own. Yeah, Catherine Zeta Jones has Chicago and her Oscar, but she wasn’t the star of Chicago (that would be the person nominated for Best Actress, Renee Zellweger), so she’s yet to carry a film. Yep, both pretty Brad and George continue being unable to carry films while fugly-ass Nicholas Cage makes a mint with the lame National Treasure. My theory of American resentment of people who are too perfect remains intact. And I’m sure I’ve got Jude Law’s support now too. The rest…hey, who are we kidding? They don’t matter. Don Cheadle will remain “the” Black guy in indie films whether this succeeds or fails. Bernie Mac will remain a TV critics darling and the others aren’t worth the time it would take to list them here. Besides, this only hastens the inevitable appearance of Scott Caan on his dad’s show during sweeps in a lame Ocean’s 11 spoof.

BACK TO THE SALT MINES

When it rains it pours, as after three weeks of no work, I received an 8:30 call for work that very day (no way), I was offered a long term temp job---if I was willing to go to fucking Jamaica, Queens, including 8:45 on Saturday mornings (no fucking way); I actually got a temporary part-time gig at Barnes & Noble (I was free to turn it down), and I was called for a day at MTV at 10:50 Friday morning (I was already at Elektra, meaning that damn movie cost me my two hours of my life and money), but finally I got booked for an opened ended job for next week, which will last at least one month and maybe three. I know I should be happy to have work and therefore money, but now I’m suddenly missing sleeping until 11:00 every single day. Sigh. Good times, good times. The group interview at Barnes & Noble was quite the experience. There were maybe 10-12 people, three of whom were female and only one of whom was White. I’m just saying… In any case, given it was for a part-time temp position for some type of rush they have this time of year, it was needlessly “sensitive.” I mean, the very fact it was a group interview showed how little depth was actually at stake, so what’s with the Oprah/Dr. Phil sensitivity questions? “What would you like to do with your life?” “What was your best work experience?” “What was your worst work experience?” What the fuck? Hey, if any of it was fun they wouldn’t call it fucking “work” now would they? You’d say, “Hey, I’m off to ‘fun’ today.” No one “funs” from nine to five, do they? Sigh. I’m so glad I was able to blow that off. I’m still not a total whore. Not yet anyway.

LIFE WITHOUT PREMIUM CHANNELS ISN’T LIFE AT ALL

So, I had my HBO turned back on in anticipation of at least one month’s income and I pretty much did because of Inside the NFL. I love that. I’ve also missed uncensored versions of movies I own and have see a million times running for the four-millionth time at 2:00 am. Time Warner has the “movie beverage pricing plan” wherein it’s another $12 for just HBO, but for four channels it’s $17. This is how you wind up with a half-gallon soda you’ll never finish and 16 channels you pay for but never watch. I got the full magilla of Showtime, Cinemax and Starz, but outside of HBO, only Showtime matters because The L Word returns next month and like an idiot I actually got wrapped up in the storyline instead of just being happy to see two girls rubbing on each other. I have to know what happens with Bette and Tina! Will they work it out!?! And am I the only one who noticed that Dana’s makeover made her look exactly like Jennifer Beals, a.k.a, Bette?

WORKING THE FRY MACHINE VS. THE LEAD IN NYMPHO CHEERLEADERS

Because I have my cable back, once again there were naked people on my screen. But since I don’t watch softcore porn, in this case it was another HBO special about porn stars. Yes, another one. This time it was about Timothy Greenleaf-Sanders, an A-list photographer who decided to do a book about porn stars and his twist is, it would be one picture of them fully clothed next to another of them nude, and while I hate to sound like some sort of elitist cliché, the clothed photo is actually nicer. There are a variety of reasons, but the main one is, the make-up is whored up for the nude shot, so they’re cheating. They’re forcing you to see the clothed person as “better” but the truth is, they didn’t have to do it. There are also essays between shots by people from Gore Vidal to Michael Musto. What was funny was learning it’s not just women who make more money then men in porn, but gay male porn stars also make more than straight male porn stars. Three times as much, in fact. It’s like some weird opposite universe of Hollywood. But it makes sense. It’s still all for men and men have all the money, gay or straight. Show me a rich lesbian and I’ll show you a rich gay guy who could buy her ten times over (yes, David Geffen, I’m talking to you). Even funnier and sadder was Heather Hunter’s story about a guy who asked her for her autograph---after having sex with her! And yes, she signed it. But, as always, this is always the upper-echelon of porn. It’s the biggest stars only, not the 19-year-old crystal meth addict doing double anal because a) she’s too high to feel it; and b) she knows the $1,500 she’s getting for it will keep her high for at least the next day or two. No one is doing a coffee table book or HBO special about those people. Only John Waters brings up the fact that only a fucked up childhood leads you into porn. But old school favorite Nina Hartley points out the economic reality of it all, in that for a lot of them it was the choice between “porn and a double wide.” Let’s face it, if you had your choice between $1000 a day, and living in LA while doing porn, or living in a trailer park in Ohio while you worked for minimum wage at a McDonalds, who exactly wouldn’t be boning on film tomorrow? You’re lying. You so would be doing it, ‘cause I know all you fuckers.

BUT I’M NOT BUYING ANY OF IT

So, I was briefly affected by that Banana Republic commercial with Claire Forlani (whose burgeoning career peaked and stalled with Meet Joe Black) and yes, Mark Vanderloo. Yes, that Mark Vanderloo, who briefly had a name when people briefly pretended to give a shit who male models were. He’s looking kinda old now, but don’t think he still couldn’t take your woman from you. The song is “Are You Beautiful” by Chris Pierce and for a moment I thought it was good, but after a serious listen I realized it was just acoustic, faux-sensitive crap by some guy who wants to get some of that Damien Rice action. It’s as insincere and shallow (not to mention obvious) as Damien Rice is real and deep. My new favorite commercial has to be for the Mercenaries game where they say “blow the crap out of it” “blow the crap out of it again” and then “blow the crap out of it some more.” That never ceases to make me laugh. Why? ‘Cause I’m a boy. But that Nextel commercial where the workers turn into buzzing insects is just creepy. And just when I thought I was over the World Trade Center still making me cry, there’s the American Express commercial with Robert DeNiro, when they go over the site and he says, “My heartbreak.”

