It's Oscars time. Somebody wake the Grouch.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

It's quiet out there... (final version)

It's quiet out there...etc. etc...

I really had hopes for this. You know, something along the lines of the "Twilight Zone" episode where Burgess Meredith, in his pre-Penguin, pre-Rocky days, is the only survivor of a nuclear holocaust and is ecstatic to realize that he will be able to read to his heart's content for the rest of his life. That is until he breaks his reading glasses and doesn't have Hermione Granger there to repair them (as portrayed by the adorable Emma Watson - who was recently #13 on a Google search list, so I'm hoping for a little double search engine response here!)

It was looking so good. I'm alone, the last man on earth, that sort of thing. A "What would Earl do if he had all the time in the world?" post. Now I'll have to settle for what could have been. I alone will have to live with the vision of me, solitarily riding the Haunted Mansion in Orlando over and over again until there's no more gasoline for the generator. I alone will have to remember playing a spectacular game of one man football at Highbury (after having rowed the Atlantic) and scoring 72 goals against the very best Spurs attired mannequins I could find at Harrod's. I alone will have to track down and eat every last remaining tin of Walker's Scottish Shortbread, and wash it down with whatever Bass Ale, Red Stripe, and bottled water that is still in fair condition. I alone will have to scale the Eiffel Tower and throw paper aeroplanes at the Palais du Justice, which, being in Belgium, will take quite a nice breeze to pull off. I alone will have to drive every remaining sports car on the face of the earth around Daytona until the wheels fall off.

I would spend all the time watching the great films of the world, but I just know that some parallel event to the Burgess M. episode would occur and the only DVD remaining in existence would be "Bio-Dome". I'd rather not chance it.

It's quiet out there (redeux)

It's quiet out there. No one has posted here except me for the last 24 hours or so. It could just be the Saturday doldrums. Stew's probably taking his 72 children to the movies or to "Chuck E. Cheese".

Could I just add here that while the arcade games are quite fun there, there is nothing quite so spectacluarly excruciating as the quiet hell of the characters' performances. When we visit the local C.E.C. with the littlest Fando, the lighting comes up, cheesier than the pizzas, and these low-budget anamatronic figures of mice and other animals being to play remakes and alternate versions of pop songs that, by comparison, give Madonna's insipid re-make of "American Pie" all the impact of "Der Ring der Nibelungen". The figures themselves are hardly animatronic. Let's just suggest that maybe an arm or two is barely animatronic (in that some movement, however spastic and unnatural, occurs), and occasionally they will blink, but with all the subtlety and realism of Crispin Glover in a production of "Singing in the Rain". It's far worse when the help, young and fresh with all the enthusiasm amphetamines can bring to a body, get in front of the figures and dance along. I keep praying for Simon Cowell to walk in by accident, take one look at the lot and tell them how bloody awful they are. One last word to the bloke in the mouse suit...drycleaning. Now. Nothing puts off a pizza dinner like the smell of giant, sweaty, teenage mice.

All right I'll try once more...

It's quiet out there...(Harry Potter version)

I haven't been able to blog myself much today (which is a phrase that, when I read it over again, sounds slightly obscene). Apparently everyone is suffering from the Saturday malady of catching up on sleep, going out with the family, and/or attending the latest world premiere of some film (all right, Zimpter is a special case).

The silence of this blog today is somewhat creepy. I say "silence" metaphorically because, apart from the odd sound file, blogs are written rather than aural. So, I'm really not referring to any specific sounds, other than the sound my keyboard is making as I type this, which you obviously cannot hear, unlees you are a dog living nearby or Prince Charles (but I hear they've had special earphones made for him that block out the enormous amount of sounds his bat-like ears pick-up...the people at Bose do some pretty amazing things!)

The absence of any posters for the last 24 hours besides myself makes me wonder if there is anyone out there at all. I mean, certainly there are no readers out there yet, with the exceptions of the two or three of you who typed in a search for "Unfortunate Events" hoping to find out news of Lemony Snicket's next tome, got this link and thought to yourselves, "What the hell...why not take a chance and live a little?"

While I'm name dropping here, allow me to type the words "Harry Potter" in the hopes that the good little bots at Google will train their electronic feelers over this post the way Michael Douglas surely greets Catherine Zeta-Jones everytime she returns home from a long shoot, a world promotional tour, or walking the pet corgi out into the back yard. I've long suspected that including any mention of J.K. Rowling's young hero instantly ups the readership of a web site by a number along the size of the population of India.

This is a population that cannot be ignored. When she's finished the series she will find them sitting on her front lawn, having disabled the security fences and trained dobermans, staring in a slightly deranged way at her door. It will be something akin to the final scene of Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds". She will emerge from the door, quite disheveled after a short phone conversation with David Heyman about how, after long and careful consideration, the studios have decided to cut the film of her fifth book, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" (Google - do your thing!) down to a brisk ninety minutes, hoping that the pacing of the film will improve...that is, that it will improve the number of people they can jam into the theatres per day. Honestly, if they could simply walk people through, in and right out again like a Disneyland attraction, they would, so long as they're paying again back at the front of the queue.

Anyway, out the front door she comes, disheveled, etc. and there they are, thousands of HP fans, sitting in her expansive yard, staring at her like hungry budgies. She'll mentally note the distance between the front door and her Mazerati, decide that running would only set the whole 10,000 of them on her and choose that staple of Hollywood horror films, the slow walk. Gingerly, she'll move through them, step by step. You know how it will end, of course; not with her and her bespectacled husband and brood driving away to San Francisco before the end credits. She will have just about reached the car door when it will happen. From somewhere in the midst of this flock will come a sound, like a low peep: "Thinking of another Potter book, Jo?"

