Uch

2006-08-24T16:51:00.000-07:00

Home

It is hopeless for the occasional visitor to try to keep up with Chicago-she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them. She is always a novelty; for she is never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time.

---Mark Twain, "Life On The Mississippi," 1883

My cell phone rang this afternoon. A vaguely familiar caller id: "So what're you up to tonight? Any interest in going to Hyde?"

Oops. Another person I "neglected" to inform. "Uh, I'm in Chicago. Moved back a month ago. Sorry 'bout that. I was in a rush to get out of town before my rent shot up 65%."

Yep. Five years in LA erased in the blink of an eye. [Or, rather, on a manic 36 hour door-to-door drive from LA-to-Chicago.]

"Do you have a job yet?" "Nope. Out and about interviewing. Using a couple different high-end recruiters. In all likelihood I'm going back to a firm; sell my soul for some much needed liquidity. It's not ideal, but I'm sick of poverty and lethargy."

"Where're you living?" "I'm crashing at my folks until I get a gig. Basically everything's in storage (including the TV) awaiting my newest semi-permanent address."

"Do you miss LA?" "Not really. First, I'm living out of a suitcase so it more-or-less feels that I'm just visiting (even after a month). Second, I'd genuinely been planning to leave town at the time I left the studio; although, I initially hoped/expected that New York would be my next destination, Chicago made much more practical sense given the variables in play at the time I had to depart. And, most importantly, I certainly don't miss the metaphorical "where" I was in LA. I've made way too many major mistakes over the past several years; this honestly may be my last chance to hit the reset button without significant repercussions or residual blowback."

"What mistakes? What the hell are you talking about?" "Not here. Not now. Maybe never. Then again . . ."

2006-05-05T07:25:00.000-07:00

Feliz Cinco de Mayo

Beberé hoy mucho tequila no debido a un día de fiesta estúpido pero porque en fecha esta mañana, soy un tío por el primer tiempo.

2006-05-04T15:01:00.000-07:00

Pop Psychology 101

I'm never surprised by people. Not pleasantly. Nor shockingly. Nope, not ever. My expectations are always met. Reasonable or not, there is virtually no deviation from one's character, patterns and history.

To shoplift from Robert Frost: Given the easier of two decisions, it certainly ain't tough to predict which path will be taken. True spontaneity and unpredictability are such rarities that I'm beginning to believe they don't really exist.

Damn. People are way too easy.

2006-05-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

Behind the blue door

Awaiting tonight's House (Part II of a supreme cliffhanger), I sat through "Notting Hill". Although Julia never looked better, and I dig checking out both the semi-infamous deviant playing the 12-year-old Actress and the divine Ms. Mortimer playing the aptly named "Perfect Girl", what always draws me into the film (and why I own the DVD) is Hugh's group of friends. I envy the dinners, the banter, the history, the comfort and, mostly, the camaraderie.

All right, time to go watch my show. Alone.

2006-05-02T19:16:00.000-07:00

Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick etc.

Given the concept of ever diminishing returns, shouldn't drastic action be taken when one reaches that point in time where the utility of the status quo is exceeded by its opportunity cost? Stay tuned . . .

2006-04-30T17:01:00.000-07:00

More than a bit disquieting

Throughout my current six month stretch of semi-voluntary unemployment, the only thing consistently motivating me to leave the house is my daily yoga class. As a result, I'm not quite confident in my ability to undertake a seamless reentry into civilized society. At least my body's tanned, rested & ready...

2006-04-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

Fuck me. What the hell happened to the last twenty years?

The above is my blurb from Mrs. Kennedy's links. I was going to write something wonderfully pithy about how depressing it is that someone I've never met did such a masterful job encapsulating my essence in only eleven words, but, as it turns out, it came straight from the horse's mouth.

All this transpired, mind you, when I found a link to a nice article about my old pal Mrs. K, which prompted me to check and see whether she had euthanized my link. When it comes to my existence, I guess Mrs. K is a tad more of an optimist than I. And for that, all I can say is

Thank you.

Sometimes it really is just the little things.

2005-10-27T16:51:00.000-07:00

Those are tears of joy, my friend.

Ron Rapoport sums it up brilliantly:

It was because there are times when it all comes together. There are times when the sun shines all day, the boss gives you a raise, the girl you've been afraid to talk to invites you to dinner, the dealer gives you the ace you're looking for, and even the Cubs fan sticks out his hand and says congratulations.

There are times when after waiting and hoping and praying for so long, the White Sox win the World Series.
Thank you Ozzie. And Jerry. And Kenny. And the entire White Sox organization.

But, most of all, thank you Dad . . . for that first trip to Comiskey almost thirty years ago and every single game thereafter.

2005-09-09T22:18:00.000-07:00

For those of you who forgot to buy me a birthday present [a/k/a everyone but my mom]

I want this.^*

But seriously folks:

Take the money you earmarked but failed to spend for my 32nd and donate either here or here.

^*Men's Large [Thanks, Scott]

2005-09-04T13:02:00.000-07:00

And that's where the similarities end...

I just found out that I share my birthday with the incomparable Mr. Marcus.

Now, sharing a b-day with the [still] lovely Ione Skye is certainly more my speed.

2005-08-24T13:08:00.000-07:00

It sounds to me as if they're just pissed that he spilled the beans

Pat Robertson calls for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez and all the State Department has to say is that the comment is "inappropriate."

Let's see . . . Chavez is a two-time democratically elected pseudo-socialist who constantly criticizes U.S. policies toward Iraq, terrorism and developing countries. We applauded - and likely funded - the failed 2002 coup attempt against Chavez and would like nothing better than to Monroe Doctrine him out of the hemisphere. And it's not like we don't have a bit of experience when it comes to terminating Latin American heads-of-state with extreme prejudice. (See Allende, Salvador; Chile, U.S. intervention in)

Robertson Suggests U.S. Kill Venezuela's Leader [via NY Times]

2005-08-23T20:27:00.000-07:00

It might just be a case of the Tuesdays

A good friend/partner-in-crime just finished telling me all about his weekend:

Friday- Drunk.

Saturday- Stoned. And Drunk.

Sunday- Wired. And Drunk. And then Stoned.

A different sketchy friend told me all about his weekend when bailing out on an invitation to a private SFU finale screening:

Friday- Drunk. And Stoned.

Saturday- Drunk. Stoned. Drunk again. [Random call from 22 y.o. Russian plaything.] Rolling. Stoned.

Sunday- Stoned. ["What time is it? Six-thirty? For real? Dude, I didn't get to sleep until 9:30 this morning. Do you have any vicodin at your place?"] Hydrocodoned.

If I'm not mistaken I left my apartment for a grand total of 75 minutes from Friday night through Sunday and ingested a grand total of one Pacifico during that span. Although I envy their level of activity, I certainly don't want that existence. I really truly don't. There must be a happy medium, right? There has to be. When you subsist in a world of extremes how do you avoid the all-or-nothing, binary, zero-sum existence and simply enhance your every day.

Well, I'm all ears.

2005-08-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

Mourning has broken

The official obits:

Nathaniel Samuel Fisher, Jr.

Nate Fisher died of natural causes on Saturday, May 21 at the age of 40. The Fisher family struggles with the profound loss of their beloved son and brother. Nate also leaves behind his wife Brenda Chenowith and his precious daughter Maya Fisher.

Nate was born January 8, 1965 to Nathaniel and Ruth Fisher in Los Angeles. His warmth, sense of humor, and adventurous spirit earned him friends everywhere he went. After graduating from Bonaventure High School and attending U.C. Santa Cruz, Nate traveled through Europe and later settled in Washington State, where he managed the largest organic food co-op in Seattle.

From a very young age, Nate searched to find beauty in the world. He had a deep respect for the earth and the people living on it, always striving for honesty in his relationships with others. Nate found an outlet for his natural gift of helping those in need when he joined his brother David to run the family's mortuary business in 2001.

A memorial Service will be held on Monday, May 23 at 2 p.m. at Fisher and Diaz 2302 W. 25th Street in Los Angeles. Private burial to follow.

David James Fisher

Born January 20, 1969. Died at the age of 75 in Echo Park. He was proud owner and operator of Fisher & Sons Funeral Home of Los Angeles for over forty years. After retiring in 2034, he went on to perform in dozens of local theater productions, including Weill and Brecht's "Threepenny Opera," Rossini's "The Barber of Seville," and as Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." David leaves behind his partner Raoul Martinez, his beloved sons Durrell and Anthony Charles-Fisher, his sister Claire Fisher and his three precious grandchildren Matthew, Keith, and Katie. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Southern California Opera Association

Claire Simone Fisher
1983 - 2085

Born March 13, 1983. Died February 11, 2085 in Manhattan. Claire grew up in Los Angeles and studied art at LAC-Arts College. She worked as an advertising and fashion photographer and photojournalist for nearly fifty years, creating several memorable covers for Washington Post magazine, W, and The Face. Claire often exhibited her work in New York and London art galleries and in a time when nearly everyone else in her field had turned to digital scanning and computer-driven imaging, she continued to use a silver-based photographic process. Claire began teaching photography as a faculty member at New York University's Tisch School of the Arts in 2018, earning tenure in 2028. She's pre-deceased by her beloved husband Ted Fairwell.

It's more than a bit disconcerting that entire lives - lives we've known so intimately and in such detail over the past five years - can be condensed into such heartless, functional paragraphs. Inevitably, there, too, go us all. No matter the roar of our every breath, the end, at best, is a ripple.

As much as I hoped/prayed/implored that Claire's Prius would be the end (and the beginning), I'll concede that I share the sentiments of Jess, Spence and, in particular, Heff:

In fact, the whole overwrought montage was at least half ludicrous, and almost half lovely. But that precious ratio - which recalls the balance of silliness and beauty in Trollope and some of Hardy - has always been the show's strong suit, a 19th-century tone ingeniously invented and confidently maintained over five seasons. It's rare that a sensibility remains so unified and so unshy on a fancy soap opera; melodramatists too often get scared of being called hysterics and betray their genre, blowing it off for dumb stunts or trying, in some 11th hour, to sober up and turn manly. But the producers of "Six Feet Under" never cared about impressing the "Wire" or "Deadwood" audiences. They had their ratio, and they saw it through. "Six Feet Under" was a beautiful series, and its finale will suffice.

Goodbye, farewell and amen.

2005-08-14T16:41:00.000-07:00

Lunar Park

The fictional BEE has a fictional ex-wife who fictionally starred as Phlox, one of my all-time favorite fictional characaters, in a fictional motion picture adaptation of one of my recent favorite fictional works written by one of my favorite fiction authors.

It appears that the new HP will continue to decorate my coffee table for another couple of weeks.

Check out Tony Scott's review of Lunar Park, Bret's 30-minute chat with Michael Silverblatt on KCRW's Bookworm and an audio excerpt of the novel read by the author himself.

