My brother has a new site for his blog. Look at it and learn about Jimmy Buffett impersonators and tambourines.
In an unrelated topic, I was thinking about my rant about what makes certain movies great art and others not. I was thinking specifically about a handful of directors I also love who don't share my aesthetic, who are in some cases completely opposed, and who I love anyway. I'm talking directors who are interested in one or more of these things: heavy symbolism, tricks and games, dislike of characters, big spectacles, etc. In some cases, such as Lars von Trier, who flits in and out of loving and hating his characters and seems to make both stylistic exercises and slippery, mysterious artworks about people, I just don't know where to put them. But I love them anyway:
David Lynch, Takashi Miike, von Trier, Martin Scorsese, Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles, Fritz Lang, Jean-Luc Godard (1960s and a handful of the others), Claude Chabrol, Quentin Tarantino (not a love, but a big like), Todd Solondz, Paul Thomas Anderson (though I think "Punch-Drunk Love" fits with my original great art definition), and several others. So, I guess what I'm saying is I'm a very contradictory person.
By the way, I highly recommend HEB's honey jalapeno rotisserie chicken, especially when it's dipped in homemade salsa.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Oh yeah, I watched these movies over the weekend
Hey hey,
Rabid (David Cronenberg) If you're as freaked out about disease and the untrustworthiness of your own body as I am, you'll love Cronenberg's movies. Or hate them. Depends how squeamish you are. I love them. As an interesting aside, the star of this movie, Marilyn Chambers, is an ex-porn star.
Singin' in the Rain (Gene Kelly, Stanley Donen) I used to hate musicals. I was dumb. This movie is so good.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (Nagisa Oshima) The only other film I've seen by Oshima was "In the Realm of the Senses," which was about a dangerously obsessive sexual relationship and was basically two hours of unsimulated, bizarre sex. It was very interesting to see an Oshima film that wasn't wall-to-wall fuckin'. I'm not sure how successful this is, but I like most of it. The cast is really interesting: David Bowie, Takeshi Kitano, and Ryuichi Sakamoto.
L'Argent (Robert Bresson) Bresson made this when he was 80 years old. It's a great, great movie. I probably won't be alive when I'm 80. Life is so unfair.
Rabid (David Cronenberg) If you're as freaked out about disease and the untrustworthiness of your own body as I am, you'll love Cronenberg's movies. Or hate them. Depends how squeamish you are. I love them. As an interesting aside, the star of this movie, Marilyn Chambers, is an ex-porn star.
Singin' in the Rain (Gene Kelly, Stanley Donen) I used to hate musicals. I was dumb. This movie is so good.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (Nagisa Oshima) The only other film I've seen by Oshima was "In the Realm of the Senses," which was about a dangerously obsessive sexual relationship and was basically two hours of unsimulated, bizarre sex. It was very interesting to see an Oshima film that wasn't wall-to-wall fuckin'. I'm not sure how successful this is, but I like most of it. The cast is really interesting: David Bowie, Takeshi Kitano, and Ryuichi Sakamoto.
L'Argent (Robert Bresson) Bresson made this when he was 80 years old. It's a great, great movie. I probably won't be alive when I'm 80. Life is so unfair.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Movie attack/rambling diatribe
I worked a miserable telemarketing job for a month in the early part of my second year of college, and during orientation on the first day, the trainer asked each person to name his or her favorite kind of music during one of those forced getting-to-know-each-other exercises that are supposed to ease us into the job and create a bond but only breed contempt and distrust between manager and staff right off the bat. We answered the awful question and my mood became especially surly when at least five people said they didn't really listen to music, two people answered "Phish" and another guy said "Dave Matthews Band." I must have been away from my desk when those two bands were declared their own genre. Anyway, a vaguely indie-looking guy seemed to be as uncomfortable as me, and when he answered "punk rock," I figured I might actually make a friend at this job. When we were on break, I walked over and pretended to be casual, though I probably looked like the utter 19-year-old dork that I was, and said: "Hey, I heard you say you liked punk rock. Are you into the Minutemen?" The guy looked at me like I was dipped in three layers of shit, then kept looking at me that way, silently, for several seconds. Finally, he spoke, in a tone meant to strongly suggest to anyone listening that it greatly pained him to have to explain something so glaringly obvious. "The Minutemen are a college-rock band. I only listen to punk." I'm proud of myself for realizing immediately that this guy was an utter, fucking moron with a ridiculously narrow view of punk and for sowing the seeds that blossomed into my intense hatred of scenesters, hipsters, and indie kids everywhere. I am no longer 19, but I am still a dork who likes music and is enthusiastic about it. And the Minutemen are punker than any 500 generic hardcore bands you can squeeze into a blender and reduce to a Tupperware container full of bloody goo.
