A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

One of the reasons I gave up on screenwriting...

Is that I could never come up with anything as good as the pitches in these query letters (courtesy of Query Letters I Love):

An ancient, evil civilization conquers a metropolis, trapping nine players of utterly different interests in an ultimate struggle for survival. The band Lost Cause plays at an underground club. All rocks! An uproar in the back of the crowd quickly evolves into a tsunami of slaughter. The club erupts into sheer chaos, as Thin-Men carve a macabre path of destruction. Suddenly, time and light are manipulated.

This almost sounds like one of Erik Blevins' Slade Ripfire treatments. Though I think I'm most interested in seeing how you'd film a "tsunami of slaughter."

Then there's this one:

"It is the glamorous and gaudy age of the 1980's...Glam Rock, big hair, Ricky Schroder and SILVER SPOONS reign over pop culture. Relations between the two Super Powers is breaking down. The Cold War is at its most fragile state. In these tenuous times, SEAN, a lone CIA agent, and his twin brother, VINNY, the lead singer of a famous glam rock band, must swap identities in order to destroy a Soviet Super-Weapon.

The author sees this as a possible Richard Greico vehicle. I dsagree, and see a perfect opportunity for a sequel to The Experts.

"The World has imploded on itself. Evil Robot plans an Empire built on the backs of remaining humanity.Can a man from the pass survive the hate of a savage woman and save humanity before the sands of time run out…?"

Now I know why none of my scripts sold: no Evil Robot.

"We have just polished our latest script SAVAGE, an action adventure about two men who crash on an uncharted island inhabited by a lost tribe of Amazon women that mate with men, then kill them. The men must get off the island before the breeding cycle is over.

Now in production at Andy Sidaris Films.

This last one may be my favorite:

"Santa's son breaks racial, religious, and socio-economic stereotypes in this Holiday charmer. Christopher Claus must choose between his family's legacy by accepting a pre-arranged marriage to the Halloween Witch's daughter, or be disinherited by marrying the Tooth Fairy's daughter, who is not a Holiday Person, for true love. Help comes his way via his two best pals, Hannukah Hal, a Jewish mensch, and Kenny Kwanzaa, an African-American prince."

Finally, a Christmas story even Jews can love.

Go read the rest. I've already spent way too much time there today.

Back in the Ukraine S.S.R.

Things are getting a mite testy down Kiev way:

Ukraine's parliament has ended a debate on the presidential poll crisis without adopting a motion of no-confidence in Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych.

The speaker of parliament said the debate was getting too confrontational and would be resumed on Wednesday.

There were dramatic scenes as some protesters backing opposition leader Viktor Yushchenko broke through police cordons and entered the parliament.

Meanwhile, the Supreme Court continues to hear allegations of vote-rigging.

Voter fraud and Supreme Court intervention? It sure is heartwarming to see the people of the Ukraine emulating our style of democracy so accurately.

Meanwhile, the situation is becoming serious enough that supporters of Yanukovych in the east and south have threatened to declare autonomy if Yuschenko is declared the winner. If instability in the country becomes bad enough, there's talk that Russia might have to intervene.

And we all know how much Putin hates to get involved in regional pacification.

Texas has a jackass in it

I saw the trailer for this movie before the National Treasure screening last week, bookended between spots for Son of the Mask and The Pacifier, Vin Diesel's latest. It's a not so hard and fast rule that studios generally try to run previews that are similar in tone, if not subject matter, to the feature being shown. Needless to say, you could hear my crest falling over Treasure's prospects about a microsecond after this brief glimpse of Man of the House unspooled before me.

Plenty of decent films (Slacker, Dazed and Confused, Office Space) have been set in Austin, and who knows? Maybe the story of a Texas Ranger assigned to protect five University of Texas cheerleaders who witnessed a murder will be one of them. Unfortunately, obligatory scenes of Tommy Lee Jones kicking some redneck's ass in a bar and Cedric the Entertainer shaking it to C&C Music Factory don't fill me with optimism (though I will admit to a certain vicarious thrill watching Jones clothesline the Arkansas mascot).

Maybe it's the fact that Man of the House is the first film to get approval from the University to use UT symbols. Royal Memorial Stadium figures prominently, as do Hex Night, the football team, and (obviously) the cheerleaders. I'll admit, my school spirit while going to college amounted to attending perhaps two games a year and gleefuly pointing out Charles Whitman's bullet holes in the masonry to visiting relatives, so I might be a little predisposed to thinking the worst. Still, I wonder how popular it's going to play outside of the Lone Star State.

Man of the House, coming (to the probable chagrin of Longhorn alumni everywhere) to a theater near you next February.

From my cold, dead, cyborg hands

Apparently not even making Lumpy shoot first would change George Lucas' mind about this:

Moviemaker George Lucas wants his first Star Wars sequel banned, as he is so disappointed with its quality. The one-off, two-hour-long The Star Wars Holiday Special was originally screened on the CBS network in 1978 and tells the story of Chewbacca's journey home with Han Solo to celebrate Life Day with his family. During the course of the much-maligned movie, Carrie Fisher's beautiful Leia is seen reducing Hans Solo and Luke Skywalker to tears with a song.

Now we know what they've been doing at Skywalker Ranch: developing a functioning replica of those memory wipers from Men in Black.

Sorry, George. This is one time you can't just pick up your negatives and go home. Not only do I remember watching this when it first aired, but I own a copy. And so can just about everyone else. The Star Wars Holiday Special is one of the most bootlegged movies of all time, and is readily available on eBay, in assorted video and comic stores, and at just about any sci-fi or gaming convention you feel like attending.

Short of making possession of the title a criminal offense (and I admit, I'm not really sure what Lucas is advocating when he calls for it to be "banned"), there's nothing that can be done. Sure, it'll never air on network TV or home video ever again, but Life Day and Bea Arthur will live on for countless decades in fourth and fifth generation copies.

Or until the videotape itself disintegrates, I guess.

As seen on CNN

I'm just glad my first time quoted on the CNN web site was for the Film Threat Frigid 50 and not after an arrest at the donkey show in Boystown:

4. M. NIGHT SHYAMALAN & THE BIG SURPRISE TWIST REDUX. Says the site: "The jig is up, Night. The lame Sci Fi Channel 'documentary' fooled no one -- just like no one had patience for yet another labored 'surprise' ending in 'The Village.'"

Of course, I get lumped in with "Film Threat staff" at the end of the article, so I can't even prove I wrote any of this.

We're flying next time

For future reference, leaving St. Louis at 6 am will get you back in Houston around 9 pm, allowing for food, fuel, and vehicle changing stops. She Who Shall Not Be Named was unbelievably well-behaved, even though she now regards me with what I'm sure is suspicion that we're going back to the car seat every time I pick her up.

It's not a trip I'm eager to repeat anytime in the next, oh, fifteen years.

Much beer was consumed, and a great deal of secondhand smoke was inhaled. Didn't get to see much of the town, though we did make our obligatory annual cold weather trip to the zoo. To my occasional discomfort, SWSNBN was inordinately entertained by the antics of the Central Asian cobra and the warthogs.

And while I know Houston could probably give Bangkok a run for its money on number of strip clubs per capita, I-44 from Joplin to St. Louis has an amazing amount of adult bookstores, especially considering the number of Jesus billboards.

Signing off

Reluctant as I am to leave all my fans in the KLOL thread, APCB will be pretty quiet until next week, as I load the family up for the drive to St. Louis, where I will gorge myself on turkey and lousy domestic beer and console my relatives over the Cards' World Series loss.

Hope everyone has a safe holiday.

