1. My ultimate goal is to travel to another planet and conquer it, rectally probing most of the planet’s residents, enslaving the others and stealing all their water for my personal use.
2. When I was a baby I got drunk hit the bars and things got a little crazy. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was a a father-to-be, and thus was forced to raise the resulting baby about my own age – Tyler, who would one day become one of my best friends – as my own. I gave him away to the circus because he was worthless.
3. I used to think that people who liked 30 Rock better than The Office were morons. I am now also a moron.
4. I am a whore in public but a churchgirl in the bedroom.
5. One of my more depressing shortcomings is that I am 11 wives short of attaining a quorum in the Celestial Kingdom.
6. I didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, but Plymouth Rock landed on me.
7. I would have been able to play in the NBA if I hadn’t been discriminated against back in high school for my lack of size, speed and intelligence.
8. I try to work the phrase “You dun smoke yourself retarded” into one conversation per day.
9. I don’t understand the fashion concept of “matching.”
10. Abraham Lincoln was actually a reincarnation of me. The explanation for how this happened is too long to get into here, but bear in mind it includes a time-traveling DeLorean as well as several voodoo rituals.
11. I was Time Magazine’s 2006 person of the year. Look it up.
12. I believe all country love songs by dudes are sung with farm animals in mind.
13. My greatest fear is being buried alive.
14. I believe golf columnists are the most fetishistic and pathetically stalker-like of all sportswriters.
15. I feel sorry for dolphins that live in the wild because they don’t get the chance to jump through flaming hoops.
16. I still own every baseball, football and basketball card, as well as comic book, I ever purchased and keep them stored in shoeboxes in a closet for no reason.
17. I am too lazy to write 25 things about myself, so I must stop at
18. And yet I persevere anyway, deciding that it’s better to half-ass eight more to conform to the demands of the format rather than cut myself off in the name of artistic integrity.
19. When I was a kid I had an imaginary rival named Jacques Jejajeun. I’d play him in paddle ball, Nerf basketball and Rad Racer.
20. When I was in fifth grade I convinced myself that if me and my friends played recess basketball well enough we’d get a chance to play against UNLV in a nationally broadcast exhibition game.
21. I hate yet am in inspired by people with no talent who have lucked into successful careers. (i.e. Kevin Kolb, Robert Pattinson and the Black Eyed Peas).
22. I have no sense of direction. This affects me the most when I play first-person shooters.
23. I like reading about video games more than playing them.
24. When I was a freshman in college I would recycle my excess cereal milk and use it the next day. Yep, I went green before it was cool.
25. I’m not even trying anymore and haven’t been after the first seven in all honesty. But I still count this as one so now it’s over.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Review: Bossypants
Bossypants by Tina FeyMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Tina Fey is brilliant, and proves it at times in this book, which sometimes feels like a miscalculated rush job. It was pretty lazy to include a script of a sketch, as well as a sequence of jokes from 30 Rock. Her observations on life and growing up, as well as her smack-talking about Lorne Michaels and Sarah Palin, make the book worthwhile.
View all my reviews
Books Geeks Love
Wired, that bastion of celebrating geekdom, put together a post suggesting the essential geek reads.
I love the list, which includes such masterpieces as The Hithchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Watchmen and The Lord of the Rings. Did I enjoy the post simply because it consisted mostly of books I've read -- and if not read, have at least heard of and read enough about to fake like I have -- because it made me feel like a well-read geekology professor? Probably. But that's beside the point.
If you want to be a real geek, or be able to hold a literature-based conversation with one, you need to read these books. Or at least their Wikipedia pages.
I love the list, which includes such masterpieces as The Hithchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Watchmen and The Lord of the Rings. Did I enjoy the post simply because it consisted mostly of books I've read -- and if not read, have at least heard of and read enough about to fake like I have -- because it made me feel like a well-read geekology professor? Probably. But that's beside the point.
If you want to be a real geek, or be able to hold a literature-based conversation with one, you need to read these books. Or at least their Wikipedia pages.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Review: The Rum Diary
If they ever make a time travel tourism film about 1960 Puerto Rico, it will be the opposite of The Rum Diary. Hunter S. Thompson’s vision of the setting is as bleak as the Miami Dolphins’ playoff hopes, with thuggish, resentful locals fuming at mainland interlopers, rathole apartments with water that walks rather than runs and a kangaroo court legal system geared to either run English-speakers off the island or lock them up indefinitely.
Yet these are the places in which legends are made. Thompson drew upon his experiences as a young writer who placed his dreams on hold to toil at a mediocre newspaper job in an exotic location to pen the novel, which he wrote at age 22 but didn’t publish until 1998. In a booze-swilling haze, the writer formed his moral code, honed his participatory journalism technique and found his voice.
Pushing 50, Johnny Depp would seem to be too old for the part, but that would only apply if the actor wasn’t the love child of Dorian Gray and Benjamin Button and either gets younger or ages backward as the years pass. Depp easily passes for a guy in his early 30s. And thanks to nearly a decade toiling as Captain Jack Sparrow, he has ample experience playing a drunken fool who can barely walk.
