A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

We've got spirit. Yes. We do.

I've been too lazy/hung over/enfeebled of late to change the radio from the Hair Nation channel, which is dredging up all sorts of long dormant adolescent memories. Because of this, and since I'm fairly certain the statute of limitations has expired for high school tomfoolery, I decided to pull one of my infrequent exhumations of something I wrote years ago somewhere else and present it here as original content. Pretty clever, eh?

So crack open a Bartles & Jaymes, crank up some Giuffria, and let me regale you with...

Speak Softly and Carry a Big Spirit Stick
by Pete "Unindicted Co-Conspirator" Vonder Haar

The mighty A&M Consolidated High School marching band, of which yours truly was a member (weighty brass), had the distinct pleasure of working the concession stands at Texas A&M football games. In this way, we managed to raise money for our trips to Belize, Easter Island, Bali, and Fiji (actually Dallas, Galveston, Corpus Christi, and Disneyland, but whatever). In those days, Consolidated (or "Consol," as the locals called it) didn't have a football stadium of its own, so our team was forced to suffer its weekly humiliations in Kyle Field, home of the aforementioned Fightin' Texas Aggies.

One fine Saturday morning in November, our band crew arrived to find that several items belonging to the Pep Squad had been left from the previous night's epic barn burner with the Navasota Rattlers. The night before was Homecoming, you see, and our intrepid Pep Squadron were apparently so anxious to get on with the requisite groping and binge-drinking that they had left behind that most Holy of Holies, the A&M Consolidated Spirit Stick.

The Spirit Stick - a three foot length of capped PVC pipe with maroon and white stripes and no connection to Native American or Babylonian mythology that I'm aware of - was given out at each Friday's pep rally to that individual who most demonstrated their "school spirit" for the week. I'm uncertain how effective this was in distracting area teens from the fact that other towns offered more than three movie theaters and one convenience store that sold beer to minors, but getting the Stick was apparently a big deal.

As you can imagine, I won many times.

Given the Stick's importance to the school and, indeed, to to the community as a whole, our duty was clear as we stood blearily upon the bleachers that crisp autumn morning: we stole the fucker. Four of us (I was not the ringleader, but I won't name the others in the interest of not getting my ass kicked) kept it in hiding throughout the game, then adjourned to construct the ransom note in traditional Never Mind the Bollocks/cutout magazine letter style.

Sunday night, we left the note, a replica of the Stick made from a toilet paper tube, and a Polaroid of the Stick sitting on a stack of bark chips with a lit Zippo next to it on the Student Council president's car. The note demanded, among other things, that the Principal step down, that the note be read over the morning intercom announcements, and 'no cops' be involved. Otherwise, it continued, the Stick would go up like a Protestant during the reign of Mary Tudor.[1]

Coincidentally, I regularly got a ride to school with the Student Council president. I was gratified to find that she thought the whole scenario hilarious, though she had no clue as to my involvement (I was never one of the more overt offenders, after all, and was usually more than content to goad other people into acts of public stupidity). In fact, she questioned me all the way to school to see who *I* thought could have pulled such a stunt.

Unfortunately, the rest of the student body were not so tickled.

Let's just say none of the demands were met. Interrogations were meted out among the Pep Squad, the band, the cheerleaders, the football team...hell, the members of the Homecoming Court were given the third degree as well, which seemed unfair to me since they were probably already agonizing over having to take those home pregnancy tests.

Not wishing for our reputations as fearsome kidnappers to be sullied, we four spent the following Thursday evening drinking Budweiser, shattering the Stick into dozens of shards (each keeping one as a memento, naturally), and placing the remains in a gift-wrapped box on the gym floor for the cheerleaders to find the next morning before the weekly pep rally. Which they did.

There was much outrage, of the kind which only high school cheerleaders and faculty are capable. PVC pipe is cheap, however, and a replacement was fashioned soon enough (this one eventually locked to the Pep Squad leader's wrist like the President's nuclear football). We were found out, thanks to (I assume) someone boasting to impress one of the Flag Corps, but little came of it. By then, Prom was right around the corner, and the usual suspects were too busy trying to make the local convention center resemble an enchanted Hawaiian paradise.

But I can always hold my head up high and say I did my part to tarnish the already grimy reputation of band geeks everywhere.

[1] You can learn more about the Lewes 17 at your local library.

"Just a small town boy"

One of the many reasons to simultaneously love and hate the internet: Steve Perry fan fiction (via Metafilter):

By now Nancy is up and once again trying to get out of the kitchen. She runs past Steve but he grabs her around the waist and spins her around. He has her pinned against the refrigerator. His face is about an inch from hers.

"I’m going to ask you this question again. If you look me in the eye when you answer it, I might believe you! Are you screwing that guy!?"

Nancy puts her hands on his chest and she looks him right in his eyes and without blinking, or even wavering

"No!!! I am NOT screwing him…!!!"

Powerful stuff.

Fanfic is everywhere these days, seems like no matter how much you Keep on Runnin', you can't Escape. Any Way You Want It, these mysterious writers will continue to Lay it Down, and while some welcome it with Open Arms, others insist on going their Separate Ways, so you might as well Be Good to Yourself and check it out.

As for myself, I will Faithfully continue to read the site, and if you ever find out who the author of this story is, please Send Her My Love, since I'm pretty sure the Girl Can't Help It. She was Raised on the Radio, after all.

Okay, I'm done.

"It was the...blurst of times? You stupid monkey!"

Some of you with attention spans longer than that of the average Apprentice viewer might recall the gnashing of teeth that went on right here on this very blog a year ago about year-end Top 10 lists. Short recap: I was against them, others told me I was being stupid, I told them to shut up and stuck my fingers in my ears. Case closed.

'course, now I'm an actual Film Critic (featured on such prestigious aggregate sites as Metacritic and the compilation album, K=Tel's Greatest Self-Important Media-Glutted Assholes). The Top 10 list is apparently something we do, so even as I argue with the guys at Film Threat about putting something together for them, I decided to cave, and make a list of my own.

Of the year's worst movies.

Why not best? Well, because even as one of FT's big shot mainstream reviewing dudes, I don't get to see everything. For example, I haven't checked out Sideways, Garden State (yet, it's in the Netflix queue), The Aviator, Million Dollar Baby, or several others that seem to be making a lot of peoples' lists lately. Even were I so inclined to throw something together, it wouldn't be very comprehensive, and I hate that.

And it would skew pretty heavily towards documentaries anyway. Specifically, The Corporation and Riding Giants.

However, going whole-hog is hardly necessary in putting together a "Worst of" list. Besides that, through some trick of scheduling, I always ended up seeing the crap selections of the week. No Maria Full of Grace, but I was right there for Garfield, baby.