Screw you guys, I like the Cocteau Twins

John Nova Lomax had an article in the Houston Press a while back about the guilty pleasures of certain local (and not so local) musicians (I'm pretty sure Chuck wrote something about it too, but I'm a little behind). Jesse Dayton, for example, is fond of one of Garth Brooks' more egregious crimes against good taste, while Patterson Hood of the Drive By Truckers sings the praises of "Seasons in the Sun." Michael Haaga, formerly of dead horse, is also a closet Cyndi Lauper fan, and everyone seems to love Hall and Oates.

If I'm "about" anything, it's divulging embarrassing personal information to people I (mostly) have never met face to face. So in the spirit of full disclosure, and because I'm fruitlessly trying not to think about my impending drive to St. Louis with two infants in the car, here are some of my favorite guilty pleasure artists/songs. Remember, that which shames me to my very core may not seem like a big deal to you (especially Greg):

1. "The Voice" - The Moody Blues: "Won't you take me back to school?/I need to learn the Golden Rule." Ugh. I was a fairly impressionable pre-teen, so this probably qualified as "deep" at the time. I still have an MP3 of it somewhere.

2. 2112 - Rush: I don't know that I'm actually that guilty about this, and I challenge you to find anyone who grew up in the vast cultural wasteland of late '70s/early '80s College Station[1] with an iota of musical perception who didn't listen to Rush at some point. That said, 2112 is pretty hilarious. Neil Peart obviously felt the band didn't "push the envelope" enough with "By-Tor and the Snow Dog," and thus, the story of a boy and his guitar vs. the forces of galactic oppression.

I remember attending a party in junior high and putting a tape of this in (ejecting Duran Duran in the process). The hostess immediately came at me screaming that the lyrics to "Temples of Syrinx" were actually "We are the priests/Of the devil/Of Syrinx." You can understand why I have a soft spot for this one.

3. "Heaven or Las Vegas" - Cocteau Twins: My family went on vacation to Aruba when I was in high school. While there, I met a girl a few years older than me from Holland who was also traveling with her family. Apparently, my American naivete and utter willingness to do anything to please her appealed to the young lady, because we had a pretty nice week. She had a collection of tapes, and this one figured prominently in our fling.

4. "Am I the Same Girl?" - Swing Out Sister: Ask Brian aka seadogs about the time I diverted a mobile drinking binge to the local record store to pick up this single. That right there probably ruined my chances with the cute blonde girl riding in the back with me, I feel certain.

5. "Spirit of '76" - The Alarm: I don't know anyone who hates the Alarm. They're just so earnest and trusting, like a cocker spaniel who'll let you lead him out back to be put down because he won't stop gnawing on the urn containing grandma's ashes. Some bands go from sarcastic to bitter over the course of their existences (e.g. Cracker), but the Alarm never lost their sense of...what? Optimism? Hope? Childish gullibility?

Either way, "Spirit of '76" pretty much embodies everything I'm talking about. Substitute "Sixty Eight Guns" or "Blaze of Glory" as you see fit.

6. "What Do All the People Know?" - The Monroes: The DJ on Sirius First Wave said it best, "When you look up one hit wonders in the dictionary, there's a picture of the Monroes." When they played this song a few weeks ago, it was quite possibly the first time since 1983 that I'd heard it, and I started gyrating in a manner my infant daughter would've foung extremely mortifying had she not been soiling herself at the time.

Unlike other bands from my youth, I've never bothered to look up any information on the Monroes. I want my childhood conception of the group as an assemblage of cloned Jim J. Bullocks from Too Close for Comfort to remain blissfully intact.

7. "Dream Weaver" - Gary Wright: I'm not sure what my excuse is for this one. It first slipped over the transom of my consciousness during those hazy, crazy days of college, when my roommate used to play it. More recently, I found myself rewinding the end credits for The People vs. Larry Flynt five or six times so I could listen to it repeatedly.

The answer is probably buried in my past, i.e. it was probably playing in the background the first time I snuck a beer out of te fridge.

8. Level 42: You know, I thought I was pretty cool back in high school when the dyed black hair crowd would talk about how edgy and industrial Front 242 was, and I'd respond, "I love those guys. I think 'Something About You' is really underrated, but 'Lessons in Love' is good too."

Then they'd beat me with tire irons. Seriously, I got the two bands confused until college.

9. "Wouldn't It Be Good?" - Nik Kershaw: It would be good if I could erase this video, your incandescent suit, and that Flock of Seagulls haircut from my long term memory, Nik.

Nah, you rock man. Anything beats that shitty cover version from the Pretty in Pink soundtrack.

10. Actually, I'm not doing 10. Nine are embarrassing enough.

UPDATE: Comments are open. Sorry 'bout that.

[1] It's changed a lot these days...they have an El Chico

The Greeks don't want no cheeks

Anyone think the Greeks are a little touchy about the whole "gay" thing?

The makers of Colin Farrell's upcoming epic Alexander are facing the threat of lawsuit, for claiming warrior Alexander The Great was bisexual. A group of furious Greek lawyers insist the legendary conqueror was heterosexual, and they're now looking into suing film studio Warner Bros and director Oliver Stone for claims to the contrary. Yannis Varnakos, spokesman for the 25 lawyers, tells Reuters, "We are not saying that we are against gays, but we are saying that the production company should make it clear to the audience that this film is pure fiction and not a true depiction of the life of Alexander." The group has sent an extrajudicial note insisting that the studio include a reference in the credits saying the movie is fictional. While Varnakos and his group of Greek attorneys haven't actually seen the epic, they say they have gathered enough evidence to know there are "inappropriate references" to Alexander's sexuality.

I have seen it. Are there "references" to the contention that Big Al preferred the company of men? Absolutely. Alexander is one of the gayest movies I've ever sat through, and I saw Batman and Robin twice.

Yet it's all implied. For all the searching looks and tender hair stroking, there's more hot man on man action in BASEketball than Alexander. I could - maybe - understand some outcry if half the film featured Alexander giving Hephaesteon the ole reverse cowboy, but Stone's so coy about the subject I don't really see the point of getting all worked up about it.

Varnakos says that Stone has the right to freely express himself - but the audience has the right to know the director is tampering with history. He adds, "We cannot come out and say that (former US) President John F. Kennedy was a shooting guard for the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team and so Warner cannot come out and say Alexander was gay." Alexander opens in America on November 24.

Gee, that's swell that Yanni is respecting Stones' right to free expression, but the reason he can't claim JFK played for the Los Angeles Lakers is because its demonstrably false. The historians Plutarch, Curtius, and Diodorus all agree that, at the very least, Alexander preferred men to women. So does Peter Green, author of Alexander of Macedon, and the majority of modern-day Alexander scholars.

I guess we shouldn't bring up Socrates.

Not that I'm sure Stone won't appreciate the publicity. After the critical pounding I feel pretty sure Alexander's going to get, every little bit of press will help. And regardless of your feelings regarding bisexuality, there are plenty of other things in this film to get pissed off about.

Cold cuts

The Frigid 50, Film Threat's annual answer to the various Hollywood power rankings that come out every year, gets going again today, and #s 50-41 are up. The rest will be added as the week progresses.

As usual, I am one of the unindicted co-authors of the piece (I think 2.5 of the first ten are contributions of mine). Also as usual, I don't agree with all those included. If, however, you're in need of some pre-holiday season snark, go check it out.

They must really miss hockey in Detroit

Didn't see the now infamous Pacers-Pistons game (the Throw Down in Motown, The Motor City Melee, The Dust-Up in Detroit...did I miss any?), though I must've borne witness to a half dozen Sportscenter replays this morning. Pretty ugly stuff. Ron Artest's charge into the crowd ranks with the all-time brawls.

