Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

CROSS YOUR LEGS

Jamie-Lynn Spears is pregnant.  Oh, yes she is.  This is not a drill, folks!  This is the real thing!  The SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD sister of Britney motherfuckin' Spears is going to HAVE A BABY.  They are like The Beverly HIllbillies FOR REAL.

That's Why They Invented The Mask, PENELOPE

So, apparently there's this lawsuit going on vis-a-vis Sahara.  You know, that movie?  The one with Matthew McConaughy and Penelope Cruz?  No, really, you remember -- they're, like, in the desert or something, and they're looking for...something.  It looked like National Treasure, except in the desert!  Remember?  ...Nicolas Cage, that German chick, Jon Voigt...they're on a hunt for some...thing, and all the clues are hidden in artifacts of American history?  It was like The Da Vinci Code, but ALL about the USA.  ...Tom Hanks, Audrey Somebody, Ron Howard directed it -- you know what, screw it.

Point is: Clive Cussler, author of Sahara (there was an author?), is suing the production company for something something adaptation, and in official court papers it has apparently become clear that the out-of-control budget for the movie (which, you don't need me to tell you, performed not well at the box office) was due in part to the stars and their shoutrageous demands:

"...$420,000 was spent on the movie's leading actors, including $105,000 on bottled water and $54,000 on a "facial disease specialist.""

Those vain, prissy-ass actors!  One stupid face disease and suddenly they need a doctor.  They probably also demanded that the studio refrigerate their dairy and meat products, or not use the exposed and fraying electrical cables draped in knots all about the set.

[source]

Testing My Diminished Expectations

Like, a year or two ago, I rented the Dutch movie Spoorloos, about a man on an obsessive search for his girlfriend -- vanished from a gas station during a cycling vacation.  It's one of those movies that you read about (if you're a fan of those kinds of movies) as being all "exemplary" of the suspense/psychological thriller/missing persons genre.  Anyway, my interest was piqued, because I always find the "missing persons" stuff so intriguing.

Well, it was a good movie, but let me just tell you right now: the ending?  Is bleak.  NOT an uplifting film.  BLEAK.  I finished watching the movie with that kind of feeling you have right before you STEP IN FRONT OF A BUS.

Right now, the American remake -- The Vanishing -- is on, and I'm watching that, too.  From my understanding, they've totally Hollywooded up the ending, so I expect it'll be a bit more implausible, bombastic, and dishonest, but also less likely to induce suicidal tendencies.  It stars Jeff Bridges, Kiefer Sutherland, Nancy Travis, and Sandra Bullock.  So far, it's about what you might expect, except that Jeff Bridges totally sounds like Milton from Office Space and I'm about to jump into the TV and shake him like a British nanny.

Judge THIS

I’m pre-writing my journal entries now, because I still lack any and all access to the internets from the comforts of my home. This is sad. I mean, let’s make no mistake: who is so lame that they’d rather spend an hour every single day sitting in front of some dude’s house than spend fifty unnecessary bucks a month on some lame "connection"? Captain Me, that’s who. Captain Cheapskate Me of the thirty-first unemployed brigade!

Don’t get me wrong—I still love being unemployed. Jobless = footloose and fancy-free! It also = shoeless and money-free, but I’m trying not to think about all of that crap. Anyway, I’m setting aside special personal time to write this message, because I wanted to tell you guys that I’ve come to a monumental decision. Okay, maybe not "monumental", per se, but in terms of MY life, where I SWEAR I’ll never do a certain something and then I’m forced to totally redirect my thought process and/or value system, it’s sort of a big deal.

And, okay, again, I’m exaggerating. But only just a little bit. See, I’ve decided that I’m going to have to start watching American Idol again. I don’t know why I’m saying this. It’s possible that I’ve had too much sugar tonight (Argyle made these choco-peppermint brownies, and I swear there’s at least two bags of sugar all up in those) but I suddenly had this pseudo-epiphany: some of my greatest blogcomplishments were during the period of time that I faithfully devoted ruinous hours of my life to that show. American Idol, the Global Warming of American television.

Seriously. I SWORE that I would never again submit myself to the indignity and horror of AI. I’m not trying to insult you guys, if you happen to watch the show and enjoy it or whatever, but for reals: it stopped being a quality program long before Gay Aiken got irrationally snubbed for the win in season two. I mean, it really does more than any other program as far as celebrating the deterioration of human values. I’m not defending shows like Yes Dear or anything, but come ON. AI gets an insane audience—and I mean insane in terms of numbers AND fervor—and it is crap. I mean, no offense.