So here, without further stalling for time, is APCB's list of the 12 Worst Movies of 2004 ("enhanced" with select quotes from my review). Because 10 just ain't enough:

12. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason - "Thrill as the overweight Bridget skydives into a sty full of pigs (the irony!), chill as she skis an Alpine slalom course backwards and actually passes two expert skiers (you go, girl!), gape in admiration as she eats magic mushrooms (the colors!), and finally, gasp in horror as Bridget is thrown into a Thai prison. Luckily, it’s one of those friendly Thai prisons, where all her fellow inmates allow Bridget to lead them in a spirited pidgin English rendition of 'Like a Virgin.'"
11. Alexander - "Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like a movie celebrating the life of the greatest military conqueror the world has ever known should feature a bit more conquering."
10. New York Minute - "Was the obligatory wardrobe changing montage – set in the Harlem beauty shop where Jane and Roxy win over the scary black people – funnier in the script?"
9. Alien vs. Predator - "There’s really no reason for this movie to exist. Fans of both Alien and Predator will likely be howling for Paul W.S. Anderson’s head, and I can’t say that I blame them."
8. Envy - "Barry Levinson seems to be trapped in the 1970s when it comes to comedy. Jokes about chairs with lumbar support? A fifteen second gag involving Stiller fighting with his seat belt? Speeding up the film for 'comic' effect? I was waiting for the seltzer bottles and spinning bowties."
7. 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."
6. Surviving Christmas - "Let those Hollywood bastards know you’re sick of their endless attempts to tweak your emotions and make you feel guilty about being a scumbag the other eleven months of the year while they use profits from movies like Surviving Christmas to import stolen infants from South Asia in order to maintain a fresh supply of pancreatic islet cells."
5. Shark Tale - "...a joyless, soulless, hyper-marketed piece of crap that exists solely for the purpose of moving Happy Meals. You’re unlikely to see a more blatant cinematic example of focus groupthink this year, and that’s saying something."
4. Van Helsing - "The final third of Van Helsing is bad filmmaking on a level equal to anything Golan-Globus ever produced."
3. A Cinderella Story - "Screenwriters need to quit constantly lying to kids about how they can be or do anything they want as long as they believe in themselves. That may be true for amply endowed blonde high-schoolers like Ms. Duff who – even though they live with their wicked stepmother – still drive a ’66 Mustang and can afford the latest cell phone and an Apple laptop. The rest of you lower middle class schlubs bumming rides from your friend’s older brother, fighting acne, and wearing two-year old shoes can piss right off."
2. Christmas with the Kranks - "...is an abysmal failure, and I am a worse person for having seen it."
1. Garfield: The Movie - "The best way for Fox to atone for releasing this shameless pile of crap is in the manner befitting all unwanted kittens: put all the negatives in a bag filled with rocks and sink them in a very deep river. Sprinkle some garlic over the water for good measure, to make sure the movie never rises to torment the living again."

And there you have it. In the coming days, I hope to finally have my bio page finished (only three months after first bringing it up) and possibly another preview of the coming year's movies.

If the prospect of immersing myself in 2005's studio offerings doesn't cripple me with dread, that is.

And now for the important stuff

Yes, yes...the earthquake and resultant tsunamis were horrible and all, but what America really wants to know is: were any famous people inconvenienced?

A German statesman, a Czech super model and a Swedish Olympic ski champion were among the vacationers whose search for peace and sun in tropical southern Asia was shattered by the tsunamis that spared neither rich nor poor.

Except the poor don't get their own bylines on CNN, of course.

Petra Nemcova -- who appeared on the cover of 2003 Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue -- was carried away with her boyfriend, the fashion photographer Simon Atlee, after a huge wave plowed into southern Thailand on Sunday.

Atlee is still missing, and Nemcova suffered fairly serious injuries, though no one is speculating as to whether or not her bikini days are over. Still, she got off lucky.

Not so lucky as some, however.

Former German Chancellor Helmut Kohl was on holiday in Sri Lanka's pristine south -- one of the areas most devastated by tsunamis.

Kohl and his entourage were evacuated Tuesday from a hotel by the Sri Lankan air force.

"The helicopter went and we managed to bring him back with six others," Commander Air Marshal Donald Perera told The Associated Press.

Pretty fortunate for Kohl that he was able to get out when 18,000 others (so far) on Sri Lanka died because no one bothered to warn them. Hopefully the survivors will be comforted by the fact that Jet Li's okay.

"Tell him to shoot Rosie O'Donnell!"

Finally got around to watching the Dawn of the Dead remake last weekend. It's a bit embarrassing, since I know how important the zombies are to readers of APCB. Doubtless you were counting on me to keep you updated on the goings on of the living dead, and I let you down.

It was hard to shake the preconceptions going in. Director Zack Snyder hadn't done anything but commercials previous to this, while screenwriter James Gunn was probably "best" known for Scooby-Doo, though he'd also written the Troma classic Tromeo and Juliet, a Sgt. Kabukiman, NYPD PSA, and The Specials. Not the best résumé for a horror film, perhaps, but with the recent resurrection (snicker) of the zombie film, Universal probably wasn't too worried about genre accuracy.

And lest we forget, it's a remake of one of the most beloved horror movies of all time. The original Dawn is alpha and omega to indie and zombie fans alike, not just because of the level of violence - new to American audiences at the time - but also thanks to George A. Romero's wry commentary on American consumerism and the innate selfishness and territortiality that drives human behavior. Personally, I think his 3rd zombie movie, Day of the Dead, works better on a visceral level, but there's no denying Dawn's cultural impact. It seems impossible that a new version could possibly recapture it.

Given that, I guess it's just as well that Gunn and Snyder don't even try.

The film startes out well enough. Ana returns to her suburban home and cute, doomed boyfriend and, through a more or less believable series of coincidences, manages to miss the news bulletins about the coming zombie apocalypse. Fortunately for the audience, a little neighbor girl shows up to tear out her boyfriend's throat and kickstart the action. Ana escapes her neighborhood, witnessing various scenes of carnage, until she runs off the road and joins up with Kenneth (Ving Rhames), Michael (Jake Weber), Andre (Mekhi Phifer), and Andre's pregnant girlfriend Luda.

Pregnant girlfriend. You know that ain't gonna end good.

As in the original, the survivors find themselves in a shopping mall as hordes of flesheaters gather around them. Unlike the original, there's no war between the human factions. Sure, the mall security guys are assholes who try to contol everyone's comings and goings, but the growing number of zombies and the humans' increasing desperation soon put an end to that conflict. Eventually, the survivors devise a plan (which includes a scene straight out of the A-Team) to escape the mall. In the meantime, there are enough exploding heads, severed limbs, and messy disembowelings to keep everyone happy.

Still, aside from the name and the fact that everybody holes up in a mall, this hardly qualifies as a remake. Snyder adds a few nice touches, like casting original cast members Tom Savini and Ken Foree in small roles, and throwing a few inside jokes at the audience (Gaylen Ross, anyone?), but the film isn't so much a "reimagining" of the original Dawn as it is a tribute to Aliens. Aside from the standard "surrounded by enemies" plotline, Ana is analogous to Ripley, Michael to Hicks, CJ to Hudson, and Steve to Burke (Kenneth is Vasquez, I guess). There's no social commentary here, just lots of neat-o dismemberments and various plot advancement devices.

For the most part, it works. The movie has an appreciably grim tone, even if Snyder shies away from some of the more horrific aspects of the story (the ultimate fate of Luda and her baby being something of a cop-out), and most of the actors do a good job of it (especially Ty Burrell as the refreshingly caustic Steve).

If I have one major complaint (and by "major" I mean "seriously fucked up my enjoyment of the preceding 95 minutes") it's with the ending. And not the one where the film ends with the boat heading away from the dock, but the one Snyder shot after principal photography was finished and tacked on during the credits. I can't even begin to imagine why he and/or Gunn felt the need to include it, but the decision is a huge mistake. It ruins the ambiguity of the dock finale, pisses on the hour and a half you've invested in the characters, and - frankly - destroys any chance for a sequel, if Universal had it in mind to make one.

Having said all that, the Dawn remake gets a mild recommendation. I'm pretty much a sucker for any zombie film, and it holds its own against most I've seen. There's nothing special about it, and it sure as hell won't linger in the cultural consciousness like its predecessor, but there are worse ways to kill a couple hours and a few beers.

Just don't watch the credits. Seriously.

As if jogging wasn't bad enough

Now we have to contend with this new "extreme" sport:

To devotees of a French-born extreme sport known as parkour, that park bench you jog past every day is much more than just a seat.

It can be an impromptu hurdle or pommel horse. The sport, which resembles gymnastics without the gym, or skateboarding without a skateboard, depends as much on your view of the world around you as your skill in negotiating the terrain.