The closest I've ever come to fan-on-player violence (or vice versa) was yelling at Darren Daulton for seven innings while attending a Phillies game at the Vet in 1996. Obnoxious? Yeah, but I never rushed the field, or said anything so out of bounds it would cause the player in question to hunt me down and drive my head into the seats.

In my opinion, that is. Comments about a guy's hair shouldn't be that big a deal.

I have a hard time feeling sympathy for people who lob bottles at the opposing team's players for the sole purpose of inciting a reactiion. Which is why I could sort of understand Artest and Jackson storming into the good seats to kick some ass.

Sure, it would've been nice if the Indiana players showed a little restraint, since nothing good ever comes out of players going into the stands. However, fans coming onto the field of play - like that Pistons supporter who got clocked by Jermaine O'Neal - deserve everything they get. That guys' just lucky it wasn't an NHL game. Ask Tie Domi what he thinks about fans who get within arm's reach.

So Artest, Jackson, O'Neal, and Wallace are all suspended indefinitely. Now I hope they use that groovy camera technology (and make no mistake, they've got film on everyone involved) to bring charges against the fans involved.

Meanwhile, I still can't refinance my goddamn student loans

It's good to be the king:

President Bush Friday signed into law a measure authorizing an $800 billion increase in the credit limit of the United States, the White House said.

On Thursday, the Republican-controlled House voted 208-204 to pass the bill. Senate approval came on Wednesday.

Democrats said the debt limit increase, the third in as many years, was necessitated by Bush's "irresponsible" fiscal priorities, including what House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi of California described as tax cuts for the wealthy and corporate handouts.

Republicans say the 2001 recession and the costs of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks are responsible for the fiscal shortfall.

They never get tired of trotting that one out, do they? As luck would have it, I recently overheard an intercepted tachyon transmission from the year 2733. The transcript reads as follows:

BEGIN STREAM ---
EARTH DATE 04182733GSM SRC-OMPERS 8
MSG (DECRYPT):
LEAD: NEW WASHINGTON - Exalted Earth Emperor and Most Benevolent Despot Vonder Haar addresses the Solar Council on his decision to up the planet's credit rating to Q740 quintillion, the largest increase in the debt limit since last orbit.

SPEECH: Greetings, citizens of the Sol System. As you well know, these last few cycles have brought many hardships to my planet. The Verdant Wars put us through quite an ordeal, though I can now proclaim, with confidence, that all of the mutinous indigenous plant life on Earth has been wiped out. And what disembodied brain could possibly forget the failed coup attempt by my loving and now-deceased wife? Truly, we will not look back upon these as the best of times.

And yet, even after courageously facing down these internal threats, Earth was still forced to contend with external foes. Ladies, gentlemen, and silicates, the enemies of freedom never rest, whether you're talking about the Gas Tyrants of Titan, or Lord Grnthx from the Fell Arachnoid Dimension. I think we can all agree that our ultimate victories over both offer proof that St. Affleck was surely watching over us.

But now is not the time to recline upon our arachnoid slaves, no! I say we must take extreme measures to ensure the safety of every dome-dweller within our magnetic fields. For this reason, I have upped Earth's credit limit to 740 quintillion quatloos. My opponents in the Solar Federation (including those infernal priests of Syrinx) incorrectly assert that my "irresponsibility" has led us to the brink of "fiscal disaster." They say I am a fear monger, not fit to wear the Crown of Thorg, the Robe of X'xtus, or the Brassiere of Pope Anna Nicole I.

To them I say, verily, stoppeth the drinking of the Haterade. Remember, it was a mere 732 years ago that our enemies flew primitive internal combustion aircraft into what were, at the time, two of the largest arcologies on the planet. Sadly, those who resent us our freedom are not content to act against us in the past. In a suspiciously timely turn of events, I have been informed by Secretary Garofalo, our Most Beatified Poobah of the Department of Fluffy Bunny Planetary Security, that she has incontrovertible proof that the Gas Tyrants were and are in league with these ancient terrorists. The good citizens of the Earth are up to the challenge, for they know the sacrifice it will take for oxygen-breathing carbon-based life forms to bring democracy to a region populated entirely by lighter-than-air agitators. Worse, I understand they are in cahoots with traitorous superintelligent sheets of cotton fabric.

That's right: muslin insurgents.

Our course is clear, sentients: we must gird ourselves for battle and invade the sovereign moon of Titan. And if you should happen upon any gaseous beings or plain weave blankets in your neighborhood, please contact the DFPBS for, er, questioning.

One more thing, I may have neglected to mention our new alliance with the Daleks. Please don't be alarmed to see them occasionally patrolling your commuter tubes.

END TRANSMISSION

Fascinating. And now I finally know what to make of the muffled cries of "Exterminate!" I kept hearing during playback.

National disgrace

I saw National Treasure almost a week ago, and it's taken this long to remove the stain from my memory. Luckily, I captured all my warm and fuzzy feelings for posterity in my review for Film Threat, which you can read here.

This is why reviews need to be written as soon after a screening as possible. Not only because details and impressions of the film are fresh in your mind, but because anger subsides with time, and really juicy froth must be captured immediately or it loses all its flavor.

So while I usually hate to reread my old stuff, I was doing a typo check and recalled this line, which pretty much somes up my feelings:

“National Treasure” wants desperately to be “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” And to an extent it is, minus the latter’s pacing, writing, acting, humor, and story.

Grudge reviewing is just like grudge sex, only not as fun or satisfying. And you're still pissed off when it's over.

I guess Darkman IV is beneath him now

The stratospheric heights of celebrity success must really have some sort of softening effect on one's cerebral cortex. It may sound obvious, but the monster box office performance of the Spider-Man franchise is the only reason I can imagine for Sam Raimi to contemplate remaking the Evil Dead movies (subscription required, but I'm going to quote the relevant bits):

Spider-Man 2" director Sam Raimi and original producing partners Rob Tapert and Bruce Campbell are reteaming to produce a remake of the cult hit "The Evil Dead" through Ghost House Pictures, the joint venture of Raimi, Tapert and Senator Intl.

Raimi wrote, directed and produced the 1981 "Dead," which tells of five twentysomething friends holed up in a remote cabin who discover a Book of the Dead. When an archaeologist's taped translation of the text and its incantations is replayed, the youths unwittingly summon dormant demons that possess them.

Raimi will not direct the remake, so Ghost House is looking for a helmer to reinvent the franchise before a script is written.

Please not Eli Roth. Please not Eli Roth.

Bad enough that Raimi feels the need to revisit one of the greatest horror franchises of all time, but he's not even going to direct it himself? Maybe he'll pull a Spielberg and just watch dailies back at home while giving notes over speakerphone, a la The Lost World.

" 'The Evil Dead' is such a special film to Sam, Rob, Bruce and horror fans that we are going to take great care in renewing this franchise," said Joe Drake, Senator Intl. prexy. "By keeping its original formula intact and given audiences' appetite for horror, we expect that we'll have a real hit on our hands."

Sure, once you insert a shitload of CGI, hire Katie Holmes and Owen Wilson, and - in the process - completely remove any of the low budget innovative camera wizardry that made the originals so special.

Ghost House's first movie was The Grudge, which has already grossed more than $100 million (and isn't bad). They're also doing the 30 Days of Night adaptation, which has great potential, but could just as easily turn out to be crap.

Bruce Campbell Online, typically, has nothing about this.

I often lament the recent deluge of remade Hollywood films, but this particular instance seems like a real shame. Sure, they can improve the overall caliber of acting and the effects, but a big part of why the Evil Dead films are so beloved is their amateur charm. Rather than redo the series, why not just take that big ass budget and throw it an something original?

