A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"'Obi-Wan.' Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time."

If it's Monday, that means there's another Star Wars Report up at Film Threat. This week, I take a look at the distinguished tradition of character names in the Star Wars franchise. It's almost as funny as it sounds.

Or not.

And the award for Least Influential Movie-Related Blog goes to...

Not many surprises at the Oscars last night. Chris Rock toed the line like everyone except ABC was pretty sure he would. Jamie Foxx and Hilary Swank won, like everyone was pretty sure they would, and Morgan Freeman won the lifetime achievement award, also know as Best Supporting Actor, like everyone but me was pretty sure he would (I was under the delusion he’d won before).

What follows is my somewhat coherent, “live” commentary, which is only now showing up because I forgot to actually publish it last night, and server issues kept me from doing it earlier today.

7:38 – Rock’s monologue had its moments, but the Catwoman 2 joke right before Halle Berry came out was pretty damn funny.
7:40 – My faith in humanity if maintained for a few more minutes: no Oscar for Phantom of the Opera.
7:51 – A better use of that 5-second delay that Robin Williams was apparently protesting would have been to just crop his entry entirely. Nice going, ABC.
8:13 – ...and that’s the only time Martin Lawrence will ever appear on an Academy Awards show.
8:20 – Jesus, the “Tim Robbins is a liberal” joke has been so beaten into the ground, the guy’s probably a Republican by now. (UPDATE: Or maybe not)
8:23 – Good. In a very tough field, I’m glad Cate Blanchett won. Though a Virginia Madsen victory would've brought much needed closure to my decades long Princess Irulan obsession.
8:30 – What A Surprise – Born into Brothels wins. In the Documentary category, always bet on Nazis or Third World children.
8:37 – The Wife noted that Sideshow Adam Duritz is doing a poor job distracting people from his encroaching hair loss.
8:43 – For the record, the Catherine Zeta-Jones gag was an incredibly unfunny way to get the two leads from The Longest Yard on stage at the same time.
8:49 – How the hell is Mickey Rooney still alive?
9:05 – Any Andrew Lloyd Webber composition would benefit from a little Beyonce booty-shaking. Sadly, it is not to be.
9:13 – I love the Shorts nominees (“We’re on TV!”). Oh, and Bill Plympton is hilarious.
9:21 – Ray finally wins one.
9:41 – How many times are we going to cut to Dustin Hoffman? Is it in his rider that he has to be shown every ten minutes?
9:50 – Those damned Hollywood liberals…clapping more for Jerry Orbach than Ronald Reagan.
9:56 – Always nice to see an appearance by noted cinema auteur P. Diddy.
9:58 - And the Beyonce Show continues. I can’t be the only one who wanted Rob Zombie to hang glide in and decapitate Josh Groban.
10:01 – Sean Penn looks like the drunk best man about to make a toast. And put your money on him in a fight against Chris Rock.
10:04 – What A Surprise, pt. 2 – Swank wins. Your time will come Kate, I promise.
10:15 – Good speech from Amenábar. Little by little, the memories of Benigni are flushed away.
10:26 – What A Surprise, pt. 3 – Foxx wins. His acceptance speech is a truly touching paean to child abuse.
10:33 – Maybe I’m the only one who was surprised, but I was kind of thinking Scorsese would finally win one. At least Eastwood’s speech allowed ABC to show Sidney Lumet’s daughters(?) one more time.

The show ran a hair over three hours (not counting the circle jerk of pre-ceremony coverage I somehow failed to watch). Not too shabby. I did enjoy the way my DVR program guide kept pushing the news back from 10:10 (please) to 10:30 to, finally, 10:45. It was like one of those 700 Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes where they encounter a "temporal anomaly."

"Ted, you know, if I die, you can have my Megadeth collection."

Does your significant other give you grief for those comic book longboxes, or that sheld of Animaniacs figures? Point them to this guy's web page. Things could always be worse (via Metafilter):

Being an expert in pre-judging people, I can make the following assumptions about this gentleman:

+ He has no kids
+ Or cats
+ He does not live near any active fault lines, volcanos, or elephants
+ Dusting takes an entire day
+ He keeps his "special" collections in the basement

Nobody's Diary

As mentioned earlier somewhere on this here weblog, neither Cursed nor Man of the House were screened for the press before their release today. While I have no doubt a self-referential, wiseass werewolf movie from the makers of Scream and a film in which Cedric the Entertainer splits his pants are worthy of derision, I kind of wish the makers of Diary of a Mad Black Woman had gone the same route.

Don't believe me? Read my review here.

What century is this again?

Unbelievable:

A spike in anti-Semitic vandalism and other possible hate crimes across Houston in recent months has alarmed police and set the Jewish community on edge, investigators and activists said Wednesday.

Since September, 14 such crimes have been reported in the Greater Houston area.

Eight occurred in a three-week period in December, said Martin Cominsky, regional director of the Anti-Defamation League.

All in retaliation for killing Jesus, no doubt.

I guess the only thing worse than a bunch of dipshit rednecks with a case of Olympia is a bunch of dipshit rednecks with a case of Olympia who've just rented The Passion of the Christ.

Most of the crimes involve vandalism at public places, including houses of worship and a Jewish community center. But there have also been threatening messages left on answering machines at synagogues in Houston and The Woodlands.

Police are concerned the crimes could eventually escalate to violent acts if the perpetrators aren't stopped.
...
In some cases, the words "Juden Raus" — meaning "Jews Out" — were painted on sidewalks and benches in southwest Houston. The slogan was the title of an infamous board game in Germany during the 1930s that capitalized on the Nazi era, but sold poorly.

Well, at least it sold poorly. Think about how much worse the Holocaust would've been if it had outsold the Berlin version of "Monopoly." Or the home version of the Beer Hall Putsch.

I am - big surprise - something of a cynical person, so I shouldn't be stunned into gaping slack-jawed at a story in the newspaper about ignorant twerps writing Juden Raus in the year Two Thousand Aught-freaking-Five. In a sick way, it's refreshing to know I can still be surprised.

Swastikas also were painted on eight of the large red domes decorating overpasses along the Southwest Freeway, and vulgarities regarding Jews were painted on a wall at a Montrose restaurant.

Swastikas and slogans such as "Jews Die" and "Aliens" were scratched into the doors of Congregation Brith Shalom in Bellaire and Congregation Emanu El.

I want to believe this is just the work of stupid kids, and not the beginning of some sort of coordinated anti-Semitic campaign of intimidation and violence. But after several years where the Muslim community bore the brunt of white supremacist activities, anti-Jewish crimes are on the rise again, not just in Houston, but in Los Angeles and the Northeast as well. The National Alliance held a major recruiting drive at the Daytona 500 last Sunday, and neo-Nazi music label "Panzerfaust" Records is conducting something it calls "Project Schoolyard," which involves passing out sampler CDs to schools.

Here's the track listing, taken from the ADL website:

1. Bound for Glory: "Tornado"
2. H8Machine: "Wrecking Ball"
3. Max Resist: "Ballad of Johnny Rebel"
4. Bound for Glory: "Hate Train Rolling"
5. Brutal Attack: "Under the Hammer"
6. Final War: "Tales of Honor"
7. Bound for Glory: "Teutonic Uprise"
8. Before God: "The Last Line of Defense"
9. Youngland: "Waitin' for the Ride"
10. Midtown Boot Boys: "White Kids"
11. Max Resist: "Ghost"
12. Fortress: "Commie Scum"
13. Rebel Hell: "Thirst for Conquest"
14. Bully Boys: "Jig Run"
15. Youngland: "American Justice"
16. Final War: "The Nationalist"
17. Day of the Sword: "White Supremacy"
18. Aggressive Force: "Might is Right"
19. Fortress: "Parasite"
20. Skrewdriver: "The Snow Fell"

I would dearly love to see them try to pass that around at our local high school (alma mater of Patrick Swayze and The Undertaker, coincidentally).