The name means obstacle course in French and the goal of the sport's traceurs, also known as freerunners, is to run, jump, vault or climb over obstacles in the most fluid manner possible.

"A lot of people call it urban gymnastics, but there's more of an art to it. You use the landscape around you to try to create movement, to flow across the landscape," said Sam Slater, 20, of Glen Burnie, a junior at McDaniel College in Westminster.

"To deliver a punishing barrage of circle kicks from your handy pommel horse, to utilize a conveniently situated set of parallel bars to fend off Commie thugs."

Fans of bad '80s cinema know where I'm going with this.

The Web site for Urban Freeflow, a group dedicated to the emerging sport, calls it the "closest you can get to the Matrix, Spiderman and Hong Kong martial arts movies in the sense of movement, but without the need for special FX or wires."

And also without the ability to fly, cling to walls, or take someone's head off with the heel of your hand. Everybody likes to imagine they too can be a superhero, but how many three-foot garden walls do you have to nonchalantly leap before your dreams of rescuing Kirsten Dunst finally fade?

For crying out loud, didn't any of you punks see Gymkata? Apparently not, since the article says the "sport" in question began in 1987. In other words, two whole years after the film, meaning the French have to deal once again with allowing crappy American culture to seep into their collective unconscious.

"Colleges are really good places. They have excellent architecture. Everything is made for walking — pathways, steps and ledges and different cool architecture," [McDaniel College student Brian] Belida said.

The sport also doesn't leave marks on pavement, benches and rails, as skateboarding and inline skating can, he said.

The group wrote a letter explaining the sport to the college's campus safety department and have been well accepted, they say.

Yeah. Until the first time some trust fund baby's parents sue the school's ass off because young Tyler fractured his tibia jumping over the railing of a perfectly serviceable staircase.

Homer Azari, 19, a student at the University of Illinois-Chicago, said as many as 10 freerunners practice in his group. Also a boxer and a runner, Azari said he likes the freedom of parkour.

"Other sports have these rules that inhibit you. This one you're only bounded by your surrounding," he said.

And ninjas. Don't forget the ninjas.

Be my baby

BREAKING NEWS: Today's couples discover raising kids is, like, hard and stuff:

Struggling to divvy up child-care duties after their little boy was born a year ago, Tina Anderson and her husband, Greg, almost hit the rocks. "We had a fight over whether to bathe the baby with a sponge or a washcloth. I was ready to get in the car and leave him. That's how nuts it gets," said the Colleyville mother.

More couples are finding the shift from partnership to parenthood a painful surprise. Too often, the transition to starting a family brings the opposite of the idyllic closeness couples dreamed of — including arguments, conflict and strife.

The pattern is so pronounced that a prominent research group, the National Marriage Project at Rutgers University in Piscataway, N.J., said in its 2004 annual report, "Children seem to be a growing impediment for the happiness of marriages."

First off (and seeing as how I have successfully reared another human being to the venerable age of one and am now an Expert), if you're fighting over sponges versus washcloths, you might as well call it off now. At least before you get to the whole "whole vs. 2%" milk debate.

Speaking only for myself, I never thought having a child was going to be "idyllic." I'd seen enough of my peers transform into the living dead as a result of sleep deprivation and Wiggles exposure. As a pessimist, I can only say I'm pleasantly surprised our child hasn't vomited on my collection of Sgt. Rock comics. Yet.

Fretful parents also are taking on debt to gear up as never before; marketers have shrewdly positioned a flood of costly new products, from $300 crib-linen sets to $700 stroller-bassinet combos, as aiding babies' development. Average inflation-adjusted debt among households headed by parents younger than 35 has soared 33 percent since 1994, to $80,000; child-related spending is a major cause, said SRI Consulting Business Intelligence, a research firm in Princeton, N.J.

I assume this sort of thinking goes away with time, especially when parents realize their precious little darling is happier playing with a wooden spoon or cardboard packing tube than he/she is with that $75 Baby Mensa Cyrillic Block Set.

To avert the strain, some couples are taking new-parent training classes that go beyond the usual labor-and-childbirth instruction.

Reading this, I thought I'd finally found something in this article I sympathized with. Understand, I am a man grown. I've seen friends die and come close to dying myself, but I don't know that I've ever felt anything close to the fear that came from the nurse handing me my two-day old child and saying, "Good luck." I'd read baby books, but each one contradicted the other in significant ways (my own parents were no help, being all smug headshaking and assertions that I'd "get the hang of it"). The fact that somebody was trusting me - a guy who considers Campbell's Tomato Soup and Velveeta sandwiches acceptable sustenance for every meal - to raise a new life without accidentally dropping a bowling ball on it filled me with the blackest dread I'd ever known. So a training course consisting of something more substantial than a five minute diaper changing lesson and cloth vs. disposable diaper bullet points sounded like a great idea.

Then I kept reading...

In one example, a six-week, federally funded public program at the University of Washington in Seattle called "Becoming Parents" (www.becomingparents.com) has taught 235 expectant couples how to improve communication amid the demands of infant care.

Because that's really the most important part, isn't it? Knowing how to politely call your significant other a clueless boob when they put the Huggies on backwards?

"He's deflecting the bullets with the power of his rocking."

Chuck alerts me to the disturbing news that The Motor City Man-Thing and ex-Damn Yankee himself, Ted Nugent, will soon be taking up residence in the Lone Star State:

Nugent said he'll officially become a Texas resident in 2005, after moving his family to the Crawford area about a year and a-half ago.

The rock guitarist is at his Michigan house in Concord, near Jackson, during the holidays to prepare for his Whiplash Bash tour.

Nugent also said he plans a New Year's hunting excursion with Texas Gov. Rick Perry.

Nugent, who said he supports President Bush "100 percent," said his new home is "right around the corner" from Bush's ranch.

I can't decide what will happen first: The Nuge swapping ribald stories of youth with the President (Bush can look back wistfully on his DWIs, while the Nuge can wax rhapsodic about the 17 year-old girl he "adopted" in order to legally get into her pants) or being dragged from his four-wheel drive Ford Overcompensator and beaten with tire irons by a group of Mexican day laborers after he yells at them to learn English.

Bienvenidos a Tejas, Ted.

Quote of the day

Courtesy of AstraZeneca spokesperson Rachel Bloom, concerning reports that pharmaceutical companies are warning their employees to be on the lookout for Michael Moore as he shoots his next film, Sicko:

"Moore's past work has been marked by negativity, so we can only assume (Sicko) won't be a fair and balanced portrayal."

Now where have I heard that before?

Snow?

Driving around Friday running various errands (booze for the egg nog being of primary concern) I hit snow flurries on three sepearate occasions. Houston drivers deserve credit for not freaking out like they typically do when it rains (in a city that gets 60" a year on average, no less). We had some nice accumulation on the cars that night, though - it being a holiday - the usual panic accompanying a 1/2" of snowfall was comfortably absent.

I guess it doesn't technically count as a white Christmas, but we sub-tropical residents will take what we can get. Those of you living above the Mason-Dixon line can cease your snickering now.

As for gifts, I hear that the greenlight has been given to the Flavor Flav-Brigitte Nielsen reality show. Obviously Santa got my letter.

How much if Randall Terry shows up?

I think this is just nifty (via Metafilter):

It's an ingenious idea. Create a no-win situation for anti-choice protesters — the more picketers who demonstrate outside a Planned Parenthood clinic, the more donations the Planned Parenthood clinic receives.

A number of Planned Parenthood affiliates have created different versions of this scenario. Here's how it works at Planned Parenthood of Central Texas (PPCT) in Waco, where the Pledge-a-Picket program is going strong: Each time a protester shows up at the clinic, a donation is made to PPCT. This campaign makes lemonade out of lemons by allowing Planned Parenthood supporters to pledge between 25 cents and one dollar per protester.

