I think we can all agree that I’m on track to write my generation’s “Citizen Kane.” It’s really only a matter of time. Here are my thoughts so far…
Setting: The rambling country estate of Lord Buckinghamptonshirceister, circa 1873.
Cast: Sir Derek Jacobi as Lord Buckinghamptonshirceister and Dame Maggie Smith as Lady Buckinghamptonshirceister, a “no-sex-please-we’re-British”-style couple. Once the script solidifies, Helena Bonham Carter might be thrown into the mix.
Director: Lord Richard Attenborough
Plot: After being diagnosed with some fanciful 19th century illness – I’m thinking consumption – Lady Buckinghamptonshirceister decides that the time has come for her to really live. She and her husband embark on a journey to discover the true meaning of life, and the all-consuming importance of love.
Tone: NC-17. Dame Maggie Smith snorts lines off courtesans’ asses, while Sir Derek Jacobi rediscovers his youthful passion for “le vice anglais.” Helena Bonham Carter will swan around in the nude, as per usual.
Now that the movie’s all sorted out, who should I thank in my Oscar acceptance speech?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Third Deadly Sin
I cannot deny that I resent my more successful peers. Maybe I’m petty, maybe I’m lacking in self-confidence, and maybe I’m just mean. Whatever the case may be, I was apoplectic all weekend.
Allow me to set the scene. It’s a Friday night, and despite my agoraphobic tendencies I find myself at a Japanese restaurant on the Upper West Side. With me are two friends from high school and one of their boyfriends, who is fortunate enough to not be an alumnus of the same shithole of a learning institution as the rest of us. We’ve just finished eating – against my better judgment, I ordered something called “Vegetarian Sushi Platter,” which turned out to comprise mostly unidentifiable vegetables in charming shades of grey – and are trying to agree on what to do with the remainder of our evening. Someone suggests a movie, specifically the spectacularly unappealing “No Strings Attached.”
I couldn’t ridicule this proposition fast enough; although singularly untalented at the art of money management, I know better than to hand over my hard-earned cash for the privilege of gazing upon that queer douchebag, Ashton Kutcher. I elucidated my stance on the matter for the benefit of my companions, who explained that, although they felt similarly, there were extenuating circumstances: this piece of shit movie’s screenplay was written by a former high school classmate, Liz Meriwether. Yes, I’m fearlessly naming names.
I may be rushing to judgment here since I didn’t actually see the movie; the four of us opted for a game of Trivial Pursuit instead. I am, however, pretty confident that this film is irredeemably bad given that it’s a romantic comedy. As Hollywood’s most cynical genre, these movies aren’t worth the celluloid they’re printed on. Romantic comedies are churned out because they’re cheap to make and sure to attract low-IQ women and the men who want to fuck them – as long as these films continue to line the pockets of Hollywood players, the joke’s on us.
If you value comedy, you weren’t eagerly anticipating the release of “When Harry Re-met Sally Again: Part 6.” The tagline for “No Strings Attached” is “Can sex friends be best friends?” If they could, there wouldn’t be a movie. Here’s a recap: two people who are distractingly attractive have awkward sex, enjoy it, keep it up, much hilarity ensues, they wind up together, the end. Hang on to your $13.00 and your dignity; you might need them someday.
How much of my rage has to do with the fact that I myself have done nothing with my life? Probably the vast majority. Liz was far more popular than I was in high school, but although we were never friends, she always struck me as a decent enough person. She certainly never tormented or humiliated me, which counts for something. It’s just that I really got through high school only by believing that in the real world I would find greater success and be the recipient of more accolades than my well-liked classmates. Instead, I’m a directionless wage-slave in a no-status job without hope of advancement. I’m lucky to have this much given the state of the economy, but it’s depressing to see that the girls who in high school had boyfriends and went to parties and weren’t considered heinously ugly have continued to outshine me.
I’ve therefore decided to write a screenplay. Any suggestions would be welcome…
Allow me to set the scene. It’s a Friday night, and despite my agoraphobic tendencies I find myself at a Japanese restaurant on the Upper West Side. With me are two friends from high school and one of their boyfriends, who is fortunate enough to not be an alumnus of the same shithole of a learning institution as the rest of us. We’ve just finished eating – against my better judgment, I ordered something called “Vegetarian Sushi Platter,” which turned out to comprise mostly unidentifiable vegetables in charming shades of grey – and are trying to agree on what to do with the remainder of our evening. Someone suggests a movie, specifically the spectacularly unappealing “No Strings Attached.”