I don't know why yet, and I've been thinking about it for two days, but this memory latched itself into my brain and wouldn't let go after I watched a documentary about Hollywood production designers on PBS late Saturday night when I was lying in bed flipping through channels. Over the last seven years, I've slowly become as obsessive about movies as I've always been about music and books, and, in the last four years, I've become aware, mostly by accident, of certain things I look for in art, and a philosophy I have about what makes great art great. I've been trying to articulate this in my head for a while, but I don't think I can do it on paper yet. The way I watch things has changed greatly since I was in college, and I feel like a whole world has opened up and sort of whapped me on the back of the head. But I don't really know how to explain this to anyone other than forcing you to sit on my couch and watch the movies I consider to be the supreme masterworks, the ones that have the most to do with being human and the lives we actually live, over the course of several weeks at gunpoint, while I jump up and down and yell, "See, isn't this changing your life? Changing the way you think? Not just about movies, but about your own life, and everything in it?" So you see, I get really enthusiastic about the stuff I like to the point of mania and obsession, but I don't know how to articulate it and let you know why. I just know what I don't like, and, Jesus, I didn't like this PBS documentary. The production designer for "The Graduate" was talking about all the heavy symbolism he used in the movie and how Benjamin's parents' house and Mrs. Robinson's house were exactly the same because the lives of the wealthy suburbanites were so similar, except that since Benjamin was male, his parents' home was a "male" house with square doors and a straight staircase, and since Mrs. Robinson was female, her home was a "female" home with round doors and a curved staircase. The production designer for "American Beauty" bragged about how he used red as a motif for freedom and enlightenment, and when a character in the film was breaking out of his/her role in society, the character was dressed in red, and when he/she was trapped or stuck, the character was dressed in grays and browns. Much more of this kind of bullshit was trotted out in a reverential, unquestioning tone, and the production designers congratulated themselves on their supreme, artistic achievements. Is this what we consider our crowning glories in film art? Is every character a cipher with a big sign around his/her neck telling us who they are and what they feel? So many film studies programs focus on ideas like these, and it sucks. They teach students to decipher all these metaphorical clues and congratulate each other on how smart they are for figuring it out. It's a parlor game for pseudo-intellectuals, and it ignores real art, the kind that can't be compartmentalized. "See, he's wearing blue because he's sad." How does shit like that help us become better people and teach us anything about being human and being alive? Isn't that what great art does, or at least attempts to do? I watch a lot of stuff just for entertainment and I have a good time doing so, but I don't assign it an importance it doesn't have. Too much credit is given to films that have Big Ideas, Big Metaphors, Big Generational Signifiers, Big Symbols, Important Subjects, and Majestic Sweep. It's late, I've had some drinks, and I'm really shooting my mouth off incoherently now, but I will put my money where my mouth is and name a bunch of directors I think are great artists and whose worst moments have more to do with my life than anything ever done by any overpraised piece of junk full of Important Ideas, beautiful cinematography and beautiful production design. P.S. I don't hate production designers. Some of them are subtle, wonderful talents. P.P.S. When I say "having to do with real life," I'm not talking about realism. Some of the directors' films are close to real life, some are exaggerations and fantasies. But all of them confront what it means to be human, they have respect for their audiences, and they have respect for their characters. It's not stuffy art for art's sake, and it's not dumb, loud filler that treats you like a human ATM machine. It will not make you feel like it took two hours of your life and refused to give it back. It will make you feel like your life is just beginning. Christ, I'm all fired up tonight. Here's the people I like. If I didn't turn you away with my bizarre rant, rent as many of their films as you can.
