A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

Thoughts while listening to an 80's internet radio station

When Brent Best of Slobberbone made the comment, "I've always said that if we ever overcome the stigma of our name, we'll know that we've truly arrived," he must have been unaware of the existence of the Blow Monkeys.

Duh

I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy review is over at Film Threat. Especially since it went up last night.

Anyway, 3.5 stars. Diehards will be cheesed off at the whole Arthur-Trillian-Zaphod love triangle and how much of the book was left out, but the bits they do keep in, and the Guide itself, are pure Heart of Gold.

"Well Homer, I won your respect. And all I had to do was save your life."

Still eligible for foster parenthood in Texas?

Legislators writing the final version of a bill overhauling the state's Child Protective Services system will kill a controversial provision that would prohibit homosexuals from being foster parents, Gov. Rick Perry predicted Thursday.

But if the House-approved ban survives, Perry said he would sign the measure, provided it was adequately funded and made other necessary improvements in the embattled agency.

"I don't think it (the amendment) is going to be on there (the bill) when it comes to my desk," he said. "This bill's too important to have it bogged down."

"But it allowed my more knuckle-dragging colleagues ample opportunity to posture for their Christian right overlords," Perry added. "And pandering to the evangelicals is what succeeding in Texas politics is really all about these days."

"CPS is really important, getting it fixed," Perry said, noting he had declared the legislation an emergency in the wake of a series of highly publicized deaths of children who weren't adequately protected by the agency.

Perry said that in an "ideal world" he would want foster children placed with "a family that had a mom and a dad."

But gay foster parents who are "loving and caring," he added, are "better than having the kids being abused, obviously."

What the mealy-mouthed gasbag masquerading as our governor neglected to say was, in an "ideal world," kids wouldn't be beaten, or sexually assaulted, or neglected at all, yet it happens. And rather than embrace the idea that many gays would welcome the opportunity to take care of these kids, Perry wants to have it both ways. On the one hand, he can half-ass it with the so-called "Christian" hatemongers who'd rather see children returned to their abusive - albeit "natural" - parents than spend one minute with those filthy queers. On the other, he can belatedly attempt to sound like the Great Facilitator.

I harbor no belief that this will shut up Pasadena Rep. Robert Talton (he who authored the amendment in question), but the insanity being foisted upon us by those who claim to have the ear of the supreme being needs to stop, and putting the kibosh on this particular bit of idiocy is as good a place as any to start.

Is it sweeps already?

If so, I just can't see that show they played last night getting renewed next season. The lead guy just sort of rambled, without really paying any attention to the questions the reporter characters were asking him. The dialogue was poorly written and I've seen better set design in Boy Scout skits.

Not only that, somebody needs to tell his agent that the whole "stammering redneck" thing went out of vogue with Mel Tillis.

Bye, George

If you blinked, you probably missed any coverage of the death of George P. Cosmatos last week. Cosmatos had a somewhat less than distinguished career as a director, helming films that will never get a sniff of the National Film Registry. For example:

Rambo: First Blood Part II - Also known by its more grammatically correct title, Second Blood. One of many Cosmatos efforts I've seen in the theater. On this particular occasion, I was accompanied by an opening night crowd of howling rednecks, any one of whom would make Ted Nugent look like Gore Vidal.

Leviathan - I have grandiose plans to host a double feature screening of this and Deep Rising (thereby keeping alive my fantasy of an undersea encounter with Meg Foster and Famke Janssen). Say what you want about this, it beats the hell out of DeepStar Six. Or Sphere, for that matter.

Cobra - For those of you who don't remember the kind of action movies we had to deal with in the 1980s, watch Cobra (you are also directed to go read Ruthless Reviews' Guide to 80s Action).

But I will always hold a special place in my baboon heart for Cosmatos because he made the film that was the subject of my first ever Film Threat column: Of Unknown Origin:

The movie’s subtext is not hidden from viewers (Hughes bangs a copy of Moby Dick on the wall at one point). But "Of Unknown Origin" can also be viewed, for those of us working on a thesis, as an allegory to the futility we all feel in our daily lives. The unholy triumvirate of work, school, and relationships all lead to feelings of helplessness, which can cause even the most buttoned-down of us to lash out. Bart Hughes is as buttoned down as they come, and by the end of the movie he has turned his beloved brownstone into a death maze, driven nails through a baseball bat, and crossed the line into Ahab-like obsessive psychosis.

I guess you could say I owe my career (such as it is) to George. I'd prefer that you didn't, however. Legal reasons.

You must unread what you have read

Neglected to report that the new Star Wars Report went up earlier this week and is eagerly awaiting your withering sarcasm.

It's true, I have read the Revenge of the Sith novel. Yeah, yeah, I still haven't gotten around to Remembrance of Thing Past or Great Expectations, but in the words of "Candy," the prison bitch from Brian Azzarello's "Hard Time:" don't you judge me.

Happily, many of the questions and concerns I had about were answered to my satisfaction. If you'd care to click the "More" link, I think you'll find them to your liking as well...

1. What of midichlorians? What?!

What about what now? In keeping with the pattern established in Attack of the Clones, no mention is made of these ridiculous microscopic Force germs. However, we do discover that Neimoidoians have a delicious, nougat-y center.

2. Does everyone in these movies live in the same cul-de-sac?

I assume you're referring to the annoying way Lucas keeps tying characters and other things (check out the Tantive IV in the latest trailer) from the Original Trilogy together with the prequels. Rumors even abounded that a young Han Solo would be somewhere in the film as well, and I can't have been the only one hoping for Han and the infant Leia to give us a repeat of the creepy child romance vibe we got between Anakin and Padme in Episode I.

In answer to the question: yes, they do. It's called Hutt's Landing.

3. How does Mace Windu die?

After a thrilling duel with Palpatine/Sidious, Mace is hanging precariously above Coruscant, totally at the Emperor's mercy. Anakin enters, and Mace, in desperation, offers the following soliloquy:

"After the Clone Wars, it took us a week to get out. Now, I don't know exactly when we turned on each other, but I know that seven of us survived the slide... and only five Jedi made it out. Now we took an oath, that I'm breaking now. We said we'd say it was the Sith that killed the other two, but it wasn't. The Dark Side is lethal but it doesn't hold a candle to man."

And then a shark eats him.

4. Now that this poorly scripted and laughably acted series of movies is about to mercifully come to a close, after you've spent large portions of the last 27 years obsessing over it, do you have any plans to seek out more adult pursuits? Or are you just going to keep bugging us every time Lucas opens his mouth from here on out?

Who let my mother in here? Next question.