The Origin of the Specious

Some of you may recall the pathetic plea I made a few months ago for biographical information in the wake of severe head trauma (caused by repeated exposure to ABC's Wife Swap). There were many responses, which have cleared up a lot of questions about my past.

Using fragments of histories obtained a variety of diverse sources (the Dead Sea Scrolls, De Furtivis Literarun Notis, Combat Handguns, and Pia Zadora's Necronomicon) and submitted by helpful readers, I've managed to piece together a comprehensive and wholly accurate portrait of...myself.

And I had no idea I'd led such an interesting life. Without further windbaggery, here's everything you need to know about Pete, your host at A Perfectly Cromulent Blog.

First, for those of you bitching about a lack of pictures of yours truly, here you go:

And I think we can put those pesky alias rumors to rest, as detailed in Who's Who Among Unnecessary Pop Culture Bloggers:

"Pete Vonder Haar is the current nom de net of media entity Brian O'Blivion. In the early 1980s, Prof. O'Blivion gained fame as a television personality, but as the Internet gained prominence, he made the media jump to the online world, and in the process, changed his name.

"Prof. O'Blivion once noted that "The television screen is the retina of the mind's eye." As Pete Vonder Haar, he is at the moment uncertain as to whether the Internet is the mind itself, or merely the colon."

Funny, I thought it was "internets." I sure do miss that TV star lifestyle though...the chicks, the mountains of cocaine, the lost weekends with Todd Bridges.

And now, to business.

ORIGINS

The truth behind my ancestry is still apparently a bit hazy, it would seem. Imagine my delight when this bit from the Vanessa Williams issue of Penthouse was sent to me:

"Pete von der Haar (a/k/a the 15th Earl of Dordrecht) was born in 1969, the product of a tryst between a Pasadena, TX hotel cleaning lady and the bass player for Vanilla Fudge. Like Kaspar Hauser, young Pete was often kept in hotel broom closets and boiler rooms, without much significant human contact. A minor genius, however, Pete managed to reverse-engineer the rules of society learn using his Last Tango in Paris action figures.

Then there's this contradicting account, scrawled on a parchment removed from the skeletonized fingers of an explorer found on the Plain of Leng:

"Pete vonder Haar, noted film critic and prune Danish aficionado, was discovered at the mouths of the Ganges by a kindly Flemish couple at the age of six months. He had been floating in a small basket constructed of pitch-smeared bulrushes and subsisting on a diet of Cheez Whiz and beef jerky. His subsequent existence is shrouded in mystery, enigma, and confusion."

Mmmm....prune Danish. That sounds like it would go well with some refreshing beer. From the memoirs of Spuds McKenzie:

"Sometime in the late 1970s, a disgruntled vat scrubber at the Spoetzl Brewery in Shiner, Texas, purchased an untested hallucinogenic compound from an itinerant ElectroLux vacuum-cleaner salesman. In a drunken stupor, he committed a spiteful act of terrorism unparalleled in the annals of fermentation: he introduced the experimental narcotic into the Hot Wort tank. As he fled the scene, however, the hapless saboteur stumbled into Boggy Creek and was devoured by a school of ornery brook trout.

"Unwittingly, the Shiner Brewing Company distributed contaminated bottles of Shiner Bock across the state. A large portion of the tainted brew found its way to the supermarkets and package stores of College Station, where innocent, unsuspecting alcoholics purchased case after case. There, the potent elixir was consumed and the complex chemical compound wormed its way into the necrotic brain cells of thousands of credulous, beer-swilling Texans. And the persistent mass hallucination we know today as Peter Vonder Haar was born.

"Fueled by mysterious alchemy, mob psychology, a rare cosmic alignment, and narrative convenience, the Vonder Haar hallucination seeped into the collective subconscious and became infectious, passing from one diseased mind to another. Few were immune to the pernicious phantasm. Only a rare gene on the X chromosome allowed a fortunate handful of women to escape its influence -- to these happy few, Pete was invisible, and remains so to this day.

"I'm not your woman, I'm not your man, I am something that you'll never understand."

EARLY YEARS

Similarly, my adolescence appears to have been as confused as it was turbulent. Lets look back at that aforementioned issue of Penthouse:

"Pete himself prefers not to dwell on these dark times, and stage II of his remarkable life began when, at age 15, he was dumped in the dead of night on the 50-yard line of Kyle Field with a note reading "He's your problem now" stapled to his chest. Discovered by the Aggie Corps, he was adopted as an informal mascot (never able to supplant Reveille IV) and enrolled at the prestigious A & M Consolidated High School. However, Pete could not read, write, or speak in complete sentences, which meant that he fit in well with the other brain-dead Judas Priest fans yearning to attend the Monsters of Rock at Castle Donington."

I never could compete with that dog. Goddamn goody-two shoes. Or is it four shoes?

Further detail (and confusion) resulted from this passage, written in blood, which appeared on the wall of my basement one dreary morning:

"Pete 'The Hammer' von der Haar grew up in relative obscurity, never dreaming or knowing of the fame he would one day achieve. He got his nickname for his idolatry of Jan Hammer, the keyboardist of Miami Vice fame. Pete's obsession kept him off of the mean streets of Antwerp and rocketed him into near-stardom in eastern Europe. Alas, the early 80s had already whizzed by Pete in a blur, and there was no further need for big keyboard bridges and solos in pop music anymore. A-ha never returned his calls, Jan Hammer sent only an autographed 8x10 glossy in return to his requests for a studio session, and even Yamaha stopped comping him keyboards. Never one to back down, Pete hammered away at his keyboard still and attempted to convert his talents to the silver screen with big movie soundtracks, a la John Carpenter and Brad Fiedel, but the Hammer found his market over-saturated and impervious to his blows as well.

That stupid alligator never returned my calls either.

"ADULTHOOD"

Our first glimpses of my alleged maturation come from these words, translated from writings on a wall in darkest Bukovina:

"Nominated for Secretary of State by a delusional man, Vonder Haar found himself the subject of an official FBI investigation and was subsequently convicted of smuggling marmots, the only felony blemish on an otherwise misdemeanorish record. (The smuggling charge was enhanced by the judge's finding that the marmots were carried in the trousers in a prurient fashion.)"

As if there's any other way to carry marmots. Compare this to what those wiseass blood-scrivening poltergeists had to say:

"It was then that Pete entered his dark years, and he tried to run from everything, even his moniker. He disappeared into the east and rumor has it he trained intensely with the swordmaster Syrio Florel. Pete returned three years later, insisting on being called 'The Needle. His talents now were focused on swordplay and its rise in popularity' on the silver screen. He narrowly missed out on the part to play Conan the Barbarian, even though his swordplay was excellent - better than Mr. Schwarzenegger's - but in the end they were looking for someone a bit more 'Mr. Universe-ish' (Pete bitterly contends to this day that Conan's utterances of 'Crom!' were all based on his own ad-libs during the call-back). Pete then got his big break by playing the understudy for the stand-in for Chow Yun-Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and the rest, as they say, is elementary history, dear Watson.

More proof that my writing of movie reviews stems from my failures in the industry itself. Still, this would seem to be at odds with the last words of former President Ronald Reagan who, in a stunning moment of lucidity, uttered the folowing:

"Following the collapse of the soviet union, a dejected young Comrade Vonder Haar wandered across Europe searching for a new homeland. Stripped of his glorious position as head of the Personal Hygiene brigade of the Young Pioneers, Vonder Haar grew depressed and turned to drink."

That sounds about right. But before I could remove myself from his bedchamber and its attendant stench of death, he continued:

"His fate was transformed over night when, in the midst of a 3-day bender at Stockholm's Lydmar Hotel bar, another patron of the establishment tuned the TV in to a U.S. satellite network. The haze cleared from Vonder Haar's head in response to a strange, pleasing sound coming from the television:

"'Before I show you how to make a fortune in real estate, let me tell
you my story. Me and my family came to America broke. I couldn't speak English at the time… I still couldn't speak English now, but I found a way to make a fortune in real estate investment and I went on to teach thousands across America how to do the same. If you want to make a fortune in real estate, come to my FREE seminar.'