Despite the low pledge cap, which is designed to encourage donations, the money adds up, especially since the picketers never go away. Every month, participating donors get a short update on activities and a monthly billing for their pledge. It's like sponsoring a runner in a charity marathon.

There ought to be variables, though. I'd like to see increased percentages for every time one of these loving Christians calls a client a "slut," or maybe a set amount for when a member of the family values crowd thrusts a doctored picture of an allegedly aborted fetus in the face of a child coming in with their mother.

Once a week, PPCT puts a sign outside its clinic that says, "Even Our Protesters Support Planned Parenthood." To date, the Pledge-a-Picket program has raised $18,000 for PPCT. While not a significant chunk of its overall revenues, Pledge-a-Picket contributes greatly to PPCT's patient assistance fund, which helps clients who don't have resources get the care they need.
...
According to organizers, when the program was first launched, some of the protesters would shout, "Count me, count me!" not realizing apparently that they were raising money for the organization they were protesting.

It's hard to believe that the same people who tried to convince us abortion was linked to breast cancer might not understand something like this, I know. It's almost as if...they're missing the point entirely.

Quick blurb

I love writing reviews during the end of the year, because they always get buried by the inevitable "Best Of" crap every publication feels obligated to throw out there. This allows me to let my already lax editorial standards slip even further.

In spite of all that, you can go check out my review of Meet the Fockers right here. The Life Aquatic review will probably be up Saturday, not that I expect any of you to be wasting your time on Christmas reading it.

As for Phantom, I was really hoping I could dodge that one, but the review up on the site now (by Michael Dequina, who gave it 4 stars) is so contrary to my experience I might not have a choice. We'll see how much I drink tomorrow.

So it begins

Seeing how I ain't much fer fancy book learnin', I sort of missed the announcement that the 6th Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, will be released July 16. Now comes the news that the book has already topped Amazon's sales charts:

Thousands of customers placed pre-orders on the amazon.co.uk website for the sixth book in the series.
...
JK Rowling's fifth book in the wizard series, Harry Potter and Order of the Phoenix was Amazon's largest pre-ordered item ever, with 420,000 copies pre-ordered prior to its release in June 2003.

Customers who pre-order Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince avoid standing in long queues at bookshops on the day of the book's release next July.

Good idea. After all, it isn't like bookstores clear entire walls just for a new Harry Potter release.

I only read the first two HP books. It's a cute universe and all, but there are other things I'd rather check out. And I've resolved (A Song of Ice and Fire notwithstanding*) not to buy any more book series until the last one is published.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince takes up the story of Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as Lord Voldemort grows stronger.

Rowling has already revealed that the Half-Blood Prince is neither Harry nor Voldemort.

But when do we find out that Voldemort is Harry's father? And when does he fight Luke Skywalker for control of the Tardis and Barsoom?

Following publication of the sixth book, just one novel remains to complete the series.

Good thing, too. Rupert Grint and Daniel Radcliffe are going to be six footers with muttonchops by the time they get around to shooting the 7th film.

* Rowling has written and released two books since George R.R. Martin's last ASOIAF book. And had a baby. Just saying.

I want my five dollars.

Everybody's been linking to the "scared of Santa" gallery on Boing Boing, which reminded me of our own adventures in trying to get She Who Shall Not Be Named, suffering from a runny nose and a bad hat, to sit still for her first picture with the tired old bastard in the red suit. We were unsuccesful, though I did get a much better result from the little portrait kiosk we visited later.

All of this is more or less just a lead-in for two encounters I had last night, both in a zapateria called Phil's Shoes, which is sort of a Payless for the criminally cheap. They offer brand name shoes at rock bottom prices, which is probably one of the reasons Encounter #1 occurred in the first place.

SWSNBN, exulting in her tactical victory over Kris Kringle, was set free to toddle into the store. We hadn't put shoes on her for the occasion, so she was cruising in her stocking feet. This immediately aroused the ire of a large, older black woman on her way out of the establishment (The Wife, typically, had disappeared into the bowels of the place immediately upon entering, seeking whatever elusive big game shoe shoppers pursue).

WOMAN [to SWSNBN]: Why don't you have any shoes on?
PETE: She's not a big fan of shoes. Hats either. Or Santa. You know, now that you mention it...
WOMAN: Boy, go buy that child some five dollar shoes.
PETE: [Boy?] What? No, we have shoes. She just doesn't like to wear them.
WOMAN: They're only five dollars.
PETE: ...well then I guess we better buy some.
WOMAN: All right. Good.

Thusly placated, she departed for the food court in order to harangue some kid for not getting sprinkles on his ice cream sundae ("They're free, you little idiot!"), or something.

This exchange left me slightly confused, but there was no time for that, as my little princess was recreating Attack of the 30" Woman in the ladies' aisle. I kept an eye on her for the rest of the time we were in the store, trying to gauge which patrons would be amused by a grimy little ape grabbing their leg unannounced (not many, as it turns out) until it was finally checkout time. We approached the cash register to pay, and I beheld a nightmare vision of one of my daughter's possible futures.

The girl was maybe eleven, and dressed like Christina Aguilera's slightly less easy sister: miniskirt, platiforms, and a halter top that covered all but most of her abdomen. I felt a little sorry for her, not just for her eventual career as "Booty Girl #4" in a Ludacris video, but because she was trying to buy a purse and obviously conflicted about shelling out the (once again) five dollars she was told it cost. She thanked the cashier and got out of line, and while we were getting rung up, apparently reconsidered and queued back up. The Wife leaned over to the cashier and said, "We'll pay for that girl's purse, too."

I wasn't too surprised, as she's prone to this kind of thing. The rationale in this case being that people always bitch about ill-behaved children, but nobody ever rewards kids for being polite. So the cashier rang up the purse, the little girl thanked me, and walked back to - I assume - where her parents were. Then my wife did a Bad Thing. She picked up the baby and left me to complete the purchase.

"So?" you ask, "What's the big deal?" Let me put it this way, if you had a ten or eleven-year old daughter modeling the latest in pre-teen slutwear and she came back to tell you some strange, scruffy guy just bought you a purse for no reason, what would your reaction be? Be honest, because if your answer is anything other than a form of "call security/kick his ass", you're a stinking liar.

I drummed my fingers nervously as the sale was finished, sweating like Donald Rumsfeld at a VFW banquet, waiting for the inevitable tap on the shoulder before being sucker punched by the local chapter president of the Latin Kings or the H-Town Hammerskins. If I was lucky.

None of this happened, of course. We left the store without incident, and I admonished The Wife never to do something like that and then leave me alone to get my guts stomped out ever again. She said she'd think about it.

I know it was you, Rachael. You broke my heart.

My long-running, illicit TV affair with Rachael Ray is at an end.

It was doomed to failure, of course. She's a semi-famous Food Network personality who has no idea of my identity or my feelings. I'm a married father who writes pointless crap on the internet. We were the original star-crossed duo.

But it wasn't until tonight, during an airing of $40 a Day, that I realized we weren't meant to be. The concept of the show is fairly simple: Rachael travels to a different city each episode (tonight's show took place in Portland, ME) and endeavors to eat three meals and a snack for under 40 bucks. Those of us who've operated under even more stringent budgets know you can manage that by hitting Taco Bell three times, and you'd still have enough for a case of fine domestic beer, but that's not the point. The point is to eat good food, defined by whatever esoteric criteria Ms. Ray is using that week.

Tonight, unfortunately, I discovered something about my would-be beloved. For dinner, she enjoyed a local favorite, a crab quesadilla. The cost: $14.95. With tax and tip, she spent $18.10 on the meal, allowing her to skate under the day's budget.