Then again, I could always just flap my arms and fly to the moon.

UPDATE: Edited to delete duplicate phrases duplicate phrases.

Best book report ever

Is there any doubt that To Kill a Mockingbird is one of the greatest books of all time? Of course, it's been so long since I read it that I guess I'd forgotten all about the ninjas, flying pirates, and Harper Lee's use of the Earth's moon as an ultimate weapon. But don't take my word for it, check out this book report some guys from Stanford kindly put online.

Thanks to TTTWLAM.

And Scout works much better as a robot.

Now we know why she doesn't write her own songs

To prove her surprise nuptials weren't a publicity exercise designed to deflect attention from her flagging career and advancing aura of white trash, Britney Spears has written a poem commemorating her recent honeymoon. Here it is in its entirety, because why should I be the only one who suffers?

A honeymoon at last, to get away from it all
My assistant Fe gave me the call.

Fi, Fo, and Fum must have had the day off. Luckily, their older sibling was there to provide our heroine with a much needed break from canceling tour dates in Europe and scarfing Cheetohs and Red Bull.

I remember it well, as she was smilin'
She said it was called Turtle Island.

I prefer "Thunder Island." And then she could've done a cover version.

I packed my bags light and quick,
Then grabbed my pink dress & favorite lipstick.

Fe didn't do it? Did she at least pack some Cheetohs for you?

We hopped on a plane and took our flight
I slept really well, all through the night.

Funny how not having to travel in coach will do that for you.

As we arrive, I turn and look out the door,
People are greeting us right at the shore.

"Welcome rich Americans! Junior Mints $25 in mini bar!"

A meal, a shower and some ice cream
Then I threw my man down, you know what I mean!

Christ, we get it already: you have sex. Congratulations. Of course, I can't decide if your inevitable honeymoon video is going to "accidentally surface" or be sold to IEG by your eventual ex-husband.

Magical nights filled with stars
Silence is golden, no running cars.

Or top 40 radio, or MTV, or any possibility of hearing a Britney Spears song. Man, that does sound magical.

Private dinners, romantic fires
Little piece of heaven, whatever your heart desires.

I suppose a time machine to go back and convince the 12-year old you to pursue a career in interpretive dance is out of the question?

Friendly "hellos" and never goodbyes
When you're having fun, oh, how time flies!

And time flies like the wind, and fruit flies like bananas...oh never mind.

As we sit and prepare to make our part
I thank you, Turtle Island, with all my heart!

Burma Shave.

To quote a great man, "Jesus jumped up Christ on a pogo stick." Finally, someone who writes worse high school poetry than I did. Though I'm a little disappointed...all this talk about Turtle Island and not one verse dedicated to Gamera.

I found this over at Bombadil's, and don't you wish I hadn't?

Powell not angry, just disappointed in ABC

The fallout from the inexplicably "controversial" Monday Night Football intro featuring Terrell Owens and Nicollette Sheridan continues:

The nation's chief media regulator expressed disappointment Wednesday over the steamy locker room opening to ABC's "Monday Night Football" broadcast.

"I wonder if Walt Disney would be proud," said Michael Powell, chairman of the Federal Communications Commission. ABC is owned by The Walt Disney Co.

Proud? He'd probably say, "When the hell did Nicollette Sheridan become a man?"

Followed shortly by, "Somebody call the police, there's a darkie in here claiming to be the head of the Federal Communications Commission."

And finally, "Prepare my flight to Haiti. I have to crack the whip on those shiftless child laborers in our garment factory."

Spare us your Ward Cleaver-isms, Mike. Disney was as big a bastard as anyone in entertainment, even if you seem to have fallen for the myth of kindly "Uncle Walt." The woman wasn't even naked, and certainly showed less skin than every low angle shot of the Cowboys' cheerleaders ABC's cameramen so lovingly provided for us.

Powell questioned the judgment of those who decided to air the scene.

"It would seem to me that while we get a lot of broadcasting companies complaining about indecency enforcement, they seem to be continuing to be willing to keep the issue at the forefront, keep it hot and steamy in order to get financial gains and the free advertising it provides," Powell said during an interview on CNBC.

In what suburb of Mayberry is that clumsily staged vignette considered "hot and steamy?" The only thing remotely titilating is a flash of Sheridan's bare white back after she drops the towel, right before she jumps into the arms of the big, black...

Okay, now I get it. People weren't complaining about the synthetic Sheridan getting naked, but about her getting naked with a brother. And an "uppity" one at that.

An FCC spokeswoman said the agency has received a number of complaints about the ABC broadcast, though she declined to say how many.

If past complaints are any indication, it could've been as few as three.

As for Powell himself:

As for his tenure at the agency, Powell said he'd be around for "a while yet."

"I still am having fun. There are still things that are really significantly important to me to complete," he said.

"Such as driving every person in America with a sense of humor and a healthy attitude towards nudity away from free public broadcasting and into the arms of cable and satellite TV and radio. Stay tuned for The Red Buttons Show, sponsored by Sambo's Restaruant and Injun Orange Drink."

Just a sweet transvestite

Gay him up, Rodrigo:

Note to boys in the tiny Spurger, Texas, school district: Put away those high heels and pleated skirts. Instead, wear black boots and Army camouflage to school Wednesday.

This will also make it easier for the armed forces recruiters to single you out.

A parent's concerns prompted the district 150 miles northeast of Houston to scrap its annual "TWIRP Day" -- when boys dress like girls and girls dress like boys-- in favor of "Camo Day."

TWIRP stands for "The Woman Is Requested to Pay," and for years Spurger schools hosted the day during Homecoming Week to give boys and girls a chance to reverse social roles and let older girls invite boys on dates, open doors and pay for sodas.

Plano-based Liberty Legal Institute issued a news release Tuesday reporting that it "came to the aid of a concerned parent requesting an excused absence for her children on official cross-dressing day in her children's elementary school."

Uh oh. Anytime I see "Plano-based" I have to make sure someone's not creeping up behind me in order to perform a stealth baptism. Sure enough, LLI seems to spend most of their time filing amicus briefs in cases involving heathens trying to prevent good Christian folk from using school property for their prayerfests or sprinkling crosses on public property "near" an abortion clinic.

In that light, it's hardly surprising they'd leap to this poor victimized woman's defense.

"It is outrageous that a school in a small town in East Texas would encourage their 4-year-olds to be cross-dressers," Liberty Legal Institute attorney Hiram Sasser said in the release.

Tanner T. Hunt Jr., the school district's attorney, called Sasser's statement "inflammatory and misleading." Hunt said the district never planned or conducted a "cross-dressing day."

"They are a tiny little East Texas school district," said Hunt, a Beaumont attorney. "It never occurred to them that anyone could find anything morally reprehensible about TWIRP Day. I mean, they've been having it for years, probably for generations, and it's the first time anybody has complained."

How is this not like any other dress-up day? Is wearing a costume mandatory? Should my mother have sued for mental anguish when my high school had "Joe Cool" day and I didn't have a goddamned thing to wear?

Delana Davies, a 33-year-old mother of three, said she contacted Superintendent Angela Matterson on Tuesday after reading a school notice about "TWIRP Day."

Davies, whose 9-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter attend Spurger Elementary, said she viewed the day not a silly Homecoming Week activity, but as an effort to push a homosexual agenda in a public school.

"It's like experimenting with drugs," said Davies, who also has a 2-year-old daughter. "You just keep playing with it and it becomes customary. ... If it's OK to dress like a girl today, then why is it not OK in the future?"