John Cassavetes, Howard Hawks, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Robert Bresson, Marx Brothers, Mike Leigh, Preston Sturges, Roberto Rossellini, Vittorio de Sica (early stuff), Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Tom Noonan, Nicholas Ray, Werner Herzog, Jacques Tati, Yasujiro Ozu, Ingmar Bergman, David Cronenberg, the dance numbers in "Singin' in the Rain," Elaine May, Jim Jarmusch, Aki Kaurismaki, Larry David, Andrei Tarkovsky, Gus Van Sant (except for the shitty ones), Harmony Korine, Carl Dreyer, Frank Capra, Monte Hellman, Wim Wenders (until 1988), Robert Altman, Wes Anderson, Jafar Panahi, Abbas Kiarostami, Kenji Mizoguchi, Kateshi Kitano, Sam Peckinpah, Su Friedrich, Shirley Clarke, Claire Denis, Luis Bunuel, Morris Engel, Jean Renoir, Terry Zwigoff, and a bunch more I'm forgetting because I'm tired. Goodbye, everybody.
I don't know why yet, and I've been thinking about it for two days, but this memory latched itself into my brain and wouldn't let go after I watched a documentary about Hollywood production designers on PBS late Saturday night when I was lying in bed flipping through channels. Over the last seven years, I've slowly become as obsessive about movies as I've always been about music and books, and, in the last four years, I've become aware, mostly by accident, of certain things I look for in art, and a philosophy I have about what makes great art great. I've been trying to articulate this in my head for a while, but I don't think I can do it on paper yet. The way I watch things has changed greatly since I was in college, and I feel like a whole world has opened up and sort of whapped me on the back of the head. But I don't really know how to explain this to anyone other than forcing you to sit on my couch and watch the movies I consider to be the supreme masterworks, the ones that have the most to do with being human and the lives we actually live, over the course of several weeks at gunpoint, while I jump up and down and yell, "See, isn't this changing your life? Changing the way you think? Not just about movies, but about your own life, and everything in it?" So you see, I get really enthusiastic about the stuff I like to the point of mania and obsession, but I don't know how to articulate it and let you know why. I just know what I don't like, and, Jesus, I didn't like this PBS documentary. The production designer for "The Graduate" was talking about all the heavy symbolism he used in the movie and how Benjamin's parents' house and Mrs. Robinson's house were exactly the same because the lives of the wealthy suburbanites were so similar, except that since Benjamin was male, his parents' home was a "male" house with square doors and a straight staircase, and since Mrs. Robinson was female, her home was a "female" home with round doors and a curved staircase. The production designer for "American Beauty" bragged about how he used red as a motif for freedom and enlightenment, and when a character in the film was breaking out of his/her role in society, the character was dressed in red, and when he/she was trapped or stuck, the character was dressed in grays and browns. Much more of this kind of bullshit was trotted out in a reverential, unquestioning tone, and the production designers congratulated themselves on their supreme, artistic achievements. Is this what we consider our crowning glories in film art? Is every character a cipher with a big sign around his/her neck telling us who they are and what they feel? So many film studies programs focus on ideas like these, and it sucks. They teach students to decipher all these metaphorical clues and congratulate each other on how smart they are for figuring it out. It's a parlor game for pseudo-intellectuals, and it ignores real art, the kind that can't be compartmentalized. "See, he's wearing blue because he's sad." How does shit like that help us become better people and teach us anything about being human and being alive? Isn't that what great art does, or at least attempts to do? I watch a lot of stuff just for entertainment and I have a good time doing so, but I don't assign it an importance it doesn't have. Too much credit is given to films that have Big Ideas, Big Metaphors, Big Generational Signifiers, Big Symbols, Important Subjects, and Majestic Sweep. It's late, I've had some drinks, and I'm really shooting my mouth off incoherently now, but I will put my money where my mouth is and name a bunch of directors I think are great artists and whose worst moments have more to do with my life than anything ever done by any overpraised piece of junk full of Important Ideas, beautiful cinematography and beautiful production design. P.S. I don't hate production designers. Some of them are subtle, wonderful talents. P.P.S. When I say "having to do with real life," I'm not talking about realism. Some of the directors' films are close to real life, some are exaggerations and fantasies. But all of them confront what it means to be human, they have respect for their audiences, and they have respect for their characters. It's not stuffy art for art's sake, and it's not dumb, loud filler that treats you like a human ATM machine. It will not make you feel like it took two hours of your life and refused to give it back. It will make you feel like your life is just beginning. Christ, I'm all fired up tonight. Here's the people I like. If I didn't turn you away with my bizarre rant, rent as many of their films as you can.
