Slowly Going Bald

This Concerns You All. Yes, Even You.

2006-02-13T15:21:00.000-08:00

I've had a good relationship with my blog in its current state, but like an inevitable slide into mutual boredom and divorce, we've decided to go our separate ways for now. This doesn't mean we won't get back together in the future, or that we won't still see each other occasionally; I intend to leave this site up for a good while, since (a) it could take people a while to get used to the new address, and (b) though my old posts were transferred over, none of the comments were, and I'm just narcissistic enough to go back and read the old comments, even (and especially) the ones where people tell me how stupid I am.

So, here it is: The New Blog.

What's that you say? You're too technologically inept to click the link? Well, here's the URL:

http://dancarlson.eponym.com

The site's still undergoing changes, but except for some minor tinkering over the next few days, it's done. Feel free to leave any comments or suggestions you might have, with the full understanding that I'll likely ignore most of them.

2006-02-12T17:01:00.000-08:00

While on a hunting trip in South Texas, protecting local families from the dangers of roaming deer and doing his best to pointlessly slaughter wildlife that had heretofore done him no harm, Vice President Dick "Go F*** Yourself, Senator Leahy" Cheney shot and injured a fellow hunter.

Cheney's victim, millionaire attorney and old person Harry Whittington, was "peppered" on his right side with Cheney's shotgun pellets, many of which are actually granules made from the powdered bones of unwed mothers that Cheney sprinkles over his Total every morning, and as such probably didn't just cut Whittington's skin but actually made him feel as if the very fires of hell were tickling his groin. The owner of the property, Katharine Armstrong, said that Whittington is a regular visitor to the property, though this is the first time she's seen him hunting with the vice president.

For myself, I can't say whether the shooting was indeed an accident or if Cheney was trying to get rid of Whittington in a surprisingly literary manner, but still a pretty cold-hearted one, even for Cheney. He probably should have just waited for Whittington's mother to die and then taken him fishing. Works every time.

Yes. Of Course. Yes.

2006-02-12T14:37:00.000-08:00

Which Wes ANDERSON character are you? by life_as_a_decoy
Your name
Your favorite color
Favorite letter
In your free time
Your age
You are

Quiz created with MemeGen!

2006-02-11T19:18:00.000-08:00

R.I.P., Arrested Development. It was good while it lasted, and it ended on a high note. I laughed for 2 hours straight last night, and was driven by one particular joke to laugh until I about cried.

2006-02-10T17:26:00.000-08:00

Like Harrison Ford, I'm getting arthritic:

Clickety-click.

2006-02-10T15:05:00.000-08:00

Lucas is on HBO right now, and as I sit humbly before the television and offer thanks it for its myriad and often bizarre but nonetheless always engaging offerings, I can't help but wonder:

Where are you, Kerri Green? The Goonies and Lucas, then bam, nothing. You auburn-haired temptress of the mid-'80s, where'd you go? If you live in L.A., we should go to Peet's or something.

Just throwing that out there.

2006-02-09T16:25:00.000-08:00

I got home from work after midnight, and turned on the TV to unwind for a few minutes. I had left it on HBO, and as the screen warmed up I saw that a movie was just starting: Consenting Adults, from 1992, starring Kevin Kline, Kevin Spacey, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, and directed by Alan J. Pakula, who has fallen from the mighty heights of All the President's Men and The Parallax View to stuff like The Pelican Brief and The Devil's Own.

Anyway, I had no idea of the film's plot, but decided to watch for a few minutes to see if it lived up to its late-night HBO slot and pseudo-sensual title, or at least had some violence or Casio scoring or something I love about '90s movies. I admit, I'm a sucker for the glossy junk movies of mainstream American cinema from the early to mid-'90s. How can I resist it? From lazy-eyed Forest Whitaker working a really bad Southern drawl to the predictable but inexplicable presence of Mastrantonio, who was in pretty much everything from 1989-1995, it's just too good/bad/good to pass up.

It took a hard left turn about half an hour in, though, as Spacey tried to convince Kline to swap wives, only to take advantage of Kline's insane lusts to set him up for murder. Turns out Spacey hired a lookalike for his wife to sleep with Kline, and then Spacey killed the lookalike and pinned it on Kline. Spacey then moves in on Mastrantonio, and Kline tries to fix things. He tracks down Spacey's non-dead wife, and in one of the film's dumber plot turns, they actually talk for a while before Spacey leaves her alone to get Louisville Sluggered to death by Spacey, who's been tracking them both.

Yada yada yada, Kline corners Spacey and Mastrantonio at Spacey's house and kills him. I had really hoped Mastrantonio would be in on the set-up, and that Kline would wind up dead at the house or dying in prison, but Pakula, a little too trusting of Mastrantonio's character, had a happier ending in mind.

Which brings me to this:

Am I the only one who thinks of Scott Bakula when I hear the name Alan Pakula? It's like I can't help but do it. When I see "Pakula," I don't think of movies, I think of Sam Beckett stuck in time. Weird.

I Was Playing It So Loud The Whole Neighborhood Could Hear

2006-02-09T16:04:00.000-08:00

I've decided to start a band. Probably just straightforward indie pop but with hints of steel guitar. Currently accepting applications for the following positions:

Lead guitar
Rhythm guitar
Bass
Drums
Keyboards
Pedal steel

I will stick with vocals and the triangle. Possible names include Horace Greeley & the Chubby Chasers, or Prince Mongo & the Krystal Chiks. Needless to say, those are up for debate.

2006-02-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

Because, well, sometimes the Internet gives back to you in unexpected and wonderful ways.

This is Steve:

[Click it to play, people.]

2006-02-08T00:32:00.000-08:00

Um, hooray for Oscar Wilde, I guess. Or something.

Clickety-click.

Thanks, NFL, For Thinking Of The Kids

2006-02-07T17:16:00.000-08:00

I'd like to take just a brief moment to extend warmest wishes and deepest thanks to the NFL, who censored several lyrics from the Rolling Stones' halftime show at Sunday's Super Bowl XL.

We live in a dangerous time, and it's not going too far to trim a lyric here or there to ensure a family-safe viewing environment. I applaud the NFL's decision. Their bravery turned what would have been a grotesque display of elderly men into merely a lamentable one that was safe for family audiences.

Other family-oriented moments from the broadcast included Jessica Simpson pouting her lips and feeding pizza to a 12-year-old boy and numerous beer commercials extolling the camaraderie alcohol gives to people, especially the added benefit of including children in the drinking. [Check out the ads here.]

Thanks again, guys. I'm sure your actions are motivated by the interests of the nation's families, and are in no way influenced by giant, faceless corporations. Kudos.

Transcript Of A Conversation With Two Coworkers, Sparked By A Reference To James Frey

2006-02-07T17:01:00.000-08:00

First Coworker (reading from a press release): "The Man Who Conned Oprah."
Me: Well, that's what she gets for picking bad books and contributing to the dumbing-down of America.
Second Coworker: She's not dumbing down America.
Me: She's certainly not smarting up America. She's dragging it all down. (Pause) Oprah is the talk-show equivalent of Toby Keith.

2006-02-06T18:48:00.000-08:00

I ripped off this photo from The Sis, because it's just too good/insane/awe-inspiring not to share.

The mind reels at the slogans they didn't put up:

"Find a partner, form a single-file line, and prepare for an eternity of torment."

"In the event of the apocalypse, crouch under your desks and cover your heads … as if hiding will help."

"Swimming means the buddy system, people. That includes swimming in lakes of hellfire."

2006-02-06T15:26:00.000-08:00

A video that's worth sharing.

[If it doesn't load, try going here first.]

2006-02-06T15:12:00.000-08:00

Today's winner for Headline That Scares Me Beyond Explanation:

"Why I Still Breastfeed My Eight-Year-Old Girl."

I mean ...
...
...
...
... what?

2006-02-06T06:39:00.000-08:00

EXT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAY

Another beautiful day in sunny Southern California. The blue sky is tinged with gray smog on the horizon.

INT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAY

The newsroom buzzes with typical late-afternoon activity. A twentysomething hipster with corduroy pants and a fauxhawk, JASON, walks down a row of desks carrying a file folder. He stops at the last desk.

Sitting there is a pasty, tired-looking young man, also mid-twenties: DAN. Dan balances a ham sandwich on his knee and browses the Internet.

JASON
So, what’d you think of the game?

DAN
I liked it.

JASON
What do you mean, you liked it?

DAN
I mean I liked the game. It was good.

JASON
So you’re a Steelers fan?

DAN
No, not really.

JASON
No?

DAN
Couldn’t name a single player, much less positions, stats, etc.

JASON
So why’d you like the game?

DAN
I don’t know, it was a good game.

JASON
Yeah, you said that, except how can you think it’s good if you didn’t even care who won?

DAN
I don’t know. It was just good, is all.

JASON
(beat)
Did you watch the game?

DAN
(instantly)
No.

JASON
Not at all?

DAN
No.

JASON
Highlights? Recaps? SportsCenter?

DAN
No, no, and only in front of men I’ve just met so they’ll think I’m normal.

JASON
So nothing?

DAN
Well, Yahoo had the final score and footage of the commercial with Jessica Simpson, so I feel I got the full effect of the game without having to actually, you know, sit through it.

JASON
Huh.

DAN
Yeah.

JASON
Well …

DAN
Yeah.

Jason stares at the folder in his hands for a moment.

JASON
Well, I should get this over to …

DAN
Yeah.

JASON
But I’ll see you later.

DAN
Yeah.

Jason walks away.

[END.]

Recent iTunes Purchases

2006-02-05T10:39:00.000-08:00

"She Will Have Her Way," Neil Finn
"Bad Reputation," Freedy Johnston
"Sloop John B," The Beach Boys
"Veronica," Elvis Costello

Just thought you should know.

2006-02-04T13:11:00.000-08:00

I already wrote about this the other day, and some might say it's hypocritical to caution against the spread of these parodies and then turn around and endorse one. And I agree. It is, among other things, pretty hypocritical.

But I dare you not to laugh.

2006-02-03T23:02:00.000-08:00

This white guy doesn't know what he's talking about:

Clickety-click.