I've bitched about the tribulations of working in the food service industry here before, drawing upon my own experience as a waitperson, and I immediately noticed something. Maine's sales tax on prepared food is 7%, which brings the cost of her meal to $16. That comes out to a $2.10 gratuity, or 14%.

Oh, Rachael. Don't you know I could never be serious about someone who didn't tip their waitpersons sufficiently?

It's over. We had a good run - you gallivanting around the continent, me forced to watch your escapades whenever The Wife had control of the remote - but I think you'll agree that this is for the best.

And I don't care how many FHM photoshoots you do. No, I mean it. Stop begging.

More movie trailer fun

Coolness. The trailer for Sin City is online. It's not the best quality, but you get the gist.

For those not familiar with the comic, Sin City was created by Frank Miller (he of The Dark Night Returns and 300). The stories are noir to a fault, and generally pretty grim. For those of you familiar with the comic, the movie's based on the stories Sin City, The Big Fat Kill, and That Yellow Bastard. I can't speak to the overall appropriateness of the casting, since I never read TBFK, but Clive Owen as Dwight(!), Mickey Rourke as Marv, and Bruce Willis as Hartigan don't make me want to claw my eyes out. Quite the opposite, actually.

And lookee at how all growed up Rory Gilmore (Alexis Bledel) is.

I really like the look of the film as well. Seems like Miller and director Robert Rodriguez are on the right track.

And then there's Steve Martin's Pink Panther remake.

John Fogarty gave an interview to Rolling Stone back in the late '80s, talking about how he was convinced to start playing old Creedence songs in concert because a friend told him, "If you wait much longer, people are going to remember 'Proud Mary' as a Tina Turner' song."

Something similar is about to hapen to Steve Martin. He's made so many lousy films in the last twenty years, that almost no one remembers the comic genius of The Jerk or The Man with Two Brains. I can't even begin to address the shittiness of this trailer, and it hurts me to think that crap like this and Cheaper by the Dozen are now the norm for the guy who gave us Cruel Shoes and "He hates these cans!"

Aren't you a little short for an Amazon?

When did Joss Whedon get attached to the Wonder Woman movie?

Ex-Buffy stars Sarah Michelle Gellar and Charisma Carpenter are allegedly competing for the lead role in forthcoming superhero movie Wonder Woman according to online celebrity zine Teen Hollywood.

The pair, who played Buffy Summers and Cordelia Chase respectively in the hit show, are battling for the iconic role after their former boss Joss Whedon agreed to direct the movie remake of the 70s television show says British tabloid The Daily Record.

An insider told the paper "Joss has told the studio that Sarah is his first choice followed by Charisma. Sarah expressed an interest, but the producers are more interested in Charisma because she is less well known."

We should be thankful Whedon didn't put Gellar in Firefly, as she appears to be his favorite actress and, as it turns out, completely wrong for the part. At 5'3", she's not going to be very convincing as the statuesque Princess of Themyscira. And contrary to the popular mantra, you can be too thin to play Wonder Woman.

I'm not familiar enough with Carpenter as an actor to say whether she's be any better, aside from the physical similarities. She's taller (5'7"), and certainly fits in with the look of the comic book character a little better. Aside from bringing Lynda Carter back, I'm kind of at a loss as to who should be cast.

Escept maybe Angela Bassett. Or - if you really wanted to sacrifice artistic integrity and piss people off - Jessica Simpson.

And honestly, I think one of the reasons I'm anti-Gellar is the irrational fear that Freddie Prinze, Jr. would be cast as Steve Trevor.

Wire to Wire

Dear HBO,

By now, I've grown pretty used to you (and just about every other TV network, for that matter), waiting until the last minute to announce your decisions regarding new season orders for a show. For that reason, I'm not panicking too much about the lack of renewal information for The Wire, the 3rd season finale of which aired last night.

However, the ending sure felt like a lot more than just a single season wrap, didn't it? McNulty back on foot in the Western, Avon back in jail, Stringer dead, "Major" Daniels, and that final scene with Colvin and Bubbles looking over the ruins of "Hamsterdam." Maybe David Simon and company know something I don't, but that sure had the feel of a final farewell. You could use Marlo as the bad guy in the next season, but that would be going over pretty well-worn territory. Cutty and Carcetti are interesting characters, but let's face it: McNulty and Stringer are/were the soul of the show. With the former walking a beat and the latter on the slab, Simon either has to introduce an entirely new group of cops and criminals or go into left field again like with Season 2.

I say this as matter-of-factly as I can, but if you cancel The Wire, I'm canceling HBO. Sure, The Sopranos is still okay, but one more half-season a year from now is hardly a reason to keep a subscription running, Six Feet Under grows progressively more angsty and annoying, I don't watch Carnivale, and Deadwood is good profane fun, but is hardly in the same class. Your movie selection is already the worst of the pay channels, which is why people tune in for your original programming. Pulling the plug on one of your most critically acclaimed shows isn't really a good way to keep viewers.

And you still owe me for letting Arli$$ run for seven seasons.

Sincerely,

Pete

UPDATE: But enough with the cutesy fake correspondence. This article really says it best:

Now, it's also quite possible that viewers just don't like "The Wire"....People say the first is too dense, moves too slowly. You know, like a book.... And if this is the case with you, well, let's just say reasonable people can disagree.

Except you're wrong.

Millions upon millions of people are wrong, evidently. Which is galling and sad and makes a certain someone prone to rage. But what does it say about our standards if "too challenging" is the death blow to quality? If intelligence isn't being rewarded on television, then it will go away.

And, yes, the knee-jerk response to that is, "It already has." But that's not true. Rent or buy the first-season DVDs of "The Wire" and "Arrested Development" for proof that people in the television business are still trying, that genius still sprouts in fields of stupidity.

HBO makes its decision some time in mid-January.

Flash. Ah-ahhhh.

Commenter HWRNMNBSOL leaves this tidbit, way down the page where no one ever bothers to read:

So now we learn that the esteemed Mr. Goyer is in the early stages of talks to bring DC superhero The Flash to the big screen. Apparently Reynolds has been tagged as the early choice for the lead role.

So: given the fact that you hate Goyer but like Reynolds and wish he had a larger role, which factor will win out? Would Reynolds be able to rescue a Goyer helmed superhero movie from the Bottomless Pits of Suckitude?

He's referring to this bit of news, which quotes aVariety article about Goyer deciding to write, direct, and produce a movie about DC Comics' The Flash.

The passage about the Flash's origin being the result of irradiated water experiments describes the first Flash, Jay Garrick. Garrick wasn't exactly know as for his wise-crackery, and if smartass commentary is the main reason in bringing Reynolds aboard, I'd have to believe Goyer's planning on using Wally West (Flash #3) in the film. Someone more familiar with comics can correct me if I'm wrong, but I think West is the hothead of the three Flashes.

Besides, Flash #2 Barry Allen died in Crisis on Infinite Earths, and I doubt Goyer (or anyone else) has the stones to take on that storyline.

So yeah, I think Reynolds would be a good choice, but unless Goyer learns how to shoot a fight scene or put together an original plot in the interim, I'm not getting my hopes up.

"At times, the world may seem like an unfriendly and sinister place."

My Film Threat review for Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, a film that turned out pretty well in spite of Jim Carrey, can be found here.

The cheese stands alone

Yeah, I'm late with this. Everyone and their mother commented last week about the BBC's list of cheesiest movie lines, and I dropped the ball. Crapping on other peoples' arbitrary rankings of pop culture detritus is one of APCB's main components, and I fear I have let you all down.

Which isn't to say I'm not going to have a go anyway, you understand.

Actor Leonardo DiCaprio's declaration "I'm the king of the world!" in the film Titanic has been voted the cheesiest line in movie history. Patrick Swayze's famous line in Dirty Dancing - "Nobody puts Baby in the corner" - came second in the survey.