WHEN ARE WE GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THOSE MULLETS?

Considering people aren’t even watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy anymore, why the hell would you start one for women? Queer Eye for the Straight Girl premiered this week and boy does it blow. It blows chunks. First mistake: LA. When you think “LA” art, taste and style are the last things that spring to mind. Not to mention, the absence of four seasons severely limits one’s potential wardrobe. Second, bringing a woman into the mix. Lesbian or not, no one does catty, bitchy quips better than gay men. Ironically, it’s something about the testosterone. Finally, maybe it’s just the episodes I saw, but it’s simply not as much fun. Teaching an otherwise incapable man how to clean up is amusing in the same way it is to see a monkey in pants or a dog walking on two legs. But seeing a woman who doesn’t know how to make herself attractive is just kinda sad. Not to mention the one broad I saw was humorless and beyond help. The simple fact that she pointed out that all they were doing for her was superficial meant that she just didn’t get it. They should have bought her some cats and left her butch ass to the spinsterhood to which she was already aspiring. But that lesbian host is very nice (former model, naturally). As you may have noticed, I’ve got a thing for the short pixie cut and she wears it well. But if you accept that gay men are naturally stylish and we’ve got shows for straight men and women, what about lesbians? I ask ‘cause the word “stylish” doesn’t exactly spring to mind. I mean, what’s up with all that flannel and work boots?

DON’T LET THE IN STYLE SUBSCRIPTION FOOL YA

My Falcons won! Woo-hoo! Did you see the ass-kicking we put down!?! Yeah, baby! Honestly, I didn’t think we’d make it this far, but I’m starting to think Super Bowl. Again! Yeah, baby! Yeah!

1/10/2005

“It is the function of vice to keep virtue within reasonable bounds.” --- Samuel Butler

MEET THE CASH

Meet The Fockers holds at number one and I’m sure they’re trying to figure out a way to beat this dead horse for one more film. You don’t do $200M in three weeks and not. The third one will probably be about the wedding itself and will make even more money, because wedding films almost always turn a profit. And can we talk about how fucking amazing this success is in this climate? This is big-budget action film money at a third of the cost, which means more money for everyone. The accountants at Universal have boners that won’t go down for months, because they’re turning a profit before home video, which almost never happens anymore.

“IMAGINE THERE’S A MONSTER/IT’S EASY IF YOU TRY…”

White Noise opens at number two and say it with me, kids: “I don’t do the scary.” My brother asked why I avoided these films given how lousy and not scary they turn out to be. Well, more often than not, the concepts are somewhat sound, even if the execution falters, and given that my own imagination is much superior to what these bozos can create, the horror movie I’ll later complete is my head is what I’m afraid of. And the more genuinely creepy the concept, the worse it will be for me. This is why the Blair Witch Trailer fucked me up for weeks. I never saw the movie, but the basic concept was super fucking effective, because what’s scarier than being lost in the woods? Also, I cannot stand movies where “evil wins” and everyone dies in the end. That really messes with me. There was once a movie in the 70’s about a woman who was being hunted by creatures in her house that were afraid the dark. The end of the movie was them coming for her and all she had were flashbulbs to ward them off. When she ran out, they took her. End of movie. FUCK THAT! I’m not paying to see shit like that! Now, space monsters, they don’t bother me. I can see your average science-fiction horror movie, but this shit in the here and now? Uh-uh. No way, Jose. In any case, this whole idea of disembodied voices being the dead either warning you or threatening you also messes with me, so I’ll never see it. And my lingering resentment over Michael Keaton as Batman has nothing to do with.

RICH BOY VS. RICH BOY

The Aviator is down to number three and also in this is Alan Alda, as the sleazy senator working for Alec Baldwin in destroying Howard Hughes, and the more I think about it, the more they should have Darth Vader’s theme music every time these guys are on the screen together, it’s just that fucking heavy handed. But you couldn’t have picked two better guys to play corrupt power and government. It’s odd, but the years of playing perennial good guy, Hawkeye, makes Alda’s portrayal of bad guys so much more effective. But the irony of the character Baldwin plays, Juan Trippe, is that he was just like Hughes. He didn’t make his money, he inherited it and used that to build Pan Am. Like Hughes, he saw the future of air travel and acted on it. He may not have been the pilot genius that Hughes was, but he was no less a visionary. At the end of the film, Hughes is seen planning to add jet engines to his plane but, it was Juan Trippe who also saw it and did it first. He was probably still an asshole. After all, he didn’t found Pan Am, he took it over, but you don’t build a major airline by being nice to puppies. And speaking of sleazy, there’s a scene where Howard Hughes “seduces” a waitress by grabbing her leg and telling her he wants to learn how to make her feel good. Is this supposed to show us his ladykilling skills? It’s a billionaire hitting on a minimum wage waitress. It was just plain creepy. Can you imagine the lawsuit if someone tried that shit today?

GUESS THIS MEANS SHE’S OFF THE A-LIST

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events is down to number four, followed by Fat Albert at number five and Ocean’s 12 down to number six, despite Brad Pitt’s separation providing millions in free publicity. Hell, a truly talented agent would have said, “Wait until a movie you actually star in is released. We could use the bump.” Especially, since Brad hasn’t carried a film theatrically since Legends of the Fall in the last decade of the last century. Remember how Nicole Kidman’s divorce tied right in with the release of Moulin Rouge? Hell, it was probably part the agreement she had with Cruise from the beginning. “We have to do it when it’s most advantageous for me, not you. Do that and you’ve got your beard.”