"A shot of adrenaline rushed through Vonder Haar. His fate was suddenly clear and that fate had a name: Tommy Vu".

"The hotel owner - eager to have Vonder Haar leave his establishment
before another major fire was started by a cigarette fallen from his
drunken lips - loaned him the money to buy a plane ticket to Houston. The rest is history. Today, Vonder Vu World Enterprises employs more spokesmodels than any other corporation in the entire world."

This would be only the first mention of toothsome feminity I came across in my research, but certainly not the last, as those Bukovinan cave writings would prove:

"Gifted with the ability to travel time and space by a magic pixie named "Autosomic Psychosis", Pete spends his vacations along the beaches of the Niobrara Sea in Kansas, 78 million years B.C., but has yet to report finding anything that resembles Raquel Welch. Who is, it must be said, frankly unto a dog compared to Pete's wife, but Ms. Welch's undeniable influence on young Pete's, let's say, appreciation of film overwhelms his otherwise flawless critical sense as well as his sense of marital danger."

The Wife, unfortunately, always has a convenient excuse to avoid wearing the fur-lined bikini I procured for her. Figures.

THE PRESENT

So, besides being time-traveling real estate magnate, what else is going on in my life?

"Known chiefly for wearing plus-fours and a natty tam-o'-shanter, he spends his working days at the intersection of the West Loop South and the South Loop West pounding out film critiques on an aging Commodore 64, the last of its breed."

I left my Amiga in the Mesozoic Era, it seems.

"The Vonder Haar hallucination evolved over time, becoming louder, more tangible, and slightly wider around the middle. It continues to find new ways to propagate itself -- first via the mass consensual delusion that is the Internet, and most recently through the creation of material offspring (best not to think too much about that).

"The future of the Vonder Haar hallucination is open to speculation, but the consequences for civilization as we know it are certain to be dire."

"You're looking at my gut, aren't ya? I'm working on it!"

And what was that about a family?

Pete currently lives in Houston's historic and scenic Fifth Ward with his wife, the former Mrs. Jeff Bagwell, and their adorable infant daughter, Chardonnay."

Now were talking. And I bet I can share some of that sweet, sweet Golden Palace profit, too.

What was that about a daughter?

Pete's daughter, whose name ("Winter Loveducky Vonder Haar") remains a closely guarded secret, plays the trombone professionally in the Tower of Power.

Casino endorsements? Professional musicians? I'll never have to work again.

Finally, this excerpt - written in John Bonham's terminal vomitus on a snare drumhead made from human flesh and handed to my agent David Kabakov during Super Bowl X - would appear to sum up my life quite aptly:

"Who knows where he came from, and who cares. We're just glad he came, with his shotgun and battered jeep and devil-dog, a blazing hurricane of kung-fu and zombie-fighting action. Thank the sweet little baby Jesus for Pete von der Haar -- lover, philosopher, acrobat and roguish jewel thief, privateer, and pioneer of endocrinology. His record is as long as his arm, and maybe something else is as well -- ladies, investigate.

"They say he's got a checkered past. He's a mystery, this one -- this lonely ghost with a pocket full of dreams and a belly full of bourbon and blues, the weight of a nation hanging on his shoulders, buoyed up only by a heart that's bigger than you or me. You can't walk a mile in his boots, pilgrim -- it's a hot, hot kitchen where he's going, and where he's been is as cold as liquid shade.

"But that's just Pete, breaking hearts and breaking heads, sometimes both at once but never twice in the same way, an elemental force if one of the elements were 'macho'. He's playing through the pain, he's taking one for the team, he's pushing the envelope and the envelope better not push back if it knows what's good for it.

"So forget where he came from. That's need to know, baby, and all you need to know is that somewhere, maybe across the world or around the block or standing right behind you, somewhere there's a man who strikes while the iron is hot, because he IS the iron, and the bad guys are being taken to the cleaners. Let go of the past; let go of the covert work in Burma, the rumors about him and Helen Mirren, those stories about the addiction to barium.

"God Bless Pete von der Haar, bad-ass warts and all."

Yeah, well, barium will do that to you.

portrait of me and The Wife courtesy of my friend Sara

Thanks to Norbizness, Greg, Steve, Andy, Sarah, Karin, Mason, and Brandon.

You oughta be in pictures

For those of you with time to kill this summer (and no worries about income), Troma is hiring for positions on their next movie, Poultrygeist: Attack of the Chicken Zombies:

The feature film will go into production this summer, and all positions are open immediately. Though the positions are UNPAID, the cost of materials will be covered, and all will lead to prominent credits in the final film.

Makeup / Special Effects: The effects team will be responsible for designing and building decaying corpses, bloodied severed limbs, various appliances, and the vast army of monster/zombie chickens.

Costume Designer: The costume designer will be responsible for creating a fast food corporation’s employee uniform and chicken-mascot costume, and all other costumes needed.

Set Designer: The set designer will be responsible for creating the signage and interior for a fast food corporation’s newest franchise restaurant, as well as other sets crucial to "Poultrygeist!".

Choreographer: The choreographer will be responsible for arranging and coaching several musical numbers.

A chroeographer for Troma. My dream of bringing an undead version of the "Chicken Dance" to the big screen is within my reach. Curse my lack of trust fundage.

And Lucasfilm releases the hounds in T minus 3, 2...

Crazy as it may sound, some of you out there just aren't into Star Wars. While I'm comfortable with the thought that such Philistines frequent my weblog, I should preface this entry by saying you probably won't be interested in the link I'm about to drop (via Fark).

Fair warning, this page contains a series of pics (and some brief movie clips) from pretty much the opening scene to the end of Episode III. Everything is here, including the fates of Amidala and Mace Windu, the Yoda/Sidious duel, and more or less the entire plot (such as it is) of the film. There won't be many surprises for anyone who's kept even one eye on the film's developments, but there are some nifty things in there that might spoil your viewing enjoyment.

If you're planning on viewing it, that is.

If that hasn't deterred you. Click here.

Wack in black

My fondness for heavy metal never extended to its Satanic offshoot known as black metal. I had a friend in college who played a lot of Candlemass and Celtic Frost, but it was never my cup of tea. If pressed for actual reasons, I'd have to say I wasn't that big on barked vocals, sludgy guitars, and songs about setting fire to heaven.[1] If that's your thing, more power to you.

It was never about the way they dressed, however.

Over at Ruthless Reviews, they have a list of the 10 Most Ridiculous Black Metal Pics of All Time. As with that page of Swedish band postacards or The Hall of Douchebags, these are priceless. Mike from Hobart's commentary isn't bad either. A sample:

Immortal take the number two spot with this pic, and for good reason. LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING SHIN GUARDS! Since when did Satan have his own ice hockey team?

and

And three, for Frost's homemade arm bands complete with 10" carpentry nails. Seriously, it looks like he punched a fucking porcupine to death.

Of course, you could just as easily make a similar list about '80s hair bands. Now there's an idea.

[1] This applies to KISS songs as well

Huzzah.

What was that noise?

America's most dangerous radio show is set to return to the Houston airwaves.

Somebody resurrected Charles Coughlin?

CC has run out of legaleze protection and the non compete shields are down. Prepare to fire anti boring phasers.

Jesus, is there anything more tired than the self-martyrdom of morning radio DJs? As reluctant as I am to revisit this topic, I will not ignore the fact that somebody saw fit to put these two homunculi back on the air. I hope all of their educated and absolutely in no way homophobic fans enjoy the return of everyone's favorite Rich Little wannabes. Me? I'll still be listening to my Sirius satellite radio in the mornings, thanks.

