Plugged in and ready to fall

"It's Just Like 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'...But For Douche-bags"

2011-04-29T16:44:00.000-07:00

I watched the first four episodes of Entourage Season: 6 last night, and the guilt is already beginning to sink in. I feel like a junkie sobering up after a particularly aggressive weekend of binging on everything from China White to Robitussin. Entourage is the most insidious kind of guilty pleasure because of the delight it takes in glamorizing the lives of a bunch of shallow, skirt-chasing mooks who spend more money on clothes, booze, and cars then most of us will see in our entire lives.

A show like Entourage is even more appalling these days, considering the fact that the national unemployment rate- despite a slight drop- is still alarmingly high. People are being tossed out of their homes and into the streets, and the Car Repossession business is booming, but life couldn't be sweeter for Vincent Chase and Co. I almost laughed out loud during a scene where Vinnie was wandering around his palatial estate (right after rolling off of an attractive, blonde waitress he'd brought home earlier that day), sulking about how "bummed out" he was that his friends weren't there to entertain him.

Seriously? Am I really supposed to feel sorry for an actor who gets more vagina than a bottle of Summer's Eve (You're welcome), and rakes in millions of dollars (despite having the onscreen presence of a melting ice cube) because he's "lonely?" In the words of esteemed Rhodes Scholar and zen philosopher, Randy Jackson: "I'm not feelin' it, Dawg."

Pop Muzik Part: 2

2011-04-25T15:57:00.000-07:00

It was an agonizingly hot summer day- even by Atlanta standards- back in '00, when my editor dispatched me to interview the Black Eyed Peas at the Tabernacle. The Peas would be performing later that night as an opening act for No Doubt. Keep in mind, the group I interviewed that day in no way resembled their current incarnation. It was the summer of 2000- two years after BEP had generated a nice bit of buzz with the Native Tongues-esque backpack rap of "Behind the Front." When I met them, they were touring with a pre-Hollaback Gwen Stefani, and promoting a mediocre sophomore album ("Bridging the Gap") that wasn’t exactly flying off the shelves.

When I arrived at the Tabernacle, Will, Taboo, and Apl. De. Ap were in the parking lot shooting hoops. I nervously introduced myself as "The guy from Insite," and followed them into their tour bus. The bus was so unbearably hot and humid; my face was, literally, bathed in sweat by the time we'd taken our seats in the rear. I sat to the right of Will. I. Am (who was nice enough to offer me a bottled water) while Taboo glared at me, and Apl (I feel so weird typing that ridiculous name) stared out the window.

After fumbling through my hastily scribbled list of lame, soft ball questions, Will suddenly became animated and genuinely intrigued when I brought up the idea of "mainstream VS. alternative" hip-hop. He asked me to explain what I meant by "mainstream hip-hop artist." I replied that a "mainstream hip-hop artist is someone who alters, or waters down their art to make it more appealing to a larger group of people."

Will bristled at this comment, claiming- as he grew increasingly more animated, moving closer and closer until his face was just inches away from mine- "See? You're wrong right there! There is no such thing as mainstream and alternative hip-hop. The only difference is how they're marketed."

"But what about Kool Keith?" I countered. "On his last album, he was rapping about 'remote control alligators,' and toured the country dressed as 'Black Elvis.' No marketing strategy in the world could ever put him on the same level as Jay-Z and Puff Daddy, because the music isn't all that accessible."

"It's NOT the music," Will claimed. "With the right kind of marketing, Kool Keith could be every bit as popular as Jay-Z without having to water down his style. You don't have to sell out and change your whole style to be on a mainstream level. It's all about how the product is marketed."

Cut to three years later: The little-known alternative hip-hop group critics once hailed as "smart" and "thought-provoking," reinvented themselves by ditching all that "socially conscious" nonsense and recording an awful (yet inexplicably successful) pop album with the woman from failed pop/R&B act, "Wild Orchid."

So much for not having to "change your whole style to be on a mainstream level," eh?

Tabemasu ka?

2011-04-18T12:10:00.000-07:00

I've once again resumed my efforts to learn Japanese. My synapses are getting lazy, and they need the exercise now more than ever. For the past few months I've been feeding my cerebellum a steady diet of junk food in the form of reality television, pop culture-fixated websites, and predictable four-camera sitcoms.

I think the simplicity of Japanese is what keeps me coming back to it. Unlike French or Spanish, there is no conjugation of the verbs depending upon the person and number, and no suffixes for nouns. As far as languages go, Japanese is about as concise and straight forward as it gets.

So, umm," これをしましょう," or whatever.

Are you there Cthullu? It's me, Morie

2011-03-20T14:46:00.000-07:00

This morning I found myself standing behind an older woman at Quick Trip who radiated crazy energy the way the late (for now) Johnny Storm radiated waves of fiery plasma. The woman had to have been in her 50's, yet she was wearing a skimpy, bright green dress that showed off her wrinkled, olive-colored skin and a faded tattoo of two butterflies on her left shoulder. She wore comically over-sized sunglasses, and spoke with the kind of gravelly rasp that made Macy Gray sound like Jennifer Tilly.

My jaw nearly hit the linoleum floor when I saw her exit the store and hop inside a brand new convertible Audi. This odd looking woman had all the physical characteristics and crazy, hyper-animated mannerisms of your typical, garden variety crazy person, yet she was driving a car worth four times as much as my humble little Korean import.

What the fuck? Was she some rich guy's aging trophy wife? Or am I supposed to believe that this fifty-ish woman with the crazy sunglasses, faded tattoos, and tacky dress is somehow able to hold down a job and make monthly payments on a car worth more than I make in an entire year?

It's been so long since my last Japanese lesson, I've already forgotten an alarming amount of words/phrases. It's so difficult to stay focused on learning a language that you know will serve no purpose whatsoever. It's not like Atlanta is just teeming with Japanese immigrants. If I were more practical I''d forget about Japanese and work on my Spanish. But Spanish is so HARD! I'll never forget how lost I felt in my high school Spanish 101 class when we started conjugating verbs. It was like the proverbial rug had been yanked from beneath my proverbial Pumas.

I tried activating my latent telekinetic abilities today. I'm pretty sure you can imagine how that went.

1st World Problems

2011-02-25T17:38:00.000-08:00

I'm totally bummed out by the lack of decent movies opening today. The comedy clubs don't have anybody I want to see either, so I'm faced with three options: I can either A) go on a three-day bender, B) take a swing at a cop and spend the weekend familiarizing myself with one of Fulton County's delightful correctional facilities, or C) take my digital movie camera out around town and see if I come up with any decent footage.

To be honest, these all seem like equally viable options.

Seriously...WTF?

2011-02-03T16:35:00.000-08:00

If you haven't heard Marc Maron's tense, hilariously uncomfortable interview with Gallagher, please do yourself a favor and check it out here

Turns out, not only is Gallagher a paranoid, bitter, angry old right-wing, hack. He also has the self-awareness of an infant. I laughed out loud at the following exchange.

Gallagher: (Angrily) See, Marc? With THAT kind of attitude, you'll never work a State Fair!

Maron: Who the fuck wants to work a State Fair?

Pop Muzick

2011-01-20T20:57:00.000-08:00

It's confession time.

I'm no stranger to bad pop music- in fact- I briefly dated Bad Pop Music for a while back in the mid-nineties. It was a tumultuous relationship, fraught with petty arguments, back-stabbing, and miscommunication- but oh, man- the make up sex made it all worthwhile. There was this one thing she used to do with her index finger and a dab of Vaseline that really made my...wait a minute, I'm sorry. I'm getting way off topic here.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm no stranger to bad pop music. And I'm not talking about the truly unlistenable junk, soullessly churned out by the likes of Lady Gaga, and the Katie Perry Bio-Mecha-Unit 3000. I've always favored what I considered to be the "good" bad pop music, if that makes any sense.

So here's how this is going to work. I've got my Creative Zen Mp3 player fired up, and I'm going to attempt to justify some of the more, shall we say, "questionable" tracks in my library.

Backstreet Boys - Shattered: I got nothing. Let's move on to the next one.