2005-08-13T21:36:00.000-07:00

You may be in a bit of a rut . . .

when TV Land's "Night Court" marathon is the highlight of your Saturday night.

To think I forgot how upset I was back when Selma died. And just three months after Coach.

Fuck me. What the hell happened to the last twenty years?

2005-08-12T08:03:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I've kissed that chick. Really.

So sayeth the Bard:

"As chance would have it, I have won the Pulitzer Prize, and so I am qualified. Speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks."

Damn. That almost ranks right up there alongside the poetry of "North":

"I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the implied insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it."

I guess I'll have to settle for "Junebug" and "Broken Flowers" this weekend.

2005-07-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

Ego Not Ergo

I just discovered that the wonderful Jill Soloway was kind enough to have inserted me into her links (double entendre, anyone?). If the hottest & coolest SFU writer is acknowledging my existence, I'm certainly not dead. Yet. (Yes, I recognize the irony.)

As payback (and because it's true), go buy Three Kinds of Asking For It, the three novella collection edited by Susie Bright (yeah, the very same Susie Bright from 'The Rainbow of Her Reasons'), which includes Jodi K., Jill's excellent "fictional diaryish thing of a 14-year-old-girl." It's a perfect quick semi-dirty summer read. And given how much I generally dig Jill's writing and the simple fact that she actually makes me laugh, I'm looking forward to the publication of her upcoming book, "Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants: Based on a True Story".

2005-07-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

Sunburn

Talk about coming up in the world: One year ago, I featured Ms. Klein in a post. Today, she's a Sunday Styles covergirl. Good for her. Seriously.

And as I lie here on the couch in a bit of muted agony, with skin approaching the hue of SK's hair, my only other thought is that some people made much better use of the past year than others. Fuck, that's depressing.

2005-07-20T23:01:00.000-07:00

JMB

Just returned from the annual KCRW Angel party, held this year at MOCA. Although there were a decent number of reasonably hot, well-to-do L.A.-edition hipster women, the real attraction was Basquiat.

I swear by the flick and was dying to see the assemblage of over 100 pieces in the flesh.

Was not disappointed. The pieces need to be viewed in person to truly be appreciated for their texture, complexity and composition. Sure, not all of them are significant (or even remarkable), however the handful of mindblowing masterpieces are must sees.

The one depressing, although essential, aspect of the exhibition is its chronolgogical organization of Basquiat's works. While we are able to see JM burn white hot in '82 & '83, as he reached the pinnacle of both his productivity and creativity, we are also forced to see his slow decline into '86 and the subsequent freefall of chaotic hoplessness that characterized the limited output of '87 (the year Warhol died) up through his death in August '88. Frankly, the haphazard, un-Basquiat like quality of the works in the penultimate gallery (thankfully the exhibition ends on a retrospective high note) made me think he was incoherently throwing some paint at a canvas in order to trade for some smack. What a fucking waste.

Incidentally, it feels as if half of the exhibition comes from Peter Brant's collection. Not only does the man own dozens of outstanding works, he gets to fuck Stephanie Seymour (albeit not what she used to be, but still...). My friends, that is what we call Livin'.

2005-07-18T19:42:00.000-07:00

Despite

what some may say, I am

Not.Dead.Yet.

Not by a long shot.

********

To whet the general appetite:

Although you may go to "Wedding Crashers" to be thoroughly entertained by Owen, Vince and a fantastic titty montage (and to stare longingly at Rachel McAdams), Isla Fisher (the future Mrs. Ali G) is really the star of the show. She's a remarkable physical comedienne, with great timing and a neverending supply of hysterical facial expressions. I don't normally dig FCs, but I'd let her "abuse me" at the dining room table any time.

********

Sanctimony, thy name is Page Six

For those who inquired:

I have never had my boots licked or back stabbed by Jessica: When she calls me an "idiot" it's right to my face.

2005-06-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

Almost

but not quite.

2005-04-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

Even April deserves a post

A stripper named Kylie with the most remarkable nipples I have ever "encountered" recommended this book to me last week.

Wanna know something??? That woman was dead on.

She also told me that Lonesome Dove was her all-time fave (but she had never seen the miniseries). All that and a Mississippi accent, to boot.

It truly was as if I had a mélange of Maud, Lizzie and Jessica grinding on my lap.

2005-03-31T13:12:00.000-08:00

How to cheapen a good thing

While this was deliciously snide all by itself, it became nothing short of petty when the 800 lb. gorilla edited by your good pal piled on.

2005-03-26T19:15:00.000-08:00

Meet Me in Fucking St. Louis, BABY!!!!!

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

2005-03-23T13:42:00.000-08:00

One year later...

The blog is still here.
I moved.
I still haven't fully unpacked.
The (artist formerly known as the ex-)roomie has returned.
I have the same job.
I do a bit more work.
I'm beginning to feel the pinch.
Dubya still infuriates me.
So do all the religious fundamentalists.
I still find her captivating.
I'm still restless.
I'm clean(er).
I'm fat(ter).
I go out less.
I'm still single. Kind of.
The Car is no more.
Replaced by New Car.
I watch "The West Wing" again.
I still haven't met her.
Everyone I know is either having kids or splitting up.
I couldn't begin to tell you where I will be this time, next year.

2005-03-21T14:55:00.000-08:00

Here's hoping the Illini beat the crap out of his team, force him back into that stupid mascot costume and bitchslap the little fuck back to Milwaukee

Bruce Pearl - Human Piece of Excrement [via Taylor Bell & Clyde Travis in the Chicago Sun Times]:

In 1989, [Deon] Thomas was a 6-9 star at Simeon. He was Mr. Basketball in Illinois. He led his team to a 28-1 record. Simeon was ranked No. 1 in the state and No. 3 in the nation before losing to King in the Public League championship game. Thomas was recruited by Illinois, Iowa, Arizona and Minnesota.

[Bruce] Pearl was a young and rising star on coach Tom Davis' staff at Iowa. Ambitious and aggressive, he was eager to loosen [Illinios Assistant Coach Jimmy] Collins' stranglehold on recruiting in the Chicago area by landing Thomas.

Ironically, Thomas said he was leaning to Iowa at the outset of the recruiting process. But his grandmother, who along with Simeon coach Bob Hambric was the most influential person in his life until her death in 1994, advised him to attend Illinois because she didn't like or trust Pearl.

When Thomas informed Pearl of his decision to attend Illinois, Pearl went ballistic. He had an inkling about the turnabout because he had been paying Thomas' closest friend, Renaldo Kyles, to report every move. He was aware that Illinois had closed the gap and Thomas had changed his mind.

Later, Pearl taped a two-minute telephone conversation with Thomas and handed the evidence to the NCAA, prompting an investigation. In the tape, made without Thomas' knowledge, it was alleged that Thomas confirmed he was offered $80,000 and a Chevrolet Blazer to sign with Illinois. Thomas denied the allegation.

"Pearl asked me, 'Deon, I heard you got $80,000 and a Blazer from Illinois,''' Thomas recounted. "I said, 'Where did you hear that?' Pearl's response was, 'I heard it through the grapevine.' My response was, 'Yeah, OK.' That was it.''

He said he was "completely shocked'' when he later was requested to attend a meeting with NCAA officials in Chicago and learned about the tape. "I knew I had been set up,'' Thomas said.

Thomas also claimed Pearl showed up in Amsterdam while the Simeon team was participating in an international tournament. He said Pearl gave him $100, drove him and three teammates around town in a rented car and paid for their lunch. Pearl denied the allegation.

Thomas' mother claimed that Pearl threatened to make public her drug dependency if her son didn't go to Iowa.

Here's Pat Forde's take on ESPN.com.

Tune in Thursday at 4:27 p.m. PT to see the #1 Ranked Fighting Illini continue their march to St. Louis (and watch them impose some serious retribution).

2005-03-15T11:08:00.000-08:00

For even less, Graydon got $100k

Here's our photo, if you want to use it...

2005-03-09T12:27:00.000-08:00

Asked & Answered

Q: When did being a woman become an acceptable excuse to be batshit insane?

A: "Ssssssssssssssssssss, wanna buy an apple?"

Question courtesy of Lindsay.

2005-03-08T22:41:00.000-08:00

It's certainly not the recreational stuff that's going to do me in

The patient on tonight's "House" rerun came thisclose to partying with Drs. Thompson & Bethe from an accidental overdose of colchicine, a drug that is among the prescribed arsenal against my sole medical condition. Here's what it says verbatim on my script:

TAKE 2 TABLETS BY MOUTH AT FIRST SIGN OF ATTACK, THEN 1 TABLET THEREAFTER UNTIL RELIEF OR ONSET OF DIARRHEA

This is straight off WedMD:

Side Effects

80% of people who take colchicine in doses that are high enough to be effective develop stomach problems, such as cramping, nausea, diarrhea, or vomiting.

Common, mild side effects include:

Nausea.
Vomiting.
Diarrhea.
Serious side effects of colchicine include bone marrow problems and muscle inflammation. Colchicine is usually avoided or the dose adjusted in people who have reduced kidney function.

Thankfully I only have to take it to combat flare-ups (one every two or so years) and not prophylactically. That said, nothing I have ever ingested or inhaled (and I mean NOTHING) has ever made me feel as shitty (pun absolutely intended) as those tiny white pills. And to think I wasn't even aware that it could kill me too.

See, I always knew that Fox was educational...

2005-03-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Cover jinx, my ass . . .

Over the last six minutes of the game, Purdue closed out on a 14-to-3 run.

Thus, the undisputed #1 Fighting Illini had to settle for a mere 34 point win: 84-50.

FYI-- Dee Brown hit 7 threes in the first half on the way to scoring 27 points in 26 minutes on the floor.

29 and 0, only 10 more to go

MC Gusto, my good friend, you have 29 days to get your spare bedroom in shape.

2005-03-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

If these two crazy kids can't make it, what chance have I?

Pregnant Denise Divorcing Charlie

Denise Richards filed for divorce from Sheen Wednesday after nearly three years of marriage.

According to the divorce petition posted on CelebrityJustice.com, Richards cites irreconcilable differences for the split.

The couple have a daughter, Sam, who turns one next week, and Richards is six months pregnant with the couple's second child, who is due in early June. The actress wants custody of the children and is seeking spousal support payments from Sheen.

Ol' Charlie must have done some serious Oscar™ related damage if his SIX MONTHS PREGNANT wife is dumping his ass. Where's little Chuckie been spending his time?

UPDATE--

Straight outta Gawker:

"But seriously, what the fuck? Is nothing sacred anymore? Not to get all 'love is dead' on you kids, but if rich, aesthetically-pleasing, rehabbed simpletons can’t make it, who can? Why do we even get out of bed in the morning?"