She'll freeze at that instant, her hand on the car door. She'll make the merest of eye contact with her husband, telling him with her glance, "Take the children and go! It's me they want! Save yourselves!" Another sound: "Any chance of doing a book about Harry in college?" The panic rising from her stomach like a plate of out-of-date sausages, she'll begin to fumble for the car keys. "What about a Weasley spin-off?" "Neville deserves a book of his own!" Peck by peck they come as she finds the keys. Her mind is racing now, as she sorts through them with her fingers. "Which one is it? Bath house, Ferrari, Winery door, Apartment in Marseille, Downstairs vault, Secret enterance to Buckingham Palace, International Space Station, come on, where are you?"

Now the questions have began to string together, growing in intensity. "Could you do a book about Harry life if he had been American?" "How about a comedy novel with Peeves and Filch, like 'The Odd Couple'?" "Have you ever thought of doing an 'adult' version of the books?"

Finally the correct key in her hand, she manages to slide it into the lock. She pulls at the door handle with every bit of speed her writer's cramped hands can manage...but it is too late. They are on her like sumo wrestlers on a bean curd buffet. Later, all they find are the car keys and the dedication page from the final book, "Harry Potter and the Electric Broomstick".

I think I started on this with something about being alone. While my sense of solitude cannot begin to compare with that of a fabulously popular author like Ms. Rowling, I think I should start again...I've lost the thread somehow.

Yo Quiero Taco Bell!!!!

Someone is obsessed with chihuahuas (pronounced Chee-hoo-a-hoo-az). It's like the Taco Bell ad people went off their prozac.

Please tell me the blue ones are just deformed smurfs...

Friday, January 28, 2005

James Cameron: A man obssessed.

Apparently he's filming an IMAX production about unusual sea life and the potential for alien life in such extreme conditions. I believe the title is going to be "The Abyss II". Leonardo DiCaprio plays the spectral ghost of a man lost at sea. In the climactic scenes he is transformed by the alien undersea lifeforms into an old man, an infant, the "sea-child", and finally, Charlie from the old StarKist tuna commercials.

No word on whether Cameron discovered the huge diamond last seen in "Titanic". Given the average cost of his films though, that could be the whole reason for this little trip.

Chico y Jose also on the way (not a poem)

C.Y.J. has e-mailed me to let us know that he has managed to free himself from his intergalactic bacon-fest long enough to join us here at DOUI (Pronounced "Do you I?"). It may take a few days though to wipe the bacon grease off of his Hawaiian shirt.

OK, I have no idea if he wears a Hawaiian shirts. I saw him in an Izod one time though, if that helps make the mental transition.

I apologize for the horribly administrative nature of this post. I will endeavor to make my next post far less relevant to the inner workings of this blog, and if that is impossible, I will at least put the administrative messages in verse.

Peace out! (See Stew, the lessons are really paying off!)


Zimpter is on the way

I got an e-mail from Zimpter (Fiforg, of course...how many Zimpter's do you know?)

He is planning on joining us soon. He's still trying to get the Internet hooked up to his T.V. I think he's running it through a Game Boy or something.

It could be a small while yet...

The wisdom of a soused westerner

I'm recalling Lukas' most influential comment of the 80's now: "Advice to the kiddies: Watch a lot of television, so's ya get smart." Obviously he wasn't referrring specifically to the show with Don Adams as "Maxwell Smart, Agent 86".

The thing I remember most about Lukas, besides his penchant for Bourbon-laced iced tea (receipe: take a jigger of Bourbon and dip a tea bag in it for as long as it would take Dom Deluise to get thrown from a bronc, serve immediately and in one chug), is his immense hat. His hat is festooned with more medals, feathers, badges, bullets, hatbands, pigeons, and granola bars, than there are exclamations in a week's episodes of "Emeril! Live". It was a miracle it didn't sink into his head. On second thought there's a very real chance it has.

I nearly forgot his second favorite hobby, after inventing mixed drinks that are at least 95% alcohol...he enjoys cow-tipping with a humvee.

Well it ain't poetry.

Just got an e-mail from our old pal Lukas P. Short, he's been reading the blog and is in the process of starting his own. He says he's going to call it Lukas P. Short's Crackerjack Almanac since that name was his original idea. He read Max and JCV's poetry and thought it was in his words "like fine branchwater poured over bourbon". He said he doesn't fancy himself a connoisseur of poetry but did send along some of the backwoods notions he is famous for.

You can tell a lot by a fella’s handshake, you can tell even more IF his hand shakes.


Silage in winter, hay in summer, Jim Beam in betwixt.

Mud is the glue that binds the heart of the man to the heart of the land.

Don’t ever judge a book by its cover, cause sometimes kids write on ‘em.

There are always two sides to a every story, make sure yours sounds the best.

The land is like a lady, it’s got some nice curves here and there, but can erode with time.

A young gal is like a fine wine, and she’ll knock you on your butt just as fast.

A fine whisky is best enjoyed in moderation, the rot gut can be guzzled freely however.

Do not let sleeping dogs lie, get’em up and keep’em honest.

Do not cry over spilt milk, save your bellyachin’ for spilt whisky.