Uffie - Pop the Glock: Jesus, this is impossible. I honestly don't even know how to BEGIN defending an auto tune-soaked, faux hip-hop track with lyrics like "Uffie's bangin/ Feadz is bangin'/ time to get low/ do the tootsie roll."

Spice Girls - Wastin' My Time: Pass.

Melanie B - Feels So Good: Umm..it was produced by Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis? Shit. This is harder than I thought. Pass.

2NE1- I Don't Care: .........Fuck. I give up.

Well, I hope this helped shed some light on my eclectic (i,e: "shitty") musical tastes. Personally, I thought it was enlightening, thought-provoking, and even a bit, dare I say, cathartic? Keep a look out for my next entry: An in-depth review of Jesse McCartney’s latest pop/soul masterpiece.

Videodrone

2011-01-16T21:21:00.000-08:00

Friday afternoon I thought I'd hit the jackpot when I happened to come across a High Definition digital camcorder at Best Buy for fifty dollars.

"Fifty dollars?" I gasped. "Oh, this is just TOO good to pass up."

I was wrong.

The video quality is grainier than the Zapruder film, the files won't play in Windows Movie Maker, and trying to get the damn thing to focus is like trying to explain the Pythagorean theorem to Snookie.

I shot tons of video clips over the weekend, in different locations, with different lighting, and they ALL turned out looking like crap. Now I see why Best Buy reduced the price by more than 50%. They KNOW Insignia's 720P "HD" cam is a piece of junk. This thing doesn't even belong in an electronics store- it should be collecting dust in Wal-Mart's toy department.

Here's a video I shot before taking the camera back to Best Buy.

Was I exaggerating? I've seen regular digital camcorders that had better video quality than that. Well, that settles it. I'm just going to have to tighten my belt and save up for that Sanyo cam I was eyeballing at Radio Shack. Either that, or stand on Fulton Industrial Blvd with a sandwich board that reads: "Will reluctantly perform the unsavory act of fellatio for brand new Sanyo High Definition digital movie camera."

A black guy and a Chinese woman walk into a bar...

2010-08-03T21:08:00.000-07:00

I had a classic "Adam Carolla" moment last weekend at the Highlander, while having a conversation with the most adorable Chinese woman this side of Gillian Chung. During our little talk, I learned that- when she came to the states- she chose the name "Jordan" because she's a huge fan of New Kids on the Block.

Immediately upon hearing that revelation, the following exchange ensued:

ME: So you changed your first name to "Jordan," but you obviously kept your last name, right?

JORDAN: Right.

ME: I bet I can guess your last name.

JORDAN: Okay, Go ahead.

ME: Is it..."Lau?"

JORDAN: (nonchalantly) Yep.

ME: Seriously!?

JORDAN: Uh huh.

ME: I just guessed your last name, and I got it right on the first try?

JORDAN: Yep.

ME: Are you fucking with me? There's no way I could've gotten that right on my first try. I bet if I'd said "Wong" you would've told me I was right.

JORDAN: No. I'm not fucking with you. My last name really is "Lau."

It's the sort of situation Carolla always complained about on Loveline, when he would- with no prior knowledge of the caller- correctly guess the caller's line of work, or the kind of car they drove- And the fact that he was right wouldn't phase the caller one bit.

So, here I am, in a bar, talking to a woman I didn't even know, and when I correctly guessed her last name (out of a billion other possibilities), she acted like it was no big deal. What do you have to do to impress people these days? Seriously, I'd really like to know. Learn how to levitate? Shoot laser beams from my eyes? What's it going to take?

Nihon-jin desu ka?

2010-05-23T19:22:00.000-07:00

The sun was shining through the filthy, not-quite-wide-enough venetian blinds this morning as I lay in bed repeating my favorite Japanese phrases over and over again. I've found it to be a productive way to relieve stress these days. Sure, I could always punch a wall, or throw my cell phone through the window, but then I'd be out of a security deposit and a cell phone. Where's the sense in that?

My favorite phrases are the longer, more difficult ones, because they sound so cool when parroted back to someone who doesn't speak the language.

Watashi wa hon-o yomimashita

I actually got to use this one a few months back at the Laughing Skull Lounge. Maria Bamford was on stage, and asked if anyone in the audience could speak a foreign language. I raised my hand, along with a few other people in the room, and Bamford immediately turned to me.

Bamford: What other language do YOU speak?

Me: (sheepishly) Ja- Japanese.

Bamford: Could you say something in Japanese for me?

Me: Uh...Watashi wa hon-o yomimashita?

Bamford: What does that mean?

Me: "I read a book"

Then she segued into one of my favorite bits about languages. It was a brilliant performance, really. Bamford was firing on all cylinders that night, effortlessly cycling through her endless Rolodex of weird voices, poking fun at her Ultra Wasp-y family, and bringing back her dead-on, awe-inspiring impersonation of Alicia Keys. Here's a pic from the show.　

I'm not quite sure how a post about my obsessive compulsive need to repeat Japanese phrases in order to keep my ever present anxiety at bay turned into a review of Maria Bamford's stint at the Laughing Skull, but whatever.　

I'm finding it increasingly hard to focus on any given task these days. Are the anti-depressants responsible? I'm quite sure they are, but what choice do I have? If I stopped taking the drugs, the haze would finally lift and I could focus on my creative endeavors, but the suicidal thoughts and intense self-loathing would return with a vengeance.

What to do, what to do...

Reality Show Roundup

2009-10-06T13:53:00.000-07:00

I was going to use this space to discuss one of my favorite topics: constant velocity with respect to an inertial frame of reference. But then I saw a new episode of "Tool Academy: 2," and suddenly felt compelled to crank out a quick, poorly written review of the Reality Shows that've been on my radar for the past few weeks. Enjoy!

Tool Academy 2: The women on this show all have the self-esteem of a 36 year old stripper, forced to work the afternoon shift at the Chubb Club. Otherwise, they would've all kicked their STD-riddled, knuckle-dragging boyfriends to the curb after the second date. The only halfway decent "tool" in the academy is Dre P. Too bad he's stuck with Leah's crazy ass.

My Antonio: I'd rather watch a youtube video of Antonio Sabato Jr. tossing my dad's salad than sit through a single episode of this snooze-fest.

Real Chance at Love 2: Look, I'm going to be honest with you. The only reason I watch this show is because every episode is basically just a solid hour of attractive women prancing around in bikini tops and tiny scraps of denim they've somehow managed to fashion into shorts. It's like porn, only without all the regret and spent paper towels.

Project Runway: Has the season ended yet? Does anybody even watch this anymore?

Str8 Outta Nihon

2009-09-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've been studying Japanese for the past month, and even though I still have the vocabulary of a toddler with a severe head injury, I've gotten to the point where I can watch a Japanese film or TV show and actually pick out certain words and phrases.

I recently saw an incredible documentary about male host clubs* in Osaka, Japan, and I recognized a few familiar words like "love," "room," and "she". While I realize that that's nothing to brag about, I feel like my grasp of Japanese is already stronger than Spencer Pratt's grasp on reality.

I realize that was a long way to go for a Spencer Pratt joke, but I will not apologize.

*I still can't get over the fact that there are women in Osaka, perfectly willing to spend up to $10,000 to flirt with an androgynous, bleached-blond prettyboy for a few hours. This is the kind of "entertainment" that could ONLY exist in Japan.

You've Got the Wrong Number

2009-07-11T10:34:00.000-07:00

No one does slick, angst-ridden R&B like South Korea. Once you stop laughing at DBSK's distracting, hilariously elaborate pompadours (my favorite "hairdo" comes in at the 0:35 mark), and clumsy attempts at rapping, you'll fall in love with this video. Never before has reclining beside a glass of wine while belting out "Don't call me no more!" over a vaguely Timbaland-esque beat conveyed such intense anguish. I feel your pain, Guy-Who's-Clearly-Wearing-A-Woman's-Jacket. You too, Dude-Reclining-Beside-A-Glass-Of-Wine-While-Singing-At-The Ceiling.

2009-07-05T13:01:00.000-07:00

I finally swapped those boring, cursive H's out for Tuscani badges. I plan on making a few more mods (chrome auto shift plate, new tail lights, and a new grill set), but nothing major. I have no interest in making my Tib look like a prop car for the next Fast and Furious sequel.