5. What happens to Jar Jar?

You know, nothing I could come up with could possibly erase the ignominy of the flop-eared one's transgressions in Episode I. I'd love to tell you he crosses a hungover Wookiee and gets his arms pulled off, or Anakin uses him for Force choke practice, but I can't. He gets one sentence in the book, and no lines (I don't think). If they stick to this in the movie, I'll be fine with it.

One week to go.

Taking 259 for the team

I probably wouldn't have thought to go looking for this on my own, but it's a great idea. The fact that the proprietor commented here only cements my faith in the enterprise, and so I heareby proclaim Plunk Biggio - dedicated to Craig Biggio's unintentional quest to set the record in HBP - a worthy effort.

As if that mattered.

Happy trailers

Here's where I step on Chris' toes once again.[1]

Serenity
If you're a fan of Firefly (which I am), this trailer won't show you much you haven't already seen. Universal is obviously trying to bring in a larger audience than the one that consistently placed the show around #90 in the Nielsens.

But I saw a Reaver. So that's cool.

Batman Begins (you can also find it on MTV.com, which only allows IE downloads, so screw 'em)
Huzzah for the romance angle. As if this film wouldn't gross $250 million without a contrived love story between Bale and Katie Holmes, who - forgive my almost middle-aged eyes - still looks 15 years old to me.

Morgan Freeman rules.

Night Watch
The film (the first in a trilogy) that beat Spider-Man 2 in Russia. It sounds derivative, but looks quite cool.
And the development of movies like this proves conclusively that the fall of Communism was a good thing. Take that, Putin!

[1] Which is actually bullshit, as Chris puts more time and thought into his posts and columns than I do here with my half-assed dorkitude.

At the late night/dubbed or indie/picture show

Worldfest is going on right now here in Houston. It's in its 38th year and still showcases an impressive array of foreign and indie films. I saw Distortion, from Israel, last night and hope to check out as many more flicks in the coming days as real life and other screenings allow.

The festival has moved to the Meyer Park AMC, after spending most of its run at the Nova Meyerland 8, which was torn down in 2003. While I still applaud the organizers' decision to keep everything in one theater (the multiple venue approach taken by most other festivals just won't work in Houston), I miss the staff and the feel of the old place.

Some things never change, however. Festival poobah Hunter Todd still comes in to introduce each feature, and I'm still trying to narrow down my choices to a select few given my time constraints.

Tickets are easy to come by though, and screenings are taking place all week and into this weekend (schedules and synopses area accessible from the main page). Come by and check it out if you get a chance.

Tuesday Offspring Blogging: Shriekback

We're spoiled by the fact that She Who Shall Not Be Named is pretty well-behaved. With the exceptions of hunger, fatigue, and the TV cutting out mid-Elmo, we couldn't have asked for a sweeter kid.

Or so we thought, for SWSNBN - ever the overachiever - seems at times like she's getting a jump on the Terrible Twos. No longer is she content merely with what is offered, but now all within her line of sight must be presented to her, and every whim, no matter how fleeting, must be catered to immediately.

For a recent example, I had to run to the dry cleaners yesterday evening. The little darling, as she is increasingly wont to do, neglected to take her nap (she appears, regrettably, to be taking after her father's "sleep is boring" philosophical outloook). This only served to magnify her crankiness as we got to the dry cleaners and proceeded to stand in line.

SWSNBN is all about constant motion, so she was having none of this. 60 seconds of immobility? You might as well ask her to sit still when her face is washed, or divulge where she hid the DVD remote. Not wanting to cause a scene before it was absolutely necessary, I set her on the ground, foolishly thinking she'd be content to play with the fake trees in the corner.

Ha ha. No. When in a strange location, her M.O. is surprisingly consistent: seek out, with all haste, the largest, shiniest automobile (moving or not) or; make a beeline towards the loudest and most dangerous piece of machinery in earshot. When I gently tugged her away from the open door of the establishment and the jolly, candy-like Nissan Xterra which beckoned from outside, she immediately bolted for the "Mangler"-style steam ironer in the back of the store.

Belatedly realizing my folly, I scooped her up and resumed our place in line. Cue infernal din. Say what you want about Houston's air quality, my kid has a set of lungs that would make Tenzing Norgay proud. I did my ineffective best to calm her, but to no avail. It soon got to the point where the other customers were having difficulty being heard above her screeching.

This kind of thing is old hat to most parents. Hell, I haven't been doing it all that long and even I've gotten pretty good at ignoring my child's public fits. Not everyone shares this ability, however, and in no time at all the woman ahead of me asked if I'd like to cut ahead of her.

After asking her to repeat herself, I declined, pointing out she'd been there first. She said it'd be no problem, and when I looked at the two people ahead of her, they nodded as well. One out of sympathy, one of out childless irritation at having to endure the shrieking of an unwelcome house ape. With a smile at the first two people and a lip-curling sneer at the third, I headed to the counter. $14 and one slightly gnawed pencil eraser later, we were on our way home. SWSNBN happily bouncing along to Jason and the Scorchers and me contemplating stopping at the local ice house for a cold one.

The worst she could mess with there is the stupid Golden Tee machine.

"Take my hand in your glove of love"

"Go ahead Homer. Laugh at me."
"I already did."

When The Thing That Walks Like a Man sent me this link, which details the worst album covers of all time, I assumed the usual suspects would be on display (Mike Crain the "Karatist" Preacher is a personal favorite). Little did I know how it would ignite a soon-to-be firestorm of controversy over Kirk Van Houten's plagiarism:

For shame, Kirk. As if the bastard child of the union between Willie Aames and the lead singer for Saga doesn't have enough problems.

And now, the end is near

After a lovely weekend in Galveston, partaking of the open bar at a wedding reception and mooning passers-by from our hotel window (the two events were in no way related), what should I find waiting for me upon my return?

Damn thing reads like a prenup.

They're serious about the "no guests" thing, meaning everyone who was trying to curry my favor in hopes of getting an invite can go back to treating me like an asshole again.

Pray I do not blog it any further

Just in time for Episode III, we learn that Darth Vader has a blog (via Fuzzball).

Excerpt:

They could never know what it is like to find out you still have a son, a stranger to you, lost amid the squalid systems of the outer rim and counted as a hero by your enemies.

Tomorrow I may strangle Admiral Veers.

It's actually General Veers, but Vader's got a lot on his mind.

I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that

The movie reviewer faces many choices in life, usually brought on by films screening at the same time. For example, this week I had to decide whether to check out The Interpreter or Ashton Kutcher's latest. I went with the former (my review is here).

Next week, I have to choose between Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy and xXx: State of the Union. That's a tough one.