And just think about what those queers are doing to the soil.

Sorry, but did she just describe school-sponsored dress-up days as a "gateway" to cross-dressing? I'd think that would make her happy, seeing as how the majority of cross-dressers are heterosexual.

Unsurprisingly, this isn't the first incident of its kind:

In Illinois, parent Laura Stanley complained this month about an "opposite sex" dress-up day at Carrier Mills-Stonefort Elementary School.

Stanley said the activities sent a message of gender confusion and risked subjecting her young daughters to sexual harassment by "a bunch of adolescent boys who have suddenly grown breasts and are groping themselves."

You'd prefer they practiced on your daughters? Shit, if it keeps such incidents down, give every teenage boy a pair of falsies and let him go crazy. Make them really big, too. That way adolescent girls won't seem as appealing.

In New York, officials at Hastings High School put a stop to Cross-Dressing Day in October after school officials suggested guys in chiffon skirts and brassieres and gals with painted-on mustaches were distracting and disrespectful to transgender people.

Got nothin' for that one.

Just so my biases are out in the open, I've infrequently experimented with wearing women's clothing. There was the Mardi Gras party my senior year of high school, two non-consecutive occasions in college, the '70s party (should've told The (Then) Girlfriend my plans in advance, boy howdy), and the years 1998-2000, inclusive.

I'll see if I can find some pics.

And burn them.

"I'm not the man they think I am at home"

"Oh, no no no."

William Shatner is (along with Lynda Carter, Snidely Whiplash, B.A. Baracus, and the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team) the patron saint of APCB.

So it is with no small sense of joy and wonder I present for you our man on the NCC-1701 like we all want to remember him: singing Elton John's "Rocket Man" in triplicate. For those who've never seen it, or those who saw that Family Guy episode where Stewie paid homage to The Shatner's performance and wondered what the hell was going on, enjoy (link via Metafilter).

I'll take "Lack of Original Content" for $500

Submitted with little comment:

Bush: Rice will show nation's 'grace, decency' - "And no one else makes 'mushroom cloud' sound so sexy"

China 'sorry' over mystery sub - Japan 'happy' it wasn't Godzilla again

Gyllenhaal Struggled with "Painful" Gay Scenes - Like he wasn't thinking something like this might happen in a movie called Brokeback Mountain.

Disney Preparing To Make 'Toy Story 3' On Its Own - The hard part is finding a way to work in multiple references to the Shaggy Dog remake

David Lee Roth training to become EMT - "Gimme a bottle of Entonox, and a glazed donut. To go!"

"Ain't seen you 'round Burger World in a while."

Len and the BC-dot-C have already commented on this, but I'm still marveling at its sublime majesty:

As many fast-food chains are catering to the health-conscious, Hardee's is introducing the biggest and thickest of its Thickburgers — one with enough calories to make Ronald McDonald blush.

The chain on Monday rolled out its Monster Thickburger — two 1/3-pound slabs of Angus beef, four strips of bacon, three slices of cheese and mayonnaise on a buttered sesame seed bun. The sandwich alone sells for $5.49, $7.09 with fries and a soda.

Even a news release touted the Monster — at 1,420 calories and 107 grams of fat — as "a monument to decadence." Add fries and a soda and a single meal would involve more calories and fat than most people should get in a day.

Silly reporter. Americans are not "most people." Now excuse me as I wash down this Krispy Kreme with a mocha frappuchino.

The introduction comes at a time when McDonald's, Wendy's and other fast-food giants are offering salads and other lower-calorie fare. Subway advertising has long used patron Jared to tout the low-calorie items on the menu.

Hardee's has gone another direction.

The restaurant, founded in the 1960s, was originally known for its charcoal-broiled burgers, but eventually expanded its menu to include roast beef, fried chicken, even hot dogs.

That changed in April 2003 when Hardee's went back to burgers — and big ones. Sales for the 2,067-restaurant chain have risen steadily since the introduction of the Thickburger family. Same-store sales are up 7.8% this year.

Some friends and I had the idea, several years back, to open a restaurant called Dying Young. It would feature no salad bar, not diet menu, and no "lite" beer or soft drinks. Smoking would be allowed, as long as it was cigars, and all our cooks would be ex-cons (think Mel Sharples, only with more tattoos and less discriminating taste in women).

Then that stupid Julia Roberts movie came out and ruined everything.

I'm certainly not going to criticize Hardee's for seeing a niche and going for it. This isn't like sneaking beef broth into french fries or improperly storing meat...I mean, look at that damn thing. It's almost as big as your head. Nobody's going to finish a Thickburger and somehow think they've eaten something not likely to cause spontaneous arrhythmia.

Unless they're one of the inexplicable breed who thinks their "super-sized" Big Mac value meal is somehow made healthier by the inclusion of a Diet Coke. In which case, they'll probably be dead from something like sticking a knife into their toaster long before heart disease can kill them, anyway.

When cocks are outlawed

Well, you know the rest:

No cockfighting in Oklahoma, the Supreme Court says.

The justices turned down an appeal today from cockfighting supporters, who have lost at the ballot box and in courts.

Oklahoma voters in 2002 approved a ban on the blood sport, in which knives or cutting barbs are attached to roosters, which usually fight to the death.

The Oklahoma Supreme Court upheld voters' decision earlier this year, prompting the appeal to the Supreme Court. Justices rejected it without comment.

This may be one of the last things the Supreme Court does that I end up agreeing with. Cockfighting - hilarious name aside - is pretty sick. I have no special love for chickens, except when made into delicious buffalo wings, but it came as a surprise to hear that someone actually argued that having dumb birds kills each other for gambling purposes should be legal.

Such as...

Attorney Larry Oliver, in filings at the court, said that the law was so vague that people could be arrested for watching blue jays fight in their back yard.

"All birds fight by nature," he wrote. "This Oklahoma statute was drafted by radical animal rights people who exacted a constitutional overkill in their pursuit to ban everything associated with cockfighting."

Because only a radical animal rights person would think the "sport" of cockfighting could be enjoyed by anyone other than trepanned hillbillies, I guess.

When voters approved the anti-cockfighting law, Oklahoma was one of three states that permitted the sport. Louisiana and New Mexico still allow it.

Finally, something to rub in the face of my Sooner friends.

Not that it won't be trumped by "0-for-5" and Texas' stunning teen pregnancy rate.

Sherry Todd, an assistant attorney general in Oklahoma, told justices: "The right to conduct cockfights is not a fundamental right. In fact, the federal government and 48 states have enacted some form of law prohibiting cockfighting."

Todd also said that the law "does not criminalize the enjoyment and/or observation of the natural activities of birds in their natural habitat."

Meaning the Discovery Channel's "Birds Gone Wild" series is safe for another season.

Five for Feldman

Sorry that the semi-annual Corey Feldman update is a little late this time around, thanks to the lack of substantive updates on the Feldman web site. I assume that the guy has sunk to Vincent D'Onofrio levels of emotional infirmity as a result of Bush's victory, and simply can't bring himself to remove the profound remark, "No more Bush, no more fur - America needs a shave" from his front page. The site has apparently not been updated since July, meaning he must be hard at work on The Birthday, that movie he's making with the "Spanish Quentin Tarantino."

He and wife Suzi did have their baby, Zen Scott Feldman, in August. So...congratulations.

Oh, and Colin Powell resigned.[1] That should about catch everyone up.

[1] To audition for the role of James Bond, no doubt.

Don't panic

Saw National Treasure Saturday morning. My capsule review would be to say that you can probably find something more enjoyable to do with your time, such as letting seagulls peck out your eyes.