"Is it still raining? I hadn't noticed," uttered by Andie MacDowell at the end of Four Weddings and a Funeral was placed third.

The survey of 2,000 film-goers was commissioned by foodmakers Warburtons.

Like I said, I dug myself a hole when I first started doing this blog thing by responding to lists like this, so now everyone taunts me whenever a new one pops up. I've learned to accept how arbitrary these things are, and can now sleep comfortably with the knowledge that they'll always be around, lobbed out every so often to fill air and print time between Paris Hilton tapes and celebrity DWIs.

Even given all that, the BBC's list is weak. The "king of the world" line is cheesy, yes, but much less cheesy than James Cameron saying it again after winning Best Director at the Oscars. Surely the fact that Leo didn't want to say it in the first place counts against its inclusion.

I don't have any special hatred for the Dirty Dancing line, and it certainly wasn't any more painful than Swayze's "They were using me" from the same film. Hell, Swayze said worse in Red Dawn and elsewhere (see below).

Hugh Grant is a special case, however. Grant has to hate himself more than just about anyone in Hollywood. Not because he paid a hooker for oral sex (who hasn't?), but because he constantly makes noises about not doing these any more of these insufferably British romantic comedies, and yet he keeps doing them. The Four Weddings line is interchangeable with anything from Notting Hill (#6). Love Actually, Two Weeks Notice, Nine Months, etc. etc. ad nauseum.

I can't take #4 or #5 seriously, though. It's hard to consider a line cheesy if the movie itself is impossible to take seriously, which is the problem I have with Swayze's "Ditto" from Ghost and Iceman's "You can be my wingman anytime" from Top Gun. These are two of the funniest movies I've ever seen, and admitting these lines are intended as serious dialogue would force me to acknowledge the fact the both films aren't, in fact, comedies. And I don't know if my soul coud stand the beating it would take.

#6 is "I'm just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her." Grant's correct answer would've been, "Of course I love you, Seabiscuit. Want an apple?"

Bill Pullman is at seven for the moment when - as the US President - he vows to fight off alien invasion: "Today we celebrate our Independence Day."

Eighth place went to this Mel Gibson line from Braveheart: "They may take our lives, but they will never take our freedom!"

Renee Zellweger was ninth on the list for the line in Jerry Maguire when she says to Tom Cruise: "You had me at hello."

And a line delivered by Kevin Costner in his flop The Postman rounds off the top 10.

"You're a godsend, a saviour," a blind woman tells his character. "No," he replies. "I'm a postman."

Yeah, well, I've never seen The Postman.

The Independence Day quote is good, but again, no one takes a movie with Harry Connick, Jr. as a fighter pilot or the defeat of an alien armada by a Mac seriously in the first place. Not on the list.

Gibson gets no love these days, and with good reason. Still, I have a hard time faulting Braveheart for anything other than wild historial inaccuracies.

The Zellweger line, in my opinion, is that' bad. Jerry Maguire is so desperately earnest I almost feel like a total bastard every time I watch it. There's no way I'll ever be as self-actualized as Jerry, so why go on living?

But enough of that, here's my list:

10. "I'm getting too old for this shit." To Live and Die in L.A. - Taken by itself, it's not that cheesy of a line, but for cliche value alone it deserves a spot. It predates Danny Glover's usage in Lethal Weapon by two years, which means it gets my vote.

9. "It's a living." "Is it? Is it living?" One Last Dance - I'm willing to bet none of you have ever seen this Swayze vehicle, which debuted at WorldFest here in Houston a couple years ago (my review is here). It's probably cheating on my part to throw it out there, but trust me, the whole movie sounds like this.

8. "I will find you, no matter what occurs." Last of the Mohicans - I laughed out loud at this when I saw it in the theater, to the extreme displeasure of my date (and resulting in my subsequent lack of post-cinema action). I suppose I could have cut Daniel Day-Lewis some slack if he hadn't cliff-dived off a waterfall immediately afterwards.

7. "I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere. Not like here. Here everything is soft and smooth." Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones - This was a pretty arbitrary selection, as you could just as easily substitute any of the lines Anakin offers to Padme during their scenes of epic romance.

6. Just about nything from any Arnold Schwarzenegger action movie - True, several of the films in this category (Commando, The Running Man) are intentionally cheesy, but even decent Arnie action flicks like Predator and The Terminator suffer from this inexplicable need to humanize the Austrian Oak by making him a smart ass. The guy also merits making the list for the fact that this same practice served as a template for virtually every protagonist in every action movie from 1982 to 1996.

5. Hugh Grant - see above. His lines are at least somewhat enjoyable simply because you can almost see the self-loathing on the guy's face as he delivers them.

4. "Do you know what happens to a toad when it's struck by lightning?" X-Men - Bryan Singer did a pretty good job with a cast of relative unknowns and a limited budget, so how great is it that the worst line came from one of the biggest names in the film?

3. "Wanna dance? Or would you rather just suck face?" On Golden Pond - What a fitting legacy for two of the greatest actors of the 20th century. Now please fetch me an airsick bag and a loaded bazooka.

2. "But one thing's sure: Inspector Clay is dead. Murdered. And someone's responsible." Plan 9 From Outer Space - Oh, don't cry foul to me. Ed Wood didn't intend this to become one of the greatest bad movies of all time, so everything in it is fair game. Audiences nowadays are drawn to its zero budget charms and hammy performances, but it wasn't that long ago that critics were unwilling to give Wood any credit, and it's only been in the last decade or so that audiences have come to reexamine Plan 9. Nevertheless, this is still some of the worst dialogue ever recorded.

1. And yet...for my money, the cheesiest lines ever recorded on film are courtesy of one Sylvester Stallone:

Maj. Trautman: The war, the whole conflict may have been wrong but damn it don't hate your country for it.
Rambo: Hate it? I'd die for it.
Maj. Trautman: Then what is it you want?
Rambo: I want, what they want, and every other guy who came over here and spilled his guts and gave everything he had, wants! For our country to love us as much as we love it! That's what I want!
Maj. Trautman: How will you live, John?
Rambo: Day by day.

I saw that movie in 1985, on opening weekend, in a theater full of hooting rednecks, and I may have been the only person who didn't give a standing ovation at the end of it. Maybe I'm biased, but that entire script is tough to beat for cheesy lines.

"Hello, that sounds like a pig fainting!"

I heard about this prank a couple weeks ago, but hadn't seen any pictures until today. It seems a group of Yale students dressed up as members of Harvard's pep squad and passed out crimson and white construction paper to the home crowd at Harvard Stadium prior to the annual Harvard-Yale game. They informed the crowd that, when they raised their construction paper in unison, they'd be spelling out "Go Harvard" for all the world to see. Hard as it may be to believe, the Yalies weren't being entirely honest:

Of course, Harvard won the football game, which probably raised its BCS ranking from 187 to 185.

Then again, Yale's about 40 years behind the curve:

Well played.

"I wish I was never born."
"Oookay."

I have been remiss in not informing all of you that the lovely and talented Jennifer Shiman has created another 30 second, bunny-reenacted work of art. This time around, It's a Wonderful Life, which I just realized is inexplicably ranked as the 26th best movie of all time on the Internet Movie Database.

"Ask this...scientician."

Finally, someone (Chuck Klosterman of Spin magazine, as it turns out) has come up with a unifying theory of musical quality:

Van Halen: This band should have been the biggest arena act of the early 1980s, and they were. They had the greatest guitar player of the 1980s, and everyone (except possibly Yngwie Malmsteen) seems to agree. They switched singers and became semi-crappy, and nobody aggressively disputes that fact. They also recorded the most average song in rock history: "And the Cradle Will Rock." What this means is that any song better than "And the Cradle Will Rock" is good, and any song worse than "And the Cradle Will Rock" is bad. If we were to rank every rock song (in sequential order) from best to worst, "And the Cradle Will Rock" would be right in the fucking middle.