It's intervention time

2008-11-13T06:35:00.000-08:00

Jesus, did anyone else see Artie Lange on Conan the other night? I mean- I'd heard stories from Norm McDonald and Greg Fitzsimmons about Lange's downward spiral, but what I saw Tuesday night was just sad. He lumbered over to the couch looking disheveled and sleep-deprived, and when he took his seat beside Conan, he immediately announced "I'm wearing these sunglasses because I'm so high." Awesome.

From there it just got worse. Lange elicited a chorus of boos from the audience after suggesting that Tracy Morgan might be illiterate, then launched into these rambling, unrelated stories about taking vicodin, and wanting to do heroin that "wasn't smuggled across the border in some Mexican chick's colon."

To Conan's credit, he powered through this trainwreck of an interview like a real pro, though you could tell he was clearly unnerved by Lange's behaviour and the (many) awkward silences. The only part of the segment that made me laugh, was when they cut to a shell-shocked Seth Green while Artie was in the middle of some incoherent, yet vaguely offensive anecdote.

Love on a budget

2008-09-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

I ended up at the $1.99 Theater at Santa Fe Mall this weekend. Of course, like always- I didn't plan on going to the $1.99 Theater- I was leaving Gwinnett Place Mall when, on a whim, I decided to drive by Santa Fe and see what was up on the Marquee.

I was in luck.

It was a choice between "Harold and Kumar Engage in Marijuana-Related Wackiness," and "Forgetting Sarah Marshall." I was leaning toward seeing the Apatow-approved Rom/Com (For the most part, the reviews I’d read about the movie when it was released a few months back were generally pretty positive), but settled on "Harold and Kumar" since it was about to begin in ten minutes.

After buying my ticket from a cute blonde girl who went about her job with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner collecting trash alongside the highway, I made my way to the concession stand and marveled at the number of couples in attendance. Maybe it's just me, but I never considered the $1.99 Theater to be the sort of place you'd take your girlfriend to on a Saturday night.

Look, I know an evening at the movies is fast becoming more expensive than a night with a high class hooker, but what sort of message does it send to your date when you escort her to a $1.99 Theater located inside a "mall" that has more retail carts than actual stores? I’d argue that renting a DVD and ordering Chinese would be much more romantic than dragging your significant other down the urine-soaked hallway of a dilapidated, $1.99 theater for a 9pm showing of “College Road Trip.”

I discussed this with Marla earlier today, and she essentially called me an elitist snob. I objected, but wasn’t sure if she could hear me over the roar of my gold, diamond-encrusted Private Jet.

Warner Bros: "We Clearly Have No Idea What We're Doing"

2008-09-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

After reading Jeff Robinov's ridiculous statement where he promised that- from here on out- all of Warner Bros. subsequent superhero adaptations will be "dark and brooding," I've pretty much given up all hope of a decent Superman or Wonder Woman film ever seeing the light of day. I mean- come on. "Dark and brooding?" Seriously? That's fine when you're adapting something like Batman or Watchmen for the big screen, but the grim and realistic approach just doesn't make any sense if you're developing a movie about Aquaman or the Flash.

Take the Flash, for instance- Barry Allen is a guy who slips on a bright red costume (which he keeps in a goddamn RING, by the way), and runs around Central City, beating up talking gorillas and mad scientists. How could you possibly put a grim and realistic spin on a concept as ludicrous as that? It'd be like trying to greenlight an NC-17 rated Garfield movie.

That said, I'd like to let everyone know that I’ve just begun work on my new spec script for Warner Bros. It’s called: "Justice League America: Irreversible." I don’t mean to toot my own horn here, but the scene where Sinestro anally rapes the Green Lantern in a dimly-lit subway tunnel is sure to grab the attention of the script readers over at the WB.

Hollywood, here I come!

Se7en's Up

2008-07-12T16:06:00.000-07:00

I just came across a new track from Se7en's English language debut, and it's surprisingly good. I'll admit to being a little worried when his collaboration with Fabolous was leaked last year. For one thing- He seemed extremely nervous (You could hear it in his voice, particularly in the first verse), and Se7en's English, which sounded just fine on his Korean albums, now sounded weird and a bit strained.

"Them Girls" is a completely different animal, though. This is the Se7en I was hoping U.S. audiences would get to experience. On the Rodney Jerkins-produced, mid-tempo track, Se7en channels the same swagger and confidence that fueled "Lose Control" and "If You Know My Love" (The hottest Korean-language, R&B heater this side of Wheesung's "Incurable Disease").

I think I may be forced to reevaluate my opinion of Se7en's chances in the States. As far as I know, the album's not even finished, but that hasn't kept the South Korean press from predicting that Se7en's US debut is guaranteed to make an impact because- in addition to it being a pretty solid hip-hop/R&B record- he's going out of his way to avoid the same mistakes that kept talented artists like Utada Hikaru and Toshinobu Kubota from moving units on these shores.

BTW: I showed the following Se7en video to my sister, and my Mp3 player nearly short-circuited from all the drooling. Her exact words: "I don't understand what he's saying, but I don't care- he's SOO hot!"

Tonight He Comes

2008-06-21T12:46:00.001-07:00

I just scored a pass for an advance screening of Hancock, and I have to admit- I'm pretty stoked. I'd written Will Smith off after Men in Black: 2 (and let's not forget the humorless, cinematic dirty bomb known as "Bad Boys 2), but the one, two punch combination of "I Am Legend," and now, "Hancock," have forced me to reclaim my seat aboard the Fresh Prince Band Wagon.

Granted, "I Am Legend" wasn't perfect- it completely ignored the ending in Matheson's novel, which made me wonder why they even bothered keeping the title- but Smith's performance was amazing. For the first time in years, he was acting, instead of blurting out weak one-liners and cashing a paycheck.

I know test audiences haven't been very kind to "Hancock," but I'm not sure if the people at the screenings even understood what kind of film they were about to see. The trailers make the movie out to be a broad, FX-laden action/ comedy, but- unless the script has been completely overhauled- it's actually a pretty dark, cynical take on the whole superhero genre.

Same Old Song

2008-06-07T14:20:00.000-07:00

It looks like Se7en's first English language R&B album should be hitting stores pretty soon. I wish I could get excited about this- I mean, the guy has an incredible voice, and his videos are so tightly-choreographed, he makes Justin and Usher seem lazy and uncoordinated by comparison.

Still, I've been here before, and it always ends the same way. Toshinobu Kubota, Utada Hikaru, Coco Lee, Seiko: They've all released R&B albums in the States, only to have them end up in the cutout bin alongside Jeremy Jordan and Ray J. Regardless of quality, it's been made painfully clear that Asian pop/soul artists will never make an impact over here.

It doesn't matter how much money they sink into their debut, or how many rappers they collaborate with (FYI: Fabolous and Three 6 Mafia will appear on Se7en's US debut), Asian R&B acts have about as much chance of connecting with the US market as I have of connecting my penis to Megan Goode's vagina.

They're smoking crack over at Blender

2008-06-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

I was looking through Blender 's review section this afternoon when I came across their rating for Portishead's "Third." They gave it 1 1/2 stars.

Seriously.

Then again, this IS the same rag that gave Dem Franchize Boyz four stars for screaming gibberish over crappy, Casio-quality beats.

BTW: The Green Lantern Corps. has obviously lowered it's standards as of late.

Thicke of the Knight

2007-04-07T20:28:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget my initial surprise after listening to Jordan Knight's first solo CD. Instead of following Joey Mac's lead and putting out a middle-of-the-road pop record, he took a risk and sought out (Then unknown) Robin Thicke to help him come up with a unique blend of angst-ridden rock/soul. Even though he was marketed to the same teenage girls who were devouring new product by N*Sync and Backstreet at an alarming rate, Knight's self-titled debut had a certain darkness and maturity that elevated it above everything the hit-makers over at Jive were peddling.