You remember satellite radio, that's the place with 14 actual rock channels where the DJs are allowed to drop the occasional f-bomb without crapping themselves over an FCC fine. Which differs somewhat from the case of "America's most dangerous radio show," who have to settle for whining about their ill treatment at the hands of those lousy Mexicans. And maybe they'll have a funny "gay impersonator" to distract all of you from the fact that they're not playing any goddamned music.

Thanks, I suppose, to Chuck for the heads up.

"The oldies are not goodies!"

What with their hard candy, long-winded anecdotes, and love of sodomites:

We're already hearing that Rove has tapped Bill Bennett to take up his anti-AARP slime crusade. And another TPM Reader, JW, has just drawn our attention to a USANext ad (second down on the right hand column) currently running on the American Spectator website.

(USANext, you'll remember from this morning's Times, is the GOP seniors astroturf group now tasked with roughing up AARP for opposing Social Security phase-out.)

The ad in question:

So the AARP, which actually supported Bush's prescription drug plan, has the temerity to voice its displeasure with proposed Social Security cuts, causing Rove to release the spurious affiliation hounds.

Marshall has links to other ads waiting in the wings: This one, which places "AARP" in a rogues' gallery that includes Hillary Clinton and Ted Kennedy, and this one, a poll that asks which is more liberal, the AARP, ACLU, NAACP, or NARAL? I assume the follow-up question is, "When - if ever - do you think those retired, pinko, gangbanging baby murderers stopped beating their wives?"

I'd assume this kind of sleazery would backfire on Rove and company at some point...except it hasn't yet. As with the Swift Boat Veterans, these guys have proven they can make whatever baseless and unsubstantiated claims they wish and significant numbers of people out there will believe them. I'd like to think this is going to come back to bite Bush on the ass, but precedent isn't exactly in my favor. We'll see what happens if these banners ever show up places that aren't Administration apologists like the Spectator web site.

It's worse than we thought

As if that one bowel-clenching tidbit about the revamped Looney Tunes lineup wasn't enough, the Thing That Walks Like a Man points me to an honest-to-Avery preview of the abomination. I'll give you a few minutes.

...

That team of monkeys WB hired must have worked overtime to scrawl something this dreadful looking on the walls in their own feces. Let's run down the roster of "Loonatics," shall we?

Daffy Duck is now, uh, Duck - Weapons Expert: No chance of hearing, "Well, whaddya know...it disintegrated," I suppose. Equipped with built-in sonar. Like all ducks.

Wile E. Coyote is now Slick - Vehicle and Surveillance: Yes, "slick" is a clever variation on "Wile E." And of course, Wile E. Coyote is exactly who you want handling your vehicular needs. In one of the few appropriate changes, he also has "regenerative abilities."

The Roadrunner is Roadster - Speedster: I'm reasonably sure roadsters existed in the 1950s, so I'm not sure how this name is really an upgrade. Nice to see he and Wile E. could put aside their differences to combat...what was it? Oh yeah, "giant mutated worms" and "supernatural warlords with plans of world domination." No 28th century equivalents of Black Jacques Shellac out there, I guess.

Lola Bunny is Lexi Bunny - Disguise Expert: Makes sense. It isn't like anyone knew who Lola Bunny was to begin with. She has "super hearing," which must've taken a lot of thought, given that she's a fucking rabbit.

The Tasmanian Devil is...sigh...Spaz - The Muscle: Which muscle is never specified. Perhaps it's his tongue, seeing as how he possesses "jaws of steel."

Bugs Bunny is Buzz Bunny - The Leader: Equipped with laser vision and martial arts abilities, this bunny won't be dressing like a woman to fool hunters; apparently he'd rather pull Elmer's pancweas out and choke him to with it. And that "What's up, Doc?" sounds suspiciously like Joe Mantegna's Fat Tony, which makes a certain sense. Fat Tony is a sterotypical Mob character, and Buzz Bunny is stereotypical over-marketed dogshit.

I'd worry that my kids will grow up knowing this version of the Looney Tunes instead of the originals, except I'd bet my bootlegged WWII Porky Pig cartoons ("Son of a b-b-b-bitch") that they don't last more than two seasons.

Everyone's a critic

But not so much this weekend, which is going to be a banner one for the moviegoing public. Seems the two "biggest" movies opening on Friday (Man of the House and Cursed) are not being screened for the press.

It isn't likely to make much of a difference, of course. Van Helsing, Aliens vs. Predator, and Boogeyman, to name a few, weren't screened in advance either.[1] And all three of them managed just fine at the box office. It's a chickenshit move, but not ineffective, and serves the bottom line.

Nevertheless, in order to combat these continuing egregious acts of studio cowardice, I'm toying with the idea of preemptive reviews. Frankly, if they're not going to give me the opportunity to check out their films, I think I'm entitled to make as many judgements and assumptions about their (lack of) quality as I damn well please.

I'm just getting off the ground with this, but so far I've come up with the following:

MAN OF THE HOUSE - Continuing America's love affair with all things Texas, director Stephen Herek sets his "reimagining" of Adventures in Babysitting in the state's capitol, where Tommy Lee Jones has his hands full taking care of five lesbian college cheerleaders for the University of Texas. The girls' constant experimentation with PCP leads to a series of violent mishaps, culminating in their taking to the field in the school's annual game against Texas A&M, which they win handily. With cameos by Texas Governor Rick Perry as street hustler "Raul 'Dirty' Sanchez" and State Comptroller Carole Keeton Strayhorn as "Madame Oviraptor."

These are just rough drafts, mind you...

CURSED - When was the last time you had to sit through one of Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven's post-modern horror films? Well that's too long. This time around, the duo bleed still more money from the genre's corpse with a story about werewolves, also known as the "white trash" of the monster world. Plagued with production delays and kept on the shelf for a year in order to build up anticipation for pop singer Mya's return to the big screen, Cursed dares to ask the question, "Will anyone go to a movie with Christina Ricci and Shannon Elizabeth in it if they both keep their shirts on?" The answer: "Don't be stupid." Still, this is your last chance for a fright flick until The Ring Two comes out. In 26 days.

So there you have it: any film that doesn't get an advance press showing is getting reviewed by me anyway. And I can pretty much guarantee my recaps will contain more drugs, pornography, and mopery[2] than even sleazy Hollywood executives can dream of.

Not that I'm really that upset about missing Man of the House.

[1] I got to see these because of Thursday night promo screenings, which is the next best thing for nervous studio execs, because newspaper critics have no way of submitting their write-ups before Friday's edition is put to bed, and nobody runs reviews on Saturday or Sunday. Luckily for me, the internets never sleep.
[2] Revenge of the Nerds definition.

"You are unwise to lower your defenses."

As promised, my new weekly column is up today at Film Threat. Because I'm sure you have nothing better to do, feel free to go take a look at the first installment of The Star Wars Report.

Hunter. S. Thompson, R.I.P.

Raoul Duke is dead:

Hunter S. Thompson, the acerbic counterculture writer who popularized a new form of journalism in books like "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," fatally shot himself Sunday night at his Aspen-area home, his son said. He was 67.

Wow. I guess there's a certain...inevitability to this, but after everything the man had subjected his body to over the years, one always got the impression Thompson would go on forever.

I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas my freshman year of college (how original). I followed it up with just about everything else of his I could get my hands on (I like to think this contributed to my dropping journalism as a major). His later stuff never approached the work he did early on, but he was still capable of the occasional bullseye.

So long, Dr. Gonzo. Strange as it sounds, you were one of the last voices of reason in these fucked up times.

How bad have things gotten when the man who fought Nixon tooth and nail chose this particular time to kill himself?

UPDATE: And in a weird coincidence, it appears Sandra Dee has died as well.

"Up yours."

At long last, after months of agonizing over the casting of Keanu Reeves, the shifting of locales from London to Los Angeles, and the bowel-clenching terror brought on at the possibility of a Hellblazermobile, Constantine has finally been released upon an unsuspecting world.

I saw it. And as I say in my first review of the movie on Film Threat, it's not bad. A Reeves-less version would've been better, but all told a decent flick.