Bourbon before noon is not a sin.

A young filly is best treated with respect and dignity, and don’t forget to worm her.

A man who calls them like he sees them. I for one will be awaiting the Crackerjack Almanac with much anticipation.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Live Blog of the Oscars

For you, our loyal reader, a few of us are considering doing a live blog of the Academy Awards. We're wanting to get some feedback, but as we've only been on a week, this may simply be me, fantasizing about the day when there are more than 4 people, whose computers have all frozen on this page while absent-mindedly clicking through blogs, reading the site regularly.

However, if you should by chance hit this page and feel that the suggestion is a good one, please e-mail one of us, so we can print it out, frame it, and use it to support our crumbling self-esteem for the next 40 years.


Helping You Our Readers (er) Keep Up With the New Slang

More random selections of slang and definitions from the translation dictionary of "Fly Lingo Electric Jingo Pants":

Hizzy - Sings like Barbara Striesand (also "butter")
Squiver - Advertising
Popey - Fine taste in hats
Gunther - Sidekick
Quintessential - Robert Shaw
Stup - Stup (I had no idea, but there it is on page 436)
Doolie - Ex-Doobie Brother who ratted out his bandmates to the narcs
Rather - Washed Up TV Personality
Lizzle - A fight between Hillary Duff and Lindsey Lohan, in a cage
Hinky - Someone obsessed with Scooby Doo and especially Velma and those pert little...ahem, where was I?
Ruble - Turnips (also Russian currency, which these days is the same thing)
Gingrich - Squat Thrusts
Gigli - An idea so insane it causes physical pain (Pardon me, I think that's from Roger Ebert's review of the film.)
Gippy - Allergic to peanut butter and or shoe polish
Garfunkel - White man's afro

Ezra Pound Never Had It So Good

J. Carlos V. I was truly moved by your latest verse. That's what I get for packing day-old tuna salad for lunch.

Actually, I did think that I noticed some strains of Gabriel Garcia Marquez in the last line. The influence is staggering when you consider that he too seems to go on and on without end and then suddenly, there it is in big italic blockquote letters, "the end". The irony is positively heartbreaking.

In addition to the masterful GGM, as he his known to his "homies", your work recalls none other than our old, dear friend Max Speebek. Among his many talents, he has released several volumes of poetry, which in turn several publishers re-released into their dustbins. Nonetheless, he has had an influence on all sorts of people, most of whom are no longer infected. Here's the poem I think about first when I hear his name, or when I take out the garbage.

Eel Soup or Puddings

by M. Speebek (missing)


I am done and will be out when the air has cleared.
I will put the seat back
Down, dear.

Eels are tasty when prepared with the proper sense of
Nixon died in pudding and Pat kept
the eels in the cupboard. The pudding
went stale, but what do you
expect
With the 37th President of the United
States floating around in it?

NASCAR drivers, circling like
logo-festooned vultures round the asphalt
carcass

Quisinart,
quisinart,
quisinart rhymes with fart
And who would fardles bear, and what
are fardles anyway and why was
Shakespeare so keen on them, the pantywaist?
"Bodkins?" What is he
Smoking?

Give me an M
Give me an A
Give me an X
Give me an interesting disease, I'm free for the weekend.

"Fardles!" He makes me laugh!
The pudding snorts through my nose.


As you can see, the man is completely mad. Still, that poem was read aloud at the inauguration of the first President of Lower Spanglish. Good thing the native tongue down there is Urdu and no one understood a word.

JCV loving the poetry

Sometimes we are so very being the inspired by events around us in life that we can not truly express how we are feel on the inside part of the us in mere writings of word like this. No, my neighbor and friends, sometimes we can only revert to the using of poem to let all of those emotion gush out of brain. I have something close on the order of half a million poems which were being wrote by me over the years in turbulent times and excitement times. Today I have a very unexpected exciting, so I have to put this experience down in the format of poem. Here then I present one of the most especial thing from me.


Why the seagulls crying?

by JCV

I pretty sure that man spitted in my sandwich today.
I order the corn beef on rye, but he spitted inside when he make it.
Why somebody doing such a thing, not know if I might stab him?
You spit in the person sandwich you don't know, he might stab.
He could be the crazy person come in order the sandwich.
Moral of story: don't spit in the sandwich unless you want stabbed.

This is the way of the world which I cannot understand,
why so many puppies don't even have love for them,
why so many sandwich got spitted inside of it,
why so many dolphins hit by boats and died,
why so many rain clouds never find their way home,
why the seagulls crying when nothing bad happen to them yet?
This is the way of the world which I cannot understand.

the end

Keeping up with the new slang

Stew, you must work harder at keeping up with the various lingos the younger members (all right, member) of our audience are (is) using. While I confess to not quite getting it all myself sometimes (up until 6 months ago, I thought the use of the word "bling" heralded a resurgence in pinball), I've since worked hard to familiarize myself with the latest, hippest, fly-est slang.

I'm currently taking an online course from the University of Upper Philbin called, "You Got ta Dizzle Before Ya Can Bizzle". (I'm hoping we get to the part of the course that translates the title soon.) The course text is "Fly Lingo Electric Jingo Pants" by M.C. Lemony Fresh, whom I believe Zimpter is personally acquainted with. The text contains an assortment of simple phrases you can use in a very hip setting. For example:

"I messing some jizzle if sweetness itdn getja some air baby," is translated into normal English as "I need to go to the restroom or I'm going to soil myself"

"What's the rollerblade corn dog due, dude?" is "Can you direct me to the subway?"