The bright spot, however, was the teaser for the upcoming Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie. There isn't much to it, admittedly, but now there's a concrete release date (May 6, 2005), even though the kind of annoying official site has yet to be updated. The teaser (and some production stills) are available here.

Unfortunately, seeing the trailer meant I sat through National Treasure wondering when the hell the Vogons would show up and destroy our planet for allowing such a lousy film to be made.

Can't stop the music

I don't post much on the weekends. This is where I should tell you about all the fun I have during that time and how I'm not chained to my computer like I am most weeknights, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. Mostly it's because I like a break from eyestrain and impending carpal tunnel syndrome.

On some occasions, I am actually doing something fun. And the reason I didn't bring it up earlier is because my brain was still percolating yesterday from the events of Friday night.

For you see, Friday night was karaoke night.

I can count on one hand the number of time I've participated in karaoke. I can carry a tune, but until I find a place that offers me a chance to sing "California Uber Alles," the sidelines are where I'll remain. Usually. This time, I went with some friends to Genji, a restaurant/sake bar/karaoke joint here in town. Now, sake and I are not on friendly terms. I endured the second worst hangover of my life several years ago after a party there for my birthday. I still had a bottle or two this time (which contributed to my participation in a rousing version of "How Deep Is Your Love" by the Bee Gees), but switched to beer after that. Perhaps I shouldn't have done so, because that would have made the incident in question easier to laugh off as alcohol-induced fever dream.

I speak of the Korean gentleman who sang a song by the German metal band Helloween.

Helloween were one of a multitude of bands who enjoyed some manner of success during the '80s Hair Band Golden Age. I was familiar with them, but couldn't tell you the names of most of their songs. For that reason, I can't tell you what the song was the gentleman in question sang. Could've been "Future World," or "A Little Time," or something else entirely. The band's still around, after all, so maybe the guy was offering something of a more recent vintage. All I know is that the guy had an extremely limited grasp of the English language (which, when you're talking about taking a stab at a song written bu gentlemen whose primary language is German, presents an interesting scenario), and - to put it politely - vocalized about as well as Linda McCartney.

Bad singers are nothing new to karaoke. Hell, they're practically mandatory, but this guy was in a stratum previously undetected. I felt bad, because I'd been introduced to him earlier and thought he was quite a nice dude. But wow. Just wow.

So, anyone wondering where I've been the last two days now knows the answer: I was sitting in my bedroom, staring at the ceilings, and marveling at the rich tapestry of human existence.

And drinking a lot.

Karma, despite its pleasant appearance and inoffensive aroma, is still a bitch

Houston's only "hard rock" radio station has switched formats (registration required):

KLOL, 101.1 FM announced Friday that station has changed formats. The station switched from a classic rock format to a Latino music format branded as Mega 101.

The station's web site was listed as under construction, but KLOL's former morning show hosts Walton and Johnson announced on their web site that they were informed Thursday night of the change.

The radio hosts stated on WaltonandJohnson.com that, "Thursday night Walton and Johnson were informed by lower-level management sources via a last-minute phone call that there would be no Walton and Johnson Show tomorrow. In it's place would be Hispanic music programs."

I could't bring myself to listen to Walton and Johnson, whose strange blend of unfunny comedy, right-wing whining, and leaden faux on-air personalities comprised some of the worst radio I've heard since 1986, when I drove through Oklahoma. On a Sunday. With nothing but an AM receiver. Even so, they claim on their website that their show was the "top-ranked (non-ethnic) morning show in Houston" in their demographic.

For comparison, APCB is the highest ranked blog not written by anyone other than a 30-something guy named Pete who lives in Houston.

I'm not important enough to get the Arbitron book, but at least two other web sites that track such things (including R&R.com) puts KLOL's overall ratings at 16th in Houston. Remove the "ethnic" stations ahead of it (KBXX, KLTN, KMJQ, KPTY, KOVE, and KHJZ), and KLOL moves up to a solid 10th place (hell, they're below two AM stations). I can't verify their claim about the morning 25-54 year-old market, but assuming those stations playing "non-white" music do better in the AM, that still leaves W&J 7th overall. Pretty weak.

Of course, KLOL's been going down the tubes since long before those two Mongoloids came along. Clear Channel's acquisition of the station further diluted an already depleted playlist. And with the songs they were playing readily available on three other stations in the area, KLOL's existence was no longer required. I mean, what does "hard rock" mean anymore, anyway? Metal? Not much call for that round here. Face it, most of the "rock" genre fits in just fine with "classic rock" - which these days includes Nirvana - while the newer stuff gets played on "alternative" stations.

Then again, maybe the Houston area cycling lobby is more powerful than we thought.

The pirate's life for me

The second movie in as many years to feature Johnny Depp in pirate garb opens this weekend. Finding Neverland is an enjoyable enough film, even if it nicely skates around the question of how much J.M. Barrie really liked boys.

Can't wait for the Lewis Carroll biopic, with Kirk Cameron in the title role.

Review's here.

As for the other releases this week, I saw the new Bridget Jones, which opens in limited release today, so they may not run the review until next week. Sideways has already been covered on the site, and I didn't see The Polar Express.

As for Seed of Chucky, no press were allowed, so any review on Film Threat wasn't written by me. No sir.

"Sex? I had sex!"

My hat's off to the religious right for drumming up attention for a film that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. Kudos.

Religious conservatives and family-values groups are planning to wage a battle against Fox Searchlight's Kinsey, about the pioneering sex researcher, when the movie opens in limited release on Friday. In a statement on Wednesday, Robert Knight of Concerned Women for America charged that the movie "lionized" a man whose "proper place is with Nazi Dr. Josef Mengele or your average Hollywood horror flick mad scientist." Knight went on to assert that Kinsey "was the godfather of the homosexual activist movement, the campaign to mainstream pornography, and even the campaign to strike down abortion laws." The youth group Generation Life, composed of "virgins and renewed virgins," announced that it would picket theaters showing the film. And the conservative WorldNetDaily.com has taken aim at the movie in the current issue of its monthly magazine Whistleblower, in which it charges that Kinsey transformed America "in five decades from the Leave It to Beaver innocence of the 1950s to today's wanton, 'anything-goes' sexual anarchy."

"Renewed virgins?" Did they have surgery? Drink some of that Paul Newman Lemonade? How many do-overs do you get?

WND can take their "Leave It to Beaver" innocence and shove it up their tight asses. I laugh a bitter laugh every time someone references the "good old days," when the darkies knew their place and no one said boo if you gave the little woman a light thumping if she left the roast in too long.

If Luther Campbell were dead, he'd be rolling over in his grave from spasmodic laughing fits. These people just don't get it: every picket sign that shows up on the evening news, every corpulent white man with a community college divinity degree who gets interviewed on Access Hollywood, and every unfortunate child trotted out in a sandwich board by his "sex for procreation only" parents is one more ticket sold for this movie. The marketing division at Fox Searchlight will be feasting on lobster and Cristal tonight, because you just saved them $5 million in advertising.

Who the hell is Robert Knight? And why is he the spokesman for Concerned Women of America? Wait, here's an easy one: where does this jackass get off equating Kinsey with the Nazis?

Sex is fun, you idiots. Try having some.

The need for speed

A friend of mine got a speeding ticket recently. She hadn't received one in quite some time, so she was allowed to take defensive driving. She opted for the home video, which requires you to watch two video tapes (all DD courses are a mandatory six hours), then call in and take a multiple choice test by phone. As is the case with these things, the test itself is ridiculously easy (the video doing little more than hammering the same dozen points home repeatedly). What annoyed my friend was the time involved: she watched both tapes in one sitting, then endured the forced wait period between sections. All told, a full evening.