I couldn’t ridicule this proposition fast enough; although singularly untalented at the art of money management, I know better than to hand over my hard-earned cash for the privilege of gazing upon that queer douchebag, Ashton Kutcher. I elucidated my stance on the matter for the benefit of my companions, who explained that, although they felt similarly, there were extenuating circumstances: this piece of shit movie’s screenplay was written by a former high school classmate, Liz Meriwether. Yes, I’m fearlessly naming names.
I may be rushing to judgment here since I didn’t actually see the movie; the four of us opted for a game of Trivial Pursuit instead. I am, however, pretty confident that this film is irredeemably bad given that it’s a romantic comedy. As Hollywood’s most cynical genre, these movies aren’t worth the celluloid they’re printed on. Romantic comedies are churned out because they’re cheap to make and sure to attract low-IQ women and the men who want to fuck them – as long as these films continue to line the pockets of Hollywood players, the joke’s on us.
If you value comedy, you weren’t eagerly anticipating the release of “When Harry Re-met Sally Again: Part 6.” The tagline for “No Strings Attached” is “Can sex friends be best friends?” If they could, there wouldn’t be a movie. Here’s a recap: two people who are distractingly attractive have awkward sex, enjoy it, keep it up, much hilarity ensues, they wind up together, the end. Hang on to your $13.00 and your dignity; you might need them someday.
How much of my rage has to do with the fact that I myself have done nothing with my life? Probably the vast majority. Liz was far more popular than I was in high school, but although we were never friends, she always struck me as a decent enough person. She certainly never tormented or humiliated me, which counts for something. It’s just that I really got through high school only by believing that in the real world I would find greater success and be the recipient of more accolades than my well-liked classmates. Instead, I’m a directionless wage-slave in a no-status job without hope of advancement. I’m lucky to have this much given the state of the economy, but it’s depressing to see that the girls who in high school had boyfriends and went to parties and weren’t considered heinously ugly have continued to outshine me.
I’ve therefore decided to write a screenplay. Any suggestions would be welcome…
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Suspicion of Creepiness
Although I’m presently working on a more in-depth blog about overrated musicians, I did want to take a moment to say that I honestly think it’s possible to gauge a person’s sanity based only on appearance. A mustache, for example, is a clear indication of some sort of mental disturbance. Many have remarked that an oddly high number of history’s most evil men have sported mustaches, and I personally believe mustaches are disproportionately prevalent among perverts, although I don’t have any evidentiary support for my conviction.
I started thinking about this because that dipshit who went and shot a bunch of people in Arizona bears a striking resemblance to Uncle Fester. STRIKING. UNCANNY. I don’t know if it’s possible for a real person to have an identical twin who is a fake person, but based on Jared Lee Loughner’s mug shot this prospect merits scientific investigation. If we have members of the extended Addams family running around causing all kinds of mayhem, we need know about it so it can be properly addressed.
It’s not just the aforementioned spree killer, whom I renamed Uncle Lester about 5 minutes ago. The list goes on and on. Timothy McVeigh? Clearly the kind of guy who might be brewing up a batch of nitroglycerin in his trailer. The Unabomber? No one in history has looked so manifestly nuts. John Wayne Gacy? Not only was he fat, greasy, and mustachioed, his predilection for clown makeup was practically a confession in and of itself; if his neighbors saw him all gussied up and didn’t know he had a few dozen boys buried under his porch, they were clearly retarded.
There are exceptions to the rule, Ted Bundy being perhaps the most famous. Charming law students only infrequently rape and murder huge numbers of women, so his victims really can’t be blamed for failing to see it coming. The other anomaly who comes to mind is Jeffrey Dahmer. No one ever mentions this, but before prison, where he porked up and was given a pair of pedophile eyeglasses, he looked like a 1950’s matinee idol. Tab Hunter or something. His overwhelming strangeness in manner and affect possibly hinted at the heads he had stuffed in his refrigerator, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from appearance alone. It’s obviously not possible to pre-empt the misbehavior of these folks, so we can only hope we don’t encounter them.