Let the record show I posted first. Oh, and Happy Belated B-day, Jess.

2005-03-02T20:36:00.000-08:00

How to survive extreme sugar shock

Read this.

NOW, before you pull the trigger, read this.

One's a parody and the other is just a complete and utter joke. It's reaffirming to know that Lindsay & Alex are on the case when someone irrevocably crosses that fine line from (marginal) legitimacy to outright travesty.

Good job guys.

2005-02-20T21:11:00.000-08:00

There's only so much fear & loathing a person can take

Author Hunter S. Thompson Kills Himself

May the mescaline be plentiful and the blow ultra-pure.

Sleep well, Dr. Gonzo.

[Photo courtesy The Great Thompson Hunt]

Check out "Shotgun Golf with Bill Murray" -- HST's final Page 2 column

2005-02-06T22:16:00.000-08:00

Social Conventions - Super Bowl Edition

1. A super bowl party invite should not be made five minutes prior to kickoff when the party in question is a minimum half-hour drive away.

2. An individual at a super bowl party should refrain from making any druken non-football related phone calls DURING THE GAME to any individual not at that very same super bowl party.

3. It is not considered polite form to cancel a super bowl party RSVP with an "Im in vegas" text message sent mid-second quarter.

4. It is perfectly acceptable to base one's rooting interest solely upon the alma mater of a team's quarterback.

5. Regardless of how pathetic Paris Hilton's SNL performance may have been, a postmortem analysis does not take precedence over Sir Paul. Ever.

6. The failure of a team to properly manage the clock in the waning minutes of the most important game of their respective careers is a reason sufficient to call their (likable) head coach and (overwhelmed) star quarterback "a couple of complete and utter schmucks."

AND

7. There is only one answer to the question of who gave the best individual performance at Super Bowl XXXIX: Charlie Daniels. Yes, Charlie Fucking Daniels.

2005-02-03T06:03:00.000-08:00

Remind me again, which one's Shemp?

2005-02-02T21:24:00.000-08:00

And here I thought that nothing could top the State of the Union

Thanks to my brother (the M.D.) for pointing this one out:

New York City health officials have gone to court to stop a rabbi from performing a type of ritual circumcision they believe may have led to the death of a baby boy from herpes.

The baby was one of three infants found to have contracted herpes simplex virus after being circumcised by Rabbi Yitzchok Fischer, who used his mouth to draw blood from the infant's wound, a traditional Orthodox practice during the bris, or religious circumcision.

Ten days after Fischer circumcised twins last October, one died of herpes and the other tested positive for the virus, according to the court papers. A third baby circumcised by Fisher was later found to have also tested positive for herpes, health officials said.

NY Officials Bar Rabbi from Circumcision Ritual

As if fellating a just circumcised newborn wasn't sufficiently horrific... Sometimes there's just no answer to the question, "What the fuck are people thinking?"

2005-02-01T23:05:00.000-08:00

At least Rush Limbaugh relishes his prickdom

"Reason #67 why Michael Medved is an unmitigated asshole"

Critics have no right to play spoiler

Excerpted from Roger Ebert's discussion of "Million Dollar Baby":

The decision of Maggie and her trainer is not a surprise to the readers or listeners of two right-wing commentators, Michael Medved and Rush Limbaugh. They have revealed every secret of the plot. Limbaugh even chortled as he "apologized" for an earlier broadcast. Just as the movie was opening, Medved appeared on Pat Robertson's "700 Club" to describe the plot in great detail. The outcome of the movie does not match their beliefs. They object to it. That is their right. To engage in a campaign to harm the movie for those who may not agree with them is another matter.
...
Medved feels moviegoers deserved to know what the movie is about, and that critics have been dishonest in not telling them. Medved has for a long time been a political commentator, not a movie critic, but he must remember from his earlier days that moviegoers do NOT want to be informed of key plot surprises, and write enraged letters to critics who violate this code. He says the studio concealed the ending because "no one would come" if they knew how it turned out. In fact, the movie is a great success because of word-of-mouth praise from people who have admired it and urged others to attend.

WARNING: Do NOT read Ebert's complete essay until you've seen the movie. (Yes Virginia, it is outstanding; right up there with my favo rite mov ies of 20 04.)

And, almost as important, please disregard any "movie reviews" offered up by born-again neoconservative commentators who use their own brand of self-righteous, judgmental, morally superior orthodox judaism as the impetus for their criticism.

Hell, Medved was a pathetic movie critic even when he was a "liberal."

2005-01-31T07:06:00.000-08:00

It might be wise to avoid any presents wrapped completely in white

Happy 82nd, Norman Mailer.

Mailer on A Man in Full:

"At certain points, reading the work can even be said to resemble the act of making love to a three-hundred-pound woman. Once she gets on top, it's over. Fall in love, or be asphyxiated."

And my hometown:

"New York is one of the capitals of the world and Los Angeles is a constellation of plastic, San Francisco is a lady, Boston has become Urban Renewal, Philadelphia and Baltimore and Washington blink like dull diamonds in the smog of Eastern Megalopolis, and New Orleans is unremarkable past the French Quarter. Detroit is a one-trade town, Pittsburgh has lost its golden triangle, St Louis has become the golden arch of the corporation, and nights in Kansas City close early. The oil depletion allowance makes Houston and Dallas naught but checkerboards for this sort of game. But Chicago is a great American city. Perhaps it is the last of the great American cities."

Whether expressed through admiration or revulsion, we must concede his importance as the final link to a bygone age and style.

2005-01-30T22:41:00.000-08:00

It was just one of those days

Pick a song, any song:

Blue skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sun-shiny day.

Summer nights and my radio
Well that's all we need, baby. Don'tcha know?
We celebrate when the gang's all here
Ah, hot summer nights, that's my time of the year!

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world

Summer breeze makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

B.F.T.

2005-01-28T16:59:00.000-08:00

Why does this all sound so familiar?

Getting Higher but Sinking Lower

Ben Brantley's take on Hurlyburly:

For the pharmaceutically fried denizens of the squalid Hollywood Hills house in which Mr. Rabe's 1984 drama takes place, drugs and alcohol are way beyond recreational status. They're what generate thought and action, love and hate, security and anxiety, often in such a blurred succession of responses that it's hard to distinguish among them.

Hedonists is not exactly the word for these folks, who cling to the margins of the film industry. Even high, they're low. But thanks to a terrific cast that parks its vanity in the wings - directed by Scott Elliott and led by Ethan Hawke, Josh Hamilton and Parker Posey - theatergoers are likely to experience a heady buzz of excitement and clarity that fades only in the last quarter of this three-hour production and that any of the desperate characters onstage would kill for.
. . .
These jerks are drawn, by performers and playwright, with such fine-grained artistry and accuracy that they are compulsively watchable, giving the lie to the theory that you have to like characters to be engaged by them. What the show brings out so well is the fractured consciousnesses of people whose moods are determined by their most recent forms of self-medication. Halfway through this production, it occurred to me that "Hurlyburly" may be the smartest, and certainly the least sentimental, play ever written about life on drugs.

The speech of these coke-snorting, dope-toking, tequilla-swilling characters is circular, repetitive and shot through with abrupt shifts in attitude. Yet - and this is a crucial yet - we are always aware of an aching emotional and intellectual restlessness, fed by a need for clarity, to use one of Eddie's favorite words, in a muddled, superficial environment.

The characters may be victims of the psychobabble, spiritual mantras and film jargon of the world they inhabit. But they are also perversely struggling to penetrate their self-induced haze. The production is propelled throughout by a sense of thwarted energy and a crippled quest for substance.

I may have to fly in just for this. Or perhaps I'll simply sit on my couch for a while.

2005-01-16T18:17:00.000-08:00

It's going to be one hell of a party this year

2005-01-13T18:06:00.000-08:00

While I'd normally be offended (o.k., maybe not), West Wing was damn good last night

It appears that gmail lost my invitation.

And to think that I was planning on sending them some Golden Globes gossip on Sunday. Now, in the name of friendship and loyalty, it's all going to Star.

2005-01-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

Who woulda thunk it? From Carl Spackler to Cinematic Icon

Anthony Lane deconstructs "The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou" in this week's New Yorker:

It is heartening to reflect that the best of Bill Murray may be yet to come. These days he is a wiser and a madder man; his ennui has lost any trace of a pose, and he sits around (for a tall guy, he can look oddly squat, verging on the shrunken) as if wearing an invisible T-shirt that says “I Told You So.”

And, please, do not overlook Bill's tour-de-force performance in the best film of 1998.

2005-01-12T15:15:00.000-08:00

Sickos, Sickos Everywhere (and not a drop to drink)

This was the most viewed NYTimes.com article in 2004, beating out:

Ron Suskind's profile of Dubya the Messiah (#2)

Tony Scott's 'Fahrenheit 9/11' review (#4)

Frank Rich's post-election moral values refutation (#5)

The front-page dissection of Condoleezza Rice's aluminum tube deception (#7)

-and-

The Times' endorsement of John Kerry (#9)

Unfortunately, I'm not all that surprised.

2005-01-11T13:51:00.000-08:00

Save me a spot on the next Celebrity Fit Club

Just when my post-holiday diet (30" jeans were feeling a bit tight) was progressing swimmingly, our sadistic office manager decides to stock our kitchen with fucking Double Stufs.

Ugh . . . 2 days, 13 cookies . . . and counting . . .

2005-01-06T13:06:00.000-08:00

The blogging equivalent of the electric defibrillator

This temporarily awoke me from my indefinite new year's coma.

2004-12-20T14:13:00.000-08:00

Gone Fishin'

If I'm still breathing in 2005, it'll be back to (ab)normal.

Happy New Year.

2004-12-08T14:38:00.000-08:00

Everyone needs a sketchy friend or two

Random text message just received from someone I’ve seen only once in the past four months:I have a bouncer connection at the strip joint after 8 in w la that can set us up with chicks outside of work
Considering this is a guy who, while crashing with me and the (ex-) roomie during his divorce, used my home computer and e-mail to respond to gay craigslist “casual encounters” postings (it took me awhile to notice the e-mails to ‘Mr. Man’ in my sent items folder), I think I may let this offer pass me right on by.

2004-12-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

Reflections upon Rob Lowe, Snow White & "Proud Mary"

I have a gift, you see. Not anything particularly worthwhile, but a gift nonetheless. It impresses some, alienates others and generally is met with open disinterest. Over the years, to a not negligible degree, I have benefitted materially from my gift. It provides a sense of calm; that serene feeling one gets with certainty and the knowledge that no matter what, I always have this to fall back upon. All of my other talents, abilities and strengths may fade, however this one will survive until my dying days.

You see, I have a knack for picking the Oscars™. I've won many contests. Annually, I amaze and/or annoy all who are fortunate enough to watch them in my company.