Of course, I did say that was my "first" review.

See, I knew going into this I'd have trouble keeping my feelings about the comic book (I've read all 200+ issues) from coloring my opinion of the film. Surely, I thought, there was a way to write a coherent review that incorporated my love of the title and also judged the film on its own merits.

There may be, but if there is, I'm not talented enough to do it.

So I did what any intellectual coward would do: I wrote two reviews. The first, as I mentioned earlier, is on the site. It's written for the person who has absolutely no prior knowledge of the comic. From that perspective, it gets three stars.

The second review (available here), is written for fans of Hellblazer. As an adaptation, Constantine gets one star. And barely that.

And I wish I could've put this image in the review. This one's for you, Warner Brothers:

That's John Constantine, you ingrates, not some vacuous, mumbly pretty boy with a "holy shotgun." Apparently only Superman and Batman warrant faithfulness to the source material. I can hardly wait for the Transmetropolitan movie with Spider as a columnist for Cat Fancy. Or the film version of The Invisibles where they all join together to form a giant gay robot.

"Excuse me, but 'proactive' and 'paradigm'? Aren't these just buzzwords that dumb people use to sound important?"

I should probably be more indignant about this news than I actually am:

Hoping to breathe new life into its animated Looney Tunes franchise and prop up the WB television network's slumping Kids' WB line-up, Time Warner Inc.'s Warner Bros. is planning to launch a new cartoon series this fall based on "re-imagined" versions of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Tasmanian Devil, Lola Bunny, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.

Warner Bros. has created angular, slightly menacing-looking versions of the classic Looney Tunes characters for its new series, dubbed "Loonatics" and set in the year 2772. Names for the new characters haven't been finalized, but they are likely to be derived from the originals: Buzz Bunny, for example. Each new character retains personality quirks of the original. The new Bugs, for example, will be the natural leader of the Loonatics' spaceship; the new Daffy will remain confident that he is the one who should be in charge.

Warner Bros. isn't sending the venerable original Looney Tunes cast into retirement. But it is trying to update the characters' appeal among modern kids. The classic characters were wisecrackers who rode their irreverent humor to stardom in the 1940s. The challenge now for Warner Bros. is to find a fresh way to tap the funny bone of an audience raised on Bart Simpson and SpongeBob SquarePants.

Yeah, because neither The Simpsons nor SpongeBob have ever directly stolen bits from Looney Tunes (Homer "going crazy" in the "Shinning" segment from Treehouse of Horror VI, for example). Come on, people...the original Looney Tunes have been ripped off for material by every cartoon since Yogi Bear.

Because I believe in sharing the pain, here's a pic of the "reimagined" characters:

Who the hell is "Lola Bunny?"

I get it, of course; today's youth are much more into that "extreme" thing than old farts like yours truly, who - in spite of growing up in the era of Star Wars and KISS - were still content to watch repeats of 35 year-old cartoons every Saturday morning for ten years. What were we thinking?

Funny is funny, dammit. Daffy Duck as Danny Kaye scatting to Red Riding Hood in "Book Revue" was funny. Bugs and Daffy toying with Elmer Fudd in "Rabbit Fire" was funny. Foghorn Leghorn saying "He's about as sharp as a sack full of wet mice" is funny. Like it or not, these cartoons are classics, and accessible to most all ages.

But why listen to me when you have the geniuses at WB making such cogent arguments?

"The new series will have the same classic wit and wisdom, but we have to do it more in line with what kids are talking about today," says Sander Schwartz, president of Warner Bros. Animation. The plots are action-oriented, filled with chases and fights. Each character possesses a special crime-fighting power.

Jesus, they've made an animated version of Misfits of Science.

Sounds familiar? The format echoes a successful show Warner Bros. launched in 2003 on its WB network and Cartoon Network called "Teen Titans," about five teenage superheroes. The series, featuring dark, futuristic characters, based on such DC Comics personalities as Robin the Boy Wonder, quickly became a hit. It ranked No. 26 among kids programs for the fourth quarter last year.

Uh, yeah...except Teen Titans dates back to the 1960s. Using this logic, why doesn't Warner Brothers make a new TV series out of Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen?

A more fitting comparison might be to the series mentioned here:

Given Warner's mixed track record over the past two decades with the Looney Tunes franchise, advertisers may be wary. Steven Spielberg sparked things up in the early 1990s with "Tiny Toons," a series in which new characters interacted with the originals. But a 2002 effort, "Baby Looney Tunes," has been a dud for the Cartoon Network, where it ended the fourth quarter ranked No. 104 among kids programs.

Tiny Toons was intermittently amusing, if decidedly inferior to other WB fare like Freakazoid and Animaniacs. It only ran for two years, which leads me to think that revised versions of the Looney Tunes characters might be a bit played out.

It's a risky time to launch an expensive Saturday-morning cartoon. Kraft Foods Inc., which spent about $90 million on children's advertising in 2004, said in January it would stop advertising junk food to kids under 12. The company's decision, coming as the food industry generally is shifting kids advertising dollars to the Internet and videogames, is expected to result in softer ad sales. The kids "upfront" market, when $700 million to $800 million in national kids-TV advertising is sold to deep-pocketed marketers, kicks off today.

Kraft's brave decision to stop shilling its individually wrapped slices of thrombosis to The Children notwithstanding, Saturday mornings are a wasteland for kids' programming. Long gone are the days when the intrepid pre-adolescent could spend five hours watching The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Show, followed by Land of the Lost, the Banana Splits, or Thundarr the Barbarian (and all punctuated liberally by those annoying "In the News" segments). These days, you get cartoons on only two stations (UPN and WB), and weekend versions of Today and The Early Show elsewhere.

I used to think those stupid Bugs Bunny cartoons would run forever. How wrong I was.

It's not as if the Kids' WB has much of a choice about whether to be so aggressive. At a time when the behemoths of kids TV -- cable TV's Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network and the Disney Channel -- are gaining or stable, ratings on broadcast TV's Kids' WB have plunged.

That's quite the dilemma: boost your children's programming to cover more hours or continue to float your network on quality fare like Judge Mathis and Elimidate.

I'm glad Chuck Jones isn't alive to see this.

Ah, me public

So, about a year and a half ago I wrote a column about the William L. Petersen movie To Live and Die in L.A. for Film Threat (you can read it in all its poorly formatted glory here). In it, I went off on a bit of an outdated diatribe about the film's lack of availability on DVD, which is no longer the case. There was also a throwaway line that I didn't really think about after I'd written it:

Then again, if it weren’t for my VHS copy, I’d never be able to enjoy the classic 1985 commercial for Nestlé Alpine White chocolate ("Sweet dreams you can’t resist, N-E-S-T-L-E-S"), but I digress.

This weekend, I received the following e-mail, which I...uh, just had to share with you:

From: "XXX" [XXX@hotmail.com]
To: input@filmthreat.com
Subject: Re: Pete Vonder Haar...N-E-S-T-L-E-S commercial TRIVIA
Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2005 19:00:07 -0500

Here's some trivia on the classic N-E-S-T-L-E-S commercial you found at the beginning of the film, Live and Die in LA.

It was shot in New York City on the upper west side, January, 1986, two weeks before the Shuttle Challenger disaster. The Maxfield Parrish artwork was used as a back drop. The commercial ran for three years until the Maxfield Parrish estate sued Nestle because they apparently didn't ask permission to recreate the art work. The commercial, although timeless, was pulled from all markets.

Darn...I made good money on that one.

I was the second model in the commercial, the young, dark-headed guy. It took 45 minutes for them to shoot my scene. I was in makeup longer than that. This is how it went. I had to stand on a box, take a bite of the bar, then spit it in a bucket, behind me to the right...very glamorous. After multiple takes, a person can get sick on all that chocolate and I'm not fond of white chocolate so I had to muster what few acting skills that I had at the time. The studio was so cold that the chocolate bars would break off in my mouth (not too appetizing) so if you look closely, I don't really take a bite, I just fake chewing. I still have an original copy of the commercial given to me by the advertising agency that produced it. HEHE! What trivia!