"Give it to You" (The first single) immediately grabbed me with its unusual rhythmic shifts and slick hip-hop beats that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on a Timbaland record, but the ballads and mid-tempo jams were where Knight really pulled out all the stops. "Don't Run From Me" was a great example of this- a dark, almost creepily co-dependent song that had Knight pleading and moaning over a sinister Mobb Deep sample.

In the nine years since “Give it to You” rocketed to the top of the pop charts, Knight was unceremoniously dropped from Interscope, and rescued (if you can call it that) by Transcontinental Records, where he put out three lackluster albums that had none of the depth and inventiveness of his debut. Robin Thicke, on the other hand, emerged as one of the few blue-eyed soul acts to infiltrate urban radio’s notoriously segregated format.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s a part of Jordan Knight that’s just a little peeved at how urban radio markets have readily embraced Thicke, while Knight’s trapped in Transcontinental Hell, forced to churn out half hearted covers of eighties pop songs (See: “Love Songs:” Knight’s restrained version of “Careless Whisper” sounds like it’s being sung at gunpoint).

When I listen to “Evolution,” then go back and play “The Fix” (Knight’s distressingly uneven EP), it’s obvious who was responsible for the soulful, introspective R&B sound that fueled Knight’s solo debut. Up until recently, I used to give all the credit to the ex-New Kid, but the sheer awfulness that dominates most of Knight’s post-Thicke output make it clear that Knight isn’t even in the same league as Robin Thicke when it comes to song-writing.

While “The Fix” comes across as a rushed, low budget attempt to mimic the kind of junk found on 106th and Park, “The Evolution of Robin Thicke” has loftier ambitions. Instead of simply imitating Prince, Thicke actually seems to have an understanding of the man (The early 80’s Prince, mind you- not the guy who made “Batdance” and “Diamonds & Pearls”) and what it was that made his songs so unique. Pharrell shows up briefly to add a little star power to the hypnotic, up tempo track “Wanna Love U Girl,” but it’s the slower, neptunes-free songs that fully display Thicke’s talents both as a singer and as a song writer. “Teach U a Lesson” is a subversive role play fantasy filled with the sort of sly innuendo that’s sorely missing in modern Pop/R&B. “Ask Myself” sounds like something Marvin Gaye could have recorded. And on “Got 2 B Down,” Thicke doesn’t just hold his own against Faith Evans, he actually manages to upstage her with his glass-shattering falsetto.

I still think Jordan Knight is capable of making good on the promise of his debut. But in order to do that, he’ll have to ditch Transcontinental, and beg Robin Thicke to convince Pharrell to sign him to Star Trak. Either that, or continue his slow descent back into the Ex-Teen Idol Phantom Zone alongside Tiffany and Jeremy Jordan.

Can I Get A "何何?"

2007-04-05T11:36:00.000-07:00

No Akon or Ciara for me, thank you very much. My MP3 player hungers for M-Flo, Koda Kumi, Utada Hikaru, and Yoshika. No matter how much J-Urban music I feed it, it craves more and more each day. Who knew that the land responsible for used-panties-in-a-vending-machine and "Rapeman," would one day put out pop R&B music that slays the incestuous, uninspired junk cynically cranked out on these shores?

Koda Kumi's "got the 'Hot Stuff'." BoA teamed up with Howie Dorough (Yep, THAT Howie D.) for the kind of fun, criminally catchy R&B track I haven't heard since Sheena Easton let Prince invade her "Sugarwalls." And M-Flo flips fluid rhymes, effortlessly switching back and forth between English and Japanese while Kahimi Karie coos softly over a hip-hop beat.

I have no idea what Namie Amuro is singing about on the Dallas Austin-produced "Something Bout the Kiss," but I bet if Beyonce ever heard this song, she'd calmly remove her lace front wig and stick her head inside an oven.

It's Not Funny

2005-12-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

I was listening to a morning drive radio show the other day when I heard something that never fails to raise my blood pressure. The DJs were interviewing Jeff Garlin, and when the subject of female comedians came up they all moaned about how there were no funny women in stand up. It still amazes me that people can make absurd statements like that with a straight face. How could anyone who knows anything about the stand up scene really believe that?

Anyone who allows such a ridiculous comment to escape their lips should be tied to a chair and forced to watch an episode of “Two and a Half Men.” Ok, maybe that’s a bit too harsh. I don’t even think I’d have the stomach to wish something like that on my worst enemy. Seriously, if someone were to put a gun to my head and tell me that I could either watch an episode of “Two and a Half Men” or eat a bullet, I’d grab the gun and guide the barrel towards my mouth before he even finished the sentence.

Garlin was just as shocked as I was when he realized the DJs were totally serious. He made a great point when he asked them “Well what’s your exposure to comedy? I mean, you live in Atlanta. It’s not like you get the same kind of exposure to stand up as someone who lived in LA.” He was right. But that’s still no excuse. I’ve been stuck in “The ATL” for most of my adult life, and I can name plenty of edgy- and most importantly- funny female comics off the top of my head. Comedians like Margaret Cho, Laura Kightlinger, Maria Bamford, Jessi Klein, Kathy Griffin- the list goes on and on.

Whenever I’m around someone who insists that there’s no such thing as a funny female comic, the only thing I hear is “I’m a sexist, narrow-minded tool who enjoys the comedic stylings of Tim Allen and Bill Engvall.”

AZURA SKY

2005-05-13T01:03:00.000-07:00

The highlight of my short-lived career as an entertainment journalist wasn’t the press conference for Michael Mann’s Insider, or the one on one interview with Christopher Plummer. Getting a phone call from Glenn Danzig made me to squeal like a little girl, but even that experience paled in comparison to sitting next to the actress who- at the time- was at the top of my “Celebrities I would very much like to (censored)” list.

I was doing the press junket for Sandra Bullock’s 28 Days, and on the morning of the roundtable interview I made it a point to arrive early at the hotel suite. Roundtable interviews were held in a tiny room at a table with six chairs. There would be a card on the table indicating where the talent would sit, and the writers would sit in the other chairs. I sat next to the card reading “Azura Skye.”

Celebrities are usually a bit of a disappointment when you see them in person. Like Milla Jovovich- she’d fueled many a masturbatory fantasy ever since I saw her in the Fifth Element, so I was surprised by how plain she looked in real life. Same goes for Matt Damon: I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’d rubbed one out while watching Good Will Hunting, then I come to find out that the guy’s like, 3ft tall.

Azura Skye did not disappoint. As she sat on my right, fielding questions from the other writers, I just sat there gawking at her like she was a magical unicorn with wings made out of stardust. It felt so surreal to- within the span of one year- go from religiously tuning in to a crappy WB sitcom every week just to catch a glimpse of her, to sitting right beside her in this tiny hotel room. I was so nervous. The night before I’d scribbled a bunch of questions into my notepad, but I only managed to ask her one. It was the same lazy question asked of every TV actor whose ever promoted a film (“So which do you like better? Making a movie or doing a TV show?”). I spent a great deal of the thirty-minute interview fixated on her left hand as she nervously played with the cap to a discarded water bottle. I’d never seen a hand so slender and delicate. I was pretty sure that if push came to shove, I could take her in an arm wrestling match.

Hotel Rooms and Bad Movies

2005-04-27T23:54:00.000-07:00

When I used to write for Insite, every now and then they would send me on these press junkets where the studio would set me and a bunch of other writers up in a swank hotel for a day or two so we could lob softball questions at pampered actors and directors about whatever new film they were promoting.

Since I was pretty low on the totem pole at Insite, they usually sent me to the junkets no one else wanted to do. The worst was Boys and Girls- a movie so bad I hear Claire Forlani had the part of her brain that remembered starring in it surgically removed. I didn’t mind taking the crappy junkets, mind you, because the way I saw it: suffering through a screening of an abysmal Freddie Prinze Jr. comedy was a small price to pay for a free trip to LA.

I hardly ever talk about the junkets or the people I’ve met on them because it’s impossible to work it into a conversation without sounding like a name-dropping douche nozzle. I hate when people do that. There’s this girl on my LJ friends page who mentioned some celebrity encounter she’d had recently and it just had this ugly, unappealing air of “Hey, look at me! I’m cool and I hang out with celebrities! Don’t you wish you could be me just for one day? I bet you do!”

