Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It came with a bang. A nightmare. He wasn't the type of person who occasionally befell the spell of a nightmare, tossing and turning, waking up in cold sweats- he loved sleep too much to subject his subconscious to that.
But then it happened. All the pathetic fears and anxieties, the worries that all the potential and hope would never come to be realized, that everything he thought he was capable of accomplishing would just up and vanish. Not because of some accident. Or bad luck. But of his own doing. His own willingness to let the drive subside. To just flutter away into banal obscurity. He couldn't let it happen, wouldn't let it happen, gotta fight, scrape, struggle, realize it and...
"Now imagine she's white." He wakes up and it's still there, the fire, the passion, the...
And scene (Cue shame).
I'll be the first to admit that I don't watch as much Adult Swim as any self respecting hardcore comedy lover should, but longtime underrated creator of comedic brilliance Jon Glaser's new show Delocated may be the awesomely funny kick in the ass I needed to start watching.
The premise alone is pretty damn fantastic:
Jon Glaser plays a man forced into the witness protection program after testifying against mobsters, who moves his family to New York City so they can star in a reality TV show, forced to wear ski masks and voice disguising harmonizers at all times. Eugene Mirman plays a mobster trying to kill Glaser.Then you throw in Paul Rudd playing Paul Rudd getting gunned down,
A son rebelling against his father and demanding a "Ska Mitzvah!"
And Eugene Mirman playing a Russian gangster...
...and boom. Your mind has officially been blown. Watch the full premiere here.
Seemingly everyone's picked up on the Bobby Jindal / Kenneth the Page similarities almost instantly after the ill-fated nationally televised response, but it's hard to not dream about the possibilities of Jindal and our beloved Sexy Sarah Palin, be they real:
Please FOX, put your criticisms and reservations aside, and let this miracle match-up happen. Pretty please?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Coming soon, to (a terrible, possibly Caveman inspired) commercial near you.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
It's message and heart is in the right place, and legally Yoko Ono may have total domain over all of Lennon's likenesses, but the idea of using his image with an impersonator who sounds more like Ringo with a head cold kind of opens the door for future well intentioned awfulness. Maybe it would have been more effective to use actual clips of Lennon speaking or the always reliable using-cute-children-to-share-a-famous-message-spiel...
...or um, not.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Oh men and your need for stereotypical superficial simplicity, how can you be so...awww, puppies!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
In this vast and mysterious world that you have yet to encounter, there is an amazing mixture of cultures and personalities you will come across. Some of them will be people that will actually willingly take part in trying to bring life into this world and help create facsimiles of themselves for future generations. Some of them will wake up and realize they forgot to put a small little plastic thing on and now their lives are completely ruined.
You will not (hopefully) be born of the latter. You will have many friends that will come and go, and possibly meet many of their parents who will make you realize why they may make you feel like you have to come and go (and never come back). Parents that care a little too much about every single detail, parents that won't care at all about whether or not their child is alive, and progressive, forward thinking parents who think that exposing their child to everything and anything the world has to offer will provide for a fulfilling childhood of intellectual and emotional enrichment.
I will be none of the above. I will play music (good music, though you will grow up thinking it is bad) all day every day in the hopes that for one futile moment in the sun, father and child can bask in the wonder and glory of shared musical admiration.
You will listen to Tom Waits. And you will like it.
And then you will hate me for being an emotionally distant, actively indifferent invisible father figure that will create within you an emotional chasm you will spend the entirety of your existence trying to fill with empty experiences of sex, alcohol, drugs, and impulsive self sabotaging decisions all in the hopes of finding solace and comfort from the emptiness that never seems to go away.
As you urinate upon my tombstone (probably simultaneously drinking while urinating while lamenting your most recent failed relationship) you will smile in victory at my death, involuntarily humming along and singing a song you're not quite sure you remember the title of, or the artist, or why that precise moment in time needed a soundtrack.
Then you will realize it was a Tom Waits song. And you will like it.
And I will have won.
Your Future Source of Life-long Disappointment and Tom Waits tunes or...Daddy
You know the economy's gone bad when making paper-mâché fleshlights is suddenly becoming a plausible, cost effective option. Do it yourself here.