[UPDATE 2/7: Check out the comments. I'm a racist again.]

2006-02-02T19:11:00.000-08:00

I've already written in other places about the festering boil on the face of cinema that is End of the Spear, a Christian-made and Christian-aimed story about missionaries in 1950s Ecuador. But a new meta-wrinkle has developed: Apparently fine with the clumsily handled content, some conservatives are protesting the fact that Chad Allen, the film's lead, is openly gay.

Hands down, my favorite reaction comes from one Kevin T. Bauder, who wrote on his blog (which seems to be more poorly designed than average, even for a senior citizen) that "it would probably be wrong to firebomb" the houses of the film's producers. "But what they have done is no mistake," he continued. "It is a calculated strategy." Congratulations, Mr. Bauder. You win the award for Most Likely To Replace Pat Robertson For Sheer Bats**t Insane Statements. Your prize is to be mocked by the rest of society until you die.

I think may favorite part of this whole thing is thinking back to 2001-2003, when Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy took over theaters, and Christians latched onto the story as (what else) a religious allegory. I guess no one bothered to tell them about Ian McKellen.

2006-02-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. President,

So.

I know it's been a while since I've written, and even longer since we hung out (thanks for that "fishing" trip in Wyoming, by the way, it was awesome), so I know this letter must come as something of a surprise. The last time I wrote to you, I admit, I was upset. I give, and I give, and I give, and this is what happens. I need something in return, you know? Relationships work both ways. I told myself after my last letter that I wouldn't contact you again — well, maybe a call on your birthday, but that's just the menschy thing to do no matter what — but I just couldn't help myself.

I watched your State of the Union address the other night, and was about as underwhelmed as you'd expect. What, you want points for saying "America is addicted to oil"? Welcome to 1970. You don't get a nod for honesty or credibility just for stating a fact that everyone knows. We're aware of the problem; now tell me what we're going to do about it.

And sure, I could go on about your ridiculously over-positive predictions of our future, like how we can reduce our dependence on Middle Eastern oil by 75% in 20 years, and how you failed to acknowledge the inevitable belt-tightening and compromises that significant economic changes will require. But I break our mutual silence to highlight a much more disturbing portion of your speech:

Human-animal hybrids.

Yes, to anyone reading this who may have missed the president's aimless speech a few days ago, that's a direct quote: "human-animal hybrids." The phrase is buried in your one paragraph about medical ethics (thanks for using three sentences out of an hour-plus speech on the topic; I'm sure you covered the big stuff), and I have to admit, it's even got me confused, and I'm a pretty smart guy.

Human-animal hybrids? Human-animal hybrids? Seriously? Human-animal hybrids? I don't even know where to begin.

I guess I should just come right out and say it: Thank you for finally mentioning the most important topic in medicine today. When I started at my current job last fall, I wouldn't sign up for any kind of benefits package until I was assured by several members of the human resources department that our health care provider didn't participate in human-animal hybrid experimentation. I believe that it's a grievous sin and a signpost of our nation's moral decay. Thank you, sir, for coming out against these abominations of nature.

In conclusion, sir, thanks again for pointing our country in the right direction, and using your annual forum to address the nation about our most pressing concerns.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

P.S. Have you thought about keeping the human-animal hybrid technology under wraps and using it for military purposes? Personally, I can think of no better way to spread the righteous fire of freedom and democracy and apple pie and porn and baseball and automatic transmissions to the unwashed Iraqi masses than on the wings of flying monkey-men. Let me know what you think. —DC

Transcript Of A Conversation About The Oscar Nominations, Specifically Re: The Omission of Walk the Line And The Inclusion of Crash

2006-02-01T17:16:00.000-08:00

Coworker: Walk the Line is better than Crash.
Me: Getting punched in the face every day by a hobo is better than Crash.

Please Don't Talk To Me Right Now. Not Here.

2006-02-01T16:34:00.000-08:00

I have the good fortune to work with some fairly laid-back people, and though some of them can come unglued pretty quickly in stressful situations, for the most part it's smooth sailing. Unfortunately, this attitude of general pleasantness carries over with some of the men whenever they go the bathroom, which is down the hall. I, it should be pointed out, don't like to talk that much, or at all, when I'm in the bathroom, even when I'm washing my hands, but especially, especially, when I'm actually emptying my bladder. (I haven't yet had the misfortune of someone trying to talk to me while we're sitting in adjacent stalls, since this is an office and not a dorm bathroom, but I'm not ruling the sick possibility out just yet.)

As I walked into the bathroom one day I knew I was being closely followed, and as I sidled up to the stall, sure enough, my boss took the urinal next to me. Then he starts going, and he starts talking to me, as well, and all I can think about is (1) how much I don't like making small talk while my pants are unzipped, (2) how I really have a hard time going around other people, especially when they're trying to engage me in conversation, (3) how now I'm not going, since I'm gun-shy and trying to talk and having a difficult time squeezing out drop one, (4) now that I can't go, I wonder if my boss can tell I'm not going, and if he's wondering why I can't go, so now maybe he's just continuing our meager conversation on a superficial level while most of his thoughts are actively trained on just why I seem to be standing in front of a urinal doing exactly nothing, (5) what does it say about me that I allow myself to function daily with this level of neurosis, (6) [fill in the blank with some general doubt about my personality].

But he finished, and I managed to go, and that was that. I even managed to act like talking in the bathroom was something I enjoyed, or at least felt comfortable with. But as I washed my hands at the sink farthest from my boss, I realized that next time I had to go, I'd check the crowd first. The men's room one floor down is almost always empty.

I've Got A Theory: It Doesn't Matter

2006-01-31T14:57:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of last year, I managed to get myself worked up on more than one occasion about the awards races, mainly the Golden Globes and the Academy Awards. The point I tried to ramble toward in those pieces was that collecting award hardware, especially Oscars, is often viewed by many to be an automatic distinction of class, pedigree or skill for a film. I felt then and still believe that this is misleading, because plenty of high-quality films, filmmakers, actors, and others go unnoticed annually; additionally, some films that win major awards flat out don't deserve them.

But there's a bigger and better argument to be made, and that is that film awards are ultimately too subjective to carry any real weight. Yes, it sounds good and feels nice to say that a film won two or three or 11 Oscars, but that doesn't make it a better film than something that went home empty-handed. FIlms are, or many endeavor to be, art. And art is unquantifiable.

Loving movies and all media like I do, I agreed not long into my university experience to enter into a peaceful truce with most other men my age when it came to their all-encompassing love for sports and my preference for a moving story well-told to any kind of televised sporting event (except for curling, the sight of which I find oddly transfixing). I sit in awe at the feet of those who can regurgitate stat after stat, or who can give me the medical history of any player on the field. In a kind attempt to reach a common ground of understanding with their less overtly masculine counterpart, my friends often referred to the Oscars as my version of the Super Bowl. (Advertisers actually refer to the Academy Awards as "the Super Bowl for women," and man, that did wonders for the ego.) And I saw the parallels between the two events, and thought the metaphor apt.

But it's not, and for one huge reason: Sports are quantifiable, and movies aren't.

Sure, a lot of films aren't trying to be art. They're entertainment, after all, and some of the ones that purely set out to please you can turn out to be the most enjoyable. But some filmmakers are genuine artists, and there have been some amazing American films over the past 50 years that are good, or moving, or powerful, or sad, or uplifting for a thousand reasons you can't measure. On the other hand, you can argue about who "deserves" to win a game all you want, but the winning team is the one that scores more points. I know it's a tautology to say that the winner is the one that wins, but that's the truth. Did UT deserve to beat USC in the Rose Bowl? It doesn't matter; they did. The concept of deserving never enters into it.

I feel this is the best day to bring this up. Nominations were announced this morning for the 78th Annual Academy Awards, and this Sunday is Super Bowl XL (too much fun for L, not quite enough for XXL). Two major television events in American culture, and while one will yield a clear, verifiable winner in the midst of overpriced commercials and bad musical acts, the Oscars will have to pick one among greats to go home with the major trophies.

Walk the Line wasn't nominated for best picture. Does this mean it's not a good movie, or at least not as good as the ones nominated? No. Sadly, Crash was nominated, a disappointing but almost unavoidable turn of events. But when it comes to Capote versus Munich, no one can say that one is measurably "better" than the other.

All that to say: Whoever wins the Super Bowl will claim they deserved the win, while the loser will say they'll be back next year, and the fleeting glories of Sunday's game will be forgotten in a few months by all but the most devout/unbalanced sports fans. But the films nominated today, and the dozens that weren't, will continue to be emotionally resonant long after the awards have been handed out.

2006-01-31T14:33:00.000-08:00

Crap. You know? Just ... crap.

2006-01-30T13:18:00.000-08:00

Over at USA Today, the paper of record for people who read People, Susan Wloszczyna attempts to profile the spread of Brokeback Mountain-related humor, and how this apparently means that culture is changing, or becoming more tolerant, or something. She interviews Bruce Vilanch, which takes any chance her column might have had to be considered credible and pretty much destroys it; Vilanch remarks on the "irresistible" humor of gay cowboys, etc.

She does make one somewhat relevant comparison in her lead, though she drops the ball after that. She writes that "I wish I knew how to quit you" is the new "Show me the money." And to a greater extent than she realizes, it's true.

The instant ubiquity of "Show me the money" after the 1996 release of Jerry Maguire turned the film's co-star, Cuba Gooding Jr., into a household name, though he's since squandered our collective goodwill by paying us back with Snow Dogs and Boat Trip. But the phrase redefined the film, turning it into a pop culture event, and in doing so it made us all forget that, writer/director Cameron Crowe's past and future glories aside, Jerry Maguire really isn't that great. Sure, it had a few memorable lines, including the other phrase that blitzkrieged the country, "You had me at 'hello'"; Tom Cruise seemed to tone it down a little; Renee Zellweger was still attractive, and could be counted on to act as a female romantic lead without the viewer's calling into question the very nature of reality. Cruise says something sensitive; Renee melts; slow push-in on the camera as the Springsteen music swells; repeat until credits.