I don’t want to come across like that, but I really would like to get all this stuff out of my system. That’s why I decided to devote my next few posts to my short-lived career as an entertainment journalist. After that it’s back to the usual meditations on crappy pop music and Lindsey Lohan’s cup size.

Screenwriting 101

2005-03-01T00:29:00.000-08:00

I’m almost done with the outline for my call center comedy. It’s amazing how the ideas have just been flowing nonstop ever since I started writing. Of course that's probably due to the fact that all I’m really doing is taking stuff I’ve seen and experienced throughout my torturous, neverending stint in CSR Hell, and adding a few fart jokes and dated pop culture references to spice things up. I didn’t realize just how many funny/awkward/weird calls I’d endured over the past six years until I sat down and started working on the outline.

Here’s one of my favorite awkward moments from the enchanted world of customer service:

INT. CALL CENTER- DAY

ME: Thanks for calling Budget Rent A Car. How can I help you?

SUE: (Australian accent) Hi, this is Sue. I’m calling from Australia, and I’ll be in Atlanta next month for a couple of weeks. I wanted to see what kind of rates you have.

ME: Wow, you’re really calling from Australia?

SUE: Yep. That’s right.

ME: ahaha. G’day mate!

A long, uncomfortable silence.

SUE: Excuse me?

ME: Isn’t that what they say in Australia? (Bad Paul Hogan impression) G’day mate! Throw another shrimp on the Barbie!

An even longer, more uncomfortable silence.

SUE: (Pissed) No. No, we don’t talk like that.

Another excruciatingly awkward pause.

ME: Oh….okay. Soo…midsize or compact?

I’m not using this one in the script, but you have to admit- if they gave out awards for Most Awkward Telephone Conversation, that should at the very least warrant an honorable mention.

Take with lots of alcohol

2005-01-21T19:15:00.000-08:00

Most of Wednesday was spent reading Dave Navarro’s Don’t Try This At Home. So far it confirms just about everything I’ve always suspected Navarro of being. He’s narcissistic, weird as fuck, and gets more action than a porn star. Naturally you’d think this would make for a great read (don’t get me wrong, there are times when the book is pretty fascinating- like the chapter where Navarro lists all the household items he’s used to "tie off"), but all the dopey, self-indulgent stuff throughout the book about death, the meaning of life, and astral projection are a real chore to plow through.

I met up with Joslin at the Earl around 10pm for Todd Barry’s show. She arrived looking quite the indie-rock scenester, with her black framed glasses and bright, rainbow colored leg warmers. We sat on a sofa in a dark corner of the club while the opening band played, and talked about everything from Charles Bukowski and garage rock, to the universal appeal of Lindsey Lohan’s genre-bending, pop/rock debut. (Lindsey Lohan’s new CD, "Speak" is now available at a Wal-Mart near you!) After playing for what felt like an eternity, the opening band finally ended their set and Todd Barry came on stage. Maybe I’m a bit biased because I’m a huge fan of the guy’s comedy, but Barry’s set that night was amazing. He had some killer material about Fugazi, the Clermont Lounge and Sugar Ray that had me laughing so hard I thought I was going to black out (Though I’m sure the fact that I’d been guzzling PBR’s like there was no tomorrow might have had something to do with that).

Tomorrow I’m headed to Athens to hang out with Anne and see the Drive By Truckers. Let the binge drinking begin.

My kung fu is strong

2005-01-14T18:20:00.000-08:00

The girl at Oxford Comics really knows her Asian cinema. When I rented Old Boy (An incredible revenge film by a director best described as the Korean, establishment version of Quentin Tarentino), she struck up a conversation about the House of Flying Daggers, and Hero. I’d rented the House of Flying Daggers one week earlier, and enjoyed it so much I nearly soiled my pants. The fight scenes were beyond beautiful. Zhang Ziyi has this great way of dispatching an entire roomful of bad guys while looking like she couldn’t be more bored. The balletic, intricately choreographed kung fu of HOD was in stark contrast to the more brutal, realistic throw downs in Old Boy. Jesus, what a brilliant, hard-hitting movie. The scene that cemented my love for Chan Wok Park (the director) was the one where Oh Desu makes his way through a hallway filled with scary, knife-wielding thugs. The thing that makes it so remarkable is the fact that it was all done in one take. No cutaways at all- just one long tracking shot of Oh Desu moving down this narrow hallway, handing out beatings like they were going out of style.

“For my next trick, I’ll make you all understand me”

2005-01-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

The past few days have been packed full of more television, reading, and irradiated zombies than you could shake a mint condition copy of Detective Comics #27 at. Tables were turned, lessons were learned- last night I talked to a girl named Rebecca and fell asleep to the sound of David Cross’ voice. At Wal-Mart I saw an Asian guy with carefully tousled hair and form-fitting girl jeans. He looked like a Cantonese pop star, slumming in the states while working on material for his next album. He had this distracted, far away look in his eyes. I wonder what he was thinking about. Clothes? Lunch? Hair products? The girl he met at the club last night who was all over him on the dance floor, but responded with cool indifference when he later tried to get her phone number?

Recklessly piloted my cluttered, battle-damaged Nissan through the streets of Atlanta while a terrified Michelle/Elle/Ella berated my Mad Max approach to driving. The radio was tuned to 96.7, and they were playing the song from Handsome Boy Modeling School with Pharrell and Julee Cruise. When we arrived at the Vortex, we grabbed a seat in a corner that was darker than Nicole Ritchie’s cold, black soul. While chewing on a rubbery piece of chicken, I closed my eyes and realized “This is not my house. This is not my beautiful wife. How did I get here?” That was right before the cyber ninjas fell from the sky.

My thoughts keep going back to the Sin City trailer. Robert Rodriguez, will you marry me? Mickey Rourke’s in full blown badass mode, and Bruce Willis is finally in a movie that doesn’t suck (I hope). I’m still “cautiously optimistic” about Constantine. I wish they’d kept the British accent, but the trailers are so promising, I’m almost willing to overlook it. Should I see Elektra this weekend? The tea leaves are telling me to stay away, yet I feel strangely compelled to part with my hard earned cash for the opportunity to see Jenny Garner on the silver screen.
I’m hanging out with Joslin tomorrow. Gentlemen, start your self-loathing.

Girls on video

2004-12-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

Adam Carolla has this great rant that he often does on Loveline about how he hates the way porn movies are titled these days. The gist of his rant was that he never realized just how embarrassing and offensive the titles were becoming until he called a video store to see if they had a copy of “Lick Me, Fuck Me.” He said he ended up having to call the store back three times, because every time he mentioned the movie’s title, the clerk would hang up on him.

Okay. First of all- I’d give anything for the chance to travel back in time and listen in on that phone conversation. Just hearing Carolla describe the humiliation of having to ask the store clerk for “Lick Me, Fuck Me” is always enough to have me doubled over with laughter. That story never gets old, no matter how many times he repeats it. Secondly, the increasingly offensive titling of porn movies is something that has also bothered me for years. Every time I walk into a video store I always find myself cringing in disbelief at some of the titles these people come up with to sell their videos. Earlier this week I was telling Michelle/Elle/Ella about some of the ridiculous titles I saw when I was at Adult Heat. Here’s a list of a few of the more colorful titles, and- believe me- I’m not making any of these up.

Bust That Black Ass
Fucking Assholes
Fuck Me Good
Stick Your Pole in My Rear Hole
Assault That Ass
Dick-Filled Babes
Black Cum Guzzlers
Young Chicks Who Drink Dicks
Hittin’ Dat White Azz

Now I realize that these movies aren’t exactly ambitious, award winning works of art, but do the titles have to be so vulgar? I think it’s safe to assume that if I’m in an adult video store, then I have a pretty good idea of what these videos are all about. I really don’t think it’s necessary to lure me in with titles like “Ball Draining Whores,” or “All Dat Pussy.” Trust me, I was sold as soon as I turned the DVD case over and saw the stills of Mary Carey doing things with a massive black dildo that up until then I’d thought were physically impossible. I don’t need the creepy, aggressively offensive titles to convince me to part with my hard earned cash.