John Cassavetes, Howard Hawks, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Robert Bresson, Marx Brothers, Mike Leigh, Preston Sturges, Roberto Rossellini, Vittorio de Sica (early stuff), Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Tom Noonan, Nicholas Ray, Werner Herzog, Jacques Tati, Yasujiro Ozu, Ingmar Bergman, David Cronenberg, the dance numbers in "Singin' in the Rain," Elaine May, Jim Jarmusch, Aki Kaurismaki, Larry David, Andrei Tarkovsky, Gus Van Sant (except for the shitty ones), Harmony Korine, Carl Dreyer, Frank Capra, Monte Hellman, Wim Wenders (until 1988), Robert Altman, Wes Anderson, Jafar Panahi, Abbas Kiarostami, Kenji Mizoguchi, Kateshi Kitano, Sam Peckinpah, Su Friedrich, Shirley Clarke, Claire Denis, Luis Bunuel, Morris Engel, Jean Renoir, Terry Zwigoff, and a bunch more I'm forgetting because I'm tired. Goodbye, everybody.
New Robot of the Week Contest
Everyone say hello to our new Robot of the Week. You have until Monday, September 6 to name he/she/it.
Robot of the Week winner
Hello, humans and man-machines,
I had a tough time picking a winner this week, but I have finally decided. I was pleased with the level of participation, especially after my browbeating, and I was equally pleased with the quality of robot names. Good job, everyone. I will now recap the week's robot names for those of you who missed it:
Nick Krauter: Electro-Jaundice
Scott Stanfield: Gigapawn
Kristy: Confusomatron
W: Foosbuddy
Amy S.: L'ilbuddyatron
Anonymous: Curly
Angela: Betsey Gollan
Mary P.: Flavious 'Nanerbot (surname Matsuko-Taji)
Zoomletta: Denny Zelazny
Archivaria: Lemon Fresh 3000
Stinky: Lancebot (pronounced like Lancelot)
Joolie: Mr. Roboto
And the winner (by virtue of a coin toss in sudden death overtime) is ... Nick for Electro-Jaundice. Congratulations, Nick. For those of you who will allege nepotism since my girlfriend won last week and my brother this week, let me retort that my brother could have lost the coin flip and my other favorite, Curly, would have won, and also pick a better name, jerk. In addition, Can-Smashing Robot is an open, loving Web community where all my readers are the equivalent of my girlfriend and my brother. You're all family to me. In conclusion, you're all a bunch of jerks. Thank you, and god bless.
I had a tough time picking a winner this week, but I have finally decided. I was pleased with the level of participation, especially after my browbeating, and I was equally pleased with the quality of robot names. Good job, everyone. I will now recap the week's robot names for those of you who missed it:
Nick Krauter: Electro-Jaundice
Scott Stanfield: Gigapawn
Kristy: Confusomatron
W: Foosbuddy
Amy S.: L'ilbuddyatron
Anonymous: Curly
Angela: Betsey Gollan
Mary P.: Flavious 'Nanerbot (surname Matsuko-Taji)
Zoomletta: Denny Zelazny
Archivaria: Lemon Fresh 3000
Stinky: Lancebot (pronounced like Lancelot)
Joolie: Mr. Roboto
And the winner (by virtue of a coin toss in sudden death overtime) is ... Nick for Electro-Jaundice. Congratulations, Nick. For those of you who will allege nepotism since my girlfriend won last week and my brother this week, let me retort that my brother could have lost the coin flip and my other favorite, Curly, would have won, and also pick a better name, jerk. In addition, Can-Smashing Robot is an open, loving Web community where all my readers are the equivalent of my girlfriend and my brother. You're all family to me. In conclusion, you're all a bunch of jerks. Thank you, and god bless.
Friday, August 27, 2004
I HAVE TACO FEVER
I had two tacos for breakfast and two tacos for lunch. Let's hear it for tacos! Yeah! Tacos!
Today nothing awesome is happening
I'm bored. Maybe if I was more like this person, I would not be bored.