UNNATURAL ACTS BY ACTORS

National Treasure is down to number seven, followed by Spanglish at number eight and if there’s anything that will keep you away from this film let the Tea Leoni/Adam Sandler sex scene be it. Ewwww. Actually, anyone and Adam Sandler would be repulsive. Just the idea of it gives me nasty flashbacks to that unnecessary Sharon Stone/Joe Pesci hookup in Casino. Yeah, it was only two seconds, but two seconds too many. Let’s all get down on our knees and thank Martin Scorsese for not showing the hours of footage he actually shot for that. And do we respect Tea Leoni and Sharon Stone for going through this for their art or will they just do anything for a major director in hopes of an Oscar (Sharon Stone actually got a nomination for Casino)?

“WITH YOUR SATIN TIGHTS/FIGHTING FOR YOUR RIGHTS…”

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera holds at number nine which is impressive somehow. I think. Maybe. Like I said, Minnie Driver is in this and she joins the list of women in Hollywood who’d like to play Wonder Woman onscreen and the latest one to be wrong for the role. Like the two before her, Sandra Bullock and Charisma Carpenter, she’s too damn old, but at least she’s tall enough at 5’10. After all, she’d be playing a freaking Amazon (both Bullock and Carpenter are 5’7 1/2”, but Carpenter is half-Mexican like Lynda Carter, a.k.a, Lynda Jean Cordoba Carter). You wanna see Wonder Woman? She looks a lot like fucking Lucy Lawless, who unfortunately is now also too old. Now, I do like Minnie Driver and feel badly that her career went to hell after being dumped by Matt Damon, but even when she was younger she was wrong for Wonder Woman. Her head is a funny shape and that simply won’t fly for a superhero.

“YES, IT’S TRUE…THIS MAN HAS NO DICK.”

Finally, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou breaks into the top ten at number ten, buoyed no doubt by making so many ten best lists of the year. While I loved Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums left me cold and this time even though he’s in the cast, Owen Wilson didn’t even help with the writing. I think it may be a case of the old saying, “You’ve got your whole life to write your first album, but you only have six months to write your second.” Rushmore actually drew upon Wes Anderson’s life, which is why it had a more solid feel, while The Royal Tenebaums was seemingly a mass of ideas that never really came to life, and were there simply because they amused the director. Since Wes Anderson has never been a marine biologist, I fear more of the same here. Just watching the trailer I see more of the “cute and ironic for the sake of being cute and ironic” but I will see this eventually for the simple fact that Noah Bambauch did co-write it and he is one of my favorite writer/directors, having written and directed Mr. Jealousy, one of my favorite romantic comedies. And will they just give Bill Murray an Oscar so he can stop this bucking for one and go back to just making movies that are “ha-ha” funny and not “hmmm, that’s amusing” funny? I miss you, Dr. Peter Venkman!

“FATHERS BE GOOD TO YOUR DAUGHTERS/DAUGHTERS WILL LOVE LIKE YOU DO”

So, Halle Berry’s last minute prenup held up in court. Her lawyer is going to get deluged with work. I’d sure as hell hire him, because a prenup at the last minute can be contested that it was signed “under duress.” The downside is, the little girl is getting screwed. She will have no formal contact with Halle, which means now she’s lost two mothers. And she’s 15. If she got a tenth of her father’s beauty (and he is a pretty muthafucka), she is going to make his life a living hell. A pretty, dysfunctional teenage girl in LA? I trust we’ve all seen the movie Thirteen? Imagine it with a heavier bass beat and you’ve got it.

DEATH MARCH ‘05

Death continues into the New Year, taking Danny Sugarman, manager of the Doors at the age of 50 (lung cancer), Artie Shaw (man enough to marry Lana Turner, Ava Gardner and six others) and Wil Eisner, a comic book god. Virtually everything that legitimizes comics as a storytelling art form can be traced back to this man. My man O.G. (Original Geek) was brought to his knees by the news. But the man was 87 years old and was having quadruple bypass surgery. You can be half his age and still die from that. Another big fan was Brad Bird, writer director of The Incredibles. When Mr. Incredible is wearing a suit and tie in the movie with his mask still on, it’s an homage to Eisner’s most famous creation, The Spirit. Kelly Freas also died. Yes, you know who he is. Aside from working for Mad Magazine for years, he also did tons of science fiction work, including the famous illustration of the robot who has apparently has accidentally killed a man (official title “The Gulf Between”) that he later redid for Queen’s album “News of the World.”

“HOME IS WHERE I WANT TO BE/BUT I GUESS I’M ALREADY THERE…”

So, as we struggle to make our way in the big city with no form of income other than massive eBay auctions now that temping has quickly run dry, the thoughts of leaving creep once more into mind, but now the question is where? Should I leave with my tail between my legs, where would I go? Home to my parents, where I just might be allowed a few weeks of depression induced sleep before being forced to get a job teaching? I think not. My sisters are almost psychotic in their refusal to ever live with my parents again and I understand why. Before my father tortured either of them, he tortured me and I ran away to New York, returning only once a year at Christmas. Former Wild Child is there, but has informed me that her extra room is now her study and will remain that way despite her anticipation of having someone to share her post-New York suffering. Thanks for nothing…ya bitch. Where else? I can go be a nanny in Maine for Nice Jewish Doctor and be “The Black” to her “The Jew” in a place where there seem none of either. Apparently it’s so lacking in creature comforts, if I brought four Korean girls with me and opened a nail salon, I’d be a millionaire overnight. Nope. It’s cold enough here. I don’t need a decrease in both social and environmental temperatures. Then there’s my Brother in Arizona (no, he has no contact with my Arizona Problem). There’s an open room there and a guarantee of at least one month of doing nothing. The only problem is, if I decided to do something, there’s nothing to do and I’m not working in a fucking Bennigan’s. Forget it. Finally, there’s The French Woman in San Francisco, who has a sofa with my name on it. Probably the most attractive of all the possibilities, but we’re too much alike in the same, bad crazy ways. Someone would be dead or committed by the end of the first month. Hell, maybe both of us. Not to mention I would be going to the one city in America possibly even more expensive than New York (though she technically lives outside the city itself). And there I’d need a car to get around so it gets more expensive. And I like being cranky. In NewYork, I’m actually one of the milder ones. Out there, I’d be the sole bastard (which actually sounds kinda neat). But ultimately, the earth moves and not in a good way and that I simply cannot abide. Crime and terrorists is one thing, but when Mother Nature hates you, you’re done. So that leaves me still here, still suffering still eyeing that “Accepting Applications” sign in the window of Duane Reade. And if that isn’t bad enough the one place I swore I’d never work, was the one place taking applications last week. Yes, Barnes & Noble is hiring part time work. Sigh. I’m such a whore now that if they’re still taking them on Monday (they accept only Mon-Thurs for some strange reason) I will be there. But you know what? I’m still glad I’m not at my old job. Yes, I hated it that much.