That's Yngwie J. Malmsteen to you.

I see the middle point as being sort of arbitrary, since I think "Cradle" is worse than average, but the hypothesis is sound. So whether you want to use Klosterman's example, or create one of your own (I might put "Alive" by Pearl Jam in the center position, for example), you can make the science work. And emphasis on the sciences is something American kids sorely need.

After all, have you seen Junior's grades?

"Mind if I smoke?"
"No. Mind if I burp pastrami belches in your face?"

As if air travel wasn't relaxing enough (via Fark):

Passengers taking to the skies for U.S. flights could be checking e-mail and surfing the Web through high-speed Internet connections in a couple of years. And the day when travelers can chat away on cell phones while in flight might not be far behind.

The Federal Communications Commission on Wednesday approved technology giving airlines what could be a cheaper option to provide Internet connections. The commissioners also voted to solicit public comment about ending the ban on in-flight use of cell phones.

Give me scat munching at 20,000 feet or give me death.

I suspect a lot of the public comment will be along the lines of, "Huzzah: crying babies, misbehaving children, a beverage cart banging my shoulder every 20 minutes, and now the aromatic gentleman sitting next to me with shingles and the wet cough can loudly discuss his plans for spaying the dog with his wife. Are you going to issue handguns along with the peanuts?"

Left undecided by the FCC was how many companies would be allowed, through an auction, to offer the service. Verizon Airfone, which is the only company that offers seatback phone service, maintains that letting one company handle the service would ensure the best quality.

That's the funniest thing I've heard all day.

The FCC is concerned that cell phone use in an airplane might interfere with cell phone use on the ground. It will start taking public comment on the issue in early 2005, and a decision could be made within a year.

"The ability to communicate is a vital one, but good cell phone etiquette is also essential," FCC Commissioner Jonathan Adelstein said. "Our job is to see if this is possible and then let consumers work out the etiquette."

No wait, that's the funniest thing I've heard all day (and I have SATELLITE RADIO). I already hate to fly, and not in a "sweet jesus the wings are going to fall off" or "there's a gremlin tearing apart the engine" kind of way, but because I'm not what you'd call a people person. I'd rather drive halfway across the country than sit for an hour in an airport, sit three hours on a plane listening to Taylor and Jordan compare hair extensions, then stand 45 minutes waiting to see if the baggage handlers managed to punch another hole in my suitcase.

The only exception to this will be the day that cell phone usage is allowed on plane. I want to be on one of those flights, just so I can jump up, phone in hand, while the attendants are taking drink orders, and yell, "Let's roll!"

I will give this story all the moral outrage it deserves

Which is to say, "Ook ook ook ook ook, ook ook, ook ook ook:"

A portrait of President Bush (news - web sites) using monkeys to form his image led to the closure of a New York art exhibition over the weekend and anguished protests on Monday over freedom of expression.

"Bush Monkeys," a small acrylic on canvas by Chris Savido, created the stir at the Chelsea Market public space, leading the market's managers to close down the 60-piece show that was scheduled to stay up for the next month.
...
"We had tons of people, like more than 2,000 people show up for the opening on Thursday night," said show organizer Bucky Turco. "Then this manager saw the piece and the guy just kind of flipped out. 'The show is over. Get this work down or I'm gonna arrest you,' he said. It's been kind of wild."

Hot damn, that "Bush looks like a chimp" thing is still funny, even now...four years and one lost election later. Kudos to this courageous artist, who had the steely resolve put his work together in the face of overwhelming apathy and disinterest, only to be thrust into the spotlight by a gallery manager whose knee-jerkery prevented him from realizing how famous he was about to make the offending painting and its creator. Good job.

Surely Savido's reaction was one of gratitude for the instant notoriety his work would otherwise never have received:

The Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania-bred artist said he was happy for all the attention paid to his work but said the decision to shutter the exhibit was "a blatant act of censorship." ... "This is much deeper than art. This is fundamental American rights, freedom of speech," Savido said. "To see that something like this can happen, especially in a place like New York City is mind boggling and scary."

Hey Chris, you might want to get off the cross before Andres Serrano dunks you in a big jar of urine.

A private gallery manager telling you you can't show your clever picture is not "censorship" (I wish it was, so I could make similar accusations against every editor who ever shot down a query letter or proposal of mine). If you'd really wanted to stir up some shit, you should've made a portrait of Bush out of penises, or images of the World Trade Center, or dead American soldiers.

The monkey thing, on the other hand, has already been done. And it wasn't really that funny the first time around.

On a (mercifully) brief personal note

A year ago at this time I was sitting in a hospital hallway in ill-fitting scrubs, hyperventilating into a gift shop bag, preparing for the stork to deliver my child. Was I in for a surprise, because as it turns out, there aren't any birds involved at all in the childbirth process. The closest thing actually being the pelican-like noises of fear issuing from yours truly as the Abominable Dr. Phibes removed my daughter from my wife's body in sterile yet loving fashion.

My biggest fear at the time - apart from getting any of that stuff on me - stemmed from my utter incompetence in the field of baby raisin'. My fervent hope was that we could make it a year without accidentally crushing/immolating/defenestrating our little girl. Having reached that milestone, I can now breathe a sigh of relief, as I understand the whole parenting gig is pretty much a cakewalk from here on out.

Happy birthday, kiddo. Keep on rockin'.

Trailer for sale or rent

Been watching some new-ish movie trailers recently. I, for one, enjoy getting my plot points without the added tonnage of Pepsi One ads and sitting in front of a guy whose cell phone plays "Can't Touch This" (which was actually the high point of last night's Phantom of the Opera screening, but more on that later).

War of the Worlds

As excited as I am about the prospect of seeing bug-eyed aliens blowing the shit out of our treasured national landmarks, I can't help but think we've seen all this before. The film was initially going to be set in Victorian England, like the novel, but that seems to have gone out the window. Happily for us, bringing the story to the present day will allow for all sorts of nifty product placement opportunities.

This new teaser doesn't really show us anything aside from a bunch of suburbanites doing what they do best: staring into the distance at advancing carnage while inexplicably not heading for the hills. I mean, come on people, this is what those goddamned Land Rovers are for.

The 1953 George Pal version of War of the Worlds is one of my all-time favorite sci-fi movies, so while I'll retain some curiosity about the project, I don't expect to see any disintegrating priests like in the original. And if nothing else, hopefully it will erase the mental stain of Independence Day.

Batman Begins

Mmmmm, ninjas.

Nonetheless, I have to question the necessity of retelling the origin story yet again. I'd wager that there are more Nader voters out there than there are people unfamiliar with why Bruce Wayne became Batman, so why devote 1/2 of the film to bringing them up to speed? You're going to get the same shit in the next Superman movie, as well as Elektra.

Why do you think everyone went to see Passion of the Christ? Because of all that boring "turn the other cheek" and "do unto others" crap from his early days? Hell, no! They wanted to see Jesus like we all remember him: brandishing his chain gun while driving an assault tank up Golgotha to crush the French and found the United States of America.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Whoa. That seals it, I cannot freaking wait to see this. I don't care if Depp's Wonka looks a lot like that Peter Pan weirdo, or if that theme song reminds me of Lisa's tunnel ride in Duff Gardens, I'm there opening day.

Come to think of it, I'll be there before opening day. Nyah.

"But I thought you hated remakes." I do, and this isn't one. Let's not forget, the 1971 version was "based on" the book, and Roald Dahl hated it. Burton is reportedly making a movie much truer to the book's darker underpinnings. Maybe we'll even get to see a vermicious knid.