Seriously, anybody want a pass to State of the Union?

Where there's a Wilco

One of my biggest musical regrets is skipping out on an Uncle Tupelo show in Austin back in '91 because I had the flu. Had I known at the time that I would be out of the state every other time they came back to Texas before breaking up, I would've cheerfully infected everyone else in the place just so I could see them live. Hey, that's the kind of humanitarian I am.

As most of you know, two bands came out of the breakup of Tupelo: Jay Farrar formed Son Volt and Jeff Tweedy started Wilco. Son Volt has split up and reformed and is still around, though largely under the mainstream radar, while Wilco and Tweedy have become critical darlings. This is thanks in part to their constant experimentation as Tweedy distanced himself from his twang roots, and also to the band's very public problems with Reprise Records, who dumped them after deciding their album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was too goddamn weird.

Scott Faingold has an article on the band in this week's Houston Press discussing the dilemma faced by their fans:

The electronic noise breaks and guitar freakouts on the most recent Wilco CD, A Ghost Is Born, make the sonic excesses of Yankee Hotel seem mild in comparison, alienating as many fans as they thrill. As for peers and critics, ADD-suffering alt-country poster boy Ryan Adams goes out of his way to attack Wilco in interviews every chance he gets, and in a review of another band a few months back, the Houston Press's own John Nova Lomax felt compelled to accuse Wilco's fans of liking them out of a "misguided sense of hipster duty."

(B)Ryan Adams can eat fuck, as far as I'm concerned, but that's neither here nor there. I understand Lomax's point, if only because I was such a huge Tupelo fan and because I still think A.M., Wilco's first album, is one of the finest things I've ever heard (right up there with Strangers Almanac by Whiskeytown - Adams' old band, maddeningly enough). From that perspective, I have a hard time getting on board with their latest releases.

Not that I begrudge them their new stuff, you understand. Change isn't a bad thing, but distancing yourself from the sound that caused your fans to seek you out in the first place is a good way to alienate them. Sometimes you can get away with it (U2 is as popular as ever), other times not (KISS' ill-conceived foray into disco, for example). Besides, there are plenty of bands out there who make variations of the same album over and over again (I call them Social Distortion) and maintain the same level of success. Whatever floats your boat.

And I happen to like Social Distortion.

Things are at an exciting point for Wilco as a musical entity. One of the most controversial elements of A Ghost Is Born is the presence of lengthy, anarchic guitar solos, performed by Tweedy himself. More evocative than skilled, rambunctious and occasionally atonal, they call to mind nothing so much as an amalgam of White Light/White Heat-era Velvet Underground, My War-period Black Flag and Neil Young at his wildest, all in the service of Tweedy's highly arranged pop-rock chamber pieces, which happen to sound nothing like any of these three influences.

When the author mentions two of my least favorite albums in referring to this one, I think my decision's made for me. I haven't really enjoyed a Wilco album wire to wire since A.M., though both Being There and Summerteeth had moments of stupefying brilliance. So while I wish Wilco continued success and Tweedy continued good health, I don't think I'll be picking up Ghost anytime soon.

Whether you blindly worship or reflexively reject the whole Wilco thing, one matter is clear: This is a band facing stubbornly forward, marketing itself through all available channels yet unwilling to trim its explorations. Does this make them the most commercially successful avant-garde band ever, or just pretentious wankers daring their fans to lose patience and consign them to the dungpile of history?

Due respect to Faingold, I don't really see it as cut and dried as all that. My "rejection" of their new sound isn't knee-jerk, it's simply a result of not really enjoying it. I can respect the direction they've decided to take without thinking their new music is, y'know, all that good.

If they are just being pretentious wankers, however, they can pull up a chair with Ryan Adams.

A bounty hunter, two mooks, and the return of Uwe Boll

Stop yer grinnin' and drop yer...well, you know...it's preview time again.

Here are some more trailer for coming "attractions," complete with redundant commentary:

Domino
We get it. Your name is Domino Harvey. And you're a bounty hunter. I'm still confused as to how any of that allows a 105-lb girl to fire two machine guns (one a fully automatic M-16) without getting knocked into a wall.
Ah well, it's a Tony Scott film, so don't expect anything to be onscreen long enough for your brain to coherently process it.

Bloodrayne
Boll strikes again: she feasts, lusts, and slays? What a woman. Not only do we get an "army of vampires" riding around in broad daylight and Michael Madsen earning alimony money, but Sir Ben Kingsley himself to add that needed touch of class.

Wedding Crashers
You have to hand it to Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. Besides Jack Nicholson and Samuel L. Jackson, I can't think of any actors who have had such a lucrative career playing themselves. Can the presence of Chrisopher Walken break up the monotony? Will audiences care?

Howl's Moving Castle - I don't know how that magnificent bastard Miyazaki is going to top Spirited Away, but I can't wait to see him try.

That's enough for now. I don't see the need to subject you to the new "kid friendly" Revenge of the Sith TV spots.

Then he wants to burn their houses down and piss on the ashes

There was a Pat Oliphant cartoon from the late '80s, during the debate over a Constitutional flag burning amendment, that said the one occasion when it was absolutely okay to burn the American flag was when Newt Gingrich had wrapped himself in it. I think we might need an addendum to that:

Somehow I managed to go a whole week without bringing up the fact that Houston hosted the National Rifle Association's 134th annual convention. I knew it was too good to last:

With an assault weapon in each hand, rocker and gun rights advocate Ted Nugent urged National Rifle Association members to be "hardcore, radical extremists demanding the right to self defense."

Speaking at the NRA's annual convention Saturday, Nugent said each NRA member should try to enroll 10 new members over the next year and associate only with other members.
...
He drew the most cheers when he told gun owners they should never give up their right to bear arms and should use their guns to protect themselves if needed.

"Remember the Alamo! Shoot 'em!" he screamed to applause. "To show you how radical I am, I want carjackers dead. I want rapists dead. I want burglars dead. I want child molesters dead. I want the bad guys dead. No court case. No parole. No early release. I want 'em dead. Get a gun and when they attack you, shoot 'em."

The fuck? "Remember the Alamo?" I suppose if your domicile is overrun by the Mexican army, you should probably shoot back. Other than that, I think Nugent - a recent transplant to the great state of Texas - might be missing some important historical context.

As for wanting rapists dead, Ted's lucky the father of the 17 year-old girl he "adopted" back in the '70s didn't feel the same way.

Or maybe statutory rape doesn't count.