SOMEBODY’S BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED THEY’RE STILL THERE…WITH DRINKS

Since there’s a difference between simply surviving and living, I decided to live a little and go out for Star Trek Woman’s birthday on Saturday night, which is nothing less than amazing for me. Going out rarely happens and going out on a Saturday is practically non-existent (stepping into a subway car stinking of cologne from other men going out reminded me why). As I’ve mentioned before, Star Trek Woman was the Maid of Honor for The Former Miss Pretty Boy, who was also in attendance, and while her husband may not be Jude Law, he’s shaping up nicely as her personal Ken doll. When I met him, he was in a three-quarter length, tan leather jacket that looked fucking amazing. He’s over six feet, so he was able to wear it. If I tried it, I’d just look like some short guy with too much money. His first words to me were , “Hi, how are you doing?” whereas mine were, “Damn, that’s a nice coat.” What was amusing was Star Trek Woman was with him and a few other of her friends---all male and looking like a meeting of the UN. For a moment she was like my opposite number. But once we joined the others inside, it became more balanced. Inside where, you ask? Well, inside Duvet, of course. If you saw the episode of Sex in the City where they went to a bar/club that was filled with beds, then you’ve seen what Duvet is like. It was…an experience. It was very odd in that it was simultaneously very intimate---after all, what’s more intimate than a bed---but it was rigidly enforced, as a roaming series of bouncers checked to make sure you were part of the party on whose bed you were sitting. If not, get your ass up. But there was a damn good reason, as getting a bed meant buying a bottle. If you know Manhattan clubs, you just shook your head in disgust, because you know what that means. For the uninitiated let me inform you that a bottle of anything in a Manhattan club rarely costs under $200. Yes, that bottle of vodka you can buy from across the street for $25 costs you $350 in Duvet. Which I just don’t get. Why not just charge for the bed space and make the bottle prices semi-normal? This is one time when you hate getting fucked in bed. In our case, to get two spaces (which amounted to about two king sized beds) for our party, which was well over twenty people, three bottles were bought, meaning to sit on a bed in a club and drink, we were shelling out almost a grand. Did I say “we?” Oh, hell no. Yes, I was unfortunately very cheap in my contribution to the kitty when I left. I’ll make it up to her with dinner in the future, as she has declared this her “birthday year” meaning celebrations will continue until ’06. As I said before, the place had an intimate air, but since it was alongside strangers, it was also somewhat decadent, aided in no small part by the hip Manhattan dress code for women which translates into “very, very slutty.” I swear, if every woman in a camisole dropped dead that night, there would be maybe 10 women between the ages of 16 and 40 left in New York City on Sunday morning. Another thing I noticed was that it was kinda…old. Sorry, but when I walked in the first thing I saw was two people who looked as old as my parents dancing. Wait. No, the first thing I actually saw was literally a pack of big-assed White girls gathered in the corner as if exiled there by the overwhelming majority of flat-assed White girls everywhere else, but that’s something else altogether. But overall, I noticed the age in the club was older than normal. These people had either lived very hard or were all in their 30’s and 40’s. And even the 20-something’s were late 20’s, like Star Trek Woman and Former Miss Pretty Boy. Then again, who would be attracted to a place that had no real dance floor but lots of beds? No one under 25 is going to give up dancing to lay around. And only older people with careers could afford it. Not that I have one or could afford it either.

SHAMELESS PLUG FOR A GOOD CAUSE

This week will make me 2-0 on going out versus staying in as my friend Jamie (who helped me finally finish Secret Project ’01…in ’03) is having his Annual Ball. A few years ago he had a brush with testicular cancer and in surviving it, he then began an annual fund-raiser for cancer research. It’s called “Jamie’s Ball.” Get it? Testicular cancer? Jamie’s Ball? Yeah. This fundraiser amused many of you greatly last year, as it was the forum wherein I spent a few minutes talking to a pretty girl only to have her tell me she was still at NYU. Ouch. It still hurts. In any case, it’s being held at Pressure, that very nice bar/club/pool hall above Bowlmoor Lanes and this year has official sponsors like Bacardi and Brooklyn Brewery. Also there are door prizes of a mini iPod and a Tivo. I will be there so if you want to see me completely out of my element and maybe even a little drunk, drop on by. Seriously, I need someone with a job to buy my drinks and pay for my pool playing. It’s all for a good cause and quite frankly, hearing me pontificate on just why superhero movies suck while drunk is an experience you just can’t put a price on. Email me if you’d like details. This way I can filter out the riff-raff. Some of you fuckers just can’t conduct yourself in public and I’m not going to jail for you again! You know who you are. I’m still getting letters from Riker’s because of you.