Bad Movie Night
Another bad movie night went off without a hitch. I'm only a little hungover, but two bean, potato, jalapeno, and salsa breakfast tacos took care of that. Blackenstein was even more of a colossal piece of shit than I had dared to dream. My favorite line: "He won the Nobel Peace Prize for solving the DNA genetic code." Second favorite line: "You have pretty hair. Do you like it touched?"
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Hey
For anyone who's reading this and already knows where my apartment is, or is capable of sleuthing it out, you are welcome to come over tonight and watch "Blackenstein." Bring your favorite intoxicant. That is all.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Robots, people, robots!!!!
I just wanted to remind everyone that there is a robot-naming contest going on. After an excellent start on Monday and Tuesday, no one entered the contest today. If you read this blog and haven't entered the contest, you are a pantywaisted wimp and should hang your head in shame. Unless you are brainstorming the perfect robot name and are biding your time before the contest ends on Monday, you have no excuse. Will I be forced to browbeat you further? Come on, people. Robots! What are you waiting for? Need I remind you that one lucky person will receive a prize of a baffling and inconsequential nature some time this month? Doesn't that make your motor hum? Huh? Doesn't it? Huh? Everybody likes getting free stuff sent to them. Even if that free stuff is totally useless and slightly shitty. Am I right? Besides, this is a free contest. I repeat, it doesn't cost you anything to enter. Did you know that some highly reputable institutes of higher education charge a fee to apply to their precious and hallowed grounds? Did you know that most reputable houses of worship pass out a collection plate, and, if you don't divvy up some cold, hard green, the parishioners stare at you with nothing but cold hatred in their eyes? It's a sick and disgusting world, isn't it? Everybody's out for your money. Everybody's watching their own backs without a care in the world for yours. Not this guy, jerks. I love each and every one of you. And I will go to the mat for the one who comes up with the best robot name of the month by sending some free junk to a residence of their choosing. So, come on, assholes, put up or shut up. Thank you and god bless.
Them what can translate real nice
Since I'm nearing the end of weeks and weeks spent slowly watching the 15-1/2 hour Fassbinder miniseries "Berlin Alexanderplatz" (which I in no way, shape, or form purchased illegally on bootleg DVDs from eBay), I was trying to read this German website about one of the film's stars, Gottfried John, who is simultaneously one of the most amazingly ugly and beautiful people in the world. Since it was all in German, I hit the translate button and got an intensely garbled version of English. The site kept referring to John as "it" instead of "he," and it even bizarrely translated into English the last names of several directors of German and Austrian origin. So, Rainer Werner Fassbinder became Rainer Werner Barrel Binder and Billy Wilder became Billy of Savages. I think they also got way too literal in translating some German film titles. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing "Police Call 110 Arms of Pigs" and "In the Visor of the Bad One" are not the actual titles of these films.
Maybe someone can help me understand my conflicted feelings about the Pixies
Dear Internet and other nets,
Can someone explain the absolute devotional worship most people seem to have for the Pixies? People just go apeshit for the Pixies like they are the only band that ever existed. Let me say for the record that I think the Pixies are a very, very good band. I have all their albums, I still listen to them, and I think they have a handful of truly great songs. But, and this is a big but, I don't think they are one of the all-time greats. All of their albums have a lot of filler and the production on some of the albums is pretty damn slick. I don't see what distinguishes them as the leader of the pack in that mostly great group of 80's post-post-punk, pre-alternative college rock bands like Sonic Youth, Throwing Muses, Dinosaur Jr, blahbitty blah. Also, I think the Breeders and the first two Frank Black albums are miles better than anything the Pixies ever did. I know I am (deeply) in the minority on this one. I like the Pixies an awful lot. But I just don't get the love. Can someone please explain the love?
Sincerely,
Me
Can someone explain the absolute devotional worship most people seem to have for the Pixies? People just go apeshit for the Pixies like they are the only band that ever existed. Let me say for the record that I think the Pixies are a very, very good band. I have all their albums, I still listen to them, and I think they have a handful of truly great songs. But, and this is a big but, I don't think they are one of the all-time greats. All of their albums have a lot of filler and the production on some of the albums is pretty damn slick. I don't see what distinguishes them as the leader of the pack in that mostly great group of 80's post-post-punk, pre-alternative college rock bands like Sonic Youth, Throwing Muses, Dinosaur Jr, blahbitty blah. Also, I think the Breeders and the first two Frank Black albums are miles better than anything the Pixies ever did. I know I am (deeply) in the minority on this one. I like the Pixies an awful lot. But I just don't get the love. Can someone please explain the love?