But my point isn't that Jerry Maguire is overrated, or not just that; it's that those phrases, especially "Show me the money," blinded us to the film's true mediocre nature. Instead of a movie, we had an idea of a movie; instead of a story, we had a stereotype, not unlike, say, gay cowboys.

Which brings us full circle. Yes, "I wish I knew how to quit you" has, since just after Thanksgiving, been spreading faster and faster throughout culture, and Brokeback humor has spread from everything to Top Gun parodies to hints that He-Man might have had a thing for Skeletor. And, yes, the jokes range from funny and predictable to stupid and predictable, or sometimes just weird and predictable; regardless, there's always a kind of, you know, predictability about them.

But latching onto the jokes and the catchpharses, as entertaining as it might be for 15 minutes, leads us away from the actual nature of the film, only instead of making us think a so-so film is actually good, like with Jerry Maguire, we're starting to think that a great film like Brokeback Mountain is only a middling work. Erring on the side of kindness for Crowe's film is one thing, but reducing Ang Lee's moving love story to a pile of cliches is something else entirely. It's a film with real characters, and real sadness, and the onslaught of "Bareback Mountain" jokes and the like are, an inch at a time, making us forget that.

2006-01-29T18:04:00.000-08:00

The Fametracker is an enjoyable site that ranks celebrities based on actual fame versus deserved fame (James Franco, for instance, is as well-known as Joaquin Phoenix but should acually be on the same level as Joshua Jackson, all things being equal and assuming the existence of a benign Creator), and they've just released a book compiling famous character actors. There's a companion database of same on their site, and it's a great and interesting resource of all the recognizable faces whose names often slip your mind. Sure, everybody knows J.T. Walsh (or you'd better, anyway), but what about Arye Gross? What about John Kapelos? And who doesn't love Stephen Tobolowsky? And you gotta give it up for Daniel von Bargen.

Seriously, check it out: Hey! It's That Guy!

An Open Letter To Jeff Zucker, CEO, NBC Universal Television Group

2006-01-28T14:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Zucker,

First, congrats on "The Office" and "My Name Is Earl." Even if you had to rip off a great show to get a hit, still, it's nice to see you putting your weight behind single-camera shows with no laugh tracks and unique senses of humor. Granted, going from first to fourth place after losing your cash cow probably opened you up to new possibilities, and I respect that.

Also, I'm happy to see that you offered Aaron Sorkin a hefty payment for his spec pilot, formerly titled "Studio 7 on the Sunset Strip." Sorkin's "Sports Night" was amazing but underviewed, and the first four years of "The West Wing," with Sorkin and director Thomas Schlamme at the helm, were the best of the series. Some moments in the show's second season are the best in TV. So I'm glad you bought "Studio 7," and that you've cast Matthew Perry for the new show. He was great but inderused in his guest spost on "The West Wing" a couple years ago.

But here's the thing: You need Josh Charles.

"Sports Night" was the distillation of Aaron Sorkin's philosophical and emotional worldview, and the sometimes clunky beginning to his comedy. Most of the plot lines were grafted onto "The West Wing" when "Sports Night" was canceled after its second season: Sam Seaborn's (Rob Lowe) parents got divorced for the same reasons Jeremy Goodwin's (Joshua Malina) did, etc. And White House Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman (Bradley Whitford) was an almost direct transfer from Sports Night co-anchor Dan Rydell (Charles). Both Dan and Josh faced possible suspension/firing early in their respective series ("West Wing" pilot, "Sports Night" episode 1.2), they were both Jewish men from New England with dead siblings; etc., etc. But Dan Rydell was the heart and soul of the cast of characters, acting as both moral compass and sense of humor.

Having Charles on the new Sorkin show would just be right, you know? Plus, it's not like the guy's actually all that busy; aside from some small roles in recent films, he might just be hanging out at home, living off Dead Poets royalties. Hire the guy.

Well, that's pretty much all I had. Just stand back and let Sorkin do his work. And this time, if he gets into the blow again, just let it go. Your network needs him.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

P.S. All your other shows suck. Except for "Scrubs." That's good. But everything else: bad.

2006-01-27T17:40:00.000-08:00

"I feel the need,
the need for speed.
If only Goose were here now..."

Clickety-click.

2006-01-26T13:21:00.000-08:00

The photo ran with a story about Rumsfeld boasting that the Army wasn't overextended in Iraq and Afghanistan, probably grinning like Satan while he laid out the numbers. But the photo is a group of soldiers at Bush's speech in Manhattan, Kansas, the other day. Sleepy's my favorite, but really, they all look so enthralled by their commander-in-chief it's hard to pick a winner.

2006-01-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

The best documentary I've seen in a long time:

Clickety-click.

Also, please visit the film's official site, which has some amazing clips. This goes double for those of you living in small towns where this film will never open.

2006-01-25T13:12:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it was the cruel hand of fate or some station programmer with a sense of humor and and eye to the future, but whatever the cause, scheduling Footloose to air the night Chris Penn dies is just plain amazing. That's just good comedy, folks. Thanks, HBO, for making our night a little more surreal and special.

An Open Letter To My Office's Online Guy, Who's Desk Is Only 15 Feet From Mine

2006-01-24T15:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Sir,

Stop staring at me. It's freaking me the hell out.

Also, stop walking so slow, talking so high, and shuffling down the hall after the women with your head cocked to the side and your eyes squinted around a vacant stare. Seriously, it's just creepy.

Thanks,

Daniel Carlson

Much More Personally Achievable Nicknames Than Kanye's "Louis Vuitton Don"

2006-01-24T13:07:00.000-08:00

Prince In Unintentionally Torn-At-The-Crotch Gap Jeans

Duke That Shops The Clearance Rack At Banana

Vague Royalty Cruising For Trim At Skechers

Nice Guy That Maybe Irons A Shirt Every Other Week

2006-01-23T19:31:00.000-08:00

Floating dog? Yep. Floating dog.

2006-01-23T15:21:00.000-08:00

3:25 p.m. on a Monday.

Time for Mathman. [RealPlayer req'd.]

(Insert Impeachment Pun Here)

2006-01-22T20:54:00.000-08:00

After seven years, four of them amazing, "The West Wing" will end its run on NBC this May. And I, for one, think it's about time.

Aaron Sorkin, the show's creator, and director Thomas Schlamme left after the fourth season ended, and quality took a nose dive. The ratings soon followed suit. With Sorkin gone, the show lost the heart that so brilliantly placed head and shoulders above other network programming its first few years. Executive producer John Wells took the reins solo, and before long, "The West Wing" began to look like Wells' other show, the long-in-the-tooth "ER." The warm lighting and formal framing have given way to shadows, sharp angles, and camera work that's supposed to be edgy or original but is really just distracting. The stories have devolved, too: The sense of hope, of minor triumph in the face of major adversity, is gone, and all that's left is a herd of disappointed characters looking lost in the world they used to rule.

So long, "West Wing." Now, bring on Sorkin's new project: "Studio 7 on the Sunset Strip."

2006-01-21T19:13:00.000-08:00

Coming soon to a screening room in Colorado Springs.

Clickety-click.

2006-01-20T19:19:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, Colin Farrell doesn't drag the whole thing down.

Also, I use the word "apotheosis." Enjoy.

Clickety-click.

Slogan Redux

2006-01-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure you all saw this coming, but I just couldn't resist it. Were I in middle school, I'm sure this experiment would have taken on a much bluer, Weird Science-like tone, but as is, I just went with my default emotional setting of randomness.

First up: An idea born from a class The Sis is taking right now, and a slogan that turned out to be eerily self-aware.

Next: No idea where it came from. But here it is.

Again, this site seems oddly prescient, or at least loaded with a healthy sense of irony:

Sometimes, this is all I want to do:

And my favorite:

2006-01-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

Pretty.

2006-01-18T18:15:00.000-08:00

I found this site, which will create a slogan with any word you want to stick in the box. I went with my name, but really, the possibilities are endless. It also gave me "You Can Really Taste The Dan!," which is kind of weird, and "It Takes A Tough Man To Make A Tender Dan," which I found unsettling but oddly flattering.

2006-01-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

I walked through the lobby of my building into the small cafe to buy a drink for lunch, and as soon as I entered I was stopped in my tracks, held firm by the music on the speaker in the wall, because it was there, amid the Sun Chips and the peanuts and generally overpriced sodas, that the rockin' chords of Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69" came thundering down to me in all their lite-rock glory. Suddenly, I looked into the eyes of the woman in front of me in line and sang "Those were the best days of our lives." She began to dance, not that erotically but still pretty hot, while the man working behind the cash register went into the bridge: "...we were young and restless / we needed to unwind / we knew nothing would last forever...," his rich baritone carrying out into the lobby, where I saw upon my exit from the cafe two security guards and a UPS man engaged in some kind of spontaneous background dancing. One of them did a suprisingly moving air guitar face.

The perspective changed to third-person, as I saw myself move through a series of slow-mo shots, as in a trailer for some Bruckheimerian opus about a young schlub with a grammar hangup (boxoffice disaster, but I think the international sales would put it back in the black). If anyone wanted to write that trailer, by the way, that'd be cool.

As I waltzed out onto the street, the whole of Wilshire Blvd. caught up in some kind of brotherhood-of-man lovefest brought on by the gravelly tenor of Canada's favorite son, I realized: California's a magical place.

Bluth Be Told

2006-01-18T13:05:00.000-08:00

THR has a story (reprinted on CNN) about Fox's upcoming slate, but the heartbreaker comes about halfway down: Peter Ligouri, Fox entertainment president, says the return of "Arrested Development" for a fourth season is "highly unlikely."

Now, this isn't exactly surprising, but still, it stings.

I said most of what I needed to say when I posted about this a few days ago. So long, "Arrested Development." It was really great while it lasted.

2006-01-17T17:07:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, my friends don't understand why I seem so tired of the whole thing, by which I mean the ongoing struggle to present some relatable, sane form of religion to the world. That's when I show them stories like this one, which make me want to turn my back altogether.

Thankfully, the proposed rule was rejected, but that's hardly cause for celebration. It never should have come up.