But I realized that when I was watching that horseshit I used to get my Irish up at least twice a week, and it would lead to some crazy blog entries. It may be that such an impetus is exactly what I need to breathe some more verve into ye olde Memoirs of an Evil Genius. I know that I’m going to hate myself for this, because Simon Cowell is a British turd in a mock-turtleneck who has only one setting—bitchily hyperbolic—Randy is doubtlessly still obsessed with his "dawgs", and Paula....well, all that can be said about Paula is happy bunny Catskills shish-kebab lollygag, and I might have to stab my own brain out. But seriously, I’m so tired of that douchebag Cowell. Sigh. But I’m committing to this, y’all. I don’t find enough things to get pissed off about anymore, and this is just the ticket. Anger has been the gateway drug to numerous great blog entries of mine, in my own humble opinion.

So anywho, there will be a cavalcade of bad singers, an onslaught of juvenile insults hurled by adults who ought to know better, and a solid two months (or so) of my apoplectic tirades in the near future. If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever deal with the consequences.

No seriously: speak now, because if you don’t, I’ll be doing this. Stop me. Please.

Grapes of Mirth

Despite being incomprehensibly boiling-oceans hot, this weekend was still very pleasant.  Ulrich and I watched The Towering Inferno -- always good for a laugh -- on Friday night.  I was being sarcastic, about the laughing, but...not really.  It mystifies me how "Disaster" was a legitimate sub-genre in the 70s, to the point where the cast list for this one reads more like a press release about Academy Award presenters ("William Holden! Faye Dunaway! OJ Simpson*! Fred Astaire!  No, seriously, Fred A-fucking-staire!").  You know you've got some solid B+ starpower when Robert Wagner is your disposable income.

On Saturday, Ulrich and I went wine-tasting with May Day and Chip, who drove up for the afternoon.  This was a seriously wonderful afternoon -- we had a delightful lunch at a little bistro and then lazily sipped our way through some fantastic wines.  The day was gorgeous, and wine-country during Autumn is a sight to behold.  It was the kind of day where you just want to get lost amongst the orchards and vineyards and rolling hills.  Lucky for us, that's exactly what happened.  I assume responsibility, having been the one to say, "Yes, I believe it's in that direction!"  And, you know, not printing out a map ahead of time.  But we had good wine!  We petted horses!  And I ate so much for dinner I could barely walk!

On Sunday, Ulrich and I went and saw The Queen, and if you haven't yet, GET THEE TO A QUEENERY!  Seriously, it's amazing, and Helen Mirren KICKS ASS.  I mean, she always kicks ass, but girlfriend kicks some ass as HRH Queen Elizabeth II.  It's touching, it's heartfelt, and it's also kind of hilarious in a very Royal way.  The Queen Mum almost made me pee myself.

And I'm working, y'all!  Sort of.  I mean, for this week.  Since Lauren and Jen are in London this week (along with Catherine -- and someone please buy me some KitKat Chunkies!) somebody needs to watch their phones and stuff.  I'm planning on totally destroying their credibility and taking over the office while they're gone, like in The Temp.  Don't be surprised if I start showing up at Trivia dressed like a Lauren/Catherine hybrid, either.

*clearly this would be an Academy Awards prior to, say, 1993.

A Kiss Before Flying

I leave in a few hours to go home and meet my brand new nephew. I'm excited, although I'm telling you right now that I'm going to be pretty fucking exhausted.  And also, possibly, drunk.  My last plane flight was, oh, what's the term?  A "hellacious, psyche-shattering nightmare".  After an hour of keeping the plane in the air through the sheer power of prayer, my inner organs shaken like a nice, dry martini, I very nearly kissed the earth when I finally landed.  So, I sort of made a solemn promise to myself that I'd never have to go through that again while sober.

Anyway, I've been packing and packing and packing, and discovered that at least half the weight of my bag is comprised of gifts and books.  So about 800 pounds, give or take.  While I've packed, I've watched The Postman Always Rings Twice -- replete with adult diaper action -- and now I'm watching Presumed Innocent.  I'm too lazy to link to the IMDb page for it, so for those of you who don't remember it: you're all dead to me.