However, I have a hard time feeling much sympathy. I got my first speeding ticket when I was 17, and back in those days, there was one option for defensive driving: a classroom session that lasted from 8:00 to 4:30 on a Saturday. The wonders of video defensive driving, stand-up comedy defensive driving, and internet defensive driving were still years away, so a ticket meant spending half of an otherwise glorious weekend listening to traffic cops tell stories about peeling bodies off the asphalt. Entertaining, sure, but not the way anybody wants to blow a day off.

Nowadays, you can take three days to watch the videos, two days to attend the stand-up sessions (I've seen part of one, and they're frigging horrible), and pretty much as time as you want with the online class. None of them are attractive options, but there's a lot more flexibility here in the wondrous 21st century.

After that first ticket, I went four years before getting another one. Do I attribute the long period in between infractions to the grisly stories told by those cops, or the sobering filmstrips we watched? Hardly, I owe it all to the fear of sitting in a classroom with 20 other sad sacks looking out the window at my friends sitting on my car in the learning annex parking lot, drinking beer. And I guarantee you if that was still the only option, there'd be a lot fewer tickets.

But I can't make any Dolly Parton jokes out of the name "Mahmoud Abbas"

They cut in to the network broadcasts last night to announce that Yasser Arafat finally had really and truly died (interrupting the thrilling climax to CSI: NY, which will soon be featured in a Bad TV Ponderings segment all its own). I have a one-time political student's knowledge of the recent history of the Middle East, but I'm certainly not an expert on the Israel-Palestine conflict.

That said, it wasn't until watching CBS' "career retrospective" of Arafat that I realized the P.L.O. got its ass kicked in every conflict they ever fought: the Six-Day War, Jordan, Lebanon. Sure, Arafat et. al. got some decent pub with that courageous attack on the Israeli Olympic team in 1972, and by subjecting legions of children to gunfire by encouraging them to throw rocks at armored vehicles (even the kids in Northern Ireland figured out that was a bad idea early on), but as a military leader, Arafat was a joke.

Not like the Palestinians didn't already know this. His presence has been an impediment to their going forward these last few years, and Israel and the U.S. wouldn't even deal with him, so his death may offer a glimmer of hope towards a new peace effort.

And (cheap joke warning) Pizza Hut finally gets a tablecloth back.

He can't be worse than the last guy

Can he?

President Bush has chosen White House counsel Alberto Gonzales, a Texas confidant and the most prominent Hispanic in the administration, to succeed Attorney General John Ashcroft, sources close to the White House said Wednesday.
...
Gonzales has been at the center of developing Bush's positions on balancing civil liberties with waging the war on terrorism — opening the White House counsel to the same line of criticism that has dogged Ashcroft.

For instance, Gonzales publicly defended the administration's policy — essentially repudiated by the Supreme Court and now being fought out in the lower courts — of detaining certain terrorism suspects for extended periods without access to lawyers or courts.

He also wrote a controversial February 2002 memo in which Bush claimed the right to waive anti-torture law and international treaties providing protections to prisoners of war. That position drew fire from human rights groups, which said it helped led to the type of abuses uncovered in the Abu Ghraib prison scandal.

Come on now, you didn't really believe Bush's post-Election Day BS about "reaching out to the whole nation," did you? This is the same president who said his win in 2000, after losing the popular vote, amounted to a "mandate." It was only a matter of time before he got around to Gonzales, who he's been trying to shove down our throats for years.

And if "Thumbscrews" is the new Attorney General, I don't even want to think about who he's got lined up to replace Rehnquist.

I'm afraid he may have cloned Roy Cohn.

But I'd be remiss in not mentioning our outgoing AG:

The gospel-singing son of a minister, Ashcroft is a fierce conservative who doesn't drink, smoke or dance. His detractors said he gave religion too prominent a role at the Justice Department — including optional prayer meetings with staff before each work day. He has also been a willing lightning rod for critics who said his policies for thwarting terrorists infringed on the rights of innocent people.

Ashcroft championed many of the most controversial government actions following the Sept. 11 attacks, most notably the USA Patriot Act. It bolstered FBI surveillance powers, increased use of material witness warrants to hold suspects incommunicado for months. When there was a break in a terror case, he was the man at the lectern soberly informing the American people.

Well, one of us had to be sober. Seeing him and/or Tom Ridge issuing yet another dire warning with little or no intel to back it up almost turned me into a fifth-of-Jameson-a-day man.

"The objective of securing the safety of Americans from crime and terror has been achieved," he said in resignation letter to Bush, dated Nov. 2 — Election Day.

It has? Well, what the hell do we need an Attorney General for in the first place, then?

Man, you had me worried there for a minute.

Wolfen 2

River Oaks Boogaloo:

Fears are running high that coyotes living in Memorial Park's isolated areas are wandering farther afield, bringing them into contact with joggers and residents of the city's toniest neighborhood, River Oaks.

"I've grown up with animals all my life. I know my animals. These were coyotes. This shouldn't happen in the middle of the city," said [River Oaks resident Hailey] Schiller, 19, who says she and her parents have seen coyotes lurking around their neighborhood.

On Tuesday, Harris County Commissioners Court asked county departments to join forces with the city animal control and parks departments in trapping and relocating coyotes.

Seems to me that if all you've got are county departments and city animal control working on this, they aren't going to get relocated very far. More likely they'll just ship them to the Humble or Tomball and wash their hands off it. The rationale being there are so many stray dogs running around out there already, who's going to notice?

The city doesn't want to take the stance that coyotes have to be exterminated, but it will work to remove animals that pose a threat to children or pets, Trahan said.

Coyotes are a highly adaptable animal, living on open ranges and in big cities. Bayous, deserts and hidden urban nooks can all serve as homes.

Coyotes typically run in packs and usually don't view humans as prey, said Sharon Joseph, Houston Zoo's director of animal programs.

Unless, and I'm just spitballing here, there aren't a lot of rabbits or small mammals to feed on. Then they'll go after the pets. Chained down inside a fenced-in backyard, it's like their very own lobster tank.

Now the Hogg's diabolical plan for the Park is finally coming into focus. The land wasn't meant to be set aside for human recreation, but as a hunting range. What could be more sporting for packs of ravening coyotes than a bunch of joggers? Or a woman running with her dogs? For variety, take a breather by chasing down some poor 300-pounder just beginning an exercise regimen.

The coyotes would have a few freeways to cross to get to my house from Memorial Park, but even if they manage to make it here, my money's still on the possum living in my backyard. That sumbitch is huge.

Nosh of the titans

Yesterday I had the pleasure of dining with none other than the lovely and talented Melanie of delicate flower and her fiancee. She was in town scouting locations for the next Poseidon Adventure sequel, and gave me a holler. We dined at Shiva, in the Rice Village (the curry goat is to die for), and discussed many things, including vampires, our mutual love for the city of Dallas, and who the hell curries goat, anyway?

The meeting was over far too quickly, as she had to return forthwith to the manse in order to berate the servants, while I had to rush back to my Fortress of Solitude, also known as the garage, to play Halo 2 work on my novel.

As far as meeting online acquaintances goes, it ranks higher even than the contingent from alt.drunken.bastards who came to my wedding.

Bad TV Ponderings - The Biggest Loser

I remarked once, maybe here, that television entertainment is pretty much all about voyeurism and schadenfreude these days (or words to that effect). The glut of reality programming and things like America's Funniest Inguinal Hernias bears that thinking out, but I never thought I'd see a show that represented the theory as perfectly as The Biggest Loser.