Feel those vibrations

Shouldn't have opened this can of worms, dumb ass:

Hollywood hunk Mark Wahlberg has slammed Eminem, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck for giving a false impression of tough, impoverished childhoods in their music and films. The Planet Of The Apes star has lambasted Damon, his co-star in new movie The Departed, for romanticizing difficult upbringings in Good Will Hunting, his debut film with Affleck. Wahlberg - who blames his assault conviction 17 years ago on his harsh childhood - has also attacked rapper Eminem for idealizing his difficult formative years in his biopic 8 Mile, in an interview with Details magazine. The 33-year-old actor complains, "My childhood wasn't like some 8 Mile bulls**t where you go and have a rap-off. Or like West Side Story, where you all start dancing and s**t."

Thanks for clearing that up. I didn't realize Good Will Hunting was autobiographical, or that West Side Story was a documentary.

If I make a film about my upbringing it's going to be about more than a f**king kid doing math, like in Good Will Hunting, you know what I mean?"

We know what you mean, Marky: it's going to be about throwing rocks at black kids, and assaulting "gooks", right?

They're gr-8

Norbizness is conducting an exhaustive Comedy Cinema Torunament over at HFPST. It's down to the Elite 8 now, and the reason I didn't tell anyone about it before is because I wanted my favorites to make it this far. Now that most of them have, I can tell you the seedings:

Bracket 1: Monty Python's Life of Brian vs. Blazing Saddles
Bracket 2: Dr. Strangelove vs. M*A*S*H
Bracket 3: Duck Soup vs. Airplane!
Bracket 4: Annie Hall vs. Raising Arizona

Cast your votes here. Unless you're voting for Annie Hall, that is.

Poor Time-ing

I don't have a lot to add to what I wrote last year (and please excuse the comment spam) about the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April 19, 1995. The murder of 168 people remains the second worst terrorist attack on American soil, and recent upswings in militia and white supremacist activity serves to remind us that the threat of domestic attack is far from over.

Adding insult to injury, Time Magazine has seen fit to put Ann Coulter on their cover this week. For those of you who are only familiar with Coulter from her delusional hyperbole about America-hating liberals, here's what she had to say on the subject of the OKC bombing (courtesy of This Modern World):

My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times Building."
--Ann Coulter as quoted in the New York Observer, Aug. 20, 2002

"RE: McVeigh quote. Of course I regret it. I should have added, 'after everyone had left the building except the editors and reporters.'"
--Ann Coulter, from an interview with Right Wing News

There's also an e-mail link so you can let Time's editors know how you feel about their decision to legitimize this cadaverous harpy's deranged rantings. Feel free to use it.

I have the phrase "cadaverous harpy" copyrighted, however.

The conclave is half empty

Jeez guys, how about a little encouragement?

Cardinals Again Fail to Elect New Pope

That's the pessimistic way of looking at it, sure. But on the other hand, they totally succeeded in not electing a new pope. And if that means we're spared - even for a short while - 20 more years of anti-birth control dogma and slapping pedophile priests on the wrist, is that really such a bad thing?

Has anyone asked the Virgin Mary what she thinks?

UPDATE: Whoa. That was quick.

Into the Black

Must be stand-up comedy week on APCB...

I've been a fan of Lewis Black for a while now. His was the first live comedy show I saw after 9-11, and he was a welcome voice of reason. I catch him on The Daily Show when I can, and while I didn't exactly warm up to his "Black on Broadway" HBO special, there were some decent jokes.

Besides, given our common backgrounds (he's a 50-something Jew from back East, I'm a 30-something ex-Catholic from Texas), how could I not be a fan?

He's playing the Improv here in town tomorrow night. I won't be able to check that out (Interpreter screening, woo hoo), so I headed down to Borders to catch him doing a Q&A and book signing last night. He fielded some pretty good questions (Q: "What did Jon Stewart bring The Daily Show that Craig Kilborn lacked?" A: "A working intelligence.") and signed my book. It was almost worth standing in line ahead of a group of sweaty high school wannabe comedian dorks who seemed to have trouble restraining themselves from repeating Eddie Murphy bits ad nauseum.

Finally, because I'm not one to forget the role Borders played in the destruction of the Ale House, I boosted a copy of the Revenge of the Sith novel. Anarchy!

Okay, I actually used an old coupon. Parsimony!

Comedians of Comedy recap

Last Friday night, a group of us (The Wife and I, Thing that Walks Like a Man and some others) went to check out Patton Oswalt, Zach Galifianakis, and Brian Posehn on the Comedians of Comedy tour. They played at Mary Jane's on Washington, which is an establishment worthy of mention on my list of Top Dive Bars to Drink and Get Beat Up In When Visiting Houston (a list I now may actually have to write up).

Oswalt et. al. are among a growing number of comedians who prefer playing music venues to comedy clubs. Among the reasons they cite for this preference are: no drink minimums, no "comedy politics," and a greater sense of audience interaction. Someone, possibly Bill Hicks, said that all comedians also harbored dreams of rock stardom, so playing on a stage like MJ's is one way to realize that as well. Plus, it's easier for fans to buy them booze.

For a while, before the show started, I was afraid I was going to be the oldest guy there (not counting Posehn). Fortunately, the quartet of 50-something lesbians who showed up blew that curve for me. Then the lights went down and things got...interesting.

I don't remember the opening comic's name. It's not important, since he didn't do much besides dick around for about fifteen minutes before Posehn came on. I'm not convinced he had much of a routine scripted out, but that's not important. What is important, for purposes of me talking about myself, is that I tell you about the loathsome pseudo-hipsters who were standing directly to our right and unable to shut up for the first ten minutes of the show.

Now, I understand that heckling at comedy shows is part of the experience. Everyone wants to know how the guy on stage can dish it out, but there's a difference between heckling and maintaining a running commentary of pissy complaints with your friends while everyone else is trying to hear the show, especially when said complaints include such illuminating fare as, "I want my $15 back" or, "I can't believe he made that joke." I can usually ignore shit like this, but when it became apparent they weren't going to stop I decided to politely ask them to keep it down:

Pete: Hey, shut the fuck up.
Pseudo-Hipster 1: What?
Pete: Shut. Up.
Pseudo-Hipster 2: Come on, everybody's talking.
Pete: No, they're fucking not.

(I blame the lack of school prayer for my excessive profanity)

At this point, things quite possibly could've gotten ugly. The Wife pointed out that the guys in question looked like they wanted to fight, until they realized that they were, in fact, the only ones speaking. What brought about this change of attitude? Why, when the host started jumping on me, of course.

Like the junior high student who gets passed an unsolicited note, I was singled out for punishment. Fair enough, I'd bothered to mouth off to the two idiots in the first place, after all. No doubt the host was happy for the opportunity to liven up his tanking routine by drawing attention to us. He moved on soon enough, and the ass clowns were quiet the rest of the night.