Racing Stripes

Heh. I actually have a pass for 2 to see this tomorrow night, if anyone's interested. I'll be doing something slightly more enjoyable, such as sawing through the webbing between my toes with a butter knife.

Constantine

Keanu Reeves brings about as much authenticity to the role of John Constantine as Rachel Weisz does to "cop on the edge." The only hope for this is to go in with the understanding that it doesn't have anything to do with the source material (JC would sooner put his Silk Cut out in your eye than utter a cheesy one-liner like, "Go to hell," for example). And I hope your acceptance threshhold for a gun shaped like a crucifix is greater than mine.

Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I did sit through The Phantom of the Opera last night, an experience I can best sum up with one word: "Hhrrgggccckkkkkkkk."

And Kathie Lee Gifford was airlifted in for moral support

OMG, like, who would've suspected a billion dollar retailing giant might pay its garment workers slave wages in order to keep prices low? As if:

Teen millionairesses Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen demanded retail giant Wal-mart provide female factory workers in Bangladesh with maternity leave and benefits in New York Thursday. The Full House stars, 18, were horrified to discover the workers creating their Olsen Twins clothing line, which is sold in Wal-Mart stores, were working in poor conditions. Just hours after a protest by members of America's National Labor Committee (NLC) began at Washington Square Park near New York University, where the sisters are studying, Mary-Kate and Ashley signed the petition for Wal-Mart to give workers the "legal right to maternity leave with benefits".

"We were shocked," The Olsens added, "All this time we were sure our line of affordable cutting edge apparel was lovingly crafted by elves and pixies in the mystical Forest of Snickerdoodle, under the watchful yet compassionate eye of the Faerie Queen."

"Bangladesh" sounds silly enough to be made up. Maybe that's where they got confused.

"There is no wind from the silver wolves, ROCK!"

Like most people, I hadn't given former Sabbath/Rainbow frontman and current Barbara Hershey lookalike Ronnie James Dio much thought until Tenacious D wrote a song about him a few years back. Imagine my surprise when I checked his website and discovered he's been releasing almost an album a year since the early '80s. Small wonder some refer to him as the "Cliff Richard of Metal."

And he also severed his thumb in a gardening accident last year. Thank you, internet.

Not that I would have bought his albums, of course, even had I known about them. What would be the point, since I now have access to the dark majesty of the Ronnie James Dio Lyric Generator?

Throw a couple "baby baby babys" in there and you'd have a Led Zeppelin lyrics generator.

Thanks, as always is the case with crap like this, to The Thing that Walks Like a Man.

On the radio, whoa-oh-oh-oh

After years of bitching about the lamentable state of Houston radio, I can officially delete every one of my presets on my factory issued car stereo, for The Wife got me a Sirius subscription for Xmas.

The biggest pain in the ass was running the antenna cable from my trunk. After that, it was all I could do not to get in the car and just drive to Vancouver. And I hate driving, normally. As it was, I contented myself with a 45 minute circuit up 290 and back, ostensibly to get our crabby daughter to take a nap.

To that end, I don't recommend any of the so-called "children's" stations (one of which was actually playing an Olsen twins song), or even the easy listening ones. Leo Sayer didn't knock her out, neither did Steely Dan or Tom T. Hall. Maybe it was a trick of timing, but the song she actually conked out to was "Walk" by Pantera.

That's my girl.

I haven't programmed any presets yet, but so far the stations I'm punching in the most are Faction (metal, hip-hop, punk mix), The Border (alternative country), First Wave (classic alternative), and Slow Jamz, uh, Buzzsaw. Yeah, Buzzsaw.

Most of you could probably not care less about this, but I'm excited as hell. Houston radio is horrible, but it embodies what the coming FCC-friendly Clear Channel airwaves will eventually look like all over the country. If you can afford it - especially if you live in this city - and you spend a fair amount of time in your car, you owe it to yourself to get satellite radio. I'm not sure how I lasted this long without one.

Oh right. The booze.

Ho ho homeless

Being the 4th largest city in the country, Houston has a lot of homeless people. Sure, the cops do an admirable job keeping them out of my upscale urban neighborhood, but every day you'll still run into them at the gas station, or by the underpass. Most hold signs describing, in brief, the conditions that led them to their current state. Things like, "Lost Job" or "Need Medicine" or "Have to Feed Kids."

I'm not made of stone, which means I'm probably a sucker, but I give money intermittently to the down and out I come across. Usually it's a buck or two, but if someone shows a little panache - a bit of a middle finger to their status - I'll kick in quite a bit more.

There was the guy on the Drag in Austin with a sign saying, "Need Beer. Why Lie?" And I donated freely to him until everybody started imitating him. Then there was the homeless kid in Dupont Circle in D.C. who came up to me as I was walking home from work and asked for a donation to the Church of Satan. He got a fiver, and it was even tax deductible.

But if I ran across this guy, I believe I'd have to empty my wallet:

Courtesy of Die Puny Humans

You are old, Father Merrin

Can't be much worse than the other version, I figure (via Dark Horizons):

It's long been talked about that Paul Schrader's dumped cut of "Exorcist: The Beginning" wouldn't be appearing anywhere until a special DVD boxset of the whole series came out sometime next year.

Now, Moviehole reports that his version is set to be released as a stand-alone movie all of its own. "Paul is currently in post-production on the movie, as we're anticipating a limited theatrical release here in the United States sometime in 2005" a representative of Morgan Creek told the Aussie film site this morning.

Schrader turned in a finished film to Morgan Creek, who promptly fired him for not giving with the gorefest the producers wanted. Renny Harlin was brought in to add new scenes and "juice things up," which he did, shooting almost 90% new material. Harlin's version became the Exorcist: The Beginning that came and went in the blink of an eye earlier this year.

Word is that Schrader's film is much more atmospheric and psychological, in keeping with the spirit of the original. I'm glad this is coming to the big screen and not DVD, the better to make a more legitimate comparison.

My thoughts on Harlin's take are pretty well known. Nice to see Schrader getting his shot.

Maybe now there's hope someone can get Paul W.S. Anderson off the Alien franchise.

Double nickels on the Dimebag

Pretty sad news coming out of Columbus, where some deranged idiot jumped on the stage at a Damageplan show and killed four people, including lead guitarist "Dimebag" Darrell:

A gunman charged onstage at a packed nightclub and opened fire on the band and crowd, killing top heavy metal guitarist "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott and three other people before a police officer shot him to death, authorities and witnesses said.

Police spokeswoman Sherry Mercurio identified three of the victims of Wednesday's shooting as Abbott, who played for the band Damageplan, and two other men, Nathan Bray and Erin Halk.

I heard the story this morning without realizing who Damageplan was (which just goes to show how far removed I am from being "with it"). Dimebag was quite the guitarist and a hell of a nice guy, by all accounts. His former band, Pantera, got plenty of play in my neck of the woods as a young man, seeing as how they were from Dallas. My favorite story about them is probably the one where the Stanley Cup got dented at a party Dimebag's brother Vinnie Paul threw for the Stars when Guy Carbonneau decided to lob it from a balcony into the pool.

Pantera, known for its brutally hard, fast and aggressive sound, recorded four albums in the 1990s. They attracted a massive cult following and the band's third release, "Far Beyond Driven," debuted at No. 1 in 1994, surprising chart-watchers and critics alike.

Of course, before they were known for their "brutally hard" sound, they were known for wearing leopard skin tanktops and playing hair metal. "Dimebag" even used to go by "Diamond" Darrell, which I always thought was hilarious.

Tonight I need to dig out my cassette of Vulgar Display of Power and listen to it while pondering why Ashlee Simpson still walks the earth.

Must...resist...lousy...pun

So, I saw Blade: Trinity.

It sucks.

Sorry. Too easy.