Seriously, sometimes I just sit and wait for every Christian over 70 to die or give up, so things can move on. I can't take this crap much longer.

The AP: 0 for 2

2006-01-16T20:03:00.000-08:00

The Associated Press has already been more on my mind than normal during the last week, thanks to their egregious error in overlooking "The Colbert Report." But their story about this year's Golden Globe winners proves to be just as nearsighted.

Beneath the headline "Alternative lifestyles get Globes nod," the AP story emphasized those wacky homos and their out-there ways by highlighting, just in case you missed it, that Brokeback Mountain is about dudes kissing. The clause that most irked me was this one: "...Philip Seymour Hoffman won the dramatic actor award for playing gay author Truman Capote." As the star of Capote, Hoffman gave an amazing performance, but limiting his role to "gay author" is unfair to his work. He was white, too, and male. Why not mention those?

I guess I'm just disappointed that the AP saw fit to write the by-the-numbers story that reinforces stereotypes and might only be seen as balanced by the members of Bill O'Reilly's America, who probably couldn't give the first crap about these movies.

2006-01-16T18:25:00.000-08:00

I've got to say, David Foster Wallace is frustratingly good at what he does, which is write fiction and nonfiction that seeps into your brain and lives there, leaving behind sentences and images that you can't shake. Trust me, I've tried.

Anyone able to tear themselves away from the never-less-than-enthralling content here in the main area of the site may have noticed that Infinite Jest sits permanently on the sidebar. It's one of the best things I've ever read. I hope others pick it up and plow through it. Don't be frightened by the 1,000-page-plus length, or the copious, self-reflexive footnotes. It's amazing.

Here's a taste, for those unfamiliar with his work: An essay from the mid-'90s titled "F/X Porn," about how special effects can kill storytelling in films. Enjoy.

2006-01-12T18:31:00.000-08:00

Anyone who's tired of conventional stand-up would do well to check out Zach Galifianakis. While you're at it, be sure and rent The Comedians of Comedy, and keep your eyes peeled for episodes of the "Comedians of Comedy" show on Comedy Central. [If you're in my neck of the woods next week, just catch him at Largo.]

The rest of you can go watch whatever you want, like Leno or something. I don't care.

2006-01-12T17:19:00.000-08:00

These are the states I've been to (the site is here). I've got to admit, it's not that impressive. And I've only left the U.S. to go to Mexico.

DVD Review, I Guess

2006-01-12T14:23:00.000-08:00

I know what you're thinking: "Dan, you pasty, arrogant little guy you, Wedding Crashers came out on July 15. Why are you only now talking about it in January?" Well, I didn't see the movie until recently. I meant to see it over the summer, sure, but I was busy and broke, and the weeks kept slipping by and I just never saw it. I was never assigned to review it, either, and since I'm no longer in a collegiate setting, there was no pressure to see it so we could all begin endlessly quoting it. Also, getting to more than one movie a week, though enjoyable, isn't always possible. But, thanks to my roommate's generosity, I was able to sit down last night with the "Uncorked Edition" DVD, which presumably manages to get, you know, just off-the-charts insane in 8 extra minutes of re-inserted footage, including extended conversations between Jeremy (Vince Vaughn) and Gloria (Isla Fisher). Um, awesome.

The longer edition is unrated because it wasn't submitted to the MPAA for rating, not, as many might believe, because it's extra raunchy or sexy or whatever. The additional scenes do nothing to enhance the story, and in fact only drag out what's already an over-long comedy. This is the main problem with Wedding Crashers: Among other things, it needs to be at least 20 minutes shorter.

Director David Dobkin, of Shanghai Knights infamy, oscillates between sex comedy and trite romance, and this kills the momentum. As John, Owen Wilson is forced to play the straight man in a sappy romance subplot, while the viewer is left wanting more of Vaughn. What should have been done:

Cut out most of the third act. After Claire (Rachel McAdams) inevitably discovers John's secret life as a tail-chasing wedding crasher, she blows him off and begins to plan a sad wedding and unhappy marriage to boyfriend Sack (Bradley Cooper). John hatches an elaborate plot to crash their engagement party as a waiter, only to be ejected and beaten up by Sack and his cronies. This whole thing is pointless. Similarly, Jeremy and Gloria get engaged, and John and Claire reunite at their wedding, which takes far too long. This is Wedding Crashers, after all, not some actual movie. Just have John and Jeremy crash Claire's wedding and rescue her.

Get rid of most of Will Ferrell's scenes. He cameos as Chazz, the guy that supposedly invented the "rules of crashing" and handed them down to John and Jeremy. But watching him yell "Mom! Meatloaf!" gets old fast. Have him show up for the finale, at the wedding. Less is more, especially with Ferrell.

Kill most of the beginning. We meet John and Jeremy at work, where they do ... something. Divorce arbitration? It's never made clear. Why give them such a successful job if they spend each wedding season inventing vocations and looking for bridesmaids? Give them crappy jobs, or don't even mention it.

I could go on. Trust me. But I won't. And don't misunderstand me, either: I liked the movie, especially Vince Vaughn as an older, more desperate version of Trent. But the film's reach far outmatched its grasp, and the result is less than satisfying.

2006-01-12T01:26:00.000-08:00

It's the time of year when critics, pundits, and pretty much anyone who wants to compiles a list of their favorite films from the year before. The IMDb is also offering its annual user poll, where visitors to the site who've signed up for a free account can cast their ballots for best picture, actor, actress, director, and superlatives in several other categories. And this, as you might expect, can be dangerous.

I'm a huge IMDb fan, and have been since high school. It's the biggest and most-used site of its kind, and holds a wealth of information. But their active users tend to skew differently than you'd think. Sure, The Godfather is among the site's Top 250 Movies, currently ranking at #1, but Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King sits at #4, a position far too high for such a historically unproven and terribly overrated movie. Taxi Driver (#39) and To Kill A Mockingbird (#40) are on the list, but they're not as high as The Matrix (#34). Frighteningly, Crash (#65) outranks Double Indemnity (#69). Reading their Top 250 list is like listening to that guy in college who thought he was smart or deep or edgy or whatever because he liked stuff like The Boondock Saints, when really that guy's kind of pitiable.

Anyway, they've opened their polls for the best of 2005, and so far, the results are both what you'd expect and below what they should be. Brokeback Mountain currently sits in second place in the best film poll, but it's an aberration compared with the rest of the list: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, King Kong, and, sadly enough, Star Wars: Episode III—Revenge of the Sith. The only other non-fanboy title on the list is Crash, this year's version of the "deep" film for people who don't understand why it's actually not that good. Right now, Harry Potter is winning with 22% of the vote, or 9,326 votes, to Brokeback's 13%, or 5,584. The acting categories are disturbing, as well; last I checked, Rachel Weisz and Maria Bello were competing with Emma Watson and Dakota Fanning.

Now, I feel I should repeat, for the people I know won't understand this post: I have nothing against the more mainstream stuff on the list (except for Crash, but I'll deal with that later). In fact, I think Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is the best Potter film yet. But comparing Watson's performance in that film to Bello's in A History of Violence? Even pretending that they're on the same level is an insult to Bello, and to film in general.

I guess what I'm saying is: Reach for the treetops, IMDb voters. Sure, War of the Worlds was fun, but maybe you should dig a little deeper when it comes to deciding what films were really among the best of the year. Or, you know, don't. That's fine, too. Just do what you want. Vote your little non-caring hearts out. Maybe go home and watch Dead Poets Society, which is in no way saccharine or overhyped. Everything's fine.

Everything's fine.

n 1. A standard on which a judgment or decision may be based.

2006-01-11T13:53:00.000-08:00

A great place to get Criterion discs on the cheap: Right here.

And there's also this site, which is a good resource.

2006-01-10T01:10:00.000-08:00

Here's the great thing about late-night cable: Where else can I watch Frank Whaley romance Jennifer Connelly (sporting a truly epic set of eyebrows, with a tiny dot of dark hair between them, just above the nose; seriously, they should get separate billing) in a movie written by the man behind Ferris Bueller and directed by someone who's gone on to helm episodes of everything from The West Wing to The Office? Dermot Mulroney even shows up as a petty thief. Amazing.

2006-01-09T14:48:00.000-08:00

It's been announced that the third and current season of Fox's Arrested Development will be shorter than normal, only 13 episodes instead of the standard 22. This, in turn, has fueles speculation that this will be the final season for the smart, critically loved but viewer-deprived show. And, as much as it pains me to say it, it might be time to let it go.

Full disclosure: I love the show. It's a single-camera sitcom with no laugh track, sharp writing and quick humor. I fell in love with another show with similar stylings a few years ago, Aaron Sorkin's Sports Night. That was the first show I ever really loved more than anyone should love a TV program, and it was canceled after two seasons. I've thought many times that I'd gladly give up an arm if only I could rewrite history and get just one more year with the cast and crew at CSC, the fictional sports network at the center of Sports Night, but the passage of time and the beginning of an understanding of the cruel reality of network TV have persuaded me that maybe, just maybe, things are okay this way.

Most shows that last for 6 years, or 7, or even 10, rarely maintain the level of quality with which they began. Notably, Sorkin's The West Wing faced a huge drop in quality when he left the show after its fourth season. Friends ran for 10 years, of which maybe 6 were worthwhile. It's a tough balancing act for programs: Live too long, and you jump the shark; die too soon, and you're missed all the more.

Sure, I'll miss Arrested Development, as will others of my generation. But look on the bright side: We got three (well, two and a half) perfect seasons. And I, for one, am thankful.

2006-01-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

This morning, on the 101, I rear-ended a driver and caused a minor accident. We each exited our cars and began screaming at each other, trading racial slurs and stock obscenities as we struggled to come to terms with our humanity.

Just then, a city bus drove by. Ludacris was sitting in the back, staring out the window and looking contemplative, as if he was also internally debating the very same human condition in which I now found myself immersed.

What a psychologically deep and in no way cliche, derivative, or hackneyed turn of events. Someone should make an overhyped movie about it. That'd be awesome.

2006-01-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

It's not that bad, but it makes me dread the rest of January and February. There are some horrors on the horizon, believe you me. Anyway:

Clickety-click.