And, last night, I saw the movie that, come February, will take home the little guy for, at least, Best Picture and Best Director. Now, it's not the best movie I've seen all year. Nor is it the most interesting film of the year. But it will be a worthy winner nonetheless. Certainly more worthy than several recent winners.

Given that the Academy is dying to present The Big Man with a little gold man (thank god they did not succeed in 2002), this is the movie that (deservedly) will do it.

And unlike this picture, it doesn't all come down to Marty. (I do wonder, however, whether the picture would have been as successful with Michael Mann at the helm.) "The Aviator" is a damn good movie on its own. Period. It will more than justify all of the many accolades to come. And, trust me, there will be accolades aplenty.

P.S. -- Although Leo's not going to win the Oscar™ (Jamie Foxx -- 'nuff said), he will (and should) receive a nomination. He delivers a strong, nuanced, multi-faceted performance that helps the audience get beyond the caricaturesque myth of Howard Hughes to an understanding of what really defined the man: in, business, in Hollywood, in the bedroom, in the sky, and in his disturbed mind.

P.P.S. -- Depending on the nominations (multiple nods for the same picture can be deadly), Cate Blanchett will win Best Supporting Actress for her amazing portrayal of Kate Hepburn. She takes an American icon out of the realm of cliche and into a remarkable place of empathy and genuine feeling.

2004-12-06T17:19:00.000-08:00

sac-less

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

2004-12-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

YOU'RE out of order! YOU'RE out of order! THE WHOLE TRIAL is out of order! THEY'RE out of order!

Allow me to set the scene: The 11th floor of the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. A large institutional flourescently lit room. The assembled masses (higher end than your typical DMV, but not by much) sit, slouch and snooze throughout, assembled in a manner eerily reminiscent of a traffic school classroom. I am marginally aware of the dull sounds of whispered cell phone conversations, keyboard typing and the audio of "The People's Court" from the lone TV as they all coalesce overhead and reverberate off the faux wood panelling and the row of windows fronting the room, blinds drawn to protect the functionaries and administrators from having to look upon the pathetic faces of 250 potential jurors.

Yes, my dear friends and even dearer enemies, for the first time in my 31 years upon this planet, I am fulfilling my consitutional and civic duty of jury service. I tremble with the potential responsiblity that may be thrust upon me, for I have been called to the central criminal court for all of Los Angeles County. Yes, O.J. spent several months below me back in 1995. As did the Menendez boys back in 1996. And, along the same lines, Robert Blake's 9th floor hoedown kicks off on December 20th, just in time for Christmas (unfortunately, they already have a jury seated for that epic-in-the-making).

You might ask: How come a dually-admitted member of the bar with the occasional shady tendency can't get himself out of jury duty? Let me tell you, it's not for lack of trying. I postponed a prior spring summons to December on the advice of a friendly county clerk who promised that virtually no juries were ever seated around Christmas.

Bullshit. Tell it to the judge.

Of course, if that actually attempted to empanel me, I should be dismissed for cause as quickly as you can say "voir dire." It's one of the few times that being an over-educated, liberal, highly arrogant, opinionated prick actually works to my benefit. (For some odd reason, it hasn't historically worked with the ladies.) However, the mere possibility of a multi-week trial is way too close for comfort.

As of this writing, I have managed to escape being called for a potential twelve day trial AND a minimum fifteen day whopper. Talk about guilty before opening statements: Any jury stuck in this place for three-weeks-plus over Christmas is not acquitting the defendant responsible for sticking them there. Not a chance. Culpability is irrelevant.

Truthfully, it's not all that bad sitting here. This morning, I caught up on some reading. Checked out my old downtown stomping grounds during lunchtime. (If stuck here tomorrow, I'll be meeting a few old big firm co-workers for a nice expensed lunch at the brand new Patina in Disney Hall; no fucking way I'm doing courthouse cuisine.) And they do have this functional computer, for which I paid a mere $10 for all-day access. Of course, they did try to block ET as a porn site (used the back door instead; not all that inappropriate for this place, eh?) and I felt people looking over my shoulder as I perused Uncle Grambo's daily musings.

Hopefully, the next ninety minutes will pass without incident. A prospective juror's obligation is fulfilled under LA County's "One Trial System" if he/she makes it through one day without assignment to any courtroom. The powers-that-be have only attempted to empanel four juries since 9 am and my name has yet to come up. In fact, the jury common room on this floor (there's one down on the 5th floor as well) remains at 65% capacity minimum. From my days as a litigator, I know that judges are disinclined to request new jurors as afternoon stretches into evening. Odds are that very soon we will be dismissed for good and I'll be able to chalk this up not as a wasted day, but as a day that I completely fulfilled my sacred duty as a U.S. citizen and player within the American jurisprudential complex. [The new sound you hear is me Knock, Knock, Knockin' on every piece of faux wood in the vicinity.]

One Final Note:

Who's the #1 team in both the AP Poll and ESPN/USA Today Coaches Poll?

The Fighting Illini!!!!!

2004-11-30T11:12:00.000-08:00

Hello, Stranger.

Do not expect anything resembling cohesive explication as I continue the arduous task of collecting my thoughts and wrapping them around last night's screening:

Scalpel. Adult. Precise. Jarring. Caustic. Irredeemable. Genuine. Scathing. Joyless. Disquieting. Mons pubis. Croupier. Plaintive. Calculating. Penetrating.

2004-11-22T17:59:00.000-08:00

LOL line from The Sports Guy

“Random Thoughts From The Pacers-Pistons Fight”

12. Underrated moment of the night: Jim Gray's one report where his voice started inexplicably quivering ... someone on the SOSH message board compared it to Michael Jackson breaking down at the end of the "She's Out of My Life." And this was the same man who interviewed Mike Tyson after the second Holyfield fight! How could he be rattled by this melee? By the way, the way his career is going, I'm surprised Jim Gray wasn't on hand when Jack Ruby shot Oswald and O.J. was first introduced to Nicole. He's like the Zelig of horrible incidents.

Unfortunately, I changed the channel from the game with about three minutes to go. Fortunately, I flipped past ESPN just in time to see an inexplicably emotional Jim Gray melt down as if he was the lone survivor of a nuclear detonation. Truly compelling television at its best.

And for the weekend, only topped by Buster’s mistaking Santa Ana, California for Enconta, Mexico in terms of pure hilarity.

2004-11-18T08:18:00.000-08:00

And how did you spend your evening?

This was the sole tolerable moment. Depressingly withering review forthcoming...

2004-11-17T13:40:00.000-08:00

Homesick

Actually, I'm home **pause** sick today. Well, not truly sick, but unwell. Maybe not unwell, but certainly under the weather. Ah perhaps not under the weather, but rather afflicted. OK, apparently not afflicted, but essentially recovering.

Oh, fuck it . . . ate too much blue fin toro and drank way too much sake last night to realize even a semblance of productivity today. So here I sit, alone in my apartment, reading "I Am Charlotte Simmons" and waiting for tonight's screening of "Alexander" with very special guests.

2004-11-16T13:11:00.000-08:00

"DEATH BY STEREO"

Upon hearing that “The Lost Boys” was one of my all-time favorite movies, Joel Schumacher stared me down and delivered the above line with his singular manic intensity. Unfortunately for Messr. Schumacher and the good folks at Warner Brothers, that instant was the undisputed highlight of the evening. I can find absolutely nothing within the super special advance screening of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “The Phantom of the Opera” that even comes remotely close.

When the only moments in the film that generate an audible reaction are those featuring Minnie Driver as a (not exactly) caricaturesque diva, you know you’re in for an overblown and exhausting two-plus hours. While the ornate production design and the breathtaking costumes are certainly Oscar™ worthy, that style, typical of Lloyd Webber, belies any trace of substance. Indisputably a tremendous feast for the eyes, “Phantom” leaves its audience cold and wanting and hungry for anything invigorating.

Critical disdain for “Phantom” will likely be trained squarely upon its director, and that is hardly fair. While Schumacher is certainly responsible for much of the morass on screen, he had a tremendous handicap from the start: Lloyd Webber’s overwrought, inflated and flatulent musical. Whether your production stars Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman or Gerard Butler and (18 year-old superstar-in-waiting) Emmy Rossum, it is impossible to escape a weak book and an imminently forgettable score.

Think about it: When was the last time you actually heard someone hum “Music of the Night”?

This is everyone from last night’s screening. And this is the enchanting Ms. Rossum.

2004-11-15T15:46:00.000-08:00

Incommunicado no more

If you were one of the recipients of either a drunken phone call or text message from me (or apparently both if you're particularly HOTT™) this past weekend, I sheepishly apologize. Saturday morning, my good friends at Sprint hand delivered a replacement Treo, which indirectly led to my current inability to wholly reconstruct the events of the past 48 hours. And directly led to the dozen or so new phone numbers with names galore but nary a face to match.

While I vaguely recall snippets of Eva Longoria and Lindsay Lohan and complimentary bottles of Cristal, I'm still not certain how I found myself at some random house in the hills, playing Halo 2 at 5:15 Sunday morning. And to the very sweet, attractive (?) young lady who drove me back to my car, well, uh, thank you very much.

2004-11-10T10:43:00.000-08:00

“Every positive value has its price in negative terms . . .
the genius of Einstein leads to Hiroshima.” --Pablo Picasso

Positive: I will be here for the next three days.

Negative: So will 150 co-workers.

Positive: All expenses paid.

Negative: All lawyers.

Positive: Hospitality suite w/open bar.

Negative: Meetings. Lots and lots of meetings.

Positive: Unscheduled time.

Negative: A grand total of two hours.

Positive: Spending time away from the office.

Negative: Spending time watching departmental presentations.

Positive: A leisurely drive down the coast.

Negative: On the 405.

Positive: An evening of casino gambling.

Negative: Not for real money.

Postive: The avoidance of any real work.

And the OVERRIDING NEGATIVE: The premiere of a studio short film starring a heavily-coerced yours truly.

2004-11-08T16:03:00.000-08:00

There but for the ‘Monkey Business’ went he

Gary Hart acutely tackles evangelical hypocrisy in today’s NYT Op-Ed:

A neglected thread of church doctrine was the social gospel of John and Charles Wesley, the great reformers of late 18th-century Methodism. The Wesley brothers preached salvation through grace but also preached the duty of Christians, based solidly on Jesus' teachings, to minister to those less fortunate. My political philosophy springs directly from Jesus' teachings and is the reason I became active in the Democratic Party. Finally, in the qualification-to-speak category, I will seek to pre-empt the ad hominem disqualifiers. I am a sinner. I only ask for the same degree of forgiveness from my many critics that they were willing to grant George W. Bush for his transgressions.

As a candidate for public office, I chose not to place my beliefs in the center of my appeal for support because I am also a Jeffersonian; that is to say, I believe that one's religious beliefs - though they will and should affect one's outlook on public policy and life - are personal and that America is a secular, not a theocratic, republic. Because of this, it should concern us that declarations of "faith" are quickly becoming a condition for seeking public office.