As for the show itself, Posehn was surprisingly good. I'd never heard his stand-up, but he has an engagingly laconic delivery and good stuff about getting an autograph from Chris Holmes of W.A.S.P. and Mexican babies.

Galifianakis fared a little worse, as his style was probably least suited to the venue. He also ran out a lot of old material (like several years old), spent an interminable amount of time bantering with some chick buying him shots, and didn't seem to have a lot prepared. Our friend Melissa, noting the disgruntlement of the crowd, gave him an out by heckling him with an easy "little dick" comment. His response garnered the biggest laugh of the night for any of the headliners. He wisely decided to leave on a high note.

Most of the crowd was there for Oswalt, however, and he delivered. Some of the material was leftover from his TV special, but there was plenty of new stuff to be had, including a bit about how there should be a Sideways for heroin, and a great riff on Bush supporters that involved blowing '80s soap star and one-hit wonder Michael Damian at the State Fair. I can't do it justice here.

The crowd thinned pretty heavily during Oswalt's performance. The Wife attributed it to the exodus of Galifianakis fans (of which she herself is one), I opined there were more Bush supporters in the crowd than we'd previously suspected. In any event, we had a fine time. Check the show out if you get a chance.

Multiple movie madness

Those of you planning on seeing the remake of The Amityville Horror this weekend have probably already done so. If not, here's my review.

Oh, and I see the Summer Movie Preview is up as well. It's the place to get the most up-to-date knee-jerk reactions to the upcoming slate of blockbuster films.

Or something like that.

Saturday night's all right for bocce

I made a passing reference earlier this week to Han's Bier Haus on Quenby in the Village here in Houston. Well, tonight is their grand opening, so take advantage of the beautiful weather and head down there for a few pints and some bocce ball. You'll have a good time and you'll help our friends Jackie and Paul off to a good start.

And I'll be there, too. But don't let that keep you away.

Offensensitivity

Brothers and Sisters,

Do you find that your busy schedule keeps you from monitoring the airwaves for smut as much as you'd like? Are you always shaking in impotent rage as your heathen co-workers discuss the sinful antics of those cops on The Shield or the scandalous behavior of those disobedient brats on South Park? More importantly, are you unwilling or unable to view most of these programs on your own, because your own TV has been V-chipped to the point where all you get are PAX and Fox News? Fear not, for salvation is yours!

Thanks to the God-fearing folk at the Parents Television Council, you can now view the most offensive content on TV from the past week, completely free of context or ironic observations about how half of this stuff is only availble on pay cable anyway, which means they really had to go out of their way to get worked up about it.

Friends and neighbors, you owe it to yourselves and your families to watch this clip of a teen orgy from CBS' godless Without A Trace. Jesus beseeches you to stare in abject horror at the "Whore-Off" from South Park. And no less then the fate of Christianity itself demands a thorough examination of this compilation of the most heinous television of 2001-2003.

Because the last thing you should be expected to do is turn the goddamn TV off.

Yrs in Christ,

Pete (via Metafilter)

Good riddance, Eric Rudolph

Interesting article in the LA Times today about the two witnesses who stopped Eric Rudolph's bombing spree:

Jeffrey Tickal was drinking coffee at McDonald's when he saw the bomber striding past, and so it was on a McDonald's coffee cup that he wrote down the man's license plate number: KND1117.

Tickal had never done anything like that before, and he hasn't since. Stepping out of McDonald's and following the man that morning was an instinctive reaction, he said — "what everyone is supposed to do."

Despite the extraordinary police effort that went into investigating the deadly bombings in 1996, 1997 and 1998, it was two bystanders — Tickal and college student Jermaine Hughes — who provided the single filament of information that led to Eric Rudolph.

The police and FBI were lucky these guys went to the lengths they did to follow Rudolph, who said himself in a statement that the identification of his truck in Birmingham was one of the main reasons he decided to go into hiding. With 250 pounds of dynamite at his disposal, and the bombs he'd left averaging 5-15 pounds of dynamite each, I shudder to think of the damage the bastard could've done.

Some people a little more closely connected the Birmingham bombing are happy too:

Jeff Lyons has spent the last seven years helping his wife, Emily, recover from injuries she suffered in the Birmingham blast. Lyons said he looked forward to someday meeting the two witnesses to thank them.

"If you look for a hero in this case, it's them. The police and the FBI and all the other agents — they're paid to be heroes. These guys did it because it was the right thing to do," Lyons said. "That's rare in this world."

I had the pleasure of meeting Emily Lyons and spending a good part of a day with her a few years ago when she came to speak in Houston. I hope Rudolph's pending life sentence gives her some peace.

As for Rudolph himself, he's getting more mercy than he ever showed for any of his victims. I'm glad he'll be rotting in prison (Rudolph's going to Supermax, in Colorado, which currently houses the likes of Ted Kaczynski and Richard Reid), my only regret is that he won't be mingling with general population anywhere, where he'd get the chance to become more intimately acquainted with the "mud people" he likes to complain about.

"Have you ever considered piracy? You'd make a wonderful Dread Pirate Roberts."

The MPAA is cracking down on those download and distribute movies, including three guys right here in Houston:

"Our message to these thieves is clear," MPAA President and CEO Dan Glickman said. "You are not anonymous, and you will be held responsible. You can click, but you cannot hide."

According to the plaintiff's complaint, the three area defendants are Carlon Scott, 38, and Jordan Gans, 47, of Houston, and Arturo Madrigal, 33, of Galena Park.

The article, unfortunately, doesn't go into detail about how much file-sharing was going on. One assumes it was more than burning a few DVDs for friends.

This story, like others I've read in the last week, always comes back to one this, though: the movies themselves:

Gans is accused of illegally downloading and file-swapping White Chicks; Madrigal of illegally downloading and file-swapping The Forgotten; and Scott of illegally downloading and file-swapping White Chicks, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, The Italian Job, 13 Going on 30 and Gothika.

I guess there's no quality control cutoff for MPAA prosecution, because I've seen all but one of those movies, and unless White Chicks is the second coming of Some Like It Hot, the studios ought to be happy anybody's even watching them.

Okay, that's not true. Look, try as I might to sympathize with these guys, I can't do it. If you want to see a movie, you pay for it. Don't want to pay evening ticket prices? See a matinee, or wait until it comes to the dollar cinema or PPV. This doesn't help those who - inexplicably - want to watch films on their computers, but they're just going to have to sit tight until the studios catch up to existing technology.