Just kidding!  It's sort of like Fatal Attraction, only it doesn't make me want to jump out the window.  Because...seriously.  Have you seen Fatal Attraction?  I'm at a total loss to explain its iconic status.  There isn't a likable character in that movie, and a guy can only take so much misogyny before he wants to go boil a bunny or two himself.  But that's neither here nor there.  THIS movie is all about Harrison Ford and whether or not he murdered Greta Scacchi, with whom he was doing "The Nasty".  It has a great cast, too, and I'll bet the ending is really good, even though my mom ruined it for me about twelve years ago and I've never been able to forget what she said.

On Wednesday, Argyle and I went to see This Gun For Hire at a local revival theater, and let me tell you THAT is a movie.  Sure, film noir is somewhat stilted by definition, but it's its own art form, and this film is one of the best examples of the genre.  I've always wanted to see a black & white film in the theater (besides, like, The Man Who Wasn't There and all that genre stuff), so this was a treat.  I've been neck deep in movies from the forties, recently, which makes Presumed Innocent such a shock to the system.

But very soon -- before I've had enough sleep -- I'll be getting up and dragging my ass to the airport, where I'll be deprived of my liquids, and then I'll fly off home.  So I may or may not be able to update very much over the next few days (I know, I know -- how is that different than usual?), but I'll be thinking of you guys.

But mostly, I'll be holding my nephew.  Woooooo!

This Is What I Do When I'm Alone

Ulrich is out of town this week, leaving me alone with Argyle and Netflix to keep me company.  Already, I've watched A Place in the Sun and Black Angel, a film noir from 1946 about a mismatched pair of amateur sleuths on the trail of a killer, and next up on the list I've got The Postman Always Rings Twice -- the original one, with Lana Turner in that crazy swimsuit that's all famous and iconic for some reason, even though it kind of looks like a shrunken vest and a pair of adult diapers:

I don't know about you, but when I think "two-piece bathing suit", I'm not picturing a garment with buttons.  It's got a HAT, for Pete's sake -- she's not even showing her HAIR. It's like Islamic extremist swimwear.  I appreciate that she has cute shoes, at least, but...who swims in shoes?

Anyway, that's next on my list.  Tonight's offering was one of those films particular to the forties, when gender roles were a lot more clearly defined -- back then, for instance, "female" meant one of two things: Sweet Ingenue/Doting Wife, or Ball-Busting Whore.  How simple life must have been, with only two categories!  I imagine those times they split the kids up in elementary school and the boys were in the gym watching archaic filmstrips about cracked voices and acne, the girls were in the cafeteria learning about chocolate chip cookies and emasculation.  Then you'd fill out a comment card afterward and be divided into two groups, accordingly.

At any rate, the plot of the film was fine, but the tenet of the climax was stretched about as thin as Nicole Ritchie, and then -- as is strangely typical of the movies of that time -- the movie continued on for quite some time, straggling its way through the denouement all the way to the end.  It was very entertaining, don't get me wrong, but I'm the product of the soundbite generation.  As soon as I've hit the climax, I'm ready to roll over and fall asleep.  You know?  Don't bore me with "resolution" and "character stuff".

A Place in the Sun was really good, thanks to a masterful effort by the three leads -- Shelley Winters, Elizabeth Taylor, and pretty, pretty Montgomery Clift:

Sigh.  Call me! 

Except he's dead.  But in any case, it was great, again, right up until the climax, where they completely cheaped out.  I won't give anything away, but suffice it to say that the story -- based on a true account, by the way -- is buillding up to something pretty big, and then they TOTALLY pull the punch.  And then there's the denouement for, like, four more weeks.  It's still really good, though, and I would totally recommend it.

Just don't swim in your shoes.

Serve the Last Dirty Dance for Center Stage

On Friday night, Ulrich and I were having a deep, philosophical discussion about postmodernist theory and debating the relative merits of the position taken by Horkheimer and Adorno in The Dialectic of Enlightenment, which states that not only has the modern "culture industry" neutered contemporary society's sense of personalism through the constant repetition of pre-approved iconic imagery, but also stripped us of the tools necessary to establish and process individuality in this sea of reinforced sameness. Then we looked around and realized we were standing in line to see Step Up. Which perhaps sort of proves the point.