Viral marketing done right. And yes, I know that's not Rudd's body. But a girl can dream can't she?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Makes me kinda happy to actually have someone to share this awful holiday with. Until I wake up the next morning looking at a half eaten heart shaped box of Ferrero Rocher (that I haven't touched yet) and a bouquet of flowers that mysteriously died the instant sunlight shined on it... and then suddenly one wonders why they traded in a happy life of shameless promiscuity for the comforts of futon sex.
Just kidding. (Kinda.)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Absolut Vodka makes the world kinder and gentler until we're all sh*tfaced and happily passing that herpes along
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
In this spirit of love we're conspicuously forcing ourselves into, here's some dap to filmmaker David Spaltro's personal feature, ...Around. Yours truly and Ms. A caught it at this past Big Apple Film Festival, and were pleasantly surprised by Spaltro's sweet-natured effort at sharing his personal experiences living homeless in New York City while struggling to maintain his film school aspirations. Currently making the rounds on the festival circuit, it's a nice indie to check out down the pipeline.
Sometimes being able to teach people how to do simple things like breathe air or blink is an accomplishment. But usually you're just being an asshole.
Um....No. Oh, and WTF?
Now seems as good a time as any to take a little Love Boat break. Here's one of my favorite episodes with Marcia Brady herself, Maureen McCormick. Yay.
If loving Karina is clichéd, than I don't wanna be...oh well whatever. And yum.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Mind officially blown.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Nothing makes pregnancy seem cooler than a nine months+ pregnant woman due to give birth on the same day she decides to rip shit up on stage with Jay-Z, Kanye, and T.I. while wearing whatever the hell she wants.
If a big preggered out lady in a trashy bikini-like pullover can still come off classier than a gaudy over the top fake lesbian, than I might have to reconsider this whole not giving birth to human life thing. Yes mom, you win.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sure the novelty of seeing my favorite group five nights a week should wear off somewhere between the odd "Hey guys, could you play 'November Rain' again?" request and the customary Sandler-esque song parody, but maybe, just maybe this could work?
Saturday, February 7, 2009
"We're not crying. We're just...something...stupid dust getting into eyes....(leaves room to throw football against bedroom door and blast music to drown out any possible sound)..."
"CLEAR EYES. FULL HEARTS. CAN'T LOSE...(reenters room and punches the first man they see to reaffirm masculinity)...so yeah, how hot is Minka Kelly?"
Friday, February 6, 2009
BEST. THING. EVER. (Also, awwww)
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Won't you come dance with me?
My boss: "My wife and I finally found something to keep us from killing each other for one hour a week. Fantastic, the Mad Men is."
My Mister Editor Guy: "Yadda, yadda, yadda...I'm pretentious yadda yadda...wonderfully written blah, blah, blah...Jon Hamm makes me gay yadda blah blah...watch it."
My boyfriend: "Looks kinda snooty and uppity, ya know? But that one chick got them knockers..."
In all honesty though, I did watch all of the first season, and okay Mister, you were right. Harry Crane is my soul mate. Bastard.
Yet despite his best worst efforts (Lady in the Water, The Happening, The Village) Shyamalan's entertaining awfulness pales in comparison to the modern day Orson Welles of awesome ineptitude, Tommy Wisseau.
Wisseau's epic dramedy gone wonderfully awry, The Room, is a meditative masterpiece on life, if life had no logic, continuity or ability to convey genuine human emotion without a terrible accent.
The overrated hype of some cult classics often border on overkill, but The Room's place in the pantheon of "So Bad, It's Horrifically Awful Good" is hard to deny. It's not mediocre and it's not garishly ornamented in the customary accoutrements of camp- it's simply and amazingly terrible, far more awful than an indie film release in 2003 on a $6 million dollar budget could plausibly be.
Seeing a friend's bootleg of it several years ago, I initially thought that
- maybe it was just a really bad dubbing of a really bad foreign film
- maybe it was a porn film that just happened to have even worse acting than usual and all of the sex bits cut out
- had to have been produced in the 80's under the guise of a porn director's first foray into "serious" non-bukkake related film work
- maybe I had been drinking too much and it couldn't possibly be as funny as it seemed
To hate it, is to embrace the limitations of mindless mediocrity. To love it, is to know the limitless possibilities of humanity...and that no matter how bad something in life may be, it could never possibly be as bad as this.