2006-01-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

Learn it. Know it. Live it.

Clickety-click: The best of the year.

He's Dead, But He's Got Good Taste

2006-01-05T19:17:00.000-08:00

I'm putting together a list of songs that should be played at my funeral, and also burned onto a CD and distributed to any mourners who might show up as a kind of really weird parting (ha) gift. It'd be cool if the CDs could be black, as well, but regular ones are fine. That way, during the service or the car ride home, people could pause from their grief to say, "Wow, this is a good CD."

Possible track list includes:

"Peaceful Valley," Ryan Adams and the Cardinals
"Please Tell My Brother," Golden Smog
"No Depression," Uncle Tupelo
"Sorrow," Bad Religion
"Sin Nombre," The Refreshments
"Won't Be Home," Old 97's
"Another Travelin' Song," Bright Eyes
"Houses on the Hill," Whiskeytown

Once the list is finalized (for now), I should probably laminate it and stick it in my wallet, so that my donor information and musical preferences can be preserved, unless of course my death involves some kind of plane crash on a deserted island, in which case someone can just come back and look this up online. I can't do everything for you, now.

Any additional suggestions for the CD are welcome.

Rose Bowl Fallout

2006-01-05T14:49:00.000-08:00

As I walked down the hall to the bathroom, I passed a guy from the art department, who's dating a girl in my department, both of whom are ardent USC fans. They know I'm from Texas. After quickly nodding our heads back and blurting "Hey," which is how men speak, he said to me: "So you must be a pretty happy camper today, huh?," alluding to last night's Texas victory and my apparently automatic ensuing joy.

"Well," I said, thinking on my feet and grinning the tiny grin I use on adults and in job interviews, "I don't want to rub anybody's nose in it." At this point his girlfriend, who'd just left the bathroom, appeared behind me and walked towards him. "Thanks, Dan," she said with a smile that actually made me believe she was depressed and appreciated my kindness. As I entered the men's room, we made a couple more minor jokes. All in all, a successful encounter.

With that in mind, let's check the updated scoreboard for January:

Doubts About My Ability To Meaningfully Connect With Other People: 3,490
Me: 1

As long as it's not a shut-out.

Merry Rex-Mas, One And All

2006-01-04T20:05:00.000-08:00

In the rush of activity this holiday season, I forgot the most important thing of all:

Awards Season. Vote For Us.

2006-01-04T11:37:00.000-08:00

It's time for the '06 Bloggies, which despite their name are real awards and in no way made up just to boost our egos, which are already pretty substantial.

Seriously, though: Cast your ballots. [Direct link here.]

2006-01-03T15:32:00.000-08:00

This is my parents' dog. They, out of an apparent lack of entertainment options, decided to bathe him in the kitchen sink. The dog probably found this pretty confusing, as evidenced by his plaintive look into the camera, and also maybe insulting, especially since he's already neutered, and probably figures the people that feed and house him must take some small comfort in toying with his happiness. I wanted to name him Rusty the Nutless Wonder, but that was vetoed. I can only assume my sister gave him the mohawk.

I Need A Motto

2006-01-03T13:23:00.000-08:00

You know, a catchphrase or something I can spout at people or chant to myself to pick myself up when I'm down or explain myself to the world. Right now, all I can come up with is "This is the 80s, I'm down with the ladies," but it turns out that Tone Loc already took it. Curse his raspy manliness.

So, anyway, if anybody thinks of one, let me know. Till then, I'm motto-less.

I'm Not A Smart Man, But I Know What An STD Is

2006-01-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

Okay, so, here's the thing:

Jenny died of AIDS, right? So doesn't that mean that she would have transmitted it to Forrest the night they had sex, the night Forrest Jr. was conceived? And doesn't that mean that Forrest Jr. has it, too?

I'd prefer an answer from an expert in the field, or, if he's reading this, Robert Zemeckis.

2005-12-31T00:26:00.000-08:00

No pun this time. Not really that kind of a movie.

Clickety-click.

2005-12-27T00:37:00.000-08:00

"I miss Ferris Matthew. Broadway Matthew ... I find him cold."

Clickety-click.

Review: Brokeback Mountain

2005-12-20T20:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, the hardest thing to do with a film is avoid labeling it. Granted, there are occasions when simple phrases can get an accurate handle on a film. For example, calling King Kong a movie about a giant ape is about as on-point as you can get, and because of the film's self-proclaimed spectacle being its largest personality trait, such pigeon-holing doesn't really take away from the movie. But most movies are harder to describe so simply, especially if the filmmaker's sights are set more on genuine emotions, whether humor, pain, death, or love. This is the frustration I face when I tell someone that one of my favorite films is Rushmore. This admission is usually met with glazed stares, and things only worsen when they invariably ask "What's it about?" and I find myself unable to answer. The phrase "coming of age" has become so overused it's lost whatever meaning it may have originally held; I could tell them it's a comedy, and that usually perks their ears up, though when I amend the phrase to "smart comedy," things usually head back south; I could say it's about love, and growing up, and death, and how, toward the end of the film, Herman Blume's raised fist at the close of the play "Heaven and Hell" manages to be funnier and more moving every time; I think of a thousand things to tell them, none of which would help, so I usually just tell them to rent it, knowing they won't, and they know I know, and I know they know I know, so then we just go back to talking about fantasy sports or something. The film is too strong, too complex, just too much of anything for me to be able to spit out a log line. This is the case with most great films, and it's the case with Brokeback Mountain, a strong, sad, moving story of doomed love that most people won't see because it's been stuck with a label for the years it spent languishing in development hell: "the gay cowboy movie." And yes, that's part of it, but if that's all you want to hear about a movie, you'd do well to change that. Director Ang Lee has done more than helm the latest critical darling and movie of the moment (there's one every year). Working from a screenplay by Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, based on a short story by Annie Proulx, Lee has crafted a powerful tale about love and loss, and about how longing can pull two people apart as much as it unites them.

Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) meet in Wyoming in 1963, working the summer as hired hands for rancher Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid). They spend their days herding sheep and nights keeping an eye on the flock up on Brokeback Mountain, and it's this part of the story that defines the tone and heart of the film. Jack is loud and arrogant, all cocksure attitude and rodeo grins, while Ennis is much quieter, mumbling most of his words through an often clenched jaw. One night around the campfire, full of whiskey, they share Jack's tent, and wind up having sex in what could be the most hyped and anticipated love scene in years. As I watched the film, there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the theater throughout the beginning scenes, like we were all wading through the exposition to get to the inevitable sex. And while this is understandable, such singular focus distracts from the surrounding beauty of the film and the fact that the scene itself, though somewhat graphic, is in no way explicit. The next morning, sobered up and back to his restrained self, Ennis tells Jack, "This is a one-shot thing we got here. ... I ain't queer." Jack responds, "Me neither." They're forced to make public denials to each other as social safeguard, but the subtext is clear. And like that, their love is recognized but left unnamed. In fact, there are no more uses in the film of any terms for sexual orientation or Jack and Ennis' affair; Lee is smart enough to know that it simply is what it is, and that any attempts to strictly define it would rob it of its weight.

The summer ends, and Jack and Ennis part ways, and the rest of the film tracks their lives over the next 15 years. Ennis stays in small-town Wyoming and marries his girl back home, Alma (Michelle Williams), while Jack winds up doing some rodeo down in Texas and marrying barrel-rider Lureen Newsome (Anne Hathaway), heir to a farm-machinery empire. The widening gap in their financial situations parallels the changes in their own lives; when Jack and Ennis reunite after four years for another week up at Brokeback, Jack is working for Lureen's father and pulling in serious money while Ennis and Alma are living in a small apartment above the laundromat. But their reunion is a powerful one, and they agree to get away to Brokeback several times a year.

Although the film takes place in 1960s and '70s America, it almost seems to exist in its own world and time. No mention is made of presidents, Vietnam, or any of the major historical highlights from the era that could trap the film. Up on Brokeback, working as ranchers, the story could be five years old, or a hundred. Cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto does a wonderful job at capturing the beauty of the mountains, and the cowboys' lifestyle is equally complemented by Gustavo Santaolalla's gorgeous score built around acoustic guitars and pedal steel. This is, after all, a Western, and it looks and sounds the part.

Ledger and Gyllenhaal turn in fantastic performances in a real graduation from their previous work. Gyllenhaal's Jack is eager and loyal, more sure of what he has with Ennis. Ledger here is quiet and soft-spoken, but far from stupid; Ennis is surprisingly poetic, and the moments when he comes out of his shell and Jack stops putting on a front, and when they're really together, are heartbreaking. Williams and Hathaway are also better in their supporting roles than expected, each taking giant leaps here away from the kiddie images cultivated in their earlier hits (teen soap "Dawson's Creek" for Williams and The Princess Diaries for Hathaway). Alma is a strong but subdued housewife, and Lureen a free spirit that seems to love the idea of Jack more than the actual person.

Much has been made of the film in the press, and though Lee and others are quick to point out that the film took years to get off the ground, it's no doubt enjoying a success now that it couldn't have imagined had it been released seven years ago, when Gyllenhaal was first sent the script. Some in the press feel the need to herald the film while needlessly playing up a largely embellished split between the coasts and the plains; but others are taking an even more dangerous tactic by turning the film into the very stereotype it avoids, and this is offensive. Brokeback Mountain is a superbly crafted film and a genuinely moving love story, but calling it a "gay love story" only assigns it a needless label that will damage everyone's perception of the film. No one refers to Pretty Woman as a "straight love story"; why the double standard?

As the story builds, Jack and Ennis turn into men leading different lives. Ennis watched his daughters grow up and bounces between low-paying ranching jobs, while Jack raises a family and becomes a successful salesman for Lureen's father. They meet at Brokeback when they can, and the mountain begins to transform into this mythic thing inside and between them, both a symbol of their relationship and the memory of an idyllic past growing fainter by the day. Their story is the same as everyone's: When we're lucky enough to figure out what we want, we can almost never hang on to it.