And now you know the REST of the story!

Now sing along with your friends...

Sweet dreams are made of this, N-E-S-T-L-E-S
A dream as sweet as this, N-E-S-T-L-E-S
Creamy white, dreamy white
Nestle makes the very best, N-E-S-T-L-E-S
Sweet dreams you can't resist.

Great, now I have to go dig that tape out again.

Oh, and I have a new column (not Footage Fetishes) that will be making its debut on FT next week. Stay tuned.

"It saddens and hurts me that the two young men whom I raised to believe in the Ten Commandments have returned to me as two thieves, with filthy mouths and bad attitudes."

Last night showed me quite conclusively that there are some advantages to doing a little legwork on the movies you're about to screen. The film in question? Diary of a Mad Black Woman.

As a Reasonably Upbeat White Man, I determined right away that I wasn't quite who writer Tyler Perry had in mind for his audience. In fact, the other three press guys and I constituted 80% of the white male audience for the flick (and the other guy was, I'm pretty sure, another reviewer who showed up late). No big deal, as I was only cursorily aware of Perry as a writer and the character of Madea, the mouthy, gun-toting old woman he also plays. I'm (usually) always interested in checking out something new, so this was - I hoped - going to be a learning experience.

Trepidation started setting in when I recognized the call letters for the radio station doing the promotion. KWWJ is a local gospel station that I'm not all that familiar with, to put it mildly. The t-shirt contest consisted of Bible questions, which led to a series of "humorous" muttered responses from the four assembled press assholes, yours truly, "Zeke," "Bubs," and "Bort:"

Q: What is the 2nd book of the Bible?
Zeke: Midnight in the Garden of Gethsemane
Bubs: Exodus: Movement of Jah People
Bort: Which Bible?
Pete: Genesis II - The Wrath of Cain

Bubs got that one.

Q: If you attend next month's Praise and Worship Conference, you will receive:
Zeke: One meeelion dollars.
Bubs: One night with Mel Gibson.
Bort: A ride in the Popemobile?
Pete: An autographed picture of Jesus Christ.

What a bunch of sad, bitter men we are.

Priest, forgive thyself

Because no one else will:

Defrocked priest Paul Shanley, a central figure in the Boston Archdiocese clergy sex abuse scandal, was sentenced today to 12 to 15 years in prison for raping a boy repeatedly in the 1980s.

"It is difficult to imagine a more egregious misuse of trust and authority," Judge Stephen Neel said in imposing the term. But he turned aside a prosecutor's request for a life sentence.

Shanley, 74, once known for a being a hip "street priest" who reached out to troubled children and homosexuals, was convicted last week of two counts each of child rape and indecent assault and battery on a child.

I'll just bet he "reached out" to troubled children. There's not much left to say now about this wretched man. At 74, 12 to 15 years (eligible for parole after 8) means Shanley will likely die in prison.

Though not necessarily of natural causes:

Some inmate advocates say whatever prison term Shanley gets could amount to a death sentence.

Another key figure in the scandal in Massachusetts, former priest John Geoghan, was beaten and strangled behind bars in 2003, a year after being convicted of molesting a 10-year-old boy. A fellow prisoner later told investigators he killed Geoghan "to save the children."

"He's so high-profile that that puts a big target on his back," said James Pingeon, a lawyer at Massachusetts Correctional Legal Services, a group that provides civil legal services to inmates. "We feel concerned. Obviously, he's a vulnerable person because of his notoriety and his age."

True, but as long as he asks for forgiveness everything will be all right, won't it?

Conscious as I am of the horrific conditions in American prisons, I'm having a hard time dredging up a lot of sympathy for Shanley. If I believed in hell, my fervent hope would be for him to burn in it.

But who will host the Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence awards now?

Heavens, do I detect a whiff of unpleasantness surrounding the upcoming Academy Awards ceremony?

The producer of the Oscars said Monday he was not concerned by comments from comedian and first-time host Chris Rock that belittled the event.

"Chris' comments over the past few weeks are meant to be humorous digs at a show that some people, obviously including Chris himself, think may be a bit too stuffy," producer Gil Cates said in a statement released by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

In an interview with Entertainment Weekly, Rock called the notion of giving awards for art "idiotic" and said he has never cared for the Academy Awards, which he likened to a "fashion show." He said the only time he watched was when black actors were nominated.

"What straight black man sits there and watches the Oscars? Show me one," Rock was quoted as saying in the magazine's February 4 issue.

Well, I went to college - and watched the Oscars - with one, but I'm hesitant to "out" him in a public forum. Hopefully he's found a way to live with the shame.

Admittedly, I was never excited about the choice of Rock to host the Oscars in the first place. I don't think he's all that funny, but that's okay, because I don't think Billy Crystal or Whoopi Goldberg are that funny either. However, Rock's comments - besides smacking of petulance - would seem to be a great example of biting the hand that feeds you.

Or they would be, of this wasn't just want Cates wanted in the first place.

Rock was hired because he was supposedly "edgy" (as edgy as anyone appearing in Head of State could be, at least). Everyone seems to be overlooking the fact that hosting the Oscars is about the least subversive gig in showbusiness. The mere fact that he agreed to take their money calls his motivation into question. So please don't be fooled into thinking his comments in EW were anything less than a calculated strategy to bolster lagging Oscar ratings by getting young people to watch on February 27 in the hopes that Rock will say something provocative.

Which he probably won't. Cynical ploy or not, Rock will be on an extremely short leash Oscar night. Not that it'll be needed. Unless he's already given up on a movie career, he's unlikely to piss off the money people and risk getting (you'll pardon the expression) blackballed by saying something stupid.

Which reminds me...

In other recent interviews Rock has described The Aviator as "a weird movie" and vowed to steal an Oscar for Jamie Foxx if the actor does not win one himself.

That's an empty threat. Foxx is an ironclad lock for Best Actor.

"Hawaii? Goddamn it, Bill, I'm supposed to be in California."

Anyone else checked out the lineup for this year's Coachella Valley Music Festival? Here's a sampling:

Saturday - April 30
Bauhaus
Weezer
Cocteau Twins
Wilco
Keane
Mercury Rev
Spoon

Sunday - May 1
Nine Inch Nails
New Order
Gang of Four
Prodigy
Black Star
The Arcade Fire
Tegan and Sara

Not only that, but one of my new favorite bands, the cabaret-pop duo Dresden Dolls, will be playing as well. "Coin-Operated Boy" is my current earworm of choice. If such a thing exists.

Leaving me to content myself with Two Cow Garage and the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash at SXSW, I guess.

Anyway, if you're going to California for Coachella, I hate you and everything you stand for. Have a wonderful time.

"You dropped your tampons, Satan."

I caught part of a commercial the other day for some product I don't remember (but was probably for a pill that gives old men boners), but what I do recall was that the set-up featured a young man enduring the apparent supreme embarrassment of buying a box of tampons for his girlfriend. Various recognizable touchstones of the experience were used, including the dreaded price check over the PA system and the pointing and laughing of his peers.

Sweet Tampax of AMPAS, is this still something guys worry about? I suspect not. More likely, those savvy advertising types have run out of CG babies and beer-fetching dogs to shill their useless crap and so have resorted to the next best thing: the attempted emasculation of the red-blooded American male.

Meh. Most guys realized early on that the key piece of information communicated to the rest of the crowd at Albertson's while standing in the checkout line with a box of Playtex, or depilatory cream, or panty hose, was that we were actually enjoying the intimate company of a member of the opposite sex. Next time you fine gentlemen tending to your SO's needs feel shamed, ask the guy with the copy of Maxim and the Totino's Extra Cheese which hand he's going to use that night.

And besides, how many times has that special someone brought home a six-pack or a couple of burritos for you? Your alleged manhood can take the hit.