Declarations of "faith" are abstractions that permit both voters and candidates to fill in the blanks with their own religious beliefs. There are two dangers here. One is the merging of church and state. The other is rank hypocrisy. Having claimed moral authority to achieve political victory, religious conservatives should be very careful, in their administration of the public trust, to live up to the standards they have claimed for themselves. They should also be called upon to address the teachings of Jesus and the prophets concerning care for the poor, the barriers that wealth presents to entering heaven, the blessings on the peacemakers, and the belief that no person should be left behind.
. . .
There is also the disturbing tendency to insert theocratic principles into the vision of America's role in the world. There is evil in the world. Nowhere in our Constitution or founding documents is there support for the proposition that the United States was given a special dispensation to eliminate it. Surely Saddam Hussein was an evil dictator. But there are quite a few of those still around and no one is advocating eliminating them. Neither Washington, Adams, Madison nor Jefferson saw America as the world's avenging angel. Any notion of going abroad seeking demons to destroy concerned them above all else. Mr. Bush's venture into crusaderism frightened not only Muslims, it also frightened a very large number of Americans with a sense of their own history.

The religions of Abraham all teach a sense of personal and collective humility. It was a note briefly struck very early by Mr. Bush and largely abandoned thereafter. It would be well for those in the second Bush term to ponder that attribute. Whether Bush supporters care or not, people around the world now see America as arrogant, self-righteous and superior. These are not qualities of any traditional faith I am aware of.

It is unconscionable to permit mysticism driven by fear to overwhelm the pragmatism that has propelled two centuries of American achievement.

When the Personal Shouldn’t Be Political

2004-11-08T13:08:00.000-08:00

Remind me to send David E. Kelley one hell of gift basket this Christmas

Q: Why is “Boston Legal” the best new show this season?

A:Rhona Mitra.^*

The woman steams up my TV unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. And when she speaks, she purrrrrrrrrrs…

^*No slight to Emmy-winner Bill Shatner intended. Denny Crane. Yes, Denny fucking Crane.

2004-11-03T13:51:00.000-08:00

Silver lining

At least the bumper sticker peeled right off...

2004-10-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

I guess it's kind of like getting into someone else's car at the valet

Baby Given to Wrong Mom for Breast-Feeding

WINCHESTER, Mass. - A newborn at Winchester Hospital was given to the wrong mother for breast-feeding and the employee who was responsible was fired, hospital officials said.

The sister-in-law of the woman who was given the wrong baby said the woman noticed something was wrong when the baby nursed with greater vigor than her child and seemed to have longer hair. A nurse took the baby from her arms and said, "Oops, this isn't the right baby," said the sister-in-law, who asked not to be identified.

Well, that's one infant who's going to be a tit man (or woman) when he/she grows up.

2004-10-27T15:00:00.000-07:00

The curse of Sadie Frost

Take a look at Jude Law’s imdb entry. Go ahead. Right now. Guess what? There’s not a homerun to be found. Not a one.

On paper, Jude looks like he should be the most successful actor in the world. Think about it:

--Steven Spielberg directed him in a picture inspired and developed by Stanley Kubrick.

--He co-starred with Tom Hanks and Paul Newman in Sam Mendes’s follow-up to “American Beauty.”

--He played the glamour role opposite Matt Damon, Gwyneth and Cate Blanchett in Anthony Minghella’s follow-up to “The English Patient.”

--Minghella cast him as the lead (undeservingly Oscar-nominated) with Nicole (coming off her Oscar win) and Renée (Oscar winner) in an adaptation of Charles Frazier’s National Book Award-winning novel.

--Independent auteur and enfant terrible David O’Russell cast him as part of a great ensemble (Hoffman, Tomlin, Schwartzman, Huppert, Watts, Wahlberg, etc.) in an incredibly quirky, challenging and idiosyncratic motion picture.

--He plays the lead (and gets a producer credit) alongside Gwyneth and Angelina in Paramount’s visually groundbreaking attempt at a grand summer adventure.

--Clint Eastwood directs him in the adaptation of one of the best-selling nonfiction books of the 90’s along with Kevin Spacey and John Cusack.

--He takes on a paradigmatic title role in Charles Shyer’s remake of an all-time classic Oscar-nominated movie.

Not one of these moves is a classic. Arguably, at least half of them don’t even rise to the level of “good.” It’s as if Jude’s career has been genetically engineered for perfection, however, what works in theory does not succeed in practice (à la “Gattaca”).

Within its billing block, “Closer” looks like it can not miss: (i) Patrick Marber adapted the screenplay from his own award-winning play; (ii) Mike Nichols is directing and (iii) it co-stars with Julia Roberts, Clive Owen and that girl from “Garden State.” Despite this pedigree, I'm tempering my expectations. (Yeah, I’m going to see it multiple times, but there’s a whole different motivation there.)

And “The Aviator”? Talk about the perfect motion picture: Howard Hughes biopic, Scorsese, Leo, Blanchett, Beckinsale, Baldwin, etc. Hopefully Law’s cameo as Errol Flynn is not significant enough to make or break “The Aviator” and that it will either succeed or fail regardless of, or despite, his presence.

Jude’s presence alone foreshadows a motion picture’s devolution from extraordinary in conception to merely ordinary in execution. Cause & effect? I’m not certain. Is Jude Law the catalyst that turns otherwise outstanding films into throwaway movies of good intention and wasted potential? Could very well be. Ask me again after “All the King’s Men.”

2004-10-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

Aloha, Mr. Hand.

Tomorrow evening I will have the distinct pleasure of seeing "The Assassination of Richard Nixon" in the company of its star. I'm more than a little excited. And actually a little bit scared. Now, I've seen Sean Penn on many occasions, but never actually met him. Tomorrow will be a fairly intimate setting and I'm sure I will have the opportunity to chat him up.

The big conundrum is what I can possibly ask him that will be conversationally compelling yet innocuous enough so that he doesn't CRUSH™ me with his death rays (or just fucking deck me for mere sport):

Do I ask him if being the best American actor under 45 really gets him that much more pussy than 67 year-old Jack Nicholson?

Or do I ask him if he and Robin dress up as Buttercup and the Dread Pirate Roberts when they're being naughty?

Or perhaps I should ask him if it's really true that he based his "i am sam" role on his brother?

Actually, I've always wondered whether Nick Cage let Sean pet his Oscar after beating him in 1996.

Bottom line--

I think I'll just ask him what it's like to be the coolest motherfucker on the planet since Miles.

Unless someone has a better idea ...

2004-10-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

Remnick & Co. Speak

For the first time in its history, the New Yorker endorses a presidential candidate:

The damage visited upon America, and upon America’s standing in the world, by the Bush Administration’s reckless mishandling of the public trust will not easily be undone. And for many voters the desire to see the damage arrested is reason enough to vote for John Kerry. But the challenger has more to offer than the fact that he is not George W. Bush. In every crucial area of concern to Americans (the economy, health care, the environment, Social Security, the judiciary, national security, foreign policy, the war in Iraq, the fight against terrorism), Kerry offers a clear, corrective alternative to Bush’s curious blend of smugness, radicalism, and demagoguery. Pollsters like to ask voters which candidate they’d most like to have a beer with, and on that metric Bush always wins. We prefer to ask which candidate is better suited to the governance of our nation.

Throughout his long career in public service, John Kerry has demonstrated steadiness and sturdiness of character. The physical courage he showed in combat in Vietnam was matched by moral courage when he raised his voice against the war, a choice that has carried political costs from his first run for Congress, lost in 1972 to a campaign of character assassination from a local newspaper that could not forgive his antiwar stand, right through this year’s Swift Boat ads. As a senator, Kerry helped expose the mischief of the Bank of Commerce and Credit International, a money-laundering operation that favored terrorists and criminal cartels; when his investigation forced him to confront corruption among fellow-Democrats, he rejected the cronyism of colleagues and brought down power brokers of his own party with the same dedication that he showed in going after Oliver North in the Iran-Contra scandal. His leadership, with John McCain, of the bipartisan effort to put to rest the toxic debate over Vietnam-era P.O.W.s and M.I.A.s and to lay the diplomatic groundwork for Washington’s normalization of relations with Hanoi, in the mid-nineties, was the signal accomplishment of his twenty years on Capitol Hill, and it is emblematic of his fairness of mind and independence of spirit. Kerry has made mistakes (most notably, in hindsight at least, his initial opposition to the Gulf War in 1990), but—in contrast to the President, who touts his imperviousness to changing realities as a virtue—he has learned from them.

Kerry’s performance on the stump has been uneven, and his public groping for a firm explanation of his position on Iraq was discouraging to behold. He can be cautious to a fault, overeager to acknowledge every angle of an issue; and his reluctance to expose the Administration’s appalling record bluntly and relentlessly until very late in the race was a missed opportunity. But when his foes sought to destroy him rather than to debate him they found no scandals and no evidence of bad faith in his past. In the face of infuriating and scurrilous calumnies, he kept the sort of cool that the thin-skinned and painfully insecure incumbent cannot even feign during the unprogrammed give-and-take of an electoral debate. Kerry’s mettle has been tested under fire—the fire of real bullets and the political fire that will surely not abate but, rather, intensify if he is elected—and he has shown himself to be tough, resilient, and possessed of a properly Presidential dose of dignified authority. While Bush has pandered relentlessly to the narrowest urges of his base, Kerry has sought to appeal broadly to the American center. In a time of primitive partisanship, he has exhibited a fundamentally undogmatic temperament. In campaigning for America’s mainstream restoration, Kerry has insisted that this election ought to be decided on the urgent issues of our moment, the issues that will define American life for the coming half century. That insistence is a measure of his character. He is plainly the better choice. As observers, reporters, and commentators we will hold him to the highest standards of honesty and performance. For now, as citizens, we hope for his victory.

The above are the final three of the thirty-one paragraphs that constitute the New Yorker's essay. Read the entire piece and see the "failure, arrogance and . . . incompetence" of the Dubya Presidency dissected within the other twenty-eight cogent paragraphs.

2004-10-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

Mourning

My dog Maggie (lived in Chicago with my folks) was put to sleep this morning. It is raining here in LA. I am sad. That is all.

2004-10-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

I know I've been negligent as of late but this is just too damn good not to post

Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
October 02, 2004

Overlap

The good news is that the wadding pool is finished, the bad news is that we have to now cover it up, because the autumn winds make it impossible to enjoy. Spring is just around the corner... Humor me. Monolo is out of his funk. He has been cooking like a crazy man lately, and to everyone's benefit. Nothing goes better with my ginko-carrot juice than a warm bran shuckle. I have been reading in the raquetball court lately. I am upset that I didn't think of it earlier. It is tremendous way to relax. I read a marvelous script the other day and immediately called Gary to get me the part. Diary this was the role for me. I was upset to find however, that the movie was already made. Apparently I picked a script from the wrong pile. Well I am going to go to the store and pick up a copy of 'Turk 182' anyway. Salaam Alekiem.