Think of it as Survivor at fat camp. Two teams of overweight/obese individuals vie to see who can lose the most weight. One team each week has to vote off a member. I haven't been following the show from the beginning (in fact, last night's episode was the first I'd ever watched), so I assume there are various challenges and temptations thrown at the players, who run the gamut from merely plump to dangerously heavy. Voting someone off appears to be at least partially governed by how much weight that person stands to lose in coming weeks. The more flab shed, the better your team does.

I've witnessed some sadism in my time. In my more unpleasant years, I've even participated. But damned in NBC doesn't give my salad days a run for their money. No man boob, no ponderously jiggling thigh, no near-cardiac arrest is left without a close-up. The only rationale I can see behind putting something like this on the air without providing free hand sanitizer is that it gives legions of doughy Americans someone they, too, can point at and laugh.

Lording over all this, and doing her best Trump, is Caroline Rhea. Resplendent in pink sweater and Jane Fonda Klute hair cut, Rhea desperately wants to appear stern and Jeff Probst-like, but all I could think of were my shameful fantasies involving Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Aunt Hildy. I thought The Swan was pretty bad, and it is, but The Biggest Loser doesn't even give these poor schlubs the former's access to liposuction and tucks, just week after week of grueling calisthenics and dangling Krispy Kremes in front of their faces.

What the hell, pass the Cheetohs.

Leo Sayer's not dead

But his career is:

British pop star of the 1970s Leo Sayer says he hopes to move to Australia to restart his career.

The London-based curly headed singer who had hits with songs like "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" and "When I Need You" said he is disillusioned with the modern music industry in Britain.
...
In Britain, he said, "they only want really young artists and they only want to have manufactured pop."

Two words, Leo: Kylie Minogue.

I sometimes check out the photo galleries on Yahoo! They give me an idea of what news stories/fashion shows are making waves. They're also good for offering a heads up when someone famous kicks the bucket. When I saw a pic of Sayer's (next to one of recently deceased Howard Keel*), I naturally assumed he's shuffled off his mortal '70s lite rock coil. How surprised I was to discover ole Leo is still around.

My only memories of Sayer's musical catalog are hazy recollections of his appearance on The Muppet Show, but I have another dilemma that maybe the assorted reprobates I call my base can help me sort out. I recall seeing a movie some ten years ago or so in which a Leo Sayer lyric figured prominently. In it, a cast of teens or young adults were conversing with an older black janitor. They questioned him about his choice of professions, and he insisted he was actually a dancer. He then started singing, "You make me feel like dancing, wanna dance the night away," while offering a few steps.

I don't remember the name of the film. Anyone have a clue?

* You were the bomb in Day of the Triffids, Howard. And Seven Brides for Seven Brothers remains the most romantic musical about sexual assault I've ever seen.

Need coffee

And lots of it. Because I read the headline to this article as "Colin Powell not interested in playing Bond:"

Irish actor Colin Farrell says he is not interested in becoming the next James Bond. Working as Alexander the Great seems to be enough.

In an interview with Reuters on Sunday to discuss his soon to be released film "Alexander," Farrell, 28, was asked about a suggestion by the outgoing James Bond, Pierce Brosnan, last week that he get the job because "he'll eat the head off them all."

Farrell feigned outrage at the thought of becoming the sixth James Bond in the series, joking he was shocked by Brosnan's suggestion and if he got the job, he just might employ an Irish accent to confuse fans of the suave British agent.

"The idea of me playing James Bond got into the press, but it is not true. I would not like to do it ... they should find someone the audience has no history with,' Farrell said.

The alcoholic Lothario is right. Otherwise it'll have to be Young James Bond. Or someone who didn't get into acting until their 30s. Or Ving Rhames.

"I haven't performed in front of an audience for twenty-eight years! I played a butler. I had one line!"

Jack Sparks, as usual, gets it right about the latest lip-synching hullabaloo:

There's a line of psychology that says abnormal behaviour, in an abnormal environment, can appear normal. Seems like kind of a truism, but the thrust of the point is that if a drunk guy wanders into a room full of drunks, no one's going to really notice if his pants are around his ankles. This is exactly the same kind of sick thinking behind this whole lip-synch issue. Trotting out corpses like Dick Clark to say "everybody does it and the old stuff is considered classic now," is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

The next time you plop down $85 to sit in the front row for a big name performer who does a lot of dancing along with his or her show...after paying $10-$20 to park...after spending $15 on the latest CD...after spending $20 on the t-shirt...after spending almost exactly the same amount on the person next to you so they could join you...ask yourself if you care that they're faking it. And while you're at it, look closely next Tuesday night at the Country Music awards show that's going to be on TV; there's gonna be a whole lotta lip-synching goin' on on that show for sure, and for two reasons: 1) most of those people are plastic to begin with, and 2) the dirty little secret in Nashville is that most of them can't sing a note, tone deaf like a drunk New York alley cat.

You can, of course, replace "Country Music Awards" with "Grammys," "Billboard Music Awards," or whatever craptastic, self-congratulatory, televised circle jerk the music industry is trotting out this month. The CMAs merely have the misfortune of being the first such event out of the chute after Ashlee Simpson's little screw up.

P.S. On a related note, Bol had the best hastily improvised graphic from the Ashlee incident.

Oh, brother

At the risk of sounding like Captain Obvious, it must suck to be Jim Belushi. The guy's had to spend his entire career with the knowledge that, but for an ill-timed speedball, he'd be the Ted Raimi of comedy. Worse, he knows he owes everything to John. John helped get him into Second City while alive, and his post-mortem reputation greased the wheels for Jim's Saturday Night Live stint and subseuqent acting career. I wonder at what point Belushi the Lesser finally grew numb to these realities and just stopped caring?

If I had to bet, I'd say it was around the time he realized movies like Curly Sue and Abraxas (nothing like a cameo in a movie starring Jesse "The Body" Ventura and Sven Ole-Thorsen to stoke your ego) were his future. From that point on, you can see the man taking essentially every role lobbed his way, from Mr. Destiny to whatever K-9 sequel is going to video this month.

It's unfair, in a way, because John Belushi - like Morrison, Hendrix, and Dean - will always be remembered as much for what he didn't do as for Bluto Blutarsky and Samurai Delicatessen. John never got his own talk show that was canceled two weeks later, or ballooned up to 400 pounds, or saw gambling debts and alimony force him to make National Lampoon 2. Sure, feel sorry for the guy because he's dead, but compared to his little brother, he got off easy.

But bad enough as it is to be constantly (and unfavorably) compared to your dead brother, it may be time to pack it in when your fellow celebrities start taking potshots at you.

I'm not referring to David Cross' column on BobandDavid.com, which is often devoted entirely to Belushi. A sampling follows:

I’ve known J-bone ever since we met on the set of “Destiny Turns on the Radio”, or, as I like to call it, “Jim Belushi Turns on the Movie Going Public”. He was electrifying as “The Douche bag”. At least I think that’s what his character was called. I didn’t have any scenes with him but that’s what everyone was calling him on the set. Although some of the crew referred to him as a “Total Prick” so maybe he was playing multiple roles. Anyway, I had always been a huge fan of his and I was excited to work with a master. I guess his character in the movie was a real asshole and in the true spirit of a professional, Jim would remain in character even when he wasn’t shooting! He would always keep himself loose on the set by coming up with some fun “in character” shenanigans like making the wardrobe girl cry and then ultimately quit. He was awesome.

Good stuff. But no, I'm talking about being such an apparent blight on the face of humanity that Catwoman herself is out to get you:

Actor James Belushi is suing his next-door neighbor Julie Newmar for $4 million in damages, accusi