It makes it even more difficult for me to defend porn when so many of the movies have these crude, blatantly misogynistic titles. Now, I know that there are plenty of people out there who are disgusted by the very idea of porn, and think that it’s all harmful and offensive to women. I don’t necessarily agree with that. Sure, there are videos on the market that truly are repulsive and potentially harmful (The repugnant Bang Bus series is one that immediately comes to mind). But I have a hard time getting behind the idea that all adult movies are degrading to women. Anyone who really believes that falls into the same category as the people who think “All reality TV shows are crap,” or “All movies starring Ernie Reyes Jr. should be cleansed from existence. Okay, now that I think about it, the Ernie Reyes Jr. people might actually have a point there.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say in my own rambling, inarticulate way is that I don’t see anything degrading about two consenting adults having sex in a roomful of cameras. It’s when you factor in other elements like the marketing and packaging of the video, when things have the potential to take a turn for the offensive.

Edited to add: I forgot to mention one title that I actually liked, because it made me laugh out loud. It was a she-male video called “She Said Suck My Cock…And She Meant It!” I think it was the exclamation point that got me. G’night folks!

Insomnia

2004-11-06T23:01:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember I've always been an insomniac. That's why I've always marveled at the people who say they never stay up any later than 10pm on a weeknight. I'd love to be able to climb into bed and pass out right after a particularly gripping episode of UPN's Girlfriends, but I don't think that'd be possible without a fistfull of sleeping pills, or a crowbar to the back of the head. I guess the fact that I've been working the second shift on every job I've had since 1997 certainly doesn't help matters.

Keeping the same hours as a heroin addict will make you do things at 4am that you wouldn't be caught dead doing at 4 in the afternoon. Like watching reruns of syndicated sitcoms so awful the local stations won’t even air them during the daytime. For a while when I was working the 2:30pm - 11pm shift at GE, I was hooked on that terrible Wayans Bros. show. The WB used to show two episodes back to back everyday at 5am, and since I didn't have anything better to do, I usually ended up dozing off while watching Shawn and Marlon conduct another class in "Shameless Mugging and Overracting 101."

The Wayans Bros is one of those shows that's so spectacularly bad, it's almost impossible for you to take your eyes off of it. We're talking pure, unadulterated trainwreck entertainment on par with The Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer. The writers routinely recycled the same generic sitcom plots that have been around since I Love Lucy. The only white character on the show was named "White Mike" (Seriously, how tasteless is that? Could you imagine the letters Hope & Faith would get if they added a character named "Black Carl?"). In a sick, perverted way I almost admire the Brothers Wayans for starring in and producing a sitcom so devoid of wit and originality that it bordered on the offensive.

Since the WB stopped airing the Wayans Bros, I’ve had to resort to the likes of Greta Van Susteren in order to catch some Z’s. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about Susteren’s voice that causes me to immediately lose consciousness. If I had an audiotape of Greta Van Susteren reading the screenplay to “Meet Joe Black,” I think my insomnia problem would be solved. My only concern about Susteren’s voice being the last thing I hear before dozing off is that she might begin popping up in my dreams. Yikes. I couldn’t imagine anything more frightening than making out with Bonnie McFarlane underneath a strawberry Kool-Aid waterfall, only to open my eyes and find Susteren’s cold, dead eyes staring back at me. That’s Nightmare on Elm Street territory right there.

Race

2004-10-21T16:07:00.000-07:00

One day I was riding the escalator at Lenox Square, when a young couple passed me on the escalator headed in the opposite direction. They were a very attractive couple. The guy was black, and appeared to be in his early twenties. The girl, with her long red hair and pale, freckled face, looked like a younger version of Julianne Moore. They were holding hands, minding their own business when I heard someone behind me shout/sing "Sheeee got jungle fever/ Heeee got jungle fever!"

I turned around to see a group of rowdy black teenagers who looked like they'd gotten all their fashion tips from Source magazine and BET's Rap City, leaning over the rail, laughing at the couple. It seemed like the malls of Atlanta were jampacked full of stupid, loud-mouthed kids like these.You couldn't escape them. Empty-headed, thug wannabes who lived in the suburbs, but dressed and talked like their favorite artistically bankrupt, MTV-approved rappers.

Call me an uptight square, but I just didn't see what was so funny about harassing total strangers whose only crime was that they dared to (gasp!) date outside their race. Just how empty and pointless does your existence have to be for you to get off on publically insulting absolute strangers over something so trivial?
If you're going to humiliate someone, at least let it be for a good reason, like their religion or economic background.

Now that I think about it, that was an awful lot of work for such a bad, bad joke. Now I know what it feels like to be a writer for the WB's "Reba."

The Booby Trap

2004-08-11T04:49:00.000-07:00

Since this blog has recently deteriorated into a dumping ground for all of my bad jokes, comic book-related ramblings, and more bad jokes; I've decided to dedicate this post to something a bit more serious. That's right: Lindsey Lohan's breasts.

I still don't understand why her ample bosom has generated so much buzz over the past few months. All right already. I get it. The girl has a huge rack. (my favorite slang term for breasts) Big deal. You could go to any high school in the country and find girls the same age or younger with even bigger breasts. Why all the speculation over this particular teenager's breast size, and whether they're real or not? This whole business surrounding Lohan's cleavage is almost as annoying as the Britney Spears Implant Debate of 2000.

This country is so weird. We're absolutely obsessed with breasts- to the point where we use them to sell everything under the sun (especially beer, cars, and movies)- but when an aging, past-her-prime popstar bares a boob during a televised sports event, everyone rushes to the nearest news camera to declare how shocked and disgusted they are. I'm so sick of this country's hypocritical bull-manure. Make up your mind, America. Are you Pro or Anti-dairy cannons? (my second favorite slang term for breasts) Which is it? You can't have it both ways!

Who sucked out the feeling?

2004-07-22T23:49:00.000-07:00

Though I'll probably never be sold on the Streets' current status as the greatest thing to ever happen to the UK's hip-hop scene, I have to admit- I kinda like the new album. Skinner's conversational, deliberately offbeat cockney flow is fascinating to listen to; and I love the dense, everything-but-the-kitchensink production. I still think the comparisons critics have drawn between Mike Skinner and Eminem are lazy and totally ridiculous (I'm not sure if I even feel comfortable calling Skinner a "rapper," let alone suggesting that his skills are on par with Mr. Mathers), but there's something about the way Skinner tells a story that makes it impossible for me to simply dismiss him as an overrated flavor of the month.

But even though I kinda dig the Streets, it really bothers me the way critics are practically elbowing more talented UK rappers like Wiley and Dizzee Rascal aside so they can get another quote from Mike Skinner. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to turn this into an anti-Streets tirade. I just can't figure out for the life of me why Dizzee and Wiley aren't generating the same level of ejaculatory praise as the Streets. I mean, come on- these guys can rhyme circles around Skinner. Why is it that they only warrant a tiny blurb in Blender while Skinner's face is plastered across every music magazine in the country?

I've been listening to an unhealthy amount of Local H lately. It all started a week ago when I picked up a used copy of Pack Up the Cats to replace the one I lost a few years ago. I'd totally forgotten just how amazing these guys are. The lyrics are smarter and funnier than 97.5% of the stuff you hear on 99X. And the hooks on this album are so addictive that I'm dangerously close to checking into a rehab facility. This is the kind of music that makes me wish I hadn't abandoned my guitar lessons last year. (I was way too impatient. I guess a part of me foolishly thought that after two months of lessons I'd be playing like Vernon Reid.)

I've found that the urge to spend absurd amounts of money on music has increased dramatically since moving back home. Now that I no longer have to worry about rent, I have a lot more cash to blow on CDs, but I'm trying my best to fight that impulse. Even though I've been pretty good about devoting a huge chunk of each paycheck to my "Get the Hell Out Of Your Parent's House, You Loser" fund, I can't keep my left eye from twitching whenever I pass Tower Records. It’s so hard to be responsible with my spending habits when there are so many CDs out there whispering sweet nothings into my ear every time I set foot inside a Barnes and Nobles. I still haven’t picked up the Madvillain album. And I don’t know how I’ve managed to go this long without adding Idlewild’s “The Remote Part” to my CD collection.