Ten Movies You Should See, Pt. 7: Directors Edition

2005-12-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

It's that time again; time for me to drop another 10 titles on the unsuspecting public, and by "public" I mean the handful of people who come across this site and manage to stick around long enough to read something and maybe leave an anonymous insult, which are my most favorite. Anyway, these aren't completely obscure films, but they're also not (I hope) totally predictable ones. They're just movies, most by some big-name directors, that I feel have gone more unnoticed by people my age than is healthy.

[See the first six lists here.]

1. Tape (2001)
2. Coming Home (1978)
3. Being There (1979)
4. The Chorus (2004) (In French with subtitles. Adjust.)
5. Badlands (1973)
6. Days of Heaven (1978)
7. Wild at Heart (1990)
8. Five Easy Pieces (1970)
9. Mean Streets (1973)
10. Manhattan (1979)

An Open Letter To Every Man In My Office Who Won't Stop Talking About Fantasy Sports

2005-12-19T15:23:00.000-08:00

Dear sirs,

Shut up.

I guess I should elaborate on that, or at least give you some insight into my reasoning. But while I do that, while you read this, you should take this opportunity to shut the hell up about your fantasy team. I don't care. Your wife doesn't care. If you have a girlfriend, she will leave you if you keep talking about this. If you don't have a girlfriend, rattling off stats for "your guys" won't help you get one any faster than if you were one of those guys who camped out for an Xbox 360.

And that's another thing: You say things like "my team," "I scored," "We did well over the weekend," etc. And you are in no way connected to any professional athlete. At all. At. All. You hear me? Not at all. It's one thing for parents to vicariously live through their children's successes, as in "My boy did well" or "My girl just made starter," and it's ultimately acceptable, though not encouraged, for them to use the plural possessive and say things like "Our team did great" or whatever. But you, gentlemen, don't do anything for the players you say are "yours." Their performance in any given game is not dependent on your watching the game, or having money riding on it, or getting sucked up in a fantasy draft. They do it without you every time. Every. Time. When you say things like "We need another win to clinch a playoff berth," you don't sound smart or informed or like you're an insider; you just sound like a tool.

Which brings me to another point: the name itself, "fantasy sports." Let that word roll around your Pabst-addled minds for a minute. Fantasy. Fantasy. Not real. In no way connected to reality. Fantasy. Say it as many times as you need to, but be sure you understand it. Sure, I realize it takes different strokes and all that, and I get how you feel excited when someone you "picked up" in a "draft" does well; I get how you like to feel involved with something bigger than yourself; I get how you like to feel somehow connected to high-performance athletics despite the inability of most fantasy sports nuts to do anything remotely close to the displays of physical prowess on the field we take for granted; well, I don't get all that exactly, but I kind of see where you're coming from. It's your passion, and that's fine. Numbers, games, stats, injury reports, bragging rights, inane legacies from father to son; it's all in your blood, and that's okay. I myself prefer a good story, well-told, something that will stick with me long after you've stopped breathlessly recapping the fourth game of the 1996 ALCS, for example. But hey, that's my hang-up, being able to emotionally connect to art and music and film. We've all got our crosses to bear. And I encourage you to enjoy yours.

But I don't want to hear about it all the time, okay? Seriously. Somewhere, deep down, you have to understand that I don't care, that most people don't; that you're only participating in the random collection of facts and performance charts, not the real game; that there are bigger, better things out there. I implore you to listen to that tiny voice that occasionally pipes up within you and tells you to take things down a notch when you're babbling to anyone within earshot about how "your boys" did over the weekend. It's a big world, fellas, and we've all got to get along.

Until then, though, shut up.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

2005-12-18T16:00:00.000-08:00

"This is the most important thing I'll ever do. I have to do it well."

"Leo's made out of leather. His face has a map of the world on it. Leo comes back."

2005-12-15T03:05:00.000-08:00

There are dozens of monkey-related jokes I could use here, but they're all pretty stupid, and frankly, I'd hate myself more than normal. So just read the thing.

Clickety-click, folks.

[Update: Before the film, I saw the teaser for Miami Vice, starring Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell. I'm still searching for superlatives in a futile attempt to describe the mix of fear, horror, curiousity, regret, and depression that moved through me like a wave of nausea, so while I try and pin down my feelings, feel free to take a gander at the tease, for now only available at the Bacardi site. It's worth navigating the sad, somehow lonely website ("The Bacardi girls are loaded!" Congrats, Bacardi P.R., you've mastered the single entendre.) in order to see this. Trust me.]

[2nd Update: King Kong just came out, and I'm already sick of everyone claiming that the movie will make "Titanic money." I pretty much hate Titanic, but it's the undisputed box office champ; it's domestic take stands at a little more than $600 million, and it's international box office came to rest at an unholy $1.23 billion. Yes, that's right; billion. The Return of the King, the final film in Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy, is the #2 worldwide total champ, and it's still a solid $700 million behind James Cameron's godawful romance.

Is it possible for the record to be broken? Sure. But it's way, way, way, way too early to make any claims that King Kong will be the one to do so.]

2005-12-12T14:44:00.000-08:00

Okay. So, this is another one of those stories that, though theoretically could happen anywhere, could actually only happen in Texas. This has to be the opening scene to an actual porno somewhere, something with a title like No, Seriously, It's a Mile-High Club or The Peanuts Are Free, As Is the Inconsequential Sex.

Anyway, on a flight bound for San Antonio, two inebriated and belligerent Playboy Playmates, apparently mistaking the coash-class aisle for a water fountain on the soundstage of their latest softcore DVD, began fighting with each other and other passengers. Officers from San Antonio's Finest were waiting to arrest them when the plane landed, and this is pretty much where the wheels come off the reality wagon and the story, for a brief moment, takes on the sheer implausibility of a Forum letter: In order to try and dissuade the officers from arresting them, the esteem-challenged women made sexual advances on the policemen. Reached for comment, the officers said that the arrest ranked among the "most awesome" experiences they've had on the force, not including the time their chief took everyone to Schlitterbahn.

According to the women's Web sites, they both have their eyes on actual acting careers, or something. One of the women, Carrie Minter, said she takes acting classes in Sherman Oaks, which pretty much guarantees I'll be keeping an eye out for her next time I make an In-N-Out run. Carrie says she's a "big dreamer." I guess this proves it. Keep chasing those stars, girls.

2005-12-10T22:57:00.000-08:00

Boring. Uninvolving. Costumes over character.

Clickety-click.

Irony, Thy Name Is Hollywood

2005-12-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

Item the First:

An upcoming IFC documentary about the history of the MPAA rating system has, you guessed it, been classified NC-17 by the MPAA rating system.

Item the Second:

Apparently unaware that larger, slightly more civilized, never-been-penal-colony continents like North America are fast and free traders in the realm of satire, an Australian paper owned by Rupert Murdoch has taken an item from the Defamer and reported it as fact.

Rejected Adult Film Titles

2005-12-06T20:39:00.000-08:00

Not Really Nurses, Vol. 2

Tuition Went Up and I Don't Have Any Scholarships and This Seemed Like A Good Way to Make Money, Though I Should Probably Get Tested Soon, Part 7

The Overenthusiastic Moaning Masks a Spiritual Void, Vol. VIII

Unusual Ways to Finance a Home Loan, Ch. 2

The Agent Just Said Modeling, He Never Mentioned This

That Looks Just Like My Old Apartment, Vol. 9

Former Strippers With Esteem Issues

Another Step in the Cycle of Parental Neglect, Part 3

2005-12-02T01:40:00.000-08:00

Black gold. Texas tea.

Clickety-click.

The Good Guys And The Bad Guys, They Never Work Past Noon Around Here

2005-11-30T13:33:00.000-08:00

I got this image from a friend:

There are several reasons I like the shot, not the least of which is the equating of Mexican food with a gift from the Almighty, but the main one is this:

Breakfast tacos.

In the distant lands west of Texas, where people live openly in sin by cohabitating outside of marriage or voting Democrat, they commit a crime that even I find unforgivable: they use the term "breakfast burrito" to refer to any early-morning food involving a combination of eggs, bacon, potatos or cheese wrapped in a tortilla. This, I tell them, is a breakfast taco. At this point they usually cock their heads and look at me as if I'd told them I'd discovered the secret to time travel. "You mean, with a crunchy shell?" they ask. "No," I patiently respond. "It's a tortilla with bacon and eggs or whatever inside." "Oh," they say, smiling, "you mean a breakfast burrito."

And I try to explain to them that it's called a breakfast taco, as any one of the visitors to the Cowboy Breakfast could tell you. Or I want to take them for a breakfast taco at Abundio's, a small place where most of the employees don't speak English. I have fond memories of cutting class senior year of high school and eating here.

But I know it's a losing battle, and it's not worth getting that worked up about. Things there and things here are different, and that's the way it goes. On the whole, I still say I came out a little ahead, even if no one here knows what I mean when I say things like "I ate the Macho at Chris Madrid's." Oh well.

The Ivy On The Wall Is Fake

2005-11-28T15:50:00.000-08:00

She teaches at Harvard, and she based some of her research (and fairly self-evident conclusions) on playing the Hollywood Stock Exchange. I've been playing the HSX for a year or so, and I check it everyday.

Harvard, you know where to reach me.

The Engine Turns On A Dime, But I Ain't Goin' Nowhere Tonight

2005-11-28T15:28:00.000-08:00

Great news:

Here

and

here.

[And, as always, good to check in here.]

Soy Un Cacahuete

2005-11-28T13:58:00.000-08:00

In a sad turn of events, a young girl has died from an allergic reaction to kissing her boyfriend. Peanuts were deadly to the girl, and her boyfriend had just eaten a peant-based snack.

In his defense, her boyfriend, Mr. Peanut, said she asked for it. "She loved going further and further, physically, you know?" the Planters spokesman explained to a press conference with a tremble in his voice, the salt on his skin quickly wicking away his lonely tears. "She always said she'd know when she got too close to the edge, that she'd know when to stop. She liked it when I called her 'choosy mom' while we were, you know..." Consumed with grief and empty calories, he promptly threw himself onto the light stand of a local TV crew. Attempts to quell the minor blaze or rescue Mr. Peanut were slowed when members of the press corps, who hadn't eaten in a while, began to devour his roasted body.