Jane, stop this crazy thing

The only question I had after hearing this news was; when's the Alpha Flight movie coming out? I mean, Marvel's already dredging up titles like Ghost Rider and Iron Fist in order to keep the cash cow going, and now even the lackluster movies are getting sequels:

An AICN source attended the Dallas Comic Con Convention over the weekend where actor Thomas Jane was at a panel and was asked about the "Punisher" sequel rumours:

"Thomas' response was... "Oh, is that still just a rumor?" We all perked up, Niles asked Jane if he could talk about this, and Thomas said "Why Not." Jane let the cat out of the bag and told the room that yesterday at a studio in north Dallas filmed the teaser for "Punisher 2". No word on when or where we will see this trailer though.

Jane said that while the script is not finished, he is working closely with the team. He said that he is doing EVERYTHING he can do to get the setting moved to the borroughs of New York and that Jigsaw is "more than likely" going to be the villian in the movie.

I'm still dreading the official notification that Daredevil 2 has been greenlit.

Like any parent, I wasn't angry at the first Thomas Jane Punisher movie (Dolph Lundgren's 1989 effort defies categorization) so much as I was disappointed. Updating his origin from Vietnam to the Gulf War was a necessary step (nothing about the Punisher's early years demanded the story be set in the 1970s or '80s), but trying to humanize Frank Castle - one of the least sympathetic characters in Marvel Comics history - was a mistake (watch for Warner Brothers to make a Guy Gardner movie next). So was the casting of John Travolta and the pointless romantic angle with Rebecca Romijn's character.

Even so, the film's final act featured the kind of exuberant violence and unapologetic body trauma we've come to expect from Castle. It wasn't enough to redeem the action movie cliches that had filled the previous hour and fifteen minutes, but it made me look forward to a sequel. Sort of. The character of the Punisher really only works in the context of black comedy, because let's face it; as character depth goes, Frank Castle's about as compelling as Michael Myers.

So we'll see how this one turns out. I'd probably go see it even if I wasn't being forced to, and throw in a cameo from Tobey Maguire so they can reproduce the "Spider-Man as human shield" gag from Punisher #36, and I'll be happy as a clam.

My first meme

Finally, a way to avoid coming up with something original. As seen at Big Stupid Tommy's, here comes the High School Interrogatory:

What year was it?

Mid-1980's. Graduated in 1987.

What were your three favorite bands (performers)?

Queen, R.E.M., and the Replacements.

What was your favorite outfit?

Jams and either my Fundamentally Oral Bill or "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" t-shirt. I also had a pair of orange Converse high-tops liberally held together with duct tape.

And I have no regrets about sacrificing my chances with the opposite sex for comfort. Not many, anyway.

What was up with your hair?

I experimented with all the '80s classics: the Corey Hart, the Vince Neil, and the Robert Smith. Thanks to my hair's Freida-like natural curliness, they all seemed to morph into the 1977-era Don Henley.

Who were your best friends?

Infrequent commenters peenman, seadogsinc, and a guy who has now found Jesus in such a way that it's pretty much necessitated his complete severing of ties with yours truly. Our friendship was forged in the kind of alcoholic bond familiar to anyone growing up in towns where the biggest event of any given week is going down to the river and starting fires.

What did you do after school?

Marching band. Fuck you, I was drum major.

Where did you work?

Phew, lessee: a joint in the mall that sold baked potatoes, then McDonald's, then Double Dave's pizza, then Kroger. I tried unsuccessfully for years to get a job at Hasting's, but my Don Henley haircut probably held me back.

Did you take the bus?

Nope. Peenman's brother gave me a ride my freshman year, our student body president my sophomore year. After that, I had my sweet '75 Buick LeSabre Custom. The Brown Battleship would serve me well for three whole years.

Who did you have a crush on?

What, should I go alphabetically? I didn't really learn how to be an asshole, relationship-wise, until college, so there was no lack of young women who had no idea of my existence during those four excruciating years.

That's not entirely true, I guess. Between 10th and 11th grade, I somehow managed to gain 5 or 6 inches in height and get contact lenses, and that helped.

We had a pretty active D&D campaign going, however. And that eats up a lot of social time.

Did you fight with your parents?

I was experiencing a Bacardi-induced blackout during the biggest fight I had with my mother, but I don't think that counts (I had to hear about it after the fact from my sister).

My parents had an interesting theory on curfews. Starting at the age of 16, I got to stay out until 2 AM on weekends. Pretty cool, right? Not really, especially considering all of my friends had to be by midnight, at the latest. After dropping everyone off, I didn't really have anywhere else to go, so I was usually home by 12:30.

That doesn't have anything to do with the fight question, I guess.

Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on?

Elisabeth Shue in The Karate Kid or Diane Lane in Streets of Fire.

Did you smoke cigarettes?

Started when I was 18. Took me forever to quit.

Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?

What the hell does that mean? I took a course notebook and a notebook of whatever science fiction comic masterpiece we were working on at the time.

Did you have a ‘clique’?

Yeah, the Social Retards. We had jackets and everything.

Did you have “The Max” like Zach, Kelly, and Slater?

Pepe's, now closed, was where everyone congregated on the weekends to find out where that evening's binge-drinking fest was located. And you could get three tacos for a dollar.

Admit it, were you popular?

As noted, I was drum major of the marching band. This means that if the band is at the bottom of the high school coolness hierarchy, I was at the top of that. In other words, I was the most recognizable person in the group that none of the cool kids would talk to.

Who did you want to be just like?

Tommy already took Batman, so I'd have to say Lance Corporal Hicks from Aliens.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

While I told everyone I wanted to be a writer, I really wanted to be Optimus Prime.

Where did you think you’d be at the age you are now?

Long dead. Honestly, I didn't think we, as a civilization, would make it out of the '80s alive. Imagine my consternation when the Berlin Wall came down and I had to actually start seriously planning for my future.

Goddamed Gorbachev.

I loved Al Haig in this

For those of you who missed it the first time, my review for Inside Deep Throat is back up. It's making the limited release rounds.

And if you didn't miss it the first time, read it again. I've encoded directions to the lost treasure of the Aztecs within the article.

Without a Hitch

My long-awaited review for Hitch, starring Will Smith, Eva Mendes, and Kevin James' total lack of dignity can be read here.

As much as I was expecting it to suck, it actually wasn't that bad. Blame my flu-softened brain.

What the marketing will bear

I suggest you strap your hip waders on before reading this:

In a dramatic departure from Hollywood's past distribution practices, the National Lampoon has decided to release a DVD version of National Lampoon's Blackball starring Vince Vaughn, just four days after its U.S. opening on Friday. Reuters reported Wednesday that the producers of the film hope to take advantage of the movie marketing connected with it to drive DVD sales. (Some analysts have suggested that theater chains ought to offer DVDs of the movies they are showing.) Barry Layne, executive vice president of National Lampoon, told Reuters, "The economics of the industry are changing." Giving a boost to producers who have urged the studios to back more movie musicals, the film biography of Ray Charles, Ray, raked in $80 million during its first week on home video -- $6 million more than it has taken in during its entire theatrical run.

Ray is a critically acclaimed Best Picture nominee whose star has won both the Golden Globe and the SAG award for his portrayal of Ray Charles that people want to get a chance to watch before the Oscars. Blackball is only the latest in a series of films (Dorm Daze and Repli-Kate, anyone?) that conclusively demonstrate how far the name National Lampoon has fallen since its 1970s glory days. Besides that, Ray's original theatrical release was in October, three months before the DVD came out. That's significantly longer than four freaking days.

Blackball - a movie that hopes to do for lawn bowling what Dodgeball did for, uh, Rip Torn - was released in the UK way back in 2003 and tanked. National Lampoon knows it's garbage, and so they figured they might as well ship the DVD right after the theatrical opening and be shut of it. If they had any hopes otherwise, it wouldn't be going into limited release and the DVD wouldn't be coming out until everyone who wanted to had a chance to see it multiple times.