HERE’S THE STORY OF WELL CUT BRADY

Finally, I avoided the first two previous Surreal Lifes because I had no interest in anyone on them, but was briefly interested in the last one with Brigitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav, but this time there was Jane Weidlin who I do like, so I watched completely and it was sick, bizarre and sad and I will not miss another episode. This time it’s Christopher Knight, who was Peter Brady and as the oldest person in the house becomes the defacto father to the group; Da Brat, who doesn’t seem to know she’s a big a has-been as anyone in the place; Verne Troyer, a.k.a. Mini-Me, Adrianne Curry (which is my sister’s name) winner of America’s Top Model; Chyna the former wrestler, and Marcus Schenkenberg, the first male supermodel, for all the good it did him. Chyna is an insane drunk, who is addicted to her fleeting fame. Verne Troyer is creepy and more than a little bit sad, getting creepily excited over the model, getting blind drunk and peeing naked in the corner. Marcus Schenkenberg is totally standoffish and not understanding he’s eye candy. The model with my sister’s name goes skinny-dipping, but I could have cared less. What I liked was that Jane Weidlin, always the best looking Go-Go, got nekkid with her. Jane is also into fetish wear, which they’re going to explore in later episodes, so I’m looking forward to that. What was truly shocking was how built Peter Brady was. Damn. At one point he and Marcus Schenkenberg are standing there shirtless and there was no bodyfat to be seen on either of them. Bear in mind, he’s 47 fucking years old! In later episodes he hooks up with the model with my sister’s name, who’s 24. But hey, if he can have a six-pack at 47, he deserves her.

1/3/2005

“It’s necessary to be slightly underemployed if you are to do something significant.” --- James Watson

FOCK THIS

Holding at number one is Meet The Fockers and I’ll never see this. I didn’t like the first one to the point where I can’t even bear it on TV. Very few films in Ben Stiller’s “Theater of Pain” are worth a singular viewing much less a second. This is one is riding purely on the inspired casting of Dustin Hoffman and Barbara Streisand as his wacky parents. It’s a shame it’s wasted here (I thought for sure Dustin Hoffman would show up on Sex & The City as Sarah Jessica Parker’s dad, but then they opted not to give her one). And how often are you getting Dustin Hoffman and Robert DeNiro onscreen together and this is what you do with them? But the worst part of it all is, the success of this film could lead to Babs back onscreen full-time. Haven’t we suffered enough?

A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE BUSINESS DEALS

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events is holding at the number two spot and apparently has a core group of loyal fans, pushing the $100M mark, which is good, because that’s how much it cost to make and you know Jim Carrey has to get his cut, which knocks that back by another $20M and I hope Meryl is also getting a piece of the pie. God knows she’s earned it.

DROP THE PILOT

Actually up one notch to number three is The Aviator, Martin Scorsese’s chronicle of the life of Howard Hughes. Now, I could give a shit about Howard Hughes and Martin Scorsese himself is starting to annoy me (especially with his support of Roman Polanski), but Cate Blanchett is here as Katherine Hepburn and that I had to see. I loves me some Cate and a meaty role like this gives her room to shine. And the movie needs it, because try as he might, I never really bought Leonardo DiCaprio as Howard Hughes. There’s just a manly gravitas he lacks. He still looks like the biggest elf in the world to me and now that he’s older, his face has gotten a little puffy, so that prettiness he once had is gone. He’s just bland (and he has no ass, so he should stop doing nude scenes). Not to mention, what little I do know about Howard Hughes confirms he was a fascinating man who actually did amazing things, but Scorsese’s desire to show it is hampered by his own obsession with Hughes’ Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Not to mention a fixation he apparently inherited from Francis Ford Coppola to show the little outside guy vs. the big established guy. Gee, wonder why? And it doesn’t work because Howard Hughes was not a self-made millionaire. He inherited his money and made it into more, but he hardly started with nothing. It was more new money versus not-so-new money. Howard Hughes and his TWA against Pan Am, personified by Alec Baldwin (just behind Jude Law as the hardest working man in show business, but Jude is here too, in a cameo as Errol Flynn). While it is true that Hughes’ OCD started young, there’s way too much dwelling on it, especially in an extended sequence where we have the joyful experience of watching him fill empty mild bottles with his own urine. Like the scenes with Pan Am plotting like Darth Vader in Star Wars, they just go on and on and you want to yell out, “OKAY! I FUCKING GET IT! HE’S CRAZY AND PAN AM IS EVIL! CAN WE MOVE ON!?!” What is totally left out by Scorsese for reasons unknown is how much drug addiction played into his dementia. After crashing an experimental Air Force plane in Beverly Hills (vividly depicted in one of the best scenes in the film), Hughes became addicted to painkillers. Scorsese just has him go crazy after the accident with no mention of them. Likewise, when it comes time to defend himself from a Pan Am orchestrated attack on him by the U.S. Government, he just seems to snap out of his dementia to redeem himself. But the heart of the film is the relationship he has with Katherine Hepburn. Cate Blanchett becomes Katherine Hepburn and maybe now she’ll finally get the Oscar she’s deserved for forever. The movie loses its light when she goes and while Kate Beckinsale tries her best as Ava Gardner, she simply cannot fill the void that’s been left. And yes, Gwen Stefani does appear as Jean Harlow, but she has maybe two lines.

HEY-HEY-HEY, IT’S A CRAPPY MOVIE

Fat Albert is down to number three and this movie simply has no right to exist. Why on earth would you make a live action, Fat Albert movie? Not to mention in retrospect the TV show was kind of disgusting. They played in a fucking junkyard. A junkyard! That’s disgusting. If you let your kids play in a junkyard today, Children’s Services would show up and take them away from you. And the guy playing Fat Albert isn’t fat enough. And don’t tell me they couldn’t find someone. Hell, that kid from Monster’s Ball probably has a lot of time on his hands. And that one guy from 8 Mile would have been perfect. And it’s cruel to all the fat black kids who want to be actors. How many times will they be offered a leading role? Ironically, someone who could have played him younger is Forrest Whittaker, who was the original director of this film, but left over creative differences. Maybe he just realized how evil it was to make this and bailed.