Sincerely,
Me
The Man Who Refused To Take His Gorilla Mask Off, Part 4
Steve sits at his kitchen table, a sharpened No. 2 pencil in his right hand, a glass of iced tea with lemon in his left, staring at a heavily marked-up piece of notebook paper and last week's edition of the Fancytown Sentinel-Express, the local alternative newsweekly. The paper is opened to the personal ads, which Steve has been reading intently all week. Steve thinks he has finally cracked it. He's written a personal ad that will not only catch a young lady's eye, but also will entice her with its mystery and seductive promise. Steve is pleased. He takes a sip of tea through the straw poking out of his mask and resumes reading the personals, particularly the more risque section known as "Irregularities."
"Oh my," Steve says aloud. "What will they think of next?"
He chuckles politely at an ad entitled "Big Game Hunter Seeks Trophy to Mount" when an excited tapping on the door interrupts his perusal. He sets down his tea quickly, spilling a small amount, which he wipes up with a nearby handkerchief. He opens the door and is pleased to see Timmy, a blonde, mop-topped nine-year-old boy who lives in the apartment next door.
"Hello, Steve," Timmy says. "Whatcha doin'?"
Steve bends down so the mask is level with Timmy's face and says, "Well, Timmy, I'm writing a personal ad so I can meet a nice young apewoman. With all the hustle and bustle of life in Fancytown, it sure is hard to meet a suitable companion of the opposite sex."
"Gee willikers," Timmy says, recoiling. "Your ape mask is starting to smell, Steve."
"Ha ha," Steve says. "Timmy, you're alright. I merely smell like a man, son. An apeman. You'll understand someday."
"Got any candy?" Timmy asks. Steve grabs some black liquorice from the cupboard and hands it to the boy.
"Gee whiz," Timmy says, looking down at the liquorice in disgust. "You got any good candy?"
"Beggars can't be choosers," Steve says. They stare at each other for several seconds. Timmy shrugs and pops the candy in his mouth.
"Well?" Steve asks, looking at Timmy intently.
"Well, what?" Timmy asks back.
"What do you think of my personal ad idea?"
"Aw, shucks," Timmy says. "What do you want to get mixed up with some dame for, Mr. Steve? Girls have cooties. Plus they like dolls and they walk around all day going 'you're so pretty.' 'No, you're so pretty.' 'That's so cute.' 'Isn't that cute?' Who needs it?"
"Ha ha ha ha," Steve laughs, shaking the mask. "Timmy, you're the tops. I wish I was in the same boat. But I'm not. I'm an apeman, not an apeboy, and I've got specific ape needs. And specific ape urges."
Steve takes the hand-written personal ad from the table and smooths it on his leg. "You mind if I read you my ad, Timmy?"
"Nope," Timmy says. "Fire away."
"Ahem," Steve clears his throat for dramatic purposes and begins reading. "It's entitled 'Welcome to the Jungle' and it goes a little something like this: 'Ladies, have you been going bonkers over the lack of good men in your life? Well, go ape instead. Tall, dark, and handsome apeman seeks sexy, vivacious apewoman to swing from the trees with in this crazy jungle we call life. Must have positive attitude and enjoy classic rock music. No Scientologists.' What do you think?"
"Holy moly, Steve," Timmy says. "That should get you all kinds of chicks. Can I have some more candy?"
"I thought you weren't too wild about my choice in candy," Steve says.
"Ah, jeez," Timmy says. "It's not that bad."
"Here you go," Steve says, handing Timmy the candy and rubbing the top of his scruffy head. "Now run along, you little scamp."
Next week: Will Steve find success on his first date? Tune in and find out!
"Oh my," Steve says aloud. "What will they think of next?"
He chuckles politely at an ad entitled "Big Game Hunter Seeks Trophy to Mount" when an excited tapping on the door interrupts his perusal. He sets down his tea quickly, spilling a small amount, which he wipes up with a nearby handkerchief. He opens the door and is pleased to see Timmy, a blonde, mop-topped nine-year-old boy who lives in the apartment next door.
"Hello, Steve," Timmy says. "Whatcha doin'?"