Nick

And to Maccers as she travels to one of my favorite places in the world:

Jou ma se linke tet skiet rubber bullets.

(Afrikaans-to-English: Your mother's left tit shoots rubber bullets.)
Have a great trip.

2004-10-11T18:08:00.000-07:00

Claustrophobia (a/k/a It's getting quite crowded in here)

The incomparable turbulent priest has finally started a blog.

2004-10-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

Exasperation

Move along. There's nothing to see here.

2004-10-07T13:36:00.000-07:00

Mojo

I’m still recovering from yesterday’s inevitable development and my glorious encounter with the “Friday Night Lights” premiere after-party open bar. As a result, today is all about work and resuscitation. I’ll save the Billy Bob and Faith Hill anecdotes for tomorrow.

If you like football, see the movie. Hell, if you tolerate football, see the movie. Any film that prominently features “Bring The Noise” in its soundtrack is well worth $10.

Here are some pics. Unfortunately I didn't get to hang with Lauren Graham.

2004-10-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

This is the sexiest picture ever. Ever.

[infinite gratitude to Daily Kos & Defamer]

2004-10-06T00:34:00.000-07:00

Ramen? That's so not fair. When I was at Michigan the Clinton campaign only gave us dime bags.

Republicans Accuse Moore of Vote Bribery [AP]

LANSING, Mich. -- Republicans say filmmaker Michael Moore should be prosecuted for offering underwear, potato chips and Ramen noodles to college students in exchange for their promise to vote.

The Michigan Republican Party has asked four county prosecutors to file charges against Moore, charging that his get-out-the-vote stunt amounts to bribery. "We want everyone to participate in this year's election, but not because they were bribed or coerced by the likes of Michael Moore," said Greg McNeilly, executive director of the state Republican Party. Moore, a Michigan native, is touring the country and imploring "slackers" who usually don't vote to head to the polls this year, saying they could make the difference in the presidential race. Moore has made stops at three Michigan universities as part of a 60-city pre-election tour.

During each program, habitual nonvoters are invited on stage to pledge to vote. First-time student voters are offered gag prizes such as clean underwear. The GOP said Moore also offered students a clean dorm room, a year's supply of Tostitos and a package of Ramen noodles.

The GOP said it asked the prosecutors to charge Moore, a John Kerry (news - web sites) supporter, with violating Michigan's election law, which prohibits a person from contracting with another for something of value in exchange for agreeing to vote.

To make it fair and balanced, I'd be happy to sell my vote to the Republicans, but I can only think of one thing (w/one particular person) that would get me to vote for Dubya. And she's an avowed Kerry girl, so that ain't happening.

2004-10-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

Anybody who gave FOUR STARS to "About Last Night...", Less Than Zero and Almost Famous is my kind of critic

Roger Ebert, my former teacher, the first film critic to win a Pulitzer and the man who gave me my first 9 DVDs, has launched his new website: rogerebert.com.

It contains all of his movie reviews (including his "great movies"), essays, interviews, articles, Answer Man Q & A's and little movie glossary entries.

Whatever you may think of Roger Ebert as a critic--he definitely is not the same critic or writer he once was--do yourself a favor and check out the site and, in particular, this brilliant review.

2004-10-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

The Comedy Store lights are dim tonight

Rodney Dangerfield, Comic Seeking Respect, Dies at 82

Rodney Dangerfield, the paunchy, goggle-eyed comedian whose fidgety delivery and sad-sack catch phrase "I don't get no respect" brought him cult status and eventually wider fame, died yesterday in a Los Angeles hospital. He was 82.

With a rumpled suit and one hand perpetually loosening his trademark red necktie, Mr. Dangerfield took the stage as a hapless, self-deprecating Everyman slapped around by life and searching in vain for acceptance. It was a role that he had had some experience with offstage. But for his audiences, it was one laugh after another, from gag lines like these:

"I was an ugly child. I got lost on the beach. I asked a cop if he could find my parents. He said, 'I don't know. There's lots of places for them to hide.' "

Or: "My fan club broke up. The guy died."

Or: "Last week my house was on fire. My wife told the kids, 'Be quiet, you'll wake up Daddy.' "

Or: "I was ugly, very ugly. When I was born, the doctor smacked my mother."

Check out Rodney's official site. And give him a listen.

2004-10-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

Insomniac Insanity

This is Christian Bale and Jennifer Jason Leigh at last night’s West Coast premiere of “The Machinist”.

And this is Trevor Reznik, as played by Bale. Reznik hasn’t slept in a year and weighs 120 lbs. Bale lost 63 lbs. in four months for the role. And, regardless of the quality of the film (it’s watchable; good, not great; strong performances; script loses momentum), Bale’s Auschwitz-survivor appearance overwhelms every frame. My discomfort came not from the story, the photography or the performances, but from looking at Bale in that state for 102 minutes. While Bale may claim the weight loss was not a “gimmick,” any impact or value of the film is overshadowed by its emaciated star.

2004-10-04T14:02:00.000-07:00

Forget the VP debate. Tomorrow’s all about Jack Tanner.

First, The Criterion Collection releases Robert Altman and Gary Trudeau’s brilliant “Tanner ‘88” on DVD.

Second, “Tanner on Tanner” premieres on Sundance Channel at 9 pm.

2004-10-04T13:19:00.000-07:00

Last week was not fun because ...

Reason #7: Helmer Out

2004-10-03T18:09:00.000-07:00

Emancipation through the back door lying at my front door

One of the great advantages of having resumed home delivery of the Sunday New York Times is the ability to find tidbits and stories that would generally escape my eye when simply perusing nytimes.com. Whether it's Andrew Moore's MOMA photographs in the Magazine, a "Heaven's Gate" timeline in Arts & Leisure, or Choire's take on The Guide, discovery upon the tangible page far surpasses the experience which comes via the ethereal interweb.

While I do receive the NYT's "Books Update" e-mail every Friday, I have neither the patience nor time to digest all of its content in one sitting. As a result, I often skip or altogether overlook everything but the featured reviews. Flipping through the Book Review on a Sunday morning while awaiting the 10 am kick-offs gives me the opportunity to revisit and rectify any glaring omissions. Thankfully, this giant photo on page 36 under the title "The Beauty of Submission" stopped me in my tracks long enough to read Zoe Heller's review of "The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir" [click on the keyhole] by former NYCB dancer Toni Bentley, which is described as "a manifesto for anal sex":

By giving herself up to "this forbidden pathway," Bentley writes, she has not only found her self, she has discovered "Paradise," she has experienced "eternity in a moment of real time," and she has gotten to know God "experientially." That's not all. She is also pretty sure that anal sex is responsible for piercing her yang, forcing her yin to the surface and releasing decades of anger stored in her lower intestine.

Bentley's inclination to various kinds of self-abasement found early expression in her childhood fascination with the lives of the saints, and later on in her career as a ballet dancer. (All that pain and discipline, all that bowing and scraping before the God-like Balanchine.) But neither these interests nor a busy history of sexual experimentation ever fully satisfied her masochistic yearnings. Only, she claims, when she met a man prepared to focus his attention on her neglected orifice did she enter the realm of bliss. For the just under three years that she and her sodomizer -- a man referred to throughout the book by the regrettable moniker "A-Man" -- enjoyed regular bouts of earth-moving sex, Bentley maintained a detailed journal of her experiences. She also kept a tally of how many times she was anally penetrated and made mathematical calculations about the average number of anal episodes she was having per year, week and day. She fetishized the accouterments of her sexual obsession -- dedicating herself to finding the best and most economical lubricants, the most sex-friendly boudoir-wear. In a manner befitting a woman who was experiencing a spiritual as well as sexual awakening, she also preserved her lover's used condoms, much as an acolyte might hoard religious relics. . . .

While Bentley certainly has the requisite pluck for the job, her prose, alas, proves incommensurate with her ambition. For much of her narrative, she resorts to the demotic language of contemporary pornography. While unbeautiful, this has the virtue of appropriateness. It is when she strives for a high, poetic style that she runs into problems. "I was now being given a second chance,'' she writes of her anal deflowering, "not on the well-trodden vaginal trail, but in a place entirely new to my consciousness -- and it quickly became the site of my consciousness."

The results of her laboriously facetious punning jags are hardly more pleasing: "This is the back story of a love story. A back story that is the whole story. A second hole story, to be entirely accurate. Love from inside my backside. . . . No hindsight for me in this great love but rather behind-sight -- cited from the eye of my behind."

And here I thought that the only books I needed to order from Amazon this past week were "America (The Book)", "The Plot Against America", "In the Shadow of No Towers", "Seconds of Pleasure" and "Confessions of an Heiress". Thank god for Judith Regan and The New York Times Book Review, without which I never would have happened upon "The Surrender", a latter day "Iliad" for the brown eye.

2004-10-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

Mélange

loins

One’s mood can be dramatically improved when an unexpected late night knock at your door reveals a semi-drunk 22 year-old blonde woman.

heart

There is very little that can match the joy of a truly surprise midday phone call from a close friend of yore.

ego

No matter how short, the time spent with an ugly rental car is too long.

melancholy

It’s quite a downer to learn that good friends are to be divorced, especially when you were present the moment they met and still vividly recall their not-too-distant wedding.

conscience

Asshole-mode can be quite a rush, particularly when your boss says, “Fuck that prick; you let him off too easy.”

pertinacity

Remember this post? I’m 48 hours away from winning the whole damn thing. Never give up, never surrender!

2004-09-30T21:09:00.000-07:00

The glow stick at the end of the tunnel

It's 9:09. I'm still in a foul mood. However it has lessend somewhat thanks to this and a little [that].

Muchas gracias stereogum.

2004-09-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

It's nice to know that all of the drugs have not dampened my potential for anger

It started last night at about 5:45, continuing until this very moment and, apparently, is getting worse. To each and every one of you who has fucked me over and/or added to my discontent in the past 20+ hours I have this to say:

My memory is outstanding. I know how to hold a grudge. And I believe in stealth retribution.

UPDATE: For the first time ever in my professional career, I gave a lawyer for the other side an ultimatum ("close tomorrow or I kill the deal") and then hung up on him. Although I'm still pissed as hell, it certainly felt good to figuratively bitchslap that asshole. Who's next?