Anyway, the deal is: Step Up is a TERRIBLE movie, and you should see it IMMEDIATELY. Nary a more enjoyable time have I spent in the theater, than I did at this film. It is predictable and obvious from the first frame and SO overacted that it's almost Wagnerian - and let me just say that if you can't figure out within the first ten minutes EXACTLY how the story will play out, including who will live, who will die, and who will make some Very Important Realizations, you are not my friend anymore. I mean, honestly. It's like Center Stage plus Save The Last Dance times You Got Served, minus quality control, and divided by Dirty Dancing. Not exactly "ground-breaking".

Not that we expected ground-breaking. In fact, it was everything we expected, in an awesome way. Honestly, though, it's the sort of movie I wouldn't ordinarily see - but I HAD to, on account of how Jenna Dewan and I are inexorably linked. See, this one time? Domino and I sort of accidentally attended what was, in effect, the premiere of her feature film debut. And we ended up sitting in front of her without realizing it, and totally mocking the film from start to finish, because seriously, it was BAD. Not AWESOME bad, like Step Up, but more...like, hilariously awful. I mean we had a great time, and we had the decency afterward to act like we weren't pretending to talk to people on our cell phones while hanging out in the lobby of the theater for the express purpose of gawking at the cast some more. But it meant that Step Up was sort of necessary viewing for us.

As it should be for you.

A Little More Gene and Roger

Well, it was a long weekend, y'all. I accomplished a lot, but I still couldn't do everything that needed doing. Darn you, LA traffic, for impeding my progress!

I saw Cynthia Nixon at the mall on Saturday, which was cool. I totally wasn't going to believe it was her, either, but then I got all up in her face and I was convinced. I was at the mall because I had to buy my Mom some napkin rings from Crate & Barrel to go with the fancy-schmancy napkins I purchased for her. I know, I'm giving my mother napkins for Christmas. I'm out of the will, people. Anyway, I couldn't think of anything else, and she didn't make a list, and she said she didn't care because that wasn't what was important, so she's just lucky I didn't get her cornholders and ring-dings! Stop looking at me like that!

Anyway, I go looking for these specific napkin rings I saw on line that had this teensy, tasteful-looking bunch of green grapes on it, because the dining room is green, you know, but I couldn't find them anywhere! So I start to freak, like, what if I can't find them and I have to buy her these other napkin rings that don't work with the silverware, and why don't they sell regular napkin rings that aren't in freaky art deco shapes that would make even Andy Warhol wince to see them on the dinner table with the fancy napkins? Well, I asked for help, and this girl takes me to this basket, and there are the napkin rings!

Only they were fugly. Fugly. They looked nothing like they did online, people. The coil was this huge piece of wire made to look like hay, or some shit like that, and the grapes were neither teensy nor remotely tasteful -- they were ginormous and covered with beads and glitter! Beads and glitter, people! They looked like a first grade art project. Needless to say, I did not purchase them. Instead, I got her some apple-cranberry butter. I hope she likes apple-cranberry butter. If I show her the alternative, she'll probably weep for joy.

On Saturday, I also had a TWoPcon in Hollywood, which was tons of fun, and I tried to go to this stupid-ass bookstore that was stupid-ass closed. Bastards. It took me forever to get there, too! So I went back Sunday and it was closed again! Bastards! So yesterday, after working all the ding-dong day, I drive out there again, only to find out it's closed! Still! BASTARDS! So fuck the bookstore. I'm shopping online now. Oh, and I had to pee really, really bad too, and the trip took me an hour and a half. From now on, I'm keeping an empty jar in the car with me, just for emergencies. Don't open the glove compartment, mom. Just saying.

Well, on Friday, May Day and I went to see Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and aside from the fact that we shared the theater with the Top Five Most Annoying Teenagers Ever (all five of them! In one place! Tonight only -- don't miss your chance to tell them all to shut the hell up!), the movie was good. And now, my review:

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

It was good, y'all! I'm not one of these freaky people that run around all, "Ooh! A stupid kid's movie! I hope it's about a young person who triumphs over adversity!" Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just not one of those people. Anyway, in an effort to warm my icy, raisin-sized heart, Pussy Galore forced me to watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with her and her daughter. I hate to admit it, but my heart grew ten sizes that day. It was a damn good movie, yo.