The movie captures Depp’s character in a never-ending hangover, in which regret-filled nights bleed into bleary-eyed mornings, which themselves are only sleepwalking continuations of the previous wasted day. He buddies up with a burned-out photographer (Michael Rispoli), tries to avoid his Nazi-sympathizing, drug-addled coworker/roomie (Giovanni Ribisi) and cowers under the demands of his creativity-crushing editor (Richard Jenkins). He indulges his wide-eyed corruptible tendencies by allowing himself to be romanced by an evil land developing ring led by Aaron Eckhart and his comely girlfriend (Amber Heard).
The actors are all superb, but Ribisi is disgustingly phenomenal in his transformation into a human snot rag, swiping scenes from the indomitable Depp. You cringe whenever Ribisi slinks on screen to deliver nasally one-liners that draw nervous laughter.
While the movie lacks the absurdist panache of the Terry Gilliam-directed, Depp-starring Thompson adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it’s more content to tell a personal, often harrowing tale. The Rum Diary catches a nice buzz early on, spinning Depp and company through an unrelenting house of horrors, but tires toward the end by preaching rather than letting its smaller moments do the fear and loathing for it.
It’s probably impossible to make a perfect movie out of a Thompson book, but The Rum Diaries is a darn good try. Maybe we’ll see perfection a decade from now. Maybe by then, Depp will finally be playing characters his own age. But probably not.
Starring Johnny Depp, Aaron Eckhart, Michael Rispoli, Amber Heard, Giovanni Ribisi and Richard Jenkins. Written by Bruce Robinson, based on a novel by Hunter S. Thompson. Directed by Robinson. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Yet these are the places in which legends are made. Thompson drew upon his experiences as a young writer who placed his dreams on hold to toil at a mediocre newspaper job in an exotic location to pen the novel, which he wrote at age 22 but didn’t publish until 1998. In a booze-swilling haze, the writer formed his moral code, honed his participatory journalism technique and found his voice.
Pushing 50, Johnny Depp would seem to be too old for the part, but that would only apply if the actor wasn’t the love child of Dorian Gray and Benjamin Button and either gets younger or ages backward as the years pass. Depp easily passes for a guy in his early 30s. And thanks to nearly a decade toiling as Captain Jack Sparrow, he has ample experience playing a drunken fool who can barely walk.
The movie captures Depp’s character in a never-ending hangover, in which regret-filled nights bleed into bleary-eyed mornings, which themselves are only sleepwalking continuations of the previous wasted day. He buddies up with a burned-out photographer (Michael Rispoli), tries to avoid his Nazi-sympathizing, drug-addled coworker/roomie (Giovanni Ribisi) and cowers under the demands of his creativity-crushing editor (Richard Jenkins). He indulges his wide-eyed corruptible tendencies by allowing himself to be romanced by an evil land developing ring led by Aaron Eckhart and his comely girlfriend (Amber Heard).
The actors are all superb, but Ribisi is disgustingly phenomenal in his transformation into a human snot rag, swiping scenes from the indomitable Depp. You cringe whenever Ribisi slinks on screen to deliver nasally one-liners that draw nervous laughter.
While the movie lacks the absurdist panache of the Terry Gilliam-directed, Depp-starring Thompson adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it’s more content to tell a personal, often harrowing tale. The Rum Diary catches a nice buzz early on, spinning Depp and company through an unrelenting house of horrors, but tires toward the end by preaching rather than letting its smaller moments do the fear and loathing for it.
It’s probably impossible to make a perfect movie out of a Thompson book, but The Rum Diaries is a darn good try. Maybe we’ll see perfection a decade from now. Maybe by then, Depp will finally be playing characters his own age. But probably not.
Starring Johnny Depp, Aaron Eckhart, Michael Rispoli, Amber Heard, Giovanni Ribisi and Richard Jenkins. Written by Bruce Robinson, based on a novel by Hunter S. Thompson. Directed by Robinson. 120 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Joys Of Reading Books On Cell Phones
Working multiple jobs while raising multiple kids while supporting time-consuming hobbies such as writing for fun, football watching and video game playing has forced me to largely cut the act of reading books out of my life over the past few years. And feel guilty about it. But that's changing, thanks to my new pastime of cell phone book reading.
I used to be irritated at the idea of e-reading, and the idea of plowing through an entire book on a tiny cell phone screen sounded impossibly stupid. But now that I am more than halfway through Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I've read on my phone primarily during bathroom breaks, I consider physical books to be impossibly stupid.
Smartphones equipped with the Kindle app allow you to tote around an infinite number of books in your pocket. Booklights, bookmarks and scotch tape are now obsolete, because this technological revolution allows you to read in the complete dark, always keeps track of your page number and does not allow you to accidentally rip its pages. I could drop my Droid 2 in the toilet and just shrug and pick up where I left off on my laptop or iPod Touch.