I guess I'm in the Harlan Ellison camp when it comes to this: just because something can be made freely accessible on the internet, doesn't mean it should. And as a (sort of) writer attempting to eke out some kind of living putting words together, I just don't buy the rationalizations of those who try to justify copying and/or distributing someone else's work without their consent. They're not crusaders for a new distribution medium, and they're not revolutionaries in the fight against monopolistic media conglomerates...they're thieves.

And thieves with bad taste, no less. I mean, 13 Going on 30? Come on.

UPDATE: More pointless meandering after the bump.

I had quite a lengthy screed devoted to this last night, but in a fit of drunken pique, I deleted the thing. Ginger's comments are right on about the lack of easy answers. As a fan, I've downloaded MP3s by artists that have been recommended to me, and have used those to determine whether or not I actually like the music enough to pay for the CD. I don't think there's anything wrong with that, but contrast that with a guy I used to work with whose mission in life - I believe - was to download every song ever recorded between the years of 1961 and 1975. That's ridiculous.

And if I write a novel or a book, I fail to see how someone disseminating it across Usenet or wherever isn't theft. Ginger mentions David Pogue's latest NYT column about the issue, and he talks about some excellent points raised by his readers. To wit:

- I've already bought LPs/8-tracks/cassettes by these artists or VHS tapes of these movies, why should I have to pay every time the industry decides on a format change?
- If I can copy movies from TV, why can't I copy a friend's DVD?
- CD sales have actually increased since the advant of file sharing

These are all valid. I have a pretty extensive collection of punk LPs that have never been released on CD. If I can find the songs online, why shouldn't I download them and burn a disc?

Unfortunately, all you need to do is check out the P2P sites to know that people aren't merely copying for personal use. The industry's business model may need to be revamped, but the alternative right now is essentially widespread abuse.

Bah. Blame Tommy for getting me started on thinking about all this.

I have the donor's remorse

Gave blood yesterday, but the persistence of this stomach bug I picked up last weekend is starting to make me wish I could go down to the blood center and get it back. I'm a "Commit for Life" donor, meaning I'm supposed to give every quarter, but I've been doing it every two months for a while now. Might be a good idea to sit the next one out.

Oh, and before anybody spouts off about what a generous person this makes me, you should know I only donate so the vampires will pass me over in favor of someone a little more juicy.

They miss the rains down in Africa

It's not all Cristal and blow for the makers of last week's #1 movie:

Famed entertainment attorney Bert Fields says he cannot see any possibility of a settlement being hashed out between his client, best-selling author Clive Cussler, and Crusader Entertainment, which produced the film version of Cussler's Sahara. "They just didn't give him the rights that they promised him," Fields told Court TV. Cussler has claimed that Crusader breached its contract with him by making changes in the movie's plot without his approval. He is seeking $10 million in damages. (Fields said that Crusader made 15 significant changes in the story.) Although Sahara, which cost $130 million to produce, opened at the top of the U.S. box office last weekend, it took in only $18.1 million. "If this film diminishes the value [of Cussler's Dirk Pitt novels], that could be an enormous loss," Fields said.

Mmm...yes. Enormous.

I hope Cussler's not holding his breath on this one. Sahara's lousy box office performance means there won't be much in the way of profits to share in. And unless he signed something with Crusader to the extent that he was given final story approval, this is going to come out a lot like Tom Clancy bitching about how Harrison Ford was too old to play Jack Ryan.

Crusader has filed a countersuit alleging that "Cussler's public campaign to disparage and harm both Crusader itself and its film Sahara ... [has] reduced Sahara's current value, its profitability and its appeal to Crusader's potential business partners."

Nice try, but I'd credit any reduction in the film's value to the fact that it's just not that good.

Macho means never having to say you're sorry

Embarrassed by your yellow-bellied elected officials? Get your asses down to Pearland, TX and meet a real man:

Since we’ve started dropthehammer.org - a site designed to pressure corporations to stop contributing to Tom DeLay’s legal defense trust - we’ve received a lot of email from people around the country expressing their views on our efforts. This one from Councilman Kevin Cole of Pearland, Texas caught our attention:

Hey ass hole [sic]. Tom Delay happens to be my congresman [sic] and I am happy with the job he does for me and my district. Why don’t you get the F@&* out of our district and leave us alone. Better yet, come speak to me personally and I will show you what I think of you.

Kevin Cole
Pealrand [sic], TX
[Cell Phone # Redacted]

Mr. Cole is also a Baptist deacon.

You tell 'em, Kev. There's nothing better than a local government figure trying to bully someone for voicing their opinion.

DeLay has to be breathing easier, knowing he has loyal (and articulate) supporters like his backing him up.

"I do not sniff the coke"

"I only smoke the sinsemilla:"

Inspired by the notorious 1936 anti-marijuana propaganda film, Showtime's first movie musical REEFER MADNESS is a tongue-in-cheek raucous musical comedy about clean-cut kids who fall into a twisted, hilarious downward spiral of reefer, sex and mayhem.

Reefer Madness was one of the best movies I saw at Sundance this year (even taking into account the two days I lost thanks to the plague). It really does have something for everyone: a dancing FDR, zombies, a lounge singing Jesus, and cannibalism. And for you Veronica Mars fans, there's Kristin Bell dressed as a dominatrix.

Still, it's not that surprising this didn't get a theatrical release. I can't imagine too many American moviegoers these days are keen on hearing Christ sing about urine tests. If you have a sense of humor, and Showtime, check it out: Saturday night at 7 CST.

If not, rent the original and play show tunes over it.

And it goes a little something like this

While out on a top secret mission Saturday night (the subject and details of which I will most likely divulge here at a later date), I had occasion to drive around several of Houston's finer drinking establishments. Of those I visited, I have to single out Han's Bier Haus on Quenby, recently purchased by some friends of ours. If Canadian beer and bocce ball are your thing, you owe yourself a visit.

Anyway, as I was pulling into my final destination of the evening, I became aware of a car driving nearby with its stereo turned up to "eardrum apocalypse" levels. This is nothing new for Houston, or anywhere people with no knowledge of tinnitus or bass distortion dwell, but what made this particular instance amusing was the person driving the car in question.

After a few initial winces, I was able to determine that the song playing was, in fact, "Down with the Sickness" by Disturbed (best known for its use in the ending credits for the Dawn of the Dead remake). Nothing shocking here. After all, nü metal ranks behind only hip hop and shitty Latino radio for car stereo popularity in Houston. No, what made this particular aural offense so delicious was the fact that the guy driving was easily in his mid-40s: bald except for patches of graying hair over the ears, Drew Carey-style eyeglasses, and that gleam in the eyes of a man whose wife and kids are out of town and he's gonna PARTY, goddammit.