"Finkle?" means, "What's your name and how did your parents come to give it to you?"

"Homey's crib got fly qwankle in cupboard motorized fardleshazz!" means that someone's home was hit by a Zeppelin at night.

"Tranya expecto patronum et Romanus?" is translated as, "I hear Clint Howard has been asked to play Remus Lupin in the next Harry Potter movie."

In addition to fabulous phrases such as these, there is a handy translation dictionary. some samples: (Slang - English)

Fizzle - Loose change
Smokin Off Uptown - Traveling by plane
Neuman - Unpleasant
Finkle - Libertarian
Shizzle - Impressive skateboard
Gazausowow - Shoestrings
Tokapoppy - Parrot
Cling-Cling - Deodorant
Mizzle - 10 Year I.R.A.
Stookiemamajezbazap - Jazzercize
Coopy - Three-piece chicken dinner
Phizzle - Regis

Thanks for the shout-out dawg!!

I just received some of the first e-mail concerning our blogging foray. Joey S. of San Jose, CA. writes:

Yo’ boyz what’up!!! Been talkin to my peeps and they say ya’ll is the shizzle. Ya’ll be trippin’ with all the fly jokes you be crackin’. That stuff is krunk with a capital K, yo.
Peace out.


My first thought was, why you foul-mouthed little @#^@*#^ what kind of parents raised a rapscallion like you. You should have your mouth cleaned out with soap and be given some sort of software to improve your grammar. After a few moments I was able to calm down and forward this e-mail to a friend who informed me that this was actually a compliment. Apparently the little ragamuffin was using "modern" lingo to tell me of his, and his friends, enjoyment of our site. Can a man who uses the terms rapscallion and ragamuffin be forgiven for not understanding the modern tongue of our youth? I hope so. And to Joey the young moppet who has opened the eyes of this thirty-something, drop by the hizzle sometime and we can kick it bee'atch.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Justice!

Now see what you've done. I'm drifting down that stretch of Memory Lane again, the one that' s constantly under construction, where the pawn shops and bailbondsmen outnumber the McDonald's 10 to 1.

It's in my head now, it is. The theme song for "Captain Crusader...and Bucky". Justice! If I must endure it, then so must the entire world, or at least the 4 people a day who accidentally "next blog" to this site and then can't get away because their Internet connection goes down and this is the only page their PC has cached. I suppose I should be grateful they don't have a back-up connection.

Anyway the song:

Justice!

by C. Crusader...and B. (Last name unknown)

Justice! That is our game!
Lady Law! That is our name!
Cause you can't beat it,
Might as well treat it with respect y'all
Come on!

Talkin’ bout crime
Talkin’ bout stealin’
It all makes my stomach start reelin’
Huhgh!!! (hurling noise)

I don't like a thief
I don't like a crook
They're all the same in my
Lawbook!

Justice!
Justice!
Justice! (repeat seventy-two times)


On the bright side, I hear Blue is doing a remake.

Memories! Misty, sweaty, electric horse memories!

Stew, you really took me back 17 years with that last post; which is unfortunate as I'd just completed my last round of therapy six weeks ago putting to rest the demons of Lameduck Refusniks. It was one thing to serve as hairdresser for Steve T. and Lonnie S. Fly on that production, but quite another to be asked at the last minute to handle truss duty for Lukas P. Short. Who knew his hat had a truss?

I'm certain that no one has any earthly idea of what we're speaking of, which is a shame because, despite the personal psychological scars I acquired while making these productions, they really are as masterful as semi-improvised video on a budget of naught can get. I think my favorite scene is S.T. and Mrs. T. on the back of the electronic horse. It's still a shame we couldn't get the rights to "Disco Inferno" or better yet "Little Red Corvette" for that scene. Roger Ebert would still be drooling about it in breathless, Raisinette scented tones. That scene still has more physical energy that all 72 of Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger's sex scenes in the first 12 minutes of "9 and 1/2 Weeks", which is pretty amazing, considering they were both fully dressed and on different ends of the horse.

Still, I should be grateful you left out some of the more shocking works in the old TBSP canon. I'm thinking of the heartless, cannibalistic "Futile Gesture" (who knew it was adapted from Dickens' life story?), and of course the now legendary Freshly Squeezed Sunshine Show. Somewhere, in a carny in the U.S., Gorba the Great is still living of the buzz from that now defunct daytime extravaganza. I hear the band still gets good gigs just by mentioning your name and Sean Penn's immortal spin off "Get That Camera Out of My Face!".

Also, I would be remiss to forget our most notorious production. No, not Skinheads at Home (Hot Dog!!!!), but the infamous Cannes also-ran "Those Damn Joneses!" Father Jones was truly a challenge to the might and majesty of every psuedo-offshoot of the Roman Catholic orthodoxy on the planet (and in many ways also reminded me of Bing Crosby in "Boys' Town"). It's Three-Belt Dan though who has haunted my memory for ages and will be with me until I die, the triple-belted, hypnotic bastard. That vapid stare of his only seems to be empty and silly until you look deep into his frightening eyes and they bore into your soul and sanity like a Darrell Dawkins basketball dunk (Named appropriately "the Three-Belt Dan bore into your head, slam-a-jama crush you till you're dead". That Darrell, what a poet!)