This Just In (Kind Of)

2005-11-27T12:13:00.000-08:00

All those classic cars can't help Mr. Miyagi now:

The old guy's gone.

Doctors at the scene tried that clap and massage thing that pulled Daniel-san back from the edge, but to no avail. The master would crane kick no more.

Ralph Macchio and Elisabeth Shue better be at that funeral. And Al Molinaro, too.

Additionally, a Texas woman was mauled to death by half a dozen dogs over the weekend. Wal-Mart has apologized for the store's contributory negligence, and has since removed all bacon-based underwear and other meat-fabricated garments from its shelves.

"They were a good bargain while they lasted," said a company spokesman. "Is it food? Is it clothes? It's both. That's the kind of forward thinking we encourage here at Wal-Mart."

[UPDATE 12/1]
Not to be outdone by a pack of dogs, a British coalition of squirrels has banded together to fight back.

2005-11-25T01:32:00.000-08:00

Is verbal abuse losing its punch this holiday season? Looking for another way to punish your kids? Well, look no further.

Clickety-click, folks.

Rollin' Out Past El Paso, Texas, Where I Might Have Had A Home

2005-11-22T20:00:00.000-08:00

It's too big to post here, so I'll just link to it:

Click here for a photo from the Old 97's show.

The grainy, blurry, digital photo cannot possibly convey how Ken Bethea bled all over the frets on lead, Philip Peeples punished the drums with the sound of Heaven's own thunder, Murry Hammond wore his bass high like a rifle and Rhett Miller roiled around the stage like holy lightning. So, if you haven't seen them yourself, or if you are living in a darkened world because you have not yet seen the light, you'll just have to make do with the picture.

2005-11-21T12:02:00.000-08:00

I don't know why, but this made my day. Seriously.

You Are Mexican Food

Spicy yet dependable.

You pull punches, but people still love you.

What Kind of Food Are You?

2005-11-18T18:42:00.000-08:00

Clickety-click, folks:

That boy rides a broom. Crazy.

[Update: Before the film, I saw the teaser for Superman Returns, which looks significantly better than the original films. I know that the original still holds a place in people's hearts, despite being cartoony, stupid, and dumb enough to have Margot Kidder's voice-over love poem as she flies through the air. But I don't care. The original films ranged from fair to awful, and this new one just might redeem the whole thing.]

2005-11-17T14:21:00.000-08:00

i've got a landmine in my bloodline
i'm not immune to gettin' blown apart
she's like a claymore, that's what she's there for
just waitin' around here to get blown apart

Review: Jarhead

2005-11-13T17:43:00.000-08:00

Jarhead
Starring Jake Gyllenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, Jamie Foxx
Directed by Sam Mendes

"Some wars are unavoidable and need well be fought, but this doesn’t erase warfare’s waste. Sorry, we must say to the mothers whose sons will die horribly. This will never end. Sorry."
— Anthony Swofford

There are two fundamental truths about war movies. The first is that they’re rarely about the war depicted in the story. Filmmakers tell stories about a specific war because it’s easier that way to tell stories about war itself, or about other, more current, battles. After all, no really thinks M*A*S*H is about Korea, and for all it’s bench-setting regarding the tone of war stories the past few years, even Saving Private Ryan was more about the pain of fighting than the places they fought. This brings us to the second truth, which is really more of a question: Are war movies ever about war at all? Sometimes.

The best war movies are anti-war movies, its true, because the best war movies are really about the people involved, and about the families they create in the middle of death in hopes of hanging onto some semblance of the people they used to be, before they had to worry about everything from mustard gas to IEDs. The war is the story’s catalyst, not its heart.

Sam Mendes’ Jarhead dips its feet in both streams. It's a movie about a war and a story about the burned-out young men who went there. Some critics have decried the story, based on the memoir of the same name by Anthony Swofford, a lance corporal in the Marines’ scout/sniper platoon, of being ambivalent about the conflict portrayed in the film, Operations Desert Shield and Storm, and about the importance of Gulf War I as the sequel begins to head even further south. But "ambivalence" isn’t really accurate; a better term would be "dichotomy." It's a thin, gray line to be sure, but a necessary one. The former implies an apathy toward the situation, a lack of commitment to an opinion or course of action, but the latter paints a clearer picture of just what these soldiers, many barely 20 years old, went through: a simultaneous hatred of the war and a desire to viciously kill the enemy; of a need to escape and the want to keep fighting; of a prayer for their impossible salvation and a praise for their inevitable damnation.

Swofford's memoir is a powerful one, about a smart and conflicted young man, and could only have come from someone so genuinely torn (Swof, as his fellow soldiers call him, could often be found reading Camus while his fellow Marines swapped skin mags). Played by Jake Gyllenhaal, Swofford is a mess of confused emotions, like that proverbial bowl of fishhooks, a young man who wants to kill and is terrified of being in the Desert. In other words, the ideal 20-year-old.

After joining up with the Surveillance and Target Acquisition (STA) Platoon to become a sniper, Swofford becomes hooked on the idea of raining down the sniper’s death from afar on unsuspecting Iraqis. Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait triggers the Marines' trip to the Gulf, and it’s in the prolonged second act that Mendes' film turns from one of eager young fighters into a story of reluctant killers, frightened of the bloodlust they feel but unable and, more important, unwilling to do anything to curb it.

Because this is the sick irony of Swofford’s story: After they arrive in the Desert, he and his comrades do nothing but train for months. Stranded in the sand for weeks with nothing to shoot at and no one to fight, Swofford begins to slip toward the edge of sanity faster than you can say "Bruce Dern at the end of Coming Home."

But this just comes with the territory when you’re a man among men. Mendes’ film does a good job capturing the latent homoerotic undertones that seem to find their way into everything from the armed forces to organized athletics to fraternity pledging (trust me). In an attempt to embarrass their leader, Staff Sgt. Sykes (Jamie Foxx), when their platoon is being interviewed by a New York Times reporter, the men all dogpile after a football game. After Swofford sounds the call, they begin to half disrobe and mimic a wide variety of sexual positions and acts right there in the sand. Sykes quickly steers the reporter back to a Humvee, and though the soldiers are punished later for their foolishness, it’s obvious they don’t regret a moment of it. The truth of the matter is that men, when grouped, are capable of blinding stupidities, and Swofford is no different. "We created a circus," he says of the atmosphere among the men, "as if it would protect us. And we were insane to think that."

Before shipping out, the Marines watch the "Ride of the Valkyries" scene from Apocalypse Now, cheering and screaming in ecstasy as Vietnamese villages are napalmed out of existence. It’s a fascinating scene, because Coppola’s near-perfect epic was edited by Walter Murch, who also edited Jarhead. Responsible for shaping one of the most powerful films to deal with the Vietnam war, he has now cut together an equally important story about the next generation of soldiers wherein they watch his earlier film. In an era where all fiction has become metafiction by default, it makes perfect sense. Their fathers’ war comes up again later: Upon hearing someone’s stereo blasting The Doors, Swofford complains, "This is Vietnam music. Can’t we have our own music?"

Finally, after four months of repetitive training, Swofford finally engages the enemy for a grand total of four days before the war ends. He and his comrades are robbed of the chance to kill anything, and their inability to consummate their bloodlust on the battlefield almost breaks them, and their impotence to do anything about their increasingly maddening situation shows up in an uncomfortable but stunning scene of sexual frustration involving Swof and a photo of his girlfriend. Forced to train with no goal, now forced to fight against an enemy that isn’t there. But this missed opportunity is a benefit in the long run. As bloodless as his war might have been, Swofford still never manages to leave it. As he writes in the book, "The most complex and dangerous conflicts, the most harrowing operations, and the most deadly wars, occur in the head."

Mendes and director of photography Roger Deakins capture the washed-out desert and soldiers in camo without sacrificing color. Indeed, there are some genuinely amazing shots here, beautiful ones, as when Swofford and crew are walking through burning Kuwaiti oil fields at night, and the fire and oil falling from the sky make it look as if they're slowly marching through their very own hell. Mendes also reteams here with composer Thomas Newman, who scored the director's phenomenal feature debut, American Beauty. Newman seemed to be a one-note music man a few years ago, copying his own breezy sound in Pay It Forward. But his score here is emotional without being overpowering, always using the sounds to complement the action, not subdue it. Gyllenhaal's performance is searing, and this could be the thing that deservingly catapults him from cult hero to the public eye. Jamie Foxx, solid enough but often overhyped, turns in a reliable performance, and Peter Sarsgaard does what he always does: work so well in the background that his fellow performers are elevated.

Ultimately, Jarhead isn't about the first Gulf War, or about Gulf War Redux. As Swof's fellow sniper Troy (Sarsgaard) says, "We've got a job to do"; politics barely enters into it. This may seem unthinkable to the current war’s gung-ho supporters or its most ardent opponents, but extremist politics rarely make it to the front line. Swofford wasn’t there because he loved the war; it's just what he did. The United States' obvious oil interests in the Middle East are mentioned several times to the men, but there's not much outrage expressed. It’s as good a reason for war as any, they reckon, if they bother to ask for a reason at all. The hell of it is, most don’t. They're made to kill, and they want a mission; when they’re given one, it’s not for their sins, but because they asked politely. Like I said, it's a dichotomy. And Mendes does a superb job of recording that. The men don't want to go, but they do; they don't want to die, but they will. And all we can do about it, all we can ever do about it, is hear one man's story.

Ten Movies You Should See, Pt. 6

2005-11-07T20:31:00.000-08:00

As always, I recognize the inherent assumption in writing another one of these lists that I seem to have access to knowledge that others don't. But it turns out that I'm pretentious; at least, I was told I was, and I was given the quote at the very bottom of this page as proof. Now, I don't think I'm all that bad, or at least not the worst; my friends and I don't "sit around on the floor with wine and cheese, mispronouncing words like allegorical and didacticism." But like the man said, if you're gonna be viewed as pretentious no matter what, the least you can do is knock down a few bodies with it. So I've decided to use my flawed personality for the greater good: Here are another 10 titles that I feel are either underappreciated or unknown by more than a few members of my generation.