As someone who has demonstrated - time and time again, and always while The Wife and child were out of town - that I lack the alcoholic fortitude of my early 30s (much less my mid-20s), I can appreciate the guy's walk on the "wild" side. Think about Joel taking the Porsche out in Risky Business. Except, in this case, "Joel" is in denial about the onset of middle age, and instead of a 928, he's driving a Subaru Outback. His choice of music really bothered me, however, and while I always knew it was related to the age issue, only now am I able to articulate it.

I'm not going to lie and say I don't blast my music when I'm driving. Sometimes, on those rare Houston days when one can do so, I even play it with the windows down. However, I always abide by one rule: you can't play loud music that was released when you were older than, say, 25.

Now, I don't know exactly what that age is. It's arbitrary, like when you should get married or the rules of soccer. I'm going to guess it's the mid-20s, which would still put the song in question well out of this guy's acceptable range of use. I chose 25 because that's when males finally get a break on their car insurance, but feel free to use whatever criteria you feel comfortable with. Provided it's not over 30, because that's just silly.

One minor codicil: you're allowed to continue playing songs by bands that you were listening to at the age of 25. So most everyone can play Creedence, for example, at "11" if that's their bag.

This addendum also conveniently allows me to keep annoying my neighbors with "Los Angeles is Burning" by Bad Religion.

Sure beats the Wiggles

On Sunday, we took our annual pilgrimage to Chappell Hill (yes, that's how we spell it here) for the Bluebonnet Festival. April is wildflower season in these parts, and one can see veritable oceans of bluebonnets, primroses, and Indian paintbrushes along the highways and farm roads of Central and Southeast Texas.

While making our way through bustling downtown Chappell Hill, trying to pick from the many varieties of hummingbird feeders made from beer bottles, we discovered that She Who Shall Not Be Named had fallen victim to not one but two dread maladies: the Rockin' Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Blues:

The good news, if there's any to be had for a man who just discovered his daughter is into musicians, is that these guys were pretty good. They have, according to the lead singer's grandmother, already played several gigs in Brenham and are poised for great things. Judging by the number of times they had to dump out that tip bucket, I'm not inclined to disagree.

That, and they didn't play "Freebird."

Even so, it was all I could do to restrain myself - when the singer leaned over to my daughter and asked, "What's your name, sweetheart?" - from belting him in the mouth. Ah, parenthood.

Help help, look out for the...

...shark:

New Line Cinema has picked up the rights to "Meg," Steve Alten's horror adventure about a prehistoric shark, with Jan de Bont on board to direct. The studio is putting the project on the fast-track with the hopes of a Fall start date according to The Hollywood Reporter.

The story features a 80-foot-long prehistoric shark -- scientifically known as Carcharodon megalodon and believed by some to be an ancestor of the great white shark -- which terrorizes the California coast. Two men from opposite points of view are forced to come together to neutralize the threat.

Owing to my intense masochism, I read Meg a few years ago. It was like Peter Benchley's Beast (I read all these "terror from the depths" kind of books), only dumber, and that's saying something.

Of course, I didn't realize until I started sniffing around that Alten wrote two sequels: The Trench - in which the original shark's daughter wreaks havoc while the daughter of the Jonas Taylor, hero of the first book, battles nuclear terrorism (I can't believe I just wrote that), and Primal Waters - which has a giant shark menacing the cast of a seaborne reality show.

They've been beaten to the punch, though. First, there was Shark Hunter (the movie that answers the question, "Whatever happened to Antonio Sabato, Jr.?"), then the third movie in the venerable Shark Attack series, and finally, the aptly titled Megalodon came out last year.

For some reason, I don't think Alten and De Bont are too nervous.

Even as someone who will usually watch whatever lousy, straight-to-video, CGI shark attack crapfest is out there, I'd have thought this genre had been largely played out. Having said that, Meg will be a hit. Not because of De Bont, who hasn't directed anything of note since Speed, or because of the source material, which was directly responsible for the drop in standardized test scores, but because all Americans - be they red state, blue state, or undecided - can get behind an 80-ft shark eating a dinosaur.

Flinch along with Mitch

Oh Mitch, what would Morrie say?

Best-selling author Mitch Albom apologized Thursday to readers of the Detroit Free Press for incorrectly reporting that two former Michigan State players were at Saturday's NCAA basketball game. He said he wrote the column before the game took place.

Albom said he based the column on what former Michigan State players Mateen Cleaves and Jason Richardson told him they planned to do. He said he wrote the column in the past tense, as if the events already had happened, because the story had to be filed Friday afternoon -- a day before the game -- but would appear Sunday.

The Free Press said in a correction Thursday that Cleaves and Richardson were not at the game against North Carolina after all -- their plans changed because of scheduling conflicts.

That's good journalism. I suppose it would've been too hard to write something like, "Cleaves and Richardson are planning, along with many others, to sit in the stands in their MSU clothing and root for their alma mater."

As factual errors go, it's hardly up there with Stephen Glass or Jayson Blair (the latter of which Albom himself publicly denounced in his column some time ago), but it leads me to wonder how many times this has happened before. Filing stories early based on speculative information is hardly something new, and if the Free Press digs deeper and find this is part of a continuing pattern, well, the guy gets what he deserves.

I'm of two minds about the whole thing. On one hand, do we really hold "entertainment journalists" to the same standards as actual news reporters? If so, why don't more people (aside from the subjects themselves, that is) get up in arms over egregious info printed in People or US Weekly? Albom screwed up, but it sounded more like actual laziness than willful intent to lie at first glance. It isn't like he made up rumors about a ballplayer's sex life.

On the other hand, we have his "apology:"

While it was hardly the thrust of the column -- which was about nostalgia and college athletes -- it was wrong just the same. You can't write that something happened that didn't, even if it's just who sat in the stands. Perhaps, it seems a small detail to you -- the players still love their teams, they are still nostalgic, they simply decided not to go after the column had been filed -- but details are the backbone of journalism, and planning to be somewhere is not the same as being there.

So I owe you and the Free Press an apology, and you have it right here. It wasn't thorough journalism. While our deadlines would have required some weird writing -- something like, "By the time you read this, if Mateen and Jason stuck to their plans, they would have sat in the stands for Saturday's game" -- it should have been done. We have high standards at this newspaper, and I have high standards for myself. We -- the editors and I -- got caught in an assumption that shouldn't have happened. It won't again. Thanks.