I am calling Dr. Shrinkley and making an appointment for this Friday. I just remembered the 2 weeks I had to step in as belt-wrangler for Dan.

I feel the pain, Juan C.V.

I understand the angst and bile which flow from your fingers my Mex... uh, Colum... uh, Hispanic friend. Earl, Zimpter, and I received the same reaction from the Academy to our two Magnum Opi (is that right?), The Land That Fish Forgot and Lameduck Refuseniks. Two fine films exposing the lives of ordinary people and the travails of moderate talent and low production values. The two films were screened for top industry executives and lauded as ahead of their time, before we found out that the textile industry was not really the outlet we were looking for. Allow me to summarize the films for the great unwashed, Earl feel free to fill in where I may not recall.

TLTFF, as it is known to its multitude of fans, was a series of poignant vignettes set in a rustic mountain setting. The intro was the epic search for the meaning of life, as we see a saintly figure roaming on a seemingly endless journey to find that which will fulfill all his wants and desires. In an expression of post modernist consumerism we find that true peace can only be found under the Golden Arches of Nirvana (mid-south division). The next vignette concerns the musings of one Lukas P. Short, an entrepreneur and amateur cable personality who dispenses cogent bromides to the masses such as "These is drugs and this is alcohol", throws away bag of drugs and takes a colossal drink of whisky, "Don't take drugs, they'll kill ya". Then there was the story of Captain Crusader...and Bucky that contained what is probably the first superhero rap performance on film, a breakthrough for the time. Finally, we have the story of one Angus MacCrowley, a kilt wearing Bondesque hero, who defies his archenemy Mr. Thunderhead and returns a prize article to a friend of his. This portion of the film was hailed by critics for the midnight car chase scene that took film noir to untouched depths.

Lameduck Refuseniks, known to many as simply Lame, was our fusion of surrealism and not quite surrealism into a film that quite frankly confuses many who see it. Whether it was the depth of character (and the knife) in "Fishing with Lonnie & Steve" or the visual feast which was "The Fly" one could always find something to love about the film. Many saw the "Merchant Bank Sketch" as a plea for help, a moving grasp for the gold ring by a sleazy man of ill repute. The scene featuring George Takei alone has brought grown men to tears and frightened many small children. Truly powerful stuff from Triple Bypass Surgery Productions.

I know the Academy does not take into consideration the vast popularity of these films but the writing, cinematography, and costume work is something that may never grace the big screen again. Even the shorts "Mr. Pajamawaffle V" and "The One Containing the S2 Thiever" should have been considered for Short Subject awards but were overlooked by the high and mighty "Academy". Shame on them.

Academy of Lies

Since Mr. Fando bring up about the Oscar awards, please let me speak on this subject just for a couple of the paragraphs. You see, I can speak on it as one who is on the inside of this business, for as you perhaps are well knowledged I am Jorge Carlito Viejo, president and founder of Waste of Time Productions. Over the course of almost half a decade of cinematic discovery I produce many, many films in a variety of categories including the funny laugh type and the more serious one where there is the dying person and peoples are cry to see it. We produce six volumes of masterworks collection called Award Winning Cinema, Volumes I through VI, plus also the final volume call Award Losing Cinema of the movie I was reluctant to release to the public but did so in order to clean out the vault. Some of you never seen any of the fine film contain in the seven volume of movies produced by W.O.T. Productions, and that is most definite the shame of yours to bear. Also, most important, the Academy of Oscar Awards never once see any of this movies I make or even one time nominate in a single category including the best costume or sound effects editing which so richly we deserved. This is why to me is become the farce this Academy, when they say, "Oh, we love this movie the Sideways where the old mens are drive around and drink wine and be so very, very sarcastic. That one special fine for award. And, oh, ring the gong of excitement for here is this movie One Million Dollars Baby about lady who act like man to hit the other lady. It so very extra nice with really, really wrinkle old Clint Eastwood look like mummy walk around be severe. Or the Aviator one so special my Depends tear open, for it have the man what drownded in the big boat and now he live to fly the airplane. Give to him every award known to mankind history." Well, what about my excellent film, Academy of Lies?! Shall I do the refreshment of memory?

"Lost Brother" a daunting tale starring Ian R. as the one who think he lost his brother played by Andy M. but who brother is really the evil servant of Meheki-Leki play by me. Most great acting in this one. Surely a Best Actor nod for Ian when he cry and also dance and be mad all in one film.

"Vitamin D" in which a man name Kenny B. play a man who eating sugar to get his vitamin D when his wife play by the Sara H. ignore him and another lady name Jessica T. pay $25 to have him gassed. Could it win for best adapted screenplay from the unpublished novel by Juan C. V. yes it could.

"The Three Fugees" is like the better version of three stooges where Vince S. play Larry with no personality and pet iguani whilst the Ian R. play angry Moe-like person who hitting everyone, Kenny B. as Shemp like man who get hated for no reason, and Smiggy B. play the Curly style person with weird noise come out of mouth and lots of falling down. This one should win for best Stuntwork. Do they have that category?

"Elmore Rabibo and his Lonely Circle of Strange Friends" starring Mr. James P. as a great big nerd who throw a party and invite many other nerd. Then he send them off in pairs to find the golden cupcake, but really it is the trap and all perish in creative ways. Only Smiggy B. survives and draw on chalkboard with James P. Good powerhouse performance over that one guy in Aviator who drowned on big ship while lady float on door.