MAYBE WHEN IT HITS HBO

Ocean’s Twelve is holding at number five and the fact Topher Grace shows up in this playing an asshole version of himself again almost made me see it. Almost.

NOT YET, SUCKER!

National Treasure is actually back up to number six, followed by Spanglish at number seven and The Polar Express at number eight and this has hung on long enough to not be a total flop, proving you can release any Christmas themed crap at Christmas and still make money. Not that it has yet. It cost $170M to make and they spent another $60M on prints and advertising, totaling $230M. It’s gonna be a looooong time before this is in the black. Most likely, not until next Christmas, when they’ll probably release it on DVD. Until then we can continue pointing our fingers and laughing.

IT’S NO PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE AND HE’S NO PAUL WILLIAMS

Andrew Lloyd Weber’s The Phantom of the Opera is up one notch to number nine and closeted gay teens finally have a movie they can actually enjoy to take their unsuspecting girlfriends. Honestly, did they really think fucking Joel Schumacher could do for this what Rob Marshall did with Chicago? First of all, Chicago was a critically praised, award-winning musical, while Phantom of the Opera has been generally regarded as a huge piece of shit from its first day. But given that bad books can make good movies, you might think a bad musical could make a good movie because any changes you might make could only serve to improve it. Well, not if it’s an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical and not if your director of choice is schlock hack supreme Joel Schumacher, the man who put nipples on Batman. He is evil of the first order. So evil I can believe he hasn’t adapted a TV show to film yet. Also, Chicago was filled with stars, some of them with a modicum of actual talent, if not the best singers and dancers in the world. This has some little girl who looks like a clone of Clair Forlani (yeah, exactly), a guy who once played Dracula (giving him two bad classic horror protagonists under his belt now) and Minnie Driver and Miranda Richardson? How the might have fallen. Well, not so mighty, but there was a time when Miranda Richardson was the acting shit. When she rocked in The Crying Game and Damage in one year, it was obvious she would be the next big acting thing, but alas, it didn’t happen. She remains a solid supporting actor, but not an A-list supporter, like a Chris Cooper. And Minnie Driver. If this and appearances on Will & Grace are all your agent can get you, then no wonder you’re making albums. It’s sad, but it all seemed to end when Matt Damon dumped her. If it makes you feel any better, honey, at least you’re working. When was the last time anyone even saw Winona Ryder?

NOT SINCE THE CURSE OF AMERICAN PIE…

Finally, Darkness is down to number ten and the curse of The X-Men continues, as not a one of them is doing anything worth watching between films. Halle Berry, Hugh Jackman (Broadway doesn’t count), Famke Janssen (TV doesn’t count), James Marsden and now Anna Paquin have cranked out one bad movie after another, making the next sequel even more important to their careers. Only Ian McKellen has been saved by The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, but that’s over now, so he’ll probably soon be making crap too. This is a horror film and given that the trailer alone creeped me out (any movie that has kids literally being afraid of the dark strikes a weird chord in me), my rule against not doing the scary remains intact. And what the hell is Lena Olin doing here? Are bad horror movies her thing now? Before this she was also in Queen of the Damned and The Ninth Gate. Apparently she won’t go back to Alias, but this and fucking Hollywood Homicide are okay? I’m no fan of Alias (Jennifer Garner is a man, baby!), but it’s gotta be better than this crap and better for her career. This reminds me, I still need to find a replacement copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. She was so smoking hot in that, I still wonder what every woman would look like naked in a bowler. She was hot in Romeo Is Bleeding, but that was in a very scary way and I get enough of that in real life.

THERE’S A SAD, SICK REASON SOME GIRLS CALL THEIR LOVER “DADDY”

Not breaking the top ten because it’s only in limited release is In Good Company, starring Topher Grace, Dennis Quaid and Scarlett Johansson. It’s a comedy drama about a man in his early 50’s who gets a 20-something boss (Grace) who also starts dating his college age daughter (Johansson). This brought up all my corporate issues again because Topher Grace plays the epitome of that type of corporate culture where succeeding at a business you didn’t build yourself and creating nothing new, still somehow makes you a man. They also walk and talk with a macho swagger like they were Marines and not a bunch of business school pussies. The original title of the movie was “Synergy” which is another word that gets tossed around a bit in the movie. They might as well have called it fucking “White-Board” if they were going to go that way, which is the only word I hate more. The movie never gels because it never breaks out the razor to go after corporate culture (and actually goes all Capra on us in the end) and the human side doesn’t work either because it never gets in depth with the alpha-male struggle going on with Topher Grace and Dennis Quaid. And unless you know jack shit about the human psyche, there’s also something to explore in a girl who sleeps with her dad’s boss and a boss who nails an underling’s daughter. It’s made out to be just a relationship, but people are just not that two-dimensional. The closest they get to the ickiness behind that is when Dennis Quaid asks her if she’s sleeping with him. Not “are you dating him” but “are you sleeping with him?” His pre-occupation was obviously with the sexual conquest of his daughter by a man who’d conquered him at work. But like I said, none of this is explored so it comes down to how much you like the actors. I’m a fan of Topher Grace and he does his thing here and age has softened Dennis Quaid’s shit-eating grin to the point where it’s no longer irritating. I’m not a Scarlett Johansson fan, but she’s not given much to do here. And the fact that she looks like Grace’s That 70’s Show costar, Laura Prepon, is even more evident here (her character’s last name is even the last name he has on the show: Forman). This was written and directed by Paul Weitz who started off with the odious American Pie, tunneled with Down To Earth, but redeemed himself a bit with About A Boy. This isn’t a step back, but it’s not a step forward either. He’s totally dependent on his material and is obviously incapable of creating it himself.