Wow, that was like one of those mea culpas that weren't really mea culpas I used to give griflriends when I'd pissed them off ("I'm sorry for whatever I did that might have upset you"), Except Albom doesn't even say he's sorry. And as for the factual error "hardly being the thrust of the column," if you actually read the column you realize the whole damn thing was devoted to Cleaves and Richardson and their recollections. He didn't write something as (relatively) harmless as "among those in the stands at Saturday's game were..." but actually used them as the centerpiece of the article, with quotes and everything. I know, he interviewed them beforehand, but the impression he leaves you with is that he was talking with the guys at the game itself.

Finally, I need to divulge that I have a deep and abiding loathing for Mitch Albom and his work. His columns, which only use sports as a metaphor for whatever mealy-mouthed inspirational message Albom feels like pimping this week, are loaded with the kind of sanctimony I hope dies off with Andy Rooney. The condescension of his column about why "Star Wars geeks need to get a life" was the direct inspiration for my spiel about why the bahavior of sports fans isn't far removed from that of so-called nerds, behavior-wise.

The less said about the reverse peristalsis-inducing Tuesdays with Morrie, the better.

After seeing Albom doing the interview rounds for his latest manipulative work of genius, The Five People You Meet in Heaven (subtitled: "For Those Who Found It's A Wonderful Life Too Complicated), it became apparent to me that Albom doesn't believe any of this bilge he's selling. He mouths his platitudes and offers his groundbreaking inspirational insights (he could’ve just written “I’m okay, you’re okay” on an index card and been done with it), but you can see the dollar signs in his eyes as visions of #1 on the New York Times bestseller lists dance in his head.

All the same, I can't honestly hope for him to be fired. If he is, that'll just give him time to write more books.

"Bill's going for that anti-marketing dollar. That's a huge market."

The new "Star Wars Report," which details my grudging admiration for all things George Lucas, is up at Film Threat.

Internet crankiness is the 2000s equivalent to "talking about our feelings."

In the desert, you can't remember your name

Unless the name's Dirk Pitt, who's there to rescue some dame.

Sahara review up on Film Threat. Fever Pitch, too.

"Dying would be a stone groove, man."

Lotta death in the news lately, although the upside is that it's unlikely the next Pope will be in place for 25 years, necessitating 10 days of solid media coverage and more ink devoted to his funeral than to anything he did while alive.

In the spirit of the cruel fate that awaits us all, I've decided to share some of my favorite (real and fictional) obituaries and eulogies with you. You're welcome. And don't fear the reaper.

William Jennings Bryan by H.L. Mencken:

This talk of sincerity, I confess, fatigues me. If the fellow was sincere, then so was P.T. Barnum. The word is disgraced and degraded by such uses. He was, in fact, a charlatan, a mountebank, a zany without any shame or dignity. What animated him from end to end of his grotesque career was simply ambition--the ambition of a common man to get his hand upon the collar of his superiors, or, failing that, to get his thumb into their eyes. He was born with a roaring voice, and it had the trick of inflaming half-wits against their betters, that he himself might shine.

Aunt Edna by Clark W. Griswald:

O God, ease our suffering in this, our moment of great despair. Yea, admit this kind and decent woman into thy arms of thine heavenly area, up there. And Moab, he lay us upon the band of the Canaanites, and yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give her a break.

Archie Bennitz by Archie Bennitz:

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.

Hand Job by the Marines of 1st Platoon:

T.H.E. Rock: You're going home now.
Crazy Earl: Semper fi.
Donlon: We're mean Marines, sir.
Eightball: Go easy, bro.
Rafterman: At least he died for a good cause.
Animal Mother: What cause was that?
Rafterman: Freedom?
Animal Mother: Flush out your headgear, new guy. You think we waste gooks for freedom? This is a slaughter. If I'm gonna get my balls blown off for a word, my word is poontang.
Cowboy: Tough break for Hand Job. He was all set to get shipped out on a medical.
Joker: What was the matter with him?
Cowboy: He was jerkin' off ten times a day.
Eightball: No shit. At least ten times a day.
Cowboy: Last week he was sent down to Da Nang to see the Navy head shrinker, and the crazy fucker starts jerking off in the waiting room. Instant Section Eight. He was just waiting for his papers to clear division.

Jim Varney by The Thing that Walks Like A Man:

What was the nature of the phantasmagorical Vern? Perhaps He was a manifestation of Ernest's own fears and uncertainties made flesh in this manic, soul-crushing world, or the fevered imaginings of a tormented psyche resulting from the production of such films as "Ernest in the Army," "Ernest Goes to Africa" (aka "Ernest vs the Voodo King") and "Slam Dunk Ernest." On a more spiritual note, perhaps Vernon was a mere allegory for the faceless horde that has become humanity as we know it. After all, who actually sees--really sees--their neighbors in this terrifying age of barren spirituality and rampant technology? Aren't we all just invisible shades to our fellow man?

Edgar Allen Poe by Rufus Griswold:

Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere--had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious--bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers.

Kurt Kelly

Mr. Kelly: My son's a homosexual, and I love him. I love my dead gay son.
J.D.: Wonder how he'd react if his son had a limp wrist with a pulse.

Richard Nixon by Hunter S. Thompson:

Let there be no mistake in the history books about that. Richard Nixon was an evil man--evil in a way that only those who believe in the physical reality of the Devil can understand it. He was utterly without ethics or morals or any bedrock sense of decency. Nobody trusted him--except maybe the Stalinist Chinese, and honest historians will remember him mainly as a rat who kept scrambling to get back on the ship.

The next Hot Topic?

Big Stupid Tommy has a store. I suggest you go out an get a "One With Nature" shirt right away.

I'm extremely jealous, and also supremely lazy, since setting up your own store on CP doesn't cost anything. Of course, I'd actually have to come up with some cool artwork or a catchy slogan to put on my merchandise.

And then there's that whole "who the hell would buy an APCB t-shirt?" thing. I wouldn't even buy an APCB t-shirt.

Forget I said anything.

Dropping the Hammer

Several progressive Texas bloggers participated in a conference call earlier this week with Richard Morrison, who fought the good fight against Tom DeLay in District 22 last year. Write-ups on the call can be found here:

Off the Kuff
Norbizness
Southpaw
Pandagon
Houston Democrats
Texas Law Chick
Brains and Eggs

You can also check out Morrison's web page for more info.

Dem bones

After my umpteenth time hearing someone refer to a dangerously underweight person as "Skeletor," I feel compelled to step in and say, "Now I am Master of the Universe "Enough."

This is Skeletor:

As you can see, he's not a slender overlord. Ridiculously low body fat? Sure. Skinny face? Absolutely, but unless it's only in reference to one's head, using his name to deride an emaci