[See the first five lists.]

1. Blood Simple (1984)
2. The Fog of War (2003)
3. The Man with the Golden Arm (1955)
4. Straw Dogs (1971)
5. All the Real Girls (2003)
6. The Grifters (1990)
7. In the Bedroom (2001)
8. Dirty Pretty Things (2002)
9. Unfaithful (2002)
10. Paris, Texas (1984)

2005-11-04T18:36:00.000-08:00

Clickety-click:

[Insert appropriate bird pun here.]

2005-11-01T14:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. President,

Okay. This was bound to happen.

This is the third time I've applied for a job with your organization, sir, and I have to say, your rejections have left me feeling a little cold and unwanted. To wit, sir, I made you a mix tape and took you to Homecoming, and now we're out here on my cousin's boat and I can't close the deal.

I've asked politely. I've highlighted my skills, some obvious and some not so: good speller, solid worker, adequate dresser but willing to work on it. I thought for sure that, when your last candidate took her name out of the running, I might finally get my chance. After all, as I believe I pointed out, I possess the grammatical skill you seem to consider an important qualifier for the job. And, as far as I know, I've never done anything to inflame or anger one political extreme or the other. (Although I do have a strange affinity for the First Amendment and a disdainful lack of interest in the Second, so I guess we can see where this would lead.)

But it seems that you've decided once again to ignore the letters, resumes, and rocks through your window (sorry about that) and will be throwing your support behind someone else, and this guy seems to be a bit more of a lightning rod than, frankly, I would have been. It's a weird coincidence that this new nominee will draw a lot of fire from you; I guess you wanted someone who could really take one for the team.

So, for now at least, I think we need to go our separate ways, sir. We'll probably see each other again soon, and I know we'd both like that. But we've got this weird history now, and I know that if you wound up replacing me for Alito, or even just throwing me some Cabinet-level job I could do in my sleep, it'd still be weird seeing you and him around the mess. You'd hook him up with extra Jell-O, he'd read you the day's news and help you with the Jumble. He'd start to sit at our table, the one near the snack bar line, and, well, I think we can see where this would go. And the last thing I think we need is to make this awkward.

So have fun, sir. I hope this guy does you well. Actually, I hope he does the country well, which might not be the same thing. Keep your chin up, buddy; those polls are bound to rally any day now. Until that day, don't forget to maintain plausible deniability. And don't forget that Ford took a beating for giving Nixon a pass, so one of these days you'll probably have to stand up and take your medicine if you want to preserve your party.

Take care.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

P.S. Call me? No pressure. --DC

My Favorite Friends Episodes

2005-10-31T14:42:00.000-08:00

The One Where Ross Gets Chlamydia
In order to cheer him up after his latest failed relationship, Joey and Chandler take Ross for a night out that includes a hockey game, drinking, and an Asian brothel. When Ross goes to the hospital the next day to pick up his antibiotics, he runs into the prostitute he slept with the night before, and he invites her to get some coffee with the gang.

The One With All The Sophoclean Angst
Ross and Monica finally cave in to the sexual tension that's been plaguing them since the pilot episode when they sleep together at Phoebe's birthday party. Chandler's "Could you be any more incestuous?" line becomes an audience favorite. Ross contemplates gouging out his eyes and wandering the earth, but decides instead that everyone should act like the whole thing never happened.

The One Where Joey Becomes An Assassin
Stuck with few acting prospects and a growing stack of credit card bills, Joey contacts an extra he met on The Sopranos who's actually connected to organized crime. Joey becomes a low-level hitman and coke mule, ascending the ranks from button to lieutenant to made man in one of the show's most rewarding and gritty story arcs. Eventually, though, he gets out of the business by faking his own death, and blows all the money on an antique gumball machine, forcing him to return to his old job as waiter at the coffeehouse.

The One Where Rachel Becomes A Man
Apparently tired of waiting on her lobster to show up, Rachel opts for a sex change operation and a new way of life. She has the guys rent Dog Day Afternoon for inspiration, and the boys pull off the heist and get Rachel the money she needs for the procedure. She changes her name to Chad, and her character is played for the show's remaining four seasons by Angelina Jolie's brother.

The One With The Child Slavery Ring
When all her friends begin to have successful careers, Phoebe begins to feel despondent, as if she's wasted the past few years doing nothing but singing in the coffeehouse and working as a part-time masseuse. After she picks up a runaway in Central Park and manages to sell him for $1,000 plus a gift certificate at Target, Phoebe buys a windowless panel van and begins ferrying the city's homeless orphans to a shipping/distribution warehouse in the Village. Unfortunately, an NYPD task force swarms the building one day as part of a sting operation, and Phoebe is killed in the crossfire after fatally wounding three officers. No one speaks of her absence for the rest of the show's run.

The Sunday Six

2005-10-30T16:23:00.000-08:00

Six quick hits to kick off the week:

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

2005-10-30T11:45:00.000-08:00

It's a bad movie. Anyone who likes it, or its predecessor, should be regarded with suspicion.

Just thought I'd warn you.

The Thursday Three: "Texas Is Having A Rough Week" Edition

2005-10-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

One (Good.)

Two (This restores my belief in theodicy.)

Three (I lack the energy and verbal skill to describe how much I don't care.)

[Related to the first item: This photo is amazing. Submissions are now being accepted to guess at just why the man on the right is making such a bizarre face. Possible ideas include "bone-deep fatigue" or "just soiled his pants."]

Interesting Excerpts From The Company-Wide Sexual Harassment E-Mail

2005-10-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

"Most claims of sexual harassment are actually just whining from people who can't go with the flow."

"Exchanging sexual favors for increased job benefits isn't necessarily harassment. Check with HR."

"It's important to prevent workplace harassment. Women, you can take the first step in this area by maybe not dressing so hot, so your fine bodies don't distract the men from working."

"Sexual harassment is definitely illegal, but ethnic slurs are still a gray area."

"When did 'assistant' replace 'secretary'? That's just weird."

"Don't forget, there's a 24-hour hotline for legal advice: 1-800-GROW-UP. Ha ha, I'm just kidding. There is no hotline."

"Non-employees are legally exempt from our harassment policies. Basically, this means you need to avoid Luis, the parking attendant. Just a word of caution."

"Don't forget, fellas: Sometimes 'no' means 'yes.' "

Pickup Lines That Didn't Work

2005-10-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

"It doesn't look that bad in the dark."

"Rashes aren't that contagious."

"Remember that Batman cartoon from middle school? That was cool."

"If, by 'work out often,' you mean 'mournfully reflect on the past,' then yeah, I do."

"Sometimes I call it 'my cycloptic colleague.' "

"It turns out that an indictment and a conviction aren't the same thing."

"If, by 'work out often,' you mean 'sketch in my dream journal,' then yeah, I do."

"My old roommate killed a cat once. Hung it in a tree. Yeah, he was from the country. Yeah, you're right, it's a weird story."

Notes From My Company's Health Benefits Meeting, 10.27.05

2005-10-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

After the meeting, I sum up what I learned in less than 3 minutes for a coworker. The meeting itself lasted 70 minutes. What a way to start the day.

The woman running the meeting apologizes because she's never seen the PowerPoint presentation she's showing us. She says her company e-mailed it to her as she left her house this morning. Comforting. There's nothing you want to hear more from someone telling you about health insurance deductibles than "I don't know."

A few minutes into her spiel, she asks if there are any questions. Two people immediately speak up, and it's evident that they (1) weren't paying attention or (2) are clinically disabled. It's going to be a long meeting.

There are two kinds of people: those who ask constant, some might say needless, questions, and those who shut up and wait for the pertinent info. I found myself in the latter camp, a minority.

One guy, let's call him Julio, asks about employee discounts on cosmetic dermatology. This makes sense, because he could be the ugliest gay man I've ever seen. He looks like Michael Jackson and George Takei had a baby and then gave it up for adoption to a Korean nail salon.

One woman seems hell-bent on questioning everything. At every step. In every conversational break, or every time the speaker takes a breath. This makes us all uncomfortable.

I still feel far too young to have access to things like flexible spending accounts. I keep wondering if I can use it to buy a plasma TV, or fund a trip to Vegas some Wednesday at midnight.

2005-10-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

Further news has developed on the penguin front. In a response to the conservative Christians using his documentary March of the Penguins as a morality tale and instrument for religious instruction, filmmaker Luc Jacquet has come out against them in a British newspaper. (We really should have seen this coming. After all, when was the last time American conservatives trusted the French?)

The documentary showed that penguins mate and raise a chick each year despite substantial hardships, including blizzards and lack of food. The adult penguins, once the chick has grown a little and its safety is its own concern, then leave, and will more than likely never see the chick again. The conservatives who latched onto the film as a model of family unity seemed to have missed this fact, so Jacquet reinforced it publicly.

“If you want an example of monogamy, penguins are not a good choice,” Jacquet said. “The divorce rate in emperor penguins is 80 to 90 percent each year. After they see the chick is OK, most of them divorce. They change every year.”

When news of the film's misinterpretation reached faith-based America, available religious leaders who weren't working on the dinosaurs-on-the-ark section of the Creation Museum promptly organized a multidenominational conference to discuss the matter. Jacquet's film has since been retitled Freedom March on all American prints. Responding to Jacquet's clearly hell-bound statements, Pennsylvania pastor Ray Mummert has this to say on behalf of his fair and balanced religion: "We've been attacked by the intelligent, educated segment of the culture." Truer words were never spoken, Ray. Keep up the good work.

2005-10-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

"Drugs are bad."
"Jenny eat something."

You know what I'm talking about.

Annual Check-Up

2005-10-20T15:09:00.000-07:00

In order to fulfill the legal requirements of my gender and continue enjoying all the rights and benefits thereof, I am hereby required to reinforce my male status, the neglect of which could result in a temporary or permanent loss of aforementioned privileges:

baseball
football
fantasy team
I couldn't believe it
You can't script October
touchdown
points
cheerleaders
naked cheerleaders
draft

Thank you. That is all.