2004-09-29T14:14:00.000-07:00

Just because I don’t celebrate my own doesn’t mean I’m a cold-hearted bastard

While dropping my car off at the dealer this morning, I listened to Morning Edition on KCRW. Steve Inskeep was kind of enough to inform his listeners that today, September 29th, was the birthday of British actress Emily Lloyd. While I am a fan of Ms. Lloyd (blonde hair, blue eyes, great accent, quite attractive, wonderful in “A River Runs Through It” --what’s not to like?), I couldn’t believe that there was no one above her on the September 29th birthday pyramid.*

Well, NPR fucked up. There is someone who truly merits birthday wishes today. So, “Happy 29th on the 29th” and all that jazz. And thanks for the hours of wonderful distraction you have provided over the last several months.

And I would be truly remiss if I didn't wish Lily a very happy 8th birthday. Your Auntie ET is a fucking rock star.

*At least NPR chose her over Tom Sizemore, Andrew Dice Clay, Erika Eleniak and, no offense to my brother, Natasha Gregson Wagner. Anita Ekberg would have been a suitable replacement, however.

2004-09-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

Lacuna

When your dinner companion for the evening takes a 2 mg Xanax before you have even left the house and then proceeds to inhale her first glass of pinot grigio before the bread has been served, you must prepare yourself for that inevitable moment when the table scene transitions from lively dialogue to forced soliloquy. Although sometimes abrupt, this sea change in the dining dynamic can be quite entertaining, especially if your dinner companion remains upright, conscious and able to ask the occasional question. Not having to suffer through the inanity of *nod* and “uh-huh” conversations is a great thing. Not feeling guilty for dominating the discourse is even better.

Independently, my dinner companion and I were scheduled to attend a young woman’s birthday party this past weekend. Independently, we both skipped said woman’s birthday celebration. Neither one of us felt any regret. The birthday girl is not a particularly close friend of ours. However, I quite fancy some of her friends and, presumptively, was looking forward to seeing all of them for the first time in almost six months. But, as it turns out, I didn’t get to see them; nor will I anytime in the foreseeable future. Which got me thinking and, as I was the only one at the table sufficiently coherent to complete sentences, talking. Too much talking.

The birthday girl in question has three friends; let’s call them A, B, and C. A, B and C live together.

I’ve been friends with A for as long as I’ve lived in LA. We’ve indifferently (read: drunkenly) snogged (an expert’s term of art) a couple of times, but nothing more. A is the perfect special occasion friend: I only see her at sizable get-togethers, she is a wonderful “drinking” buddy, we get along quite well and we are both perfectly content with not seeing one another for several months at a time. I honestly am bummed that I did not get to hang with A this past weekend.

Although I know B fairly well (once upon a time she dated my cousin), I would not count her among the people in my essential LA. My relationship with B is contextually defined by my friendship with A: Not B But For A. Not A, Then Not B. While I fancy myself a secular humanist in the guise of a non-practicing member of the tribe, I am agnostic when it comes to B. As a result, my soul remains unaffected by her absence. If I see B, fine. If not, also fine.

Last night I recalled that A & B live with a third woman, but could not begin to remember anything about her. Upon the asking, my dinner companion rose from her halcyon languor long enough to chidingly say, “You know. They live with C. C’mon, you had a huge crush on her.” With that, my dinner companion slumped in her chair and began to gaze hypnotically at last night’s mist-encased full moon.

Damn. Yes. Indeed. Fuck. I remember C.

I met C well after I met A and B. It was one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent birthdays for one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent twenty-somethings at one of those generic indistinguishable omnipresent LA bars. My immediate impression was that C was quite alluring (certainly attractive enough to pass the requisite initial superficiality hurdle). Turns out C was clever, to boot. Not only did we share an alma mater (a positive, albeit non-definitive sign), but when she spoke, substance underlay her musings. Further, C was successful: she had a great position of reasonable importance and a wealth of outstanding connections. And, the kicker, C was recently (and traumatically) single.

At that exact moment and continuing for the next several months, C epitomized my notion of tangible consociational perfection. I was not obsessed, per se. I was, however, enthralled. Every moment spent with her was relished. Every conversation, savored. C was beautiful and great and fun and difficult and sharp and mischievous and bitchy and dynamic. C was, however, still smarting from her previous break-up. And I was at the peak of my law firm disgruntlement and overall malaise. Therefore, I was even less proactive than normal. Never actually asked C out. Never did more, in fact, than buy her a few drinks, chat a bit, and a peck here or there. She was still recovering. And, more likely, I was just a big ‘ol wuss.

Those who know me best certainly know how the story ends. Per usual, it ends not with a magnificent salvo, but with the softest of whimpers, petering out. C & I never got together and, as is my history, out of sight invariably became out of mind. To the point where, lacking a semi-conscious prompt from across the table, I would not have remembered a woman who, just over one year ago, was indelibly branded upon my everyday being.

Ultimately you don’t need a company to erase someone from your memory; it only requires a bit of time and finding someone (or many many someones) to fill in the void. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.

And come Thursday evening, as I continue on my neverending quest, the void shall be filled once again. Take care C. I’ll remember you fondly. Or, more likely, maybe not at all.

2004-09-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

A sneak preview of Thursday night's debate

courtesy of Gary Trudeau

2004-09-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Exactly what I wanted to read first thing on a Monday morning

From today's NYT:

Six Sigma: A Hollywood Studio Learns the G.E. Way

In many ways, the timing of the NBC acquisition could not have been worse for Universal Pictures executives. Even though the studio succeeded this year with "Along Came Polly" with Jennifer Aniston and the thriller "The Bourne Supremacy," its summer was one of its worst in years. Big budget extravaganzas like "Van Helsing" and "Chronicles of Riddick" failed to live up to Universal's expectations, and smaller films like "Connie and Carla," "Two Brothers" and "Thunderbirds" barely registered with moviegoers.

2004-09-23T23:16:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I have finally escaped from it's emotional clutches, she pulls me right back in

I was all set to write about tonight's special screening of "The Motorcycle Diaries" (outstanding; see it this weekend) and my chat with Gael García Bernal and Walter Salles until Uncle Grambo pointed me toward this:

Before Sunset is a sequel to Before Sunrise, which starred Ethan and myself as younger version of the same characters, Jesse and Celine. And of course it was directed by Rick. Everybody calls him Rick, not Richard.

When you first think of what this film is, two people walking around Paris and talking for an hour and a half...it sounds like you want to kill yourself rather than see it. There's no "plot" but there is a plot...it's just an emotional one. It's about an emotional progression between two people, and that's a very hard thing to do. To define the energy between people that makes everything so exciting.

...

I've never been offered sexy-woman parts. I've been with men who've thought of me as sexy. My boyfriend thinks of me as sexy. But until recently, in movies, I've never seen myself as sexy, or wanted to satisfy that male sexpot thing. I was maybe a little scared of that part of me. Somehow today I'm more self assured, and I'm not as scared of my sexuality as I used to. Before it really scared me. I didn't want to be an object.

I auditioned once for Krystoff Kieslowski for The Double Life of Veronique, and he told me to do something sexy, like touch my hair or look sexily into the camera, and I remember I just put my finger in my ear. That was my reaction when that male fantasy of wanting a girl to be sexy for him. So I didn't do Veronique but I was right for White.

...

The reactions to the film exceeded my expectations. I'm a little surprised that people have liked it as much as they have. We had such a fun time doing it, I almost feel guilty that people like it as much as they do. It's not just respect. People are really moved by the film. It really talks to them. People see themselves in it...single people, married people. Life is difficult. Relationships are hard.

Yes, that's Julie Delpy writing her "Sunset Story" exclusively for Hollywood elsewhere. (Be sure to also check out Jeffrey Wells's fascinating mini-interview with Walter Salles.) To see why my sense of contentment has suddenly been replaced by an air of disconsolation, one must only read this and this. What's even worse is that if it wasn't for my bloody afternoon meeting on the westside and the fact that she was running incredibly late, I wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight (or on the internet right now) in the first place. Two cars on a Thursday night always results in two separate final destinations. Fuck. And I didn't even drink enough pinot at dinner to warmly drift me into slumber.

2004-09-22T21:27:00.000-07:00

Nothing says true love like knocking boots to "Sussudio"

Britney Really Married...Still

Saturday's ceremony, while having the appearance of another quickie ceremony, was planned right down to the post-wedding "Pimp" sweat suits worn by Federline and his groomsmen.

In People, Spears called the service "my fairy-tale dream."

In the magazine, the couple dished on every detail of their weekend, from their pre-wedding night--they stayed at the Fairmont Miramar Hotel, lit candles and played Phil Collins' greatest hits--to their actual wedding night--they stayed at the Hotel Bel-Air, lit candles and jumped into a bed covered with rose petals.

Said the gentleman Federline of his and Spears' first evening as a wedded couple: "It was great--all night."

Actually, I have the distinct memory of either "Aqualung" or "Freebird" being played at my stepbrother's wedding.

2004-09-22T15:37:00.000-07:00

The magnifico rack comes to my hometown

Found on page 4 of today's LA Times food section [tip via ES]:

A (sic) anonymous non-food blogger who takes the moniker "eurotrash" and the persona of a wild and foul-mouthed girl on the town is a Tama Janowitz for the new millennium. Her (his?) rantings on New York Times food writer Amanda Hesser are as unfair as they are hilarious. This is the blog wilderness, defined by its distaste for mainstream journalism: The niceties do not apply here.

I'm loving that Laurie Winer doubts the sincerity of ET's self-descriptions.

For your reference---

Here's a link to the Hesser piece in question.

And here's Tama "Slaves of New York" Janowitz:

2004-09-21T20:59:00.000-07:00

Oh peace train take this country, come take me home again

The Former Cat Stevens Gets Plane Diverted [via AP]

A London-to-Washington flight was diverted to Maine on Tuesday when it was discovered passenger Yusuf Islam — formerly known as singer Cat Stevens — was on a government watch list and barred from entering the country, federal officials said.

United Airlines Flight 919 was en route to Dulles International Airport when the match was made between a passenger and a name on the watch list, said Nico Melendez, a spokesman for the Transportation Security Administration. The plane was met by federal agents at Maine's Bangor International Airport around 3 p.m., Melendez said.

Homeland Security Department spokesman Dennis Murphy identified the passenger as Islam. "He was interviewed and denied admission to the United States on national security grounds," Murphy said, and would be put on the first available flight out of the country Wednesday.

Officials had no details about why the peace activist might be considered a risk to the United States. Islam had visited New York in May to promote a DVD of his 1976 MajiKat tour.

I will sleep so much safer tonight knowing that the geniuses at Homeland Security have my back.

Folks, they diverted a plane on national security grounds because of Cat Fucking Stevens. Let me repeat that: DIVERTED A PLANE. While it may be a bit harsh, I really don't think that the protection of Salman Rushdie rises to the level of a genuine U.S. national security interest.