By the way: I was this close to buying the new Hives CD today, but I chickened out once I got within five feet of the register. Being a cheap bastard sux.

comix on the brain

2004-07-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading David Boring and the Formerly Known As trade paperback. David Boring was very interesting. I liked the relationship between David and his roommate. In fact, I think I would have enjoyed the book even more if it had spent more time exploring their friendship and how they came to be best friends. Though there were a few moments where the story lost me (the scenes with David and the other Ex-boyfriend stalking/obsessing over what’s her name, tested my patience), overall I thought it was a solid story with a touching ending. Daniel Clowes continues to impress. I’d sell my family into indentured servitude for the ability to write/draw like him.

Formerly Known As was a lot of fun to read. I’m going to have to thank Marla for bringing this book to my attention. I love the idea that here you have a group made up of six of the world’s most powerful superheroes, yet they’re so busy arguing with each other that they never get anything done. The “Super Buddies” fought three bad guys throughout the series, and in two of those encounters they were either bailed out by the (hilariously smug) Justice League, or teleported back to safety because the badguy was simply sick and tired of dealing with them. It’s cool to read a super group book that wasn’t afraid to make the heroes look so bad.

And speaking of Super Group, that happens to be the name of the Powers trade I just picked up. I haven’t had much of a chance to read it yet, but I like what I’ve seen so far.

Warning: This post contains a reference to the film, "You Got Served."

2004-06-16T23:47:00.000-07:00

Well, I’m into my second week at Skylight Financial and so far the experience has been relatively painless. I wasn’t all that thrilled about returning to the exciting world of customer support, but it’s not like I had a whole lot of options. The job market’s in worse condition than Paul F. Tompkin’s liver, so it’s like I basically had a choice between answering phone calls in an air-conditioned office, or break-dancing on the streets for hot meals. (Note: my b-boy moves aren’t quite smooth enough for the last option to be considered a viable career move. If I had to take it to the streets, I would get served both endlessly and mercilessly)

The people in the office seem okay for the most part. The only person I’m not too wild about is Rosalind, the sour-faced supervisor. She’s so relentlessly joyless and angry that I’m afraid to stand too close to her for fear of bring sucked into her swirling vortex of misery. I can’t help but wonder what could have happened in her life to make her such an unpleasant person.

Anyway, enough about my boring job, and on to what I really came hear to talk about; Last Comic Standing. After watching tonight’s episode, I only have four words to say.

Bret. Butler. Is. Awesome.

I loved that moment of pure, unfiltered honesty and emotion, when she threw her mic on the table and stormed out of the studio after Dan Naturman’s name wasn’t announced. Butler was fucking livid, and I think she had every right to be. I mean, am I alone in thinking that it’s not cool to bring the judges on the show and not bother telling them that the producers are the ones who really pick the comics?

Don’t get me wrong; I admire Peter Engel’s truly impressive contributions to television (After all, this is the underrated genius who gave us TNBC classics like Hang Time, and California Dreams), but he totally dropped the ball here. If he’d been upfront with the judges he could have avoided the whole “LCS is rigged!” controversy. I hear Drew Cary is still pissed about what happened. Apparently he went to the press with his complaints about the show soon after tonight’s episode was taped.

Watching Last Comic Standing reminded me of something that’s been bothering me for quite a while: People who say that they hate reality shows. I never understood this statement. I could understand someone saying, “I don’t like that particular reality show,” or “I think some of these shows are contrived and boring,” but lumping them all into the same category- regardless of content- as “the single worst thing to ever happen to television” is going too far.

It’s not like I’m some huge reality show nut. I couldn’t care less about The Bachelor, and even though I’ve seen a couple of seasons of Survivor, It’s not something that I would consider to be “appointment television.” In fact, I go out of my way to avoid 95% of the reality shows currently on TV because most of them just aren’t very good.

But to completely write off the entire genre as worthless crap borders on elitist snobbery. That’s like saying “Oh, I hate all sitcoms.” All sitcoms? Really? How is that possible when a sitcom could mean anything from Seinfeld, to, Black Adder, or The Office? They’re not all the same, so to make such a ridiculous generalization totally invalidates your opinion on…well, pretty much anything. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but the truth is that I have yet to hear a convincing argument against reality TV that doesn’t sound like uninformed, I’m-only-saying-this-because-it-makes-me-sound-more-intelligent bullshit.

I once saw Hilary Duff kill a street person with her bare hands.

2004-06-13T20:49:00.000-07:00

At first, this entry was going to be about my childhood obsession with Christine “Moose” McGlade. You know who Moose is, right? (Who the hell am I addressing this to? Like anyone is actually reading this hastily typed cry for help) Moose was the wise-cracking, Canadian tomboy who stole my eleven year old heart during her run on Nickelodeon’s only decent sketch comedy show, “You Can’t Do That On Television.” Unfortunately, (or "fortunately," depending upon how you look at it) the electricity went out right before I had a chance to post the entry, and I ended up losing my rambling, nonsensical love letter to a former teen actress who’s probably in a cubicle somewhere in Toronto, making spreadsheets and cursing Alanis Morrisette’s existence.

So instead of retyping it, I decided to use this entry to talk about my foray into the wacky world of apartment hunting. Enjoy, imaginary readers!

I went to take a look at an apartment near Little Five Points the other day. The good thing about the place was that it was in a hip, trendy part of town near all of my favorite stores, like Criminal Records, VideoDrome (Their selection of Asian and Italian films gives me a geek hard-on whenever I walk through the door), Junkman’s Daughter, and Wax n’ Fax. Unfortunately, the cool location was about the only thing the apartment had going for it.

The first warning sign came when I entered the hallway and saw a sign on the wall that said, “If you see a homeless person sleeping in the hall, please call management.” Wow. That can’t be good. When the landlord- a short, nervous looking man with cartoonishly thick glasses- showed up to take me inside the place, I thought he’d accidentally opened the wrong door and was showing me the interior of a broom closet. The apartment was so tiny that I was almost afraid to breathe because I thought I’d use up all of the oxygen. The bathroom was in awful condition- it reminded me of that scene from Trainspotting (come on, you know what scene I’m talking about). And if you looked at the hardwood floor long enough, you could almost make out the faint traces of a chalk outline.

I’ve been looking through the paper and I found a few more reasonably priced apartments near L5P that I’m going to check out during the week. I need to find a place soon, because I’ve only been home for a week, and it’s already driving me up the wall. Which reminds me: is there some sort of law that says teenage girls are required to spend a minimum of thirteen hours a day on the telephone?

Follow that robot

2004-05-26T00:13:00.000-07:00

Hard as it may be to believe, there was a point to my previous entry before it got hijacked by my inexplicable obsession with the only ABC sitcom so bad that it makes Step By Step look like The Office. The last entry was supposed to be about brief encounters with intriguing people whom you know you’ll never see again. These moments always come when you least expect it; like when you’re in an elevator on your way to work, or standing in line at the grocery store. Since I normally try to avoid small talk the same way Kelly Osbourne avoids singing lessons, it’s always a pleasant surprise whenever I have one of these encounters.

One of my more memorable encounters happened a few years ago on the train. It was around 10 or 11 O’ Clock at night and I was miserable. I can’t remember exactly what it was that had me feeling so depressed, but it was one of those nights when I just had to get out of the house, otherwise I probably would have pulled a Jonathan Brandis. (And by “pulling a Jonathan Brandis,” I don’t mean ‘suicide;’ Just that I was contemplating starring in a lame Sci-fi series with Peter DeLuise and Dustin Nguyen)

Anyway, I didn’t have a car, so I decided to ride the train around until I either A) suffered a gruesome death at the hands of one of the many homicidal hobos that lived in the train stations, or B) fell asleep in one of the cars, only to awaken the following day in an ice-filled bathtub with a bloody bandage across my midsection.

I ended up getting off at Five Points Station and wandering aimlessly through the downtown area amidst aggressive prostitutes and even more aggressive homeless people. After 45 minutes of being yelled at by angry homeless guys and trying to convince various ladies of the evening that I did not, in fact want to “have a good time,” I headed back to Five Points station and caught the Northbound train. As soon as I boarded the car and sat down, I noticed that an attractive girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Emily Watson was smiling at me.