THE GNOME KNOWS

So for the first time in my life I didn’t go home for Christmas. Instead, I wound up in Queens with Surrogate Sister and another Christmas orphan, The Dutch Girl. I only met The Dutch Girl a few days earlier, but have heard about her for years. She is the ex-wife of Surrogate Sister’s former boyfriend. They were the obvious outsiders at any family functions with the two brothers and naturally formed a bond that way. You’d think this would have ended when both ended their relationships with the brothers, but it hasn’t (it would have for me, but that’s just me). Now, I call her The Dutch Girl because she’s got a very common Nordic name (she even has a friend named Heidi) and when I first saw her, she was as blonde and white as I’d imagined if not more so (her mother was once on the cover of Vogue). We’re talking factory white blonde, not like the “blondes” we have here in the states. You know, it’s the difference between Tara Reid blonde and Karen Mulder blonde, where they almost look like ghosts and you expect them all to be drinking beer in lederhosen. In any case, The Dutch Girl pretty much showed me what she was all about by plopping herself down in my lap within moments of meeting me and declaring, “You’re my new best friend.” Yes, they’d both been drinking, but this was something more, something that reminded me of other women I’d known. I soon realized she was crazy in the way of Former Wild Child. That’s what felt so familiar to me. This was confirmed by the rest of the night, which included deliberate bad dancing to 80’s music, her love of Dr. Dre and the slight spanking I got (I won’t even get into the semi-stripper move done with a chair, revealing an absolute lack of grace and rhythm). In any case, this gave me a slight dread at seeing her again for Christmas because I’m too old for this stuff now. All my crazy friends are either retired or gone from my life, but she was much better without alcohol in her system (see, there’s crazy and there’s Chemical Crazy). I’d tell you where we were in Queens, only I don’t know. I just know it was a bit of a drive from the train station. Surrogate Sister’s mom and dad are a very sweet couple with silver hair that makes them look like Mr. & Mrs. Santa Claus. Her mom is a real “mom” which means both The Dutch Girl and I got Christmas presents. That’s something my mom would do. If you’re in her house on Christmas, you’re getting a gift. I was warned I’d have to drink, but it wasn’t nearly what I thought. See, in my house “drinking” means hard liquor. The kind of shit that can remove paint, not to mention internal organs, but this was just wine. There was an alcohol incident, but it had nothing to do with The Dutch Girl drinking, but me drinking. Me and a glowing green gnome. It seems the family of Surrogate Sister has a tradition of a Christmas Eve grab bag. Her brother, a musician we shall call Rock Star, thought a plug-in Green Gnome about two feet high was a great gift. His cousin thought it was great too and not only took it, but brought it back for Christmas dinner as well. Unfortunately, my sense of humor runs that way too and I loved the gnome. It was my undoing because when Surrogate Sister’s father was giving a Christmas toast and made mention about “setting a place for those who those who aren’t here” the cousin grabbed the gnome and placed it at the table and I couldn’t help but laugh. Dad was not happy and so for the rest of the night the joke was that I ruined Christmas. Much to Surrogate Sister’s chagrin, I got along very well with her brother. We share a similar humor and he actually brought his guitars down for me before we launched into a discussion (along with The Dutch Girl) about 80’s rock stars like Kip Winger and Poison. Dinner was very good. Just thinking about the prime rib still makes my mouth water. Unfortunately, it was days of eating like that so my stress induced weight loss was no more. I’m so glad these damn holidays are over.

TOO OLD TO ROCK & ROLL

So, Rock Star has a band and invited me to see them play at The Continental a few days after Christmas. It was early and free, so I had no excuse not to. If I wasn’t feeling old enough, just being in The Continental made it a little worse. See, it’s now a relatively well-known rock club, but I remember when I was in college that it was a restaurant. At one point it tried to be a movie themed restaurant before finally becoming a rock club. But that’s what old people do, isn’t it. Everything is, “I remember when this used to be…” and now I’m doing that too. Sigh. Next it’s adult diapers for me. I just know it. In any case, in the great tradition of all bands, they didn’t start on time and the reason was another music tradition: it was the drummer’s fault. They did a 30 minute set and I liked about two out of the seven or so songs they played which is two more than I expected to like. But they ballads. Every band needs at least one ballad. The lack of them explained why, out of a five man band, there was not one skinny, slightly slutty girl in attendance. What the hell kind of band is that!?! Pussy is the only reason to start a band. If you can’t get that, you might as well pack it in. Ballads, boys. Ballads.

ALONE AND DRUNK, BUT IT’S NOT AS BAD AS IT SOUNDS

So my New Year’s tradition is to remain home and eat poorly and drink. This year was no different. I had pizza, extra mozzarella, one good of champagne and one cheap bottle of cheap champagne that I didn’t use last year (the cheapie is actually just a “sparkling wine” as only champagnes made in France can be called champagne). As it turns out, my roommate thought the Moet Chandon in the fridge was mine, but it was actually hers, so we opened that instead. It went two quickly between the two of us, so I opened my cheap sparkling wine and drank it by myself (save the good stuff for another day). I blame it for my enjoyment of The Chronicles of Riddick and a few phone calls, which I will emphatically deny here. I don’t know what I said (actually, I do, which really, really sucks), but I deny it now. But The Chronicles of Riddick seemed much better this time around. Maybe it was the booze, but maybe it was the inclusion of a lot deleted scenes (including one where Thandie Newton gets so hot fighting with her husband that she demands to blow him sitting in the leader’s throne when no one is around) and the elimination of a few others (the part where he tells the little girl “I am the monster” is gone and missed). It’s still not perfect, but if you want something dumb and fun and are drinking, it’s your movie. It reminded me of Conan The Barbarian with all its alpha male struggles, phallic imagery and Nietzschean overtones and as we all know, Conan rules! It was my week to give movies a second chance on DVD, because I broke down and bought King Arthur, which was also the director’s cut. It didn’t improve as much as COR despite also having additional footage, but I’m a sucker for Arthurian legends so I was still able to enjoy it. The original, darker ending isn’t nearly as dark as you expect and quite frankly isn’t a real ending. The dumb wedding they reshot is actually better. But there’s more blood, which makes the battles better. Now you know where all that damn blood on their armor came from.