2004-09-20T16:43:00.000-07:00

Another Bot Crushed™

sac strikes a major blow for all humankind ---- tmftml has zipped up his pants and is heading for home:

This blog has sucked lately, and our heart hasn't been in it. (We've been too busy writing slash fiction about that guy in the red pants from The Apprentice.) As our friend herself admitted, we've had a good run. We are deeply appreciative of all the people we've come into contact with as a result of this blog, even that guy who always posts comments like, "Not funny" or "Don't get it." (Us either, pal.) But we hate to continually disappoint so many of you with substandard service, so we are seriously considering hanging it up. We are, at the very least, taking a looooong hiatus, in hopes that this time our frequent attempts at retirement are somewhat more successful. We'll leave the links up (from what we understand, that's what most of you come here for in the first place), and if something really fascinating occurs (read: Alessandra Stanley/Virginia Heffernan cage match) we'll pop back up, but in all likelihood, this is goodbye. It's been a pleasure, kids. Do a shot for us.

Although the fucker never linked to me, he still made for a good read now and again. That said, grand announcements of one's blogging retirement are a tad overly masturbatory for my taste. Just shut the hell up and go away; most of the audience will figure it out after a year or two goes by without any posts.

2004-09-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

Please observe a moment of silence for Joe Strummer before you push play

Tomorrow, Epic/Legacy releases the 25th Anniversary Legacy Edition of "London Calling", which is one of the two (along with The VU's "Loaded") most listenable rock & roll records of all time. From the opening pulse of "London Calling" through the final "Did you stand by me? No way." of "Train in Vain" this album does not have a weak moment.

Oh yeah, this hits the streets tomorrow, as well. As a public service announcement, I remind you to always wash thoroughly after transacting business with a whore.

2004-09-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

Another day, still the butt of the joke

Yesterday, my coworkers made fun of me for not taking the day off like every other Jew in the office.

Today, they are all laughing at my reason for going to today’s executive screening of this, even though I’ve already seen the film.

2004-09-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the ringing endorsement

"This is not a great movie, and you will be able to live quite happily without seeing it, but what it does, it does with a certain welcome warmth."

From Roger Ebert's 3-star review of Wimbledon.

2004-09-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's a bit disconcerting to be in total agreement with the living embodiment of George Costanza

Larry David makes a cameo appearance in today’s NYT Op-Ed:

Are You Undecided? Or Not?

The truth is, Undecideds, you're getting on our nerves. We Decideds hate all the attention you're getting and that you're jerking us around. Anyone who can't make up his or her mind at this point in the campaign should forget about the election entirely, buy a pint of ice cream and get into bed.

We'd love to tell you to take a hike, but we're afraid to alienate you. If we really had any brains, we wouldn't spend another second on you, but on the people who can truly make a difference: the "unlikely" voters. And there are millions more of them than there are of you. Those people aren't after attention, they're just incredibly lazy. The only way they'll register to vote is if someone shows up at their door with a form. And then the only way they'll actually vote is if you carry them to the booth.

Not only are they lazy, they're also indifferent. They just don't believe that voting can have an effect on their lives. Well, it just so happens that right after I voted for the first time, I landed myself a big fat job in Hollywood, a biopsy came back benign and I met my future wife as soon as I walked out of the voting booth. Coincidence? You decide.

FYI- production on the fifth season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" begins in January.

2004-09-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

I'm a bad bad Jew

(Non-Jewish) Co-worker: Did you remember to bring in your copy of "Friday Night Lights"?

Me: Shit, I forgot. Sorry about that.

Co-worker: Don't worry. Try to remember to bring it in on Friday if you can.

Me [looking puzzled]: Friday? Tomorrow's Thursday, right? I'll bring it in tomorrow.

Co-worker: Aren't you taking off for Rosh Hashanah?

Me: Wait a sec. It starts tonight? For real? I could've sworn it started tomorrow night. Nah, I'll be in the office tomorrow. And Friday too, for that matter.

Co-worker: You're not really up on the whole Jewish thing anymore, are you?

Me: G, if we actually believed in hell that's exactly where I'd be headed.

Notwithstanding the above exchange, I want to wish all of my fellow Members of the Tribe a happy and sweet new year and a joyous High Holiday season (or at least until that whole Yom Kippur day of atonement fast thing kicks off).

L'SHANAH TOVAH TIKATEYVU.

2004-09-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

An admonition

Bizarre, mildly unsettling dreams result when one views the final 45 minutes of "Lost in Translation" and the first hour of "St. Elmo's Fire" in sequence as one vainly attempts to fall asleep.

2004-09-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

The Season Finale

Now that the 24-hour cooling off period/moratorium has elapsed, I have this to say about the “Six Feet Under” fourth season finale:

At 9:53 pm, I looked at the clock on my cable box and said, “There’s no fucking way they are going to be able to tie this all up in seven minutes. I can’t believe they are going to stick us with some shitty unresolved cliffhanger.”

Well, folks, I was wrong. Dead. Solid. Wrong. Alan Ball (who, along with Alan Poul, should never be permitted to direct another episode again. Period.) & Co. abruptly tied a pretty red bow around the Fishers, the Chenowiths and the Diazes and now the rotting corpse of their former masterpiece will lie in a state of rigor mortis for the next nine months.

Disappointment from something (or someone) you count on as a gimme is just a bummer.

At least there was one authentic and moving moment--David and Elevator Man’s ex-wife's discussion about how love truly does remain in one’s heart, long surviving the literal death of the relationship.

2004-09-14T00:15:00.000-07:00

Don’t worry. Although tempted, I’m not so obsessed as to fly back to New York just for this.

Since I genuinely, personally know (and have been charmed by) four of the readers at tonight’s Cupcake reading series, I thought it only fitting I give them a shout-out and wish them all best of luck (particularly to the one [public reading] virgin in the group), so......

Rachel, Elizabeth, Maccers and ET, go out there and break a leg. And remember: they’re laughing at you, not with you. Or they just don’t understand your accents.

To those of you in New York looking for something to do on a Tuesday: venture down to the LES and watch these truly amazing women do their thing. And feel free to picture them naked; I’m certain they’re doing the same to you.

2004-09-13T14:45:00.000-07:00

I actually find this strangely touching

From the Telegraph:

Sir John Mortimer, the celebrated playwright and author, has discovered that he has an illegitimate son from a brief but passionate affair with Wendy Craig, the actress, more than 40 years ago. The result of their liaison was a boy, Ross. Miss Craig and her husband, who already had their own son, brought him up as their own.

Sir John, 81, found out about the child only in the past year, when Miss Craig, now 70, fearing that the story was about to become public, confirmed to him that the child was his.

"I am not ashamed about this and I don't think that my son, Ross, is either," he said at his Oxfordshire home yesterday. "I think this discovery has actually made us both very happy."

"I met him earlier this year and got along very well with him. He is in his forties now and works in television production and has, funnily enough, done some writing. He met the rest of my family over lunch and got along well with them, too. We all hope to see a lot more of him."

Sir John's relationship with Miss Craig began in 1960 when she was appearing in one of his first plays, The Wrong Side of the Park, at the Cambridge Theatre in London. Both the playwright, then 37, and the 26-year-old Craig were married to other people at the time.

"It was the Sixties and we were all a lot more excitable then," said the creator of Rumpole of the Bailey.

"My relationship with Wendy lasted only as long as that play and the one we did after it, called Lunch Hour, which was performed in 1961. Wendy ended the relationship because her husband had found out about it and she hadn't actually felt comfortable about the situation we had got into for a while. She must have been pregnant when we broke up, but she hadn't told me. We didn't see each other after that except, maybe, later in life where we might have seen each other at public events."

For some time now, I’ve been quite a fan of two of Sir John’s progeny: the brilliant “Rumpole of the Bailey” and the exquisite Emily Mortimer. His response to this entire episode helps to further solidify his well-deserved sterling reputation.

2004-09-13T11:47:00.000-07:00

When Splenda™ just won’t cut it

At around 3:30 am Saturday morning, I found myself in a very focused and very intense conversation with a stunning 21-year-old model-cum-actress. One of the myriad of topics we touched upon (and I use “touch” in every sense of the word) was her last boyfriend, aka her sugar daddy (her words). It appears this older gentleman (his exact age and occupation have apparently escaped my superpower of keen recollection; c’mon, folks, this girl was smoking---all details will, by definition, by hazy and/or rose-colored at best) would, on a whim, take this deserving young lady to the boutiques on Robertson, Melrose or Rodeo or to the great Wilshire triumvirate (Barneys, Saks, NM) and think nothing of dropping $10K on clothing for her. She said that she ended it with him when he started to get “too possessive.”

Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t begrudge anyone the opportunity to use their genetic advantages to their benefit (superficial or otherwise). And I can certainly understand why trust fund beneficiaries would utilize every dollar at their disposal to blow away 21-year-old models who recently moved to LA from a small town within spitting distance of authentic Pennsylvania Dutch: when you lack a personality or anything remotely interesting to say or are truly scary looking when exposed to natural light, your AMEX Centurion card may be your only asset, so pull that sucker out.

That said, I see the problem as two-fold:

1. All these “trophy-girls” are fucked when the well runs dry. There are hundreds (if not thousands) of women throughout LA who are attractive-enough and willing to do almost anything to live the life. There certainly are not an equivalent number of men willing to play the caretaker role. If a young lady is “fortunate” enough to lasso one of these guys, the second he walks, she is, in all likelihood, in a worse position than if he never entered the picture. Not only is our formerly nubile heroine not-as-young-as-she-once-was, she is now accustomed to a semi-destructive lifestyle in a truly-destructive city that will be impossible to duplicate without the backing of the bank account. And since most, if not all, of her acquaintances will be tied to this former life, her friendships may be fleeting. One thing I have noticed, the other 20-something women in similar circumstances are awfully quick to cut the cord when someone in their peer group can’t keep up. Women are definitely more vicious than men. No question.

2. I have a functional Y-chromosome; therefore, I can’t play the same game (and I also can’t afford to be a sugar daddy, but that’s a whole other post). I’m sure there are scores of “kept-men” out there servicing the Mira Sorvinos and Britney Spears of this world, however I am not, nor do I truly think I could ever be, one of them. I have dated at least three women (and by dated, I mean multiple dates/carnal knowledge) who personally could buy-and-sell me and most of you without blinking (one of whom is a legitimate 9-figure heiress), yet I refuse to let them (or anyone) pay for anything. The intermittent splitting of the bill is o.k. The special occasion dinner or present is cool, too. However, when it comes down to it, the one gender stereotype I have never been able to overcome is that it’s the man’s job to provide-- to provide food, shelter, clothing, presents, flowers, NFL Sunday Ticket and at least 20 minutes of attentive foreplay. Yep, I’m old fashioned that way. I’m all for dating a successful, professional, multi-dimensional, wholly-independent woman. I just think I need this one little guideline to reaffirm the existence of my cojones.

Damn it. I guess I’m feeling my age this morning.