I’m not used to being smiled at by attractive women who look like famous British actresses, so my first reaction was to see if someone was sitting behind me. After all, I figured, there’s no way in hell that she could possibly be looking at me. I turned around and discovered (much to my surprise) that there was no one behind me.

We ended up having a great little conversation. It turned out that she was from Ireland, and was visiting the US for a few weeks. Listening to her talk was like having a party in my eardrums because she spoke with a thick, Irish brogue, which automatically made every word that came out of her mouth sound 75% more interesting and charming. We talked for what seemed like hours about The Commitments, Irish (and American) slang, pop music, and Atlanta’s crappy mass transit system. She talked a lot about Ireland, and how she thought I’d really like it there because the people were so friendly. (Which is the exact opposite of what I’ve heard from Americans who’ve visited Ireland) It was such a great conversation, that by the time I’d reached my stop, I couldn’t even remember what I’d been so depressed about earlier that evening.

"As days go by..."

2004-05-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

You know what I love more than anything on this wacky, screwed up planet we call earth? Making out with my life-size poster of John Stamos. The poster is the result of a magical photo shoot that took place during the first season of Full House, back when Stamos was still experimenting with different brands of space age hair gel. Even though it'd be another year before he'd perfect the “rebel with a heart of gold” smirk that would soon bring a nation of housewives to their knees, there was still a dangerous glint in the man's eyes. A look that immediately let you know that getting too close to Uncle Jessie would only leave you with a broken heart and a pillow case that smelled faintly of Hai Karate. Sometimes when I press my eager lips against the glossy paper and close my eyes- I swear I can almost hear DJ and Kimmy Gibler concocting a plan to sneak out of the house and go to a cool, college party.

Just kidding. Everybody knows I’m all about Dave Coulier. You gotta love a guy who could inspire Alanis Morissette to write a crappy, overwrought Top 40 hit about going down on him in a theater. As far as I'm concerned, that’s just further proof that Coulier is the real deal. A first class P.I.M.P.

I’m still waiting for Dave to turn the comedy world on its ear with his mind-blowing stand-up album, tentatively titled “For God’s Sake, Please Give Me A Job. Seriously, If I Have To Fellate Another Stranger For Rent Money I’ll Kill Myself.”
Mr. Coulier, if this is a just world, then it's only a matter of time before you get the respect that you truly deserve.

Geek Rant #457

2004-05-24T00:45:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a friend today about Aronofsky’s Watchmen adaptation, and how I think it’s doomed to fail. I’m a huge fan of the graphic novel, and I’d be all for a film adaptation if I thought it would work. But there’s just no way in hell that you could possibly take Alan Moore’s story and turn it into a film without stripping it of everything that made it so unique. Unlike the X-Men and Spider-Man, Watchmen is the kind of story that doesn’t provide you with a whole lot of leeway plot-wise. Because it has a specific beginning, middle, and an end, the filmmakers are stuck with the impossible task of trying to cram 416 pages of character development and back story into a two hour movie.

And what about that ending? Are audiences really going to want an ending where the good guys don’t save the day and walk off into the sunset while an Aerosmith song plays in the background? They’re setting themselves up for failure by even attempting to condense such a dark, complex story into a crowd-pleasing super hero movie. It’s not going to work. It’d be like trying to turn Clive Barker’s Sacrament into a family sitcom.

There are countless other comic book properties that would make much better films. The Authority’s a great example. I’d love to see this comic translated to the silver screen. It’s got all the elements of a really cool, big-budget, sci-fi/action movie. Just think about it: You’ve got a sentient spacecraft the size of a small planet that’s capable of phasing between realities. An openly gay superman-type who could lay waste to an entire continent without breaking a sweat. A sadistic, leather-clad vigilante who’s virtually unbeatable because he can run a thousand different fight scenarios in his head before his opponent has even thrown the first punch. And my personal favorite; Jenny Sparks, a tough, chain-smoking Brit who could take out half the Marvel Universe with one hand tied behind her back.

I once read an interview where Warren Ellis said that The Authority is essentially the Justice League; the only difference being that the Authority likes to fight dirty. That’s why I think these characters would go over so well with moviegoers. They’re not these one-dimensional boy/girl scouts who won’t kill the bad guy because of some strict moral code. They’ll do whatever it takes to stop the power-hungry super villain from blowing up the planet, even if it means murdering him, and every single one of his henchmen in cold blood.

For me, that was always the most fascinating thing about the Authority. The idea of a super group so committed to making the world a safer place, that they don’t see anything wrong with breaking the law as long as the ends justify the means. It’s a pretty bold (and disturbing) take on the whole Super Team genre. I’d love to see this comic get the Hollywood treatment with someone like Alex Proyas or Ridley Scott behind the camera.

In other news: The AC in my car sucks. I had it turned up to “3” today and it still felt like I was driving through the bowels of Hell. At this point, I think it’d be more effective if I just paid a drifter to sit in the passenger’s seat and blow on me.

Pop Music

2004-05-23T00:31:00.000-07:00

Since this is my first blog entry, I thought I’d use this space to discuss my guiltiest of guilty pleasures, pop music. More specifically, boy bands. It’s been a while since I’ve waxed idiotic about my obscene fascination with photogenic white guys who’ve turned imitating black R&B artists into lucrative careers, so I figured now would be a good time to get it out of my system.

But before I get into my bad taste in music, I wanted to mention something I’d been thinking about since Jimmy “I suck the comedy out of every single sketch I’m in” Fallon left SNL last week. I’ve been wondering about what they’re going to do with Weekend Update when the new season begins next fall. Will Fallon be replaced, or will Tina Fey man the Update desk all by herself? Personally, I think Fey’s funny, and smart enough to do Weekend Update alone. She carried WU while Fallon was co-anchor, so I’m pretty confident in her ability to keep bringing the funny without having to share the screen with a marginally talented pretty boy.

But if The Powers That Be insist on pairing Fey with another cast member, I think it should be Maya Rudolph. Maya would be a great choice for co-anchor because A) It’d be the first time in Weekend Update history that two women were at the desk. And B) She’s ten times funnier than everyone else on the show. (with the exception of Amy Poehler and Rachel Dratch)

Okay, now on to the boy bands. First of all, I want to start out by saying that I really feel for JC Chasez right now. You could tell that Justin Timberlake’s solo success was like a slap in the face to him, so he immediately called on Dallas Austin and the Basement Jaxx to hook him up with a top 40 album to call his own. I still can’t pinpoint exactly where it was that Chasez went wrong. The guy’s got a great voice, and to his credit, he doesn’t come across as annoying and clueless as Timberlake has proven himself to be in countless interviews. I thought “Some Girls” (the first song off of Chasez’s solo debut) was a slinky, subversive stab at R&B street cred, but for some reason the single was met with a resounding “Meh.” Oh well, at least he still has his day job.

And speaking of the Backstreet Boys- (was that a smooth segue or what?), I hear they’re ending their three year sabbatical to begin work on a new album. Um…why? These guys are a great example of the disasters that can occur when you give pop stars too much creative control. BSB were at their best when they were in the hands of seasoned writers/producers like Veit Renn and Timmy Allen- talented pop/soul architects who knew how to craft songs that showcased BSB’s strengths and downplayed their weaknesses. As soon as Brian, AJ, Howie, and whoever the hell those other two guys are, decided to grab the creative reins, the quality of the music dropped faster than Brittany Murphy’s panties on a Friday night.

The fact that they’re collaborating with Kenna sounds promising, but I’m not expecting a whole lot from this album. Unlike N’Sync, Backstreet just can’t be trusted when left to their own devices. It’s frustrating to see BSB crank out one shitty album after another because they’re such incredible pop/R&B vocalists. Seriously, Howie Dorough has the kind of silvery falsetto El Debarge would kill for, and AJ Mclean could sing circles around any of the black R&B artists currently dominating the urban radio market. I’d love to see AJ go solo, because I think that with the right producer, he could blow people away, much like Janet Jackson did when she unleashed “Control” on an unsuspecting public back in ‘87. What? Why are you looking at me like that?