Consider the dark dead end alley road you are crashing down frontwards, Academy, for at the end the wall you will hit is the wall of hypocrisy. Many good company making excellent quality A level film all over the world without Hollywood help. Yes, i was one before I go broke and drive the bus for a living.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

...Never had an Oscar

As Oscar season rolls around, many turn to the bittersweet (Hollywood translation: "Highly enjoyable") task of reminding us about all those great performers and films that never won an Oscar. Apart from the actual Oscar winners rubbing it in the noses of the perennial losers, including in some cases the dead ones, books have been written about this subject, and Roger Ebert actually has a film festival dedicated to it, the modestly named "Ebertfest".

(I was a bit disappointed finding out it was just another film festival. When I first saw it, I thought he had come up with a one-man Broadway review. I was rather looking forward to seeing his turn as a song-and-dance man, singing and dancing "Singing in the Rain" and "Oklahoma!" You'll have to settle for the films themselves, which upon further reflection, will come as a great relief to all, including Mrs. Ebert, who no doubt would have to sit through all the rehearsals.)

The chief purpose of such schadenfreud (a German word meaning "Rin Tin Tin") is to express just what a bunch of ignorant philistines the members of the "Academy" truly are. Rather than give awards to these great artists of the cinema, rather than recognize challenging new films, the Academy prefers to throw Oscars at over-baked romantic potboilers, highlighted by Celine Dion ballads and a momentarily topless Kate Winslet. If the ship hadn't actually struck the iceberg and sank in the last 15 minutes of the film, I would have sworn I was watching an extended episode of General Hospital on the Bravo Channel, entitled "Luke and Laura on the Really Big Boat".

Needless to say the "Academy" gets things wrong frequently, because it's very difficult to hand out awards for artistic excellence in one hand whilst calculating potential gate receipts with the other. However, I think the Academy should be given it's due. While many great actors and actresses have not been rewarded for their deserving work, the Academy has managed to avoid, with rare exception Mr. Moore, giving out awards to people who not only don't deserve them, but who should probably be stoned within an inch of their lives with the little gold-plated nudists for daring to turn up in the same state as a film set. Here is my rather short list of those who did not get the Oscar. If true to form, each of them will never in human history be even mentioned in the same breath as the name Oscar, outside of reviews of an off-Broadway revival of "the Odd Couple". No, on second thought, even that is too close.

Please understand that some of these people may be very nice human beings, good company, sweet natured, generous, etc. I accept that. Understand that it is only their body of work that I feel belongs in the lowest pit of hell in whatever video store they have. It will probably be right next to the bookstore containing my collected works of fiction and poetry.

In no particular order:
Pauly Shore
Pia Zadora
Willie Ames/Scott Baio
Pauly Shore
Andrew Dice Clay
Paul Verhoven
Joe Eszterhas
Mickey Rourke
Pauly Shore
Pauly Shore
Pauly Shore (sorry, hit the old paste button a few too many times...could it be my subconscious acting up?)
Pauly Shore

I want each of these individuals to know that I really do wish them the best in life: grace, peace, love, and all the blessings of God.

However, they should avoid a film set the way vampires avoid the North Pole in summer. Sometimes, Oscar gets it right you know.


And the Oscar goes to....

With Oscar prediction season in full swing we would be remiss to forget those in the thankless side of motion pictures, the sci-tech nominees. Yes, these geeks deserve their due for without them we could not experience the joy of unending morphs, T-rexi chasing down your Jeff Goldblums, or Imagica 65/35 Multi-Format Optical Printers offering us ease of set-up and change-over to various formats from 35mm to 65mm 15-perf with both additive and subtractive lamp houses. We, therefore, offer our predictions for the scientific and engineering awards in 2005.

· Fando Industries for their computer software suite which eliminates the placing of Josh Hartnett or Guy Pearce into any motion picture. The “Overexposurizer 3.1” software allows the user to place a computer generated actor, such as Owen Wilson, into any low to mid budget picture immediately pushing up the gross and possible Golden Globe nomination potential.

· Pixar Corporation for their seamless use of a computer generated Gwen Stefani in the motion picture The Aviator. Pixar won a closely fought contract battle when the plastic version of Gwen developed by Dupont was found to have “too much” acting talent rendering it unrealistic.

· Dow Chemical garners special note for it’s “Shut-up Jack” spray that renders those annoying loud-talkers unconscious. Made for distribution with all future Spike Lee and Arnold Schwarzeneggar films the canister also leaves a fluorescent dye marker for the usher.

· Panavision wins another award for their new 35 mm special soft focus camera lens which can take twenty years off of octogenarian actresses Cher or Barbra Streisand causing them to actually appear to be in their forties or fifties. This new lens has made possible the saving of up to ten thousand gallons of petroleum jelly and 50,000 square yards of muslin per actress/per film.

· Squiver Corporation for their new “Whoa Boy” filters which, when utilized with any Jim Carrey or Robin Williams performance, keeps them from going over the top. Commissioned after “Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls” the special filter monitors scenes for their spastic comedy quotient, and dampens them by inserting especially mundane scenes from “Koyaanisqatsi”.

· A special award will go to Jerry Bruckheimer for the highly secret mind control ray he must possess. How else can this scam artist’s string of similarly formulated movies that suck in huge box office dollars be explained, other than his pact with the horned-one. On second thought this might cover too many people in Hollywood to justify an award.

The awards this year will be given by Dame Judy Dench and Sir Ian McKellan in return for unlimited award nominations until the year 2020.