Steve bends down so the mask is level with Timmy's face and says, "Well, Timmy, I'm writing a personal ad so I can meet a nice young apewoman. With all the hustle and bustle of life in Fancytown, it sure is hard to meet a suitable companion of the opposite sex."
"Gee willikers," Timmy says, recoiling. "Your ape mask is starting to smell, Steve."
"Ha ha," Steve says. "Timmy, you're alright. I merely smell like a man, son. An apeman. You'll understand someday."
"Got any candy?" Timmy asks. Steve grabs some black liquorice from the cupboard and hands it to the boy.
"Gee whiz," Timmy says, looking down at the liquorice in disgust. "You got any good candy?"
"Beggars can't be choosers," Steve says. They stare at each other for several seconds. Timmy shrugs and pops the candy in his mouth.
"Well?" Steve asks, looking at Timmy intently.
"Well, what?" Timmy asks back.
"What do you think of my personal ad idea?"
"Aw, shucks," Timmy says. "What do you want to get mixed up with some dame for, Mr. Steve? Girls have cooties. Plus they like dolls and they walk around all day going 'you're so pretty.' 'No, you're so pretty.' 'That's so cute.' 'Isn't that cute?' Who needs it?"
"Ha ha ha ha," Steve laughs, shaking the mask. "Timmy, you're the tops. I wish I was in the same boat. But I'm not. I'm an apeman, not an apeboy, and I've got specific ape needs. And specific ape urges."
Steve takes the hand-written personal ad from the table and smooths it on his leg. "You mind if I read you my ad, Timmy?"
"Nope," Timmy says. "Fire away."
"Ahem," Steve clears his throat for dramatic purposes and begins reading. "It's entitled 'Welcome to the Jungle' and it goes a little something like this: 'Ladies, have you been going bonkers over the lack of good men in your life? Well, go ape instead. Tall, dark, and handsome apeman seeks sexy, vivacious apewoman to swing from the trees with in this crazy jungle we call life. Must have positive attitude and enjoy classic rock music. No Scientologists.' What do you think?"
"Holy moly, Steve," Timmy says. "That should get you all kinds of chicks. Can I have some more candy?"
"I thought you weren't too wild about my choice in candy," Steve says.
"Ah, jeez," Timmy says. "It's not that bad."
"Here you go," Steve says, handing Timmy the candy and rubbing the top of his scruffy head. "Now run along, you little scamp."
Next week: Will Steve find success on his first date? Tune in and find out!
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Damn it
I did some Internet investigation about the whole Gallagher and Don Knotts thing and discovered it was a neat little hoax perpetrated by the filmmakers. They even fooled the usually reliable Internet Movie Database. I'm disappointed that Gallagher and Don Knotts are not starring in a movie together. Then again, I'm relieved. Very relieved.
Monday, August 23, 2004
I swear to god I am not making this up
I was reading a news blurb about the cinematographer on "The Blair Witch Project" getting killed in an accident when I stopped to wonder what the hell the directors of "Blair Witch" are doing now. They seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. I checked imdb.com and discovered something I can't put into words because no words have been invented yet explaining just what it is I found. They are finishing up a new film, Heart of Love, starring Gallagher and Don Knotts.
Gallagher!
Don Knotts!
Gallagher!
Don Knotts!
Gallagher and Don Knotts!
Gallagher!
Don Knotts!
Gallagher!
Don Knotts!
Gallagher and Don Knotts!
Not-so-fun Fact
Hmm. According to the "Big Book of Truth," human beings are "not immortal" and "will die someday." I wish my parents had told me something about this. What a shock.
New Robot of the Week
Hey, peeps. I've changed my mind again. The new robot of the week will be updated today, not Friday. You have an entire week to name this guy. I will pick a winner next Monday. My reasons for moving the Robot of the Week to Monday are threefold: 1. Giving people an entire week to name the robot may encourage more than four people to participate. 2. Friday's good enough by itself. It doesn't need a robot. Monday sucks. It needs a robot. 3. I like the word "threefold."
Click here for the Robot of the Week. Note: The small Asian girl is not a robot. You may name her if you like, but it is not part of the contest.
Click here for the Robot of the Week. Note: The small Asian girl is not a robot. You may name her if you like, but it is not part of the contest.
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