Finally in stock on Amazon, buy it here. And for long suffering New York fans enviously yearning to partake in the film's Los Angeles following, The Room has a midnight screening at Village East Cinemas on March 20, 2009 (At least according to this page). Come revel in the ridiculous. And enjoy.
For the hardcore: A trailer for Tommy Wisseau's TV project / sitcom(?) "Neighbors":
J.J. Abrams, you have been warned.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Finally, we know how to appropriately eat our burgers in a can without spillage.
Now if I could just get that whole fork etiquette thing down, I'd actually be a proper lady.
Yeah, sure buddy, you fake just as often as I get mine. Which is never. Assholes.
While you were listening to Christian Bale freak out or reading up on that woman who had eight babies (damn mutant woman), the doctors at Johns Hopkins decided to release some potentially medically game changing yet completely horrific news.
They successfully performed something called "a transvaginal donor kidney extraction," which in common folk terms means they took a healthy donor kidney out by way of a woman's 'special area'.
Thank you, doctors at Johns Hopkins, for giving me another reason to be afraid of my vagina.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sometimes the bathroom stall is your only friend in the world.
Thank you Internet for giving us my favorite new genre of music: the Rant Remix (And yes, I still love you Christian Bale...in the most superficial way a gal could possibly ever objectify another).
Oh, and music industry? You're welcome.
- Stereotypical Latin club scene? Check
- Country Western hoedown with good ol' white folks? Check
- Sleek black party scene complete with Method Man & Timbaland cameos? Check, check and double check
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The morning after. There's a fleeting mix of excitement and shame that courses through the veins as you wake up (probably hungover), assessing your location (possibly not your place), and hoping with all your might that the warm body lying beside you is someone you can quickly identify/forget/maybe escape without awaking.
Yet in director Barry Jenkins' first feature, Medicine for Melancholy, he elevates the one night stand to something bigger than itself- a charming, self conscious dissection of social and cultural definition played within the backdrop of gentrification in San Francisco.
Micah (charmingly played by The Daily Show's Wyatt Cenac) and Jo (a beautifully measured Tracey Heggins) are our accidental couple, awakening from their night of hipster revelry to a morning of uncertainty. After an awkward coffee, they quickly dissolve but eventually reunite partly by luck and partly by Micah's intiative. From there Jenkins takes us through a day in the life of a "morning after fantasy": an idyllic young pair finding personal connection after the physical; emotional intimacy after the lustful matter of fact.
But this isn't about love or a burgeoning relationship. It isn't about young African Americans struggling to reconcile their indie boho lifestyle with the societal constraints they're supposedly supposed to abide by. It's not about urban gentrification and cultural upheaval. Nor is it a cinematic love letter to the city of San Francisco (digitally shot as beautifully as an intermittent mix of subdued tones and flourishes of sparklingly color could possibly be). It's ALL of these things. Which is what makes Medicine both engagingly entertaining and disjointed.
Jenkins posits a beautiful love story of doubt and uses it as a canvas for the colors of complexity in modern relationships. Cenac's Micah aggressively argues about the notion of being "black" and its connotations, why something "indie automatically means something not black" and the internal conflicts of what being in an interracial relationship outwardly implies. Heggins' Jo nicely serves as his counterbalance, relishing the delicacy of being in the moment, all the while cautiously avoiding the "going back to your life tomorrow."
The most jarring sequence is arguably its least cohesive, as the film comes to a complete standstill and suddenly jumps into a conversation amongst real-life community activists lamenting the dissolution of their communities being displaced by the corporate gentrification quickly consuming their beloved city. Jenkins places Micah and Jo on the outside looking in, their romance disrupted by the inescapable reality that surrounds and defines them.
To their credit, Cenac and Heggins generate enough charm and sensuality to make their extended morning after an enjoyable ride, as the sequences exploring the city make San Francisco as alluring as its ever been on film. For a first feature, Jenkins avoids overcomplicating the discussion while still finding nuance within the form.
Though this morning after gradually winds down and gives way to an eventual tomorrow, its remnants still linger like the smell of fresh coffee on your clothes. You don't want to wash them just yet, but maybe hold onto the aroma of the moment just a little longer.