Lights, Camera, Boom Boom

The Oscar nominations are out today and the Academy, Leonard Maltin-like, seems to have taken the usual safe road down the middle of potential controversy and not given any major nominations to either "The Passion" and "Fahrenheit 911" (although "Passion" did get a couple of minor nominations). They did however decide to recognize "Super-Size Me" in the documentary category.

"Super-Size Me" is, of course, the story of the making of "Honey, I Blew Up the Baby", only with more McDonald's product placement ads. I've heard rumors that it was actually a tale of a bloke who ate only McDonald's food for his meals and developed severe health problems because he was too stupid to realize that even the Hamburgler cooks in every once in a while. I found the whole concept a little hard to believe though, given Hollywood types' insane proclivity for eating caviar by the case, and going through vodka martinis like they were the Bond triplets. Surely he snuck in a tin of foie gras or pate' du Campignon every once in a while, and that stuff will bloat you like the Barney balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

I'm sorry she treats you that way...could you please pass the salsa?

Stew and I were having our usual weekly lunch yesterday (carne asada in several varieties), when I noticed the conversation at the table next to us. I was trying not to eavesdrop, but it was difficult, given that the person doing most of the talking was nearly as loud as Chris Matthews. Also, the subject matter seemed to be some sort of marriage counseling.

Is this some sort of trend, to talk about someone's most intimate personal relations over chips and salsa? Discussing the physical relationship of a couple not enough excitement for some counselors without a spicy entree' to fill in the conversational gaps? I mean, I thought I was meeting the real George Costanza and discovering that he's a relationship counselor. That's like finding out that Evel Knievel is the safety patrol at your child's school.

Even more remarkable was the choice of a restaurant. "Close" isn't a satisfactory description. In the place we were, if you cut your food too fast you might accidentally elbow someone at the next table in the chin...someone on the other side of the table. Even worse than that is that the two blokes talking seemed to know four other people at a table next to them. I was trying not to listen as best I could, but I kept expecting to hear lines like, "Sexual dysfunction is quite normal for men your age (turns to other table) ...stop snickering Bob!"

Anyway, even in our highly emotionalized society I feel this is far too much for the usually neutral social environment of a tiny, crowded Mexican bistro. I hope the counselor is reading this and will consider Denny's or Shoney's next time, where they at least have booths.

Oh, and before I forget, someone named Marcia should really think about locking her shoe closet whenever Ronald's home alone...


Monday, January 24, 2005

After a quick rinse in your new toilet shower...

...go for a spin around the marble driveway in the latest, hippiest, luxury-retro-military-Planet of the Apes-Omega Man thingy.

When I saw the picture, I half-expected Ruth Buzzi and Jim Nabors to jump out of it wearing metallic jump-suits. Paging Chuck McCann and Bob Denver, your Far-Out Space Nuts taxi has arrived.

Still. I wonder what kind of mileage it gets? Is it solar? It does have 400 watt sound. "Blue" now has something to arrive for their next concert in.

Does this mean there's now a "Number 3"?

Stew, I think you’re beginning to take the title of our little blog much too seriously. Still, I think that Dave Barry would be deathly envious, were one iota of his formidable mind aware of our existence, as he has made it part of his life’s work to chronicle the development of sophisticated toilet technology.

Of course, “sophisticated” is a massive exaggeration here. When I went to the link and saw the words “shower” and “toilet”, my mind eventually was reminded of the very old joke about Canada (and please let me explain myself before you send the Snowbirds off to strafe my home Premier Martin.) As this old chestnut goes, Canada could have had French cuisine, American technology, and British culture, but would up with British cuisine, French technology, and American culture.

Now I fancy my bangers and mash as much as the next bloke, so I don’t think Canada came off too badly (33% success, eh?). However, this unique invention makes me think Canada was very lucky indeed. They could have had American technology and French culture. This thing is the next step on the evolutionary ladder from the bidet. They could have covered it all if only they’d added a small icebox for bridies and sausage rolls.

While the energetic Mr. Miller has scooped me on this little gem, I did take it upon myself to leave the product’s very first review on the Amazon page from which it…ahem…sprung forth. For those of you with weak constitutions when it comes to viewing devices designed to shower and flush at the same time, I have reproduced it below.

"Like the colleague of mine who first noticed it, I hesitate to imagine the customer images that will be shared for this amazing new product. I am also struggling to fathom the insipration for this brave, reckless invention. Was the inventor, hunched over a chamberpot, suddenly overcome by the need to be drenched in hot, soapy water? Was it the opposite end of the spectrum, where the constant sound of powerful jets of H2O triggered the uncontrollable urges of an overstimulated bladder?

"Good heavens people! Showers! Toilets! Never the twain shall meet! Are people so rushed that we now have to find inventive ways to merge our personal hygeine needs with our defecation time? They say that necessity is the mother of invention? She should have taken the bleeding day off. "

Is anybody really looking for something like this?

I'm sure for the person who likes taking care of all their business at once, this is a good idea. But do we really want to know how these people live and have them "share your own customer images"? I don't think so.

Features:
The intensity of the spray can be regulated with a turn knob. (what spray we must ask)
The temperature of the air, supplied by an almost noiseless dryer, can be adjusted to individual preference. (I prefer the noisy dryers, they mask the more embarrassing noises)
The Shower Toilet is also equipped with automatic air purifier. (a good thing I'm sure)
The seat contact has a multi-purpose function: it activates the air purifier, it prevents the spray (I don't know what they were going to put here, and I don't want to know)

"Blue" hoo who??!?!?!