Now I know you’re all wondering of what practical use these profound insights might be. The answer is creepy profiling. If you have facial hair, a trench coat, or you happen to resemble, say, Herman Munster, the police should stop you periodically, just to make sure you’re not on your way to flash school kids or shoot arrows at hikers or whatever other unsavory activities weirdos get up to. If you’re able to prove that you simply have terrible taste and unfortunate genes, you’re free to go. If not, you’ll be detained on suspicion of creepiness.
I started thinking about this because that dipshit who went and shot a bunch of people in Arizona bears a striking resemblance to Uncle Fester. STRIKING. UNCANNY. I don’t know if it’s possible for a real person to have an identical twin who is a fake person, but based on Jared Lee Loughner’s mug shot this prospect merits scientific investigation. If we have members of the extended Addams family running around causing all kinds of mayhem, we need know about it so it can be properly addressed.
It’s not just the aforementioned spree killer, whom I renamed Uncle Lester about 5 minutes ago. The list goes on and on. Timothy McVeigh? Clearly the kind of guy who might be brewing up a batch of nitroglycerin in his trailer. The Unabomber? No one in history has looked so manifestly nuts. John Wayne Gacy? Not only was he fat, greasy, and mustachioed, his predilection for clown makeup was practically a confession in and of itself; if his neighbors saw him all gussied up and didn’t know he had a few dozen boys buried under his porch, they were clearly retarded.
There are exceptions to the rule, Ted Bundy being perhaps the most famous. Charming law students only infrequently rape and murder huge numbers of women, so his victims really can’t be blamed for failing to see it coming. The other anomaly who comes to mind is Jeffrey Dahmer. No one ever mentions this, but before prison, where he porked up and was given a pair of pedophile eyeglasses, he looked like a 1950’s matinee idol. Tab Hunter or something. His overwhelming strangeness in manner and affect possibly hinted at the heads he had stuffed in his refrigerator, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from appearance alone. It’s obviously not possible to pre-empt the misbehavior of these folks, so we can only hope we don’t encounter them.
Now I know you’re all wondering of what practical use these profound insights might be. The answer is creepy profiling. If you have facial hair, a trench coat, or you happen to resemble, say, Herman Munster, the police should stop you periodically, just to make sure you’re not on your way to flash school kids or shoot arrows at hikers or whatever other unsavory activities weirdos get up to. If you’re able to prove that you simply have terrible taste and unfortunate genes, you’re free to go. If not, you’ll be detained on suspicion of creepiness.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Let's Show Tom Jones a Little Respect!!!
I don’t write a lot about music, mostly because my preferences tend toward the obscure, and not in a hip way. I’m not interested in anything experimental or underground or important or whatever else people with good taste get off on. The musical genres I enjoy – northern soul, yé-yé, 60’s baroque pop, Hi-NRG – just happen to be favored by essentially no one in 21st century America, so I generally avoid discussing, and as a corollary writing, about music.
There are, however, select areas in which I feel compelled to contribute to the discourse, as I consider myself something of a connoisseur of lightweight pop music. From the Archies to Debbie Gibson, fans and critics invariably shit all over great pop songs, and it’s absolutely infuriating. What follows is a list of artists, most of them well-known, who are vastly underappreciated. With hindsight working in their favor, some have earned a degree of respect since their salad days of fame, but they deserve so much more.
Duran Duran
My mother once told me that I was pretty, but not as pretty as Simon LeBon. She may or may not have been kidding, but either way it’s probably true; I suspect that if it weren’t, Duran Duran would have been taken seriously. After all, they’ve successfully written and performed dance songs (“Planet Earth), pop songs (“Rio”), and ballads (“Ordinary World”). In an astonishing twist they actually managed to branch into FUNK (“Notorious”) without coming off as ridiculous. All that, and they looked good doing it.
Johnnie Ray
My father is shitting himself wondering if I’m talking about THE Johnnie Ray. Weepy, effeminate, long-dead Johnnie Ray. The answer is yes, I’m talking about THE Johnnie Ray. A semi-closeted alcoholic, his tortured soul somehow failed to permeate the public’s consciousness, perhaps because his performances seemed a tad overwrought. Cast instead as every pre-pubescent girl’s dream, he was really a great proto-soul singer. Unlike, say, Perry Como, Ray belted it out and made you feel it, so let’s show the guy a little posthumous respect.