MANLY LOVIN’ IN A MANLY MANNER

What’s the difference between having two Lesbian Neighbors and two Gay Male Neighbors? My former Lesbian neighbors had annoying little dogs who barked every fucking time someone came up the stairway, while my new Gay Male neighbors woke me up Sunday morning by fucking so hard it was like someone was hammering right next to my bed. Yes, that was my delightful alarm Sunday morning. The moaning I could easily tune out, but they were rocking their bed so hard I would feel the vibration in my own bed, which is what woke me. Now, this is the big city and some things we just have to put up with. The dogs were one thing. They couldn’t very well stop dogs from barking, but a bed can be fucking stabilized so it doesn’t bang the floor while you’re banging on it! We’ll see if this becomes a habit on Sunday mornings before I make any noise about it. The irony is, I was thinking of going back to yoga now that my foot has healed somewhat, which means I wouldn’t be in the house anyway. It’s all about not waking me up. If they did this in the middle of the afternoon, I wouldn’t give a shit, but they committed the unpardonable sin of waking me the fuck up and that simply will not stand.

FEEL THE DARK SIDE FLOWING THROUGH YOU

So, I occasionally hang out with Star Trek Woman, who was Miss Pretty Boy’s Maid of Honor. We share a few mutual interests, not the least of which is her recent purchase of an iPod. Eager to bring someone over to the dark side, I happily allowed her access to my music collection, even offering my hard drive back ups of all the music I’ve downloaded but don’t have on cd. Unfortunately, I realized later the insight this gave her into me, as she began to joyfully rattle off some of the more obscure songs I had. Now, there’s a reason I have Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” but it’s too long to go into here and involves Wonder Woman, but that’s just the kind of conversation I’d like to avoid. In any case, she came completely over to the dark side when I talked her into buying an iBook. I couldn’t get Around The Way Girl, who bought a Dell, but Star Trek Woman was ripe for the taking and within minutes of my spiel, I was off to meet her at Tekserve to buy her powerbook. She was headed out drinking that night and since one of the reasons she went with the powerbook was the free software I could give her, she gave it to me to set up that night. Geek that I am, I really enjoyed doing it. So, to thank me, she bought me lunch the next day. After that she asked me if I wanted to look at a dress with her. As a semi-Man of Leisure, I was game. Her assistant had told her of a specific dress but didn’t really describe it, but because I’m half-a-woman, the dress I liked was the exact one she’d talked about. We went in and she tried it on and it was gorgeous, but not $485 gorgeous. And this is without the $90 choker, which made it complete. She tried to negotiate with the store owner, but he was only willing to go down to $400 plus tax. I told her to walk and she did---only to tell me later when we met for drinks that she’s bought it for $400 no tax. I felt guilty because at my urging she’d dropped nearly two grand in just two days. Granted, the computer she needed and can write off, but the dress? Maybe if I hadn’t gushed over it…but it was damn nice. So ladies, if you’ve got money to burn and want the opinions of a “I Swear I’m Straight” man on what to buy, I don’t have temp work lined up yet, so book me now. All I ask is that you feed me and not touch me.

BARFLY II: ELECTRIC BUGALOO

Speaking of Around The Way Girl, the day after Christmas I recruited her for a mission to see Surrogate Sister, who refused to let me into her apartment once I told her I’d bought her a Christmas gift, because we weren’t supposed to do that for each other. I knew she was lying (remember: I got a sweater), so I had no intention of keeping my end of the deal either and what the hell? It’s going on the card and I’ll worry about it in a month. Same for my roommate’s gift (she became the first adult I’ve ever used my Gap card for). Next month. In any case, dragging Around The Way Girl with me forced her to let me in. As always, hanging out with Surrogate Sister meant drinking and I blame her more than the food for my recent weight gain. I can eat crappy food and maintain, but booze is too much. It’s because of booze that I had to swim four days last week. She had to work the next day, so I took a slightly buzzed Around The Way Girl and left. We wound up at a bar near her home that she was infinitely curious about. It’s called The Electric Banana and no, it’s not a gay techno bar. It’s a bar, a real bar and by that I mean a place filled with cigarette smoke and booze-soaked, lonely, middle-aged people a bit broken by life seeking comfort in shared misery. Yeah, it’s as fun as it sounds. Because she gets even perkier when drunk, Around The Way Girl felt the need to meet every none at the U-shaped bar and introduce us as well. Okay, that’s it. No more drinking. Aside from making me fat, it’s also taking me down a sordid route out of freaking Charles Bukowski. Not going to happen. It’s over! We’re dry in 2005. I’m serious this time. Okay, so that’s going to be a little difficult considering I’ve got two unfinished bottles of red on the counter and my roommate got me a nice bottle of vodka for Christmas, but after that, I swear it’s over. Okay, so I’ve got a total of three bottles of vodka in the fridge and a bottle of champagne, some gin and some tequila, but I swear when that’s done….

WHO DO YOU THINK WILL BE IN THE “TIDAL WAVE” MOVIE

Apparently Death had quota to meet before the end of the year and she went out big. There was Jerry Orbach, Reggie White and apparently god thought most of Southeast Asia had some talent, ‘cause he went after them all. And yes, I’ve given money. If I can buy mozzarella sticks and rent crappy DVD’s, then I can send money to Thailand and so can your sorry ass. That little naked crying girl on the cover of the New York Post just killed me.

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