What!!!!! Blue!!!!! Next you'll tell me a band called Green Day has a chance at the Grammy's. I've done a little checking into this "boy band" and found some startling inconsistencies. First of all they could hardly be called a "boy band" since three are in their fifties and the fourth is not actually a boy, if you get my drift. Secondly, and most startling, the four of them don't write their music and can't really play any instruments. OK, that was too startling but boils my goats milk to think these buffoons could upstage U2 at any awards presentation.

I furthered my research by going to the lyrical archives of this quartet to see what kind of song could beat the likes of "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own". Here is just a sampling of the detestable sludge that these pretenders heap on the public:

Girl, You're my Girl, Girl
performed by Blue
Lyrics by Snazzy Snax

Girl... you're my girl, girl
Give it a whirl girl
You are my
worl.....d,
Girl

Girl... you're my girl, girl
Hat like Minnie
Pearl girl
Eat a nut like a squirrel
Girl

Chorus:
Girl, oh
girl of girls are you
Make me some fondue, oo, oo,
While I perform some
magic too oo
Which way to the loo oo oo oo oo oo oo?

Pretty heady stuff from our middle-age rocksters there, I don't think I've heard lyrics like that since N-Sync's last. Here's another little gem:


Sweet Potato Pie
performed by Blue
Lyrics by Dizzy Dizz

Girl,
you're like sweet potato pie
You make me want to die, 'ie
And when I
taste the fillin'
You know we all be chillin', 'in

Chorus:
Sweet potato pie
don't get it in your eye
Good source of beta carotene
Don't forget to use your Listerine, 'ine, 'ine, 'ine, 'ine

Utter hog swill. But that must be what passes for music in the land of croissants and baguettes these days.

Check out the picture here, it speaks volumes.

****RIP - Johnny
****You were a pioneer

Vive Le Musique! - "Elephunk"?

The French Music Awards were apparently held last night with some "boy band" named Blue beating out U2 for top band. Apparently, in France at least, beefcake harmonization outstrips creative and spiritually-oriented Rock 'n' roll. Which means that France has, for the year 2005, become Madonna's favorite country.

One thing about this particular soiree' struck me as quite revealing about the artistic nature of such popular music awards. No, not the telling photo accompanying the Yahoo!/Reuters story showing Bono triumphantly holding up the "special" award U2 received (because people know Bono, but "Blue"?), as compensation no doubt for the French music industry's sudden fascination with a musical trend that officially died here in the U.S. the second Justin Timberlake ripped off Janet Jackson's brassiere at the Super Bowl. Come to think of it, that might explain France's sudden fascination with such singers (And also perhaps the rumors that the Super Bowl halftime show this year will be headlined by "Up with People"). It cannot begin though to help me fathom the title of one of the award winning albums: "Elephunk".

"Elephunk"? The band is the L.A.-based rap group Black Eyed Peas, so such inane, pun-laden sophism can hardly be laid at the feet of a once formidable French culture still reeling from its infatuation with Deconstructionism, political opportunist Michael Moore, and the weaker entries in the Jerry Lewis canon. While the Black Eyed Peas seem fairly tame and positive as hip-hop standards go, I have to ask what the members were thinking when the album-naming meetings came up (and was there heavy drinking involved)?

One's mind reels at once with the sheer simplicity of such a pun. It this respect it could almost seem a bold, daring gesture, like Mel Brooks making "Springtime for Hitler" the centerpiece of "The Producers". Except that the more you think about it, the more you realize it was probably the best of a series of similar inventions, and that, by pure grace, we were probably spared something along the lines of one of the following options: "Kangarap", "Hip-Hoppotamus", "Hamsta", or "Ze-bro". If George Clinton were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Johnny, We'll miss you.

The imaginary golf swing, Carnac ("I hold in my hand, the last [loud applause] "- It was Ed's line but Johnny's reaction made the joke), The clumsy double-entendres, Jack Hanna's animals climbing all over him and relieving their frustrations (and other things), Good-naturedly frightening the potato-chip art lady by munching from a bowl of crisps hidden behind the desk, "I did not know that!" which sounds all too like him, Adjusting the collar and tie as though there were too much starch in it every night, his love of magic tricks (and some considerable talent there as well), the comic voices that always morphed into the same squirrely tone, introducing nearly every talented American comic well-known and working to the nation, the unbeliveably garish technicolor curtain - a holdover from the early days of color, the rare ability to take an awful joke and use it to his advantage...this was the gentleman who millons of Americans of all generations settled down with for the evening. When he stepped off the screen, it was like King Lear with all the children fighting for a piece of his comic late night kingdom (I fancy David Letterman the loyal child, though Jay Leno seems a good bloke) because here was a fellow who had given people a pretty good reason to stay up a bit later that evening. This was the guy who's show people were talking about around water coolers the next day.

He had his personal difficulties of course; several marriages and divorces, and some notable fallings out with people (de Cordova and Rivers come to mind) but then who is without the need for grace.

I'm reminded of the song off of U2's latest album, "One Step Closer". Johnny knows now. He has stepped over as all must into God's hands. His presence on the screen ended about 12 years ago, but now he's truly gone. This small-town Nebraska boy will be missed. He knew how to make us laugh.

All right, this is about as serious as this site will be allowed to get. When funny people pass on though, we notice.