It's a different strategy, to be sure, but don't give National Lampoon more credit than it deserves. If Blackball wasn't a piece of shit, this wouldn't be happening.

Sometimes I give myself the creeps

And sometimes Miss McDonald does it for me (via Metafilter).

Clowns are evil. Even if they appear in the guise of a perky Filipina.

Don't gimme back my bullets

Anyone know how to safely dispose of bullets? Aside from firing them into the air for Chinese New Year, I mean.

I have a couple boxes of .223 rifle cartridges that aren't going to get used, and I don't want them sitting around the house (I don't own a .223 anyway). Everything I've looked up so far says to contact the police, so unless someone suggests something more efficient than hitting them with a rock or making a cool belt, I guess that's what I'll do.

I love the smell of a double-standard in the morning

It appears I'm in the minority on this one:

An elementary school teacher has been charged with having sex with one of her students, a 13-year-old boy, at his home and at school, authorities said Tuesday.

Pamela Turner, 27, was charged Monday with 15 counts of sexual battery by an authority figure and 13 counts of statutory rape for acts between November and January.

Turner, who teaches physical education at Centertown Elementary, lived at the boy's house "for a brief period of time when she was moving from residence to residence," Warren County prosecutor Dale Potter said. The boy's parents did not know anything about the relationship, he said.

Let's get these out of the way off the bat:

"Man, where were the teachers like that when I was growing up?"
"All 13 year-old boys think about is sex anyway, what's the big deal?"
"That kid will forever be a stud to his friends."

I've heard variations on all of the following on different message boards, blogs, and in actual real-time conversation about this story, and it's bullshit. She was 27 fucking years old, he was barely a teenager. If the genders were reversed, everyone would be howling for the teacher to have his balls sawed off with a steak knife.

This isn't about having crushes on our teachers - I know I did - but whether or not everyone singing this poor kid's praises missed the part about this being an "elementary" school. We're not discussing a 17 year-old high school senior trysting with a teacher's aide, but contact between an alleged adult and a boy 14 years her junior who is still a couple years away from shaving.

The issue isn't if the boy enjoyed himself, but rather what the hell an adult woman was thinking when she abused her position by having sex with a child. "Hot for Teacher" fantasies aside, Turner is - if convicted - either a child sex abuser or a statutory rapist.

Conviction on all counts could be punished by up to 100 years in prison. But Potter said it was more likely that a conviction would mean a minimum of a year to several years in prison.

Everyone hooting about what a lucky SOB the boy in question is should think about how they'd feel if it was their son involved. Would you therefore not have a problem with a 27 year-old man having sex with your child?

Just asking.

The ultimate major/game misconduct penalty

That's one bitter deceased hockey fan (via CollegeHumor.com):

BENNITZ, Archibald (Archie) Wednesday, January 19, 2005, at the age of 84. Predeceased by his wife Vicky, Archie was the beloved father of son David and daughter-in-law Wendy and a wonderful grandfather to Joshua, Michael, and Adam. He leaves behind his brother Doug in B.C. and many nephews and nieces. Archie was born in Amherst, Nova Scotia and served overseas with the 422nd squadron RCAF in WWII. A long-time resident of Niagara Falls, Archie was an avid fan of watching hockey. He asked that Mr. Bettman and Goodenow know that they are "skunks" for denying him the pleasure of watching the NHL on TV this year. he also asked that Mr. Bettman steps aside and gives Wayne Gretzky the job that rightfully belongs to him.

I can always appreciate anger that outlives our normal human lifespan. It's kind of like The Grudge, only with the ghost saying "aboot" a lot.

And on the heels of this, we learn that next Tuesday is very likely the drop-dead date for ending this year's season (kind of a foregone conclusion at this point). The alternative? A 30-game season. Sounds exciting.

My money's on a complete loss of the season, with possible serious ramifications for the future of the league itself. Bottom line: the owners absolutely insist on a salary cap, and the players absolutely refuse.

If a new collective bargaining agreement cannot be worked out, the NHL would become the first North American professional sport to lose an entire season because of a labor dispute.

I've about reached the end of my patience with professional sports in general. Every one of these NHL bastards can kiss my ass, for starters, but my tolerance for all overpaid egomaniacs and their greedy masters is essentially nil at this point. One of the reasons I didn't comment on the Super Bowl was because I just...didn't care. One group of Cro-mags pummeling the other for 10 second bursts in between 5 minute commercial breaks has lost a bit of its appeal (and I don't need to watch the game to collect my money from taking the Eagles and the points). As for baseball - and my interest in last year's World Series notwithstanding - I'm slowly confronting the ugly truth that there's little joy to be found in watching 'roided out zillionaires hit a ball with a stick and then make battlefield metaphors about it. The leagues themselves don't help, with their inability to effectively manage their businesses while hyping every contest up like it was as important as the Battle of El Alamein. Following sports might be a hard habit to break, but I have faith in my willpower (I did quit smoking the rock, after all).

Not counting fantasy sports, of course. My addiction to gaming is somewhat more severe.

More than anything, I guess I don't want to walk the earth like Archie Bennitz after I die, haunting the commissioners of the major sports leagues like an undead Johnny Gasparini.

"God isn't interested in technology. He knows nothing of the potential of the microchip or the silicon revolution."

God wouldn't be too keen on webcams then, by the sounds of it.

We've covered my fear and loathing of New Orleans and - more specifically, Mardi Gras - before. Now, thanks to my relatively new broadband connection, I can watch all the ensuing cries for help disguised as revelry from the comfort of my own home.

Fairly sparse crowds, owing to the dreary weather and the early date. Still, plenty of pudgy fratboys, wannabe bikers, and bored cops on the streets, however. And no small number of them are willing to converse with the chuckleheads interviewing passers-by. Including those who unaware/unconcerned that their words and actions are now archived electronically for all time.

Ladies, for future reference, if someone corners you outside the Cat's Meow and asks to interview you for Nola.com, that webcam is going to be crawling all over your ass and chest the whole time. Your only hope is if another woman nearby decides to expose herself, for the camera will immediately zoom to her location, usually about three seconds too late for any skin, but just in time to catch the alarmingly creepy swarm of lone males who congregate around the young lady like a bunch of junior high kids watching a fight, only these junior high kids are armed with digital cameras. The better to send the pics to their fellow dateless wonders.

Sweet. The old guy from San Antonio is berating the interviewer because New Orleans is "too gay." He chose an interesting time to visit.

It's hypnotic. Curiosity led me over, and the dizzying panoply of human bone-headedness has kept me transfixed. What the hell, it's one way to avoid writing that review for Hitch.

Now one of the animators for Inuyahsa has stopped by to explain the history of the show in excruciating detail while the camera desperately searches for someone more photogenic.

I'm amazed at the number of guys who pimp their girfriend's breasts out for beads here. The Wife told me this kind of thing happened.

Okay, it's past midnight and the cops have yet to show up and squeegee everyone off Bourbon Street. Even so, I can take some comfort in knowing that while the majority of these people will be negotiating vomit-filled gutters, DWI checkpoints, and generally shitty traffic in order to get back to their hotels, I'm going to walk fifteen feet to my bed. G'night suckers.

"And the Trogdor comes...in the night."

First there was the college-ruled cartoon Trogdor, then the Trogdor video game, next came Peasant's Quest (in which you must attempt to defeat Trogdor for burninating your thatched roof cottage), now there's a trailer for the Peasant's Quest feature film (via Metafilter).

All I can say is, thanks to The Thing That Walks Like a Man, I had a Trogdor t-shirt before he sold out.

Shhhh, the grown-ups are talking

Sounds like somebody struck a nerve:

American comic Rob Schneider has furiously labeled movie critic Patrick Goldstein "unfunny" and "pompous" for his attack on his contribution to cinema. The former Saturday Night Live star has taken out a full-page advertisement in the Hollywood Reporter attacking Goldstein's article on January 26, in wh