Donovan
I will concede that Donovan has written some of the stupidest lyrics in the history of popular music; the spoken intro to “Atlantis” is positively cringe-inducing. That being said, “Jersey Thursday,” “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” and “Season of the Witch” are simultaneously catchy and outré, just like 60’s classics should be. That smug bitch, Bob Dylan, may have regarded Donovan as a colossal joke, but at least Donovan’s never gone on TV to endorse bras.
Tom Jones
The guy clearly has a sense of humor, as evidenced by his decision to join the William Shatner school of ironic self-deprecation, a good move for anyone who finds himself adorned with granny panties during concerts. But let’s not forget that with the possible exception of Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones is the best voice ever to come out of Wales. Actually, maybe the only voice…
The Monkees
Despite their made-for-TV status, these days the Monkees are considered a bona fide band, but are still not thought of as being on par with most of their peers. This is just retarded. They worked with some great songwriters – Neil Diamond and Carole King probably being the most famous – and actually wrote some decent songs themselves; in addition to composing “Mary, Mary” and several other Monkees singles, guitarist Mike Nesmith also penned Linda Ronstadt’s first hit, “Different Drum.” Anyway, I would way rather listen to the Monkees than the Beatles.
Speaking of the Beatles, stay tuned for my next blog, the subject of which will be overrated artists. *Spoiler Alert* John, Paul, George, and Ringo come in at number 1.
There are, however, select areas in which I feel compelled to contribute to the discourse, as I consider myself something of a connoisseur of lightweight pop music. From the Archies to Debbie Gibson, fans and critics invariably shit all over great pop songs, and it’s absolutely infuriating. What follows is a list of artists, most of them well-known, who are vastly underappreciated. With hindsight working in their favor, some have earned a degree of respect since their salad days of fame, but they deserve so much more.
Duran Duran
My mother once told me that I was pretty, but not as pretty as Simon LeBon. She may or may not have been kidding, but either way it’s probably true; I suspect that if it weren’t, Duran Duran would have been taken seriously. After all, they’ve successfully written and performed dance songs (“Planet Earth), pop songs (“Rio”), and ballads (“Ordinary World”). In an astonishing twist they actually managed to branch into FUNK (“Notorious”) without coming off as ridiculous. All that, and they looked good doing it.
Johnnie Ray
My father is shitting himself wondering if I’m talking about THE Johnnie Ray. Weepy, effeminate, long-dead Johnnie Ray. The answer is yes, I’m talking about THE Johnnie Ray. A semi-closeted alcoholic, his tortured soul somehow failed to permeate the public’s consciousness, perhaps because his performances seemed a tad overwrought. Cast instead as every pre-pubescent girl’s dream, he was really a great proto-soul singer. Unlike, say, Perry Como, Ray belted it out and made you feel it, so let’s show the guy a little posthumous respect.
Donovan
I will concede that Donovan has written some of the stupidest lyrics in the history of popular music; the spoken intro to “Atlantis” is positively cringe-inducing. That being said, “Jersey Thursday,” “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” and “Season of the Witch” are simultaneously catchy and outré, just like 60’s classics should be. That smug bitch, Bob Dylan, may have regarded Donovan as a colossal joke, but at least Donovan’s never gone on TV to endorse bras.
Tom Jones
The guy clearly has a sense of humor, as evidenced by his decision to join the William Shatner school of ironic self-deprecation, a good move for anyone who finds himself adorned with granny panties during concerts. But let’s not forget that with the possible exception of Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones is the best voice ever to come out of Wales. Actually, maybe the only voice…
The Monkees
Despite their made-for-TV status, these days the Monkees are considered a bona fide band, but are still not thought of as being on par with most of their peers. This is just retarded. They worked with some great songwriters – Neil Diamond and Carole King probably being the most famous – and actually wrote some decent songs themselves; in addition to composing “Mary, Mary” and several other Monkees singles, guitarist Mike Nesmith also penned Linda Ronstadt’s first hit, “Different Drum.” Anyway, I would way rather listen to the Monkees than the Beatles.
Speaking of the Beatles, stay tuned for my next blog, the subject of which will be overrated artists. *Spoiler Alert* John, Paul, George, and Ringo come in at number 1.
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