The main reason I enjoy reading books on my phone is because of the video game like quality. It feels as though you're playing a text-based adventure game in which it's impossible to screw up and die. Just read what's on the screen and swipe your finger and you win! Then you win again 13 second later! Since each virtual page is so tiny, you get a greater, more frequent sense of reward and progress. And I adore the fact that you can always tap the bottom of the screen to see your completion percentage.
About the only bonus I would add would be a da-dink sound, accomplished by a graphic that says "achievement unlocked" after I "beat" each chapter. I also wish it kept track of the length of time I'd been reading, and switched into audio book mode when I'm driving.
Now that I've discovered the joy of cell phone reading -- not e-reading as a whole mind you, because Kindles, iPads and Nooks can't fit in your pocket and are only truly portable to dorks who wear European man-purses -- I vow to read more than ever before, but may never touch a book again.
I used to be irritated at the idea of e-reading, and the idea of plowing through an entire book on a tiny cell phone screen sounded impossibly stupid. But now that I am more than halfway through Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I've read on my phone primarily during bathroom breaks, I consider physical books to be impossibly stupid.
Smartphones equipped with the Kindle app allow you to tote around an infinite number of books in your pocket. Booklights, bookmarks and scotch tape are now obsolete, because this technological revolution allows you to read in the complete dark, always keeps track of your page number and does not allow you to accidentally rip its pages. I could drop my Droid 2 in the toilet and just shrug and pick up where I left off on my laptop or iPod Touch.
The main reason I enjoy reading books on my phone is because of the video game like quality. It feels as though you're playing a text-based adventure game in which it's impossible to screw up and die. Just read what's on the screen and swipe your finger and you win! Then you win again 13 second later! Since each virtual page is so tiny, you get a greater, more frequent sense of reward and progress. And I adore the fact that you can always tap the bottom of the screen to see your completion percentage.
About the only bonus I would add would be a da-dink sound, accomplished by a graphic that says "achievement unlocked" after I "beat" each chapter. I also wish it kept track of the length of time I'd been reading, and switched into audio book mode when I'm driving.
Now that I've discovered the joy of cell phone reading -- not e-reading as a whole mind you, because Kindles, iPads and Nooks can't fit in your pocket and are only truly portable to dorks who wear European man-purses -- I vow to read more than ever before, but may never touch a book again.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
My NYC Observations
I got back from my first trip to New York a week ago yesterday. The vacation seemed like it lasted 5 hours instead of 5 days. Jessica and I saw Wicked and Addams Family with Brooke Shields. Went to Comedy Cellar and saw Colin Quinn perform. I'm happiest that we didn't get mugged or stabbed once.
Here are some observations about the city:
*The restaurants are stingy with the drinks. Waiters weren't cool about giving free soda refills, or even asking whether you'd like to order another. This was true at an Irish Pub in Times Square -- although I was slyly upsold to a full-price refill -- a hipster health food joint in SoHo, a pizzeria in Little Italy and an Italian place in the Village. There must be some sort of NYC syrup shortage going on, and I guess I was glad to do my part to conserve.
*It's odd yet adorable how all the subway Metro card dispensaries tell you to "dip" your credit card to pay rather than slide it.
*Locals there weren't rude. They seemed to keep to themselves and not be abrasive or resentful of tourists' presence. Maybe because they're outnumbered by tourists.
*Everyone had enough money. I expected to be shaken down constantly by aggressive panhandlers, but the only time I was asked was at a Dunkin' Donuts by a polite kid.
*We had perfect weather, but I bet it sucks to live there if it's either hot or rainy. NYC is a utopia of public transportation, and it was a dream not to have to deal with cars. But all the necessary walking would make it tough to get around in extreme heat or snow.
*An earthquake, even a tiny little 5.8 variety that the city experienced a while before I got there, would be freaking terrifying if you were stuck on top of the Empire State Building or inside a subway stop at the time.
*It would really blow to have kids there. Everyone who had a kid in tow also sported a look of gloom and misery. Guess it's not much fun to lug a stroller up a set of subway stop stairs. By the way, NYC is the least wheelchair accessible city I've ever heard of. If you break a leg or lose the ability to walk, stick with Jersey, I guess.
Here are some observations about the city:
*The restaurants are stingy with the drinks. Waiters weren't cool about giving free soda refills, or even asking whether you'd like to order another. This was true at an Irish Pub in Times Square -- although I was slyly upsold to a full-price refill -- a hipster health food joint in SoHo, a pizzeria in Little Italy and an Italian place in the Village. There must be some sort of NYC syrup shortage going on, and I guess I was glad to do my part to conserve.
*It's odd yet adorable how all the subway Metro card dispensaries tell you to "dip" your credit card to pay rather than slide it.
*Locals there weren't rude. They seemed to keep to themselves and not be abrasive or resentful of tourists' presence. Maybe because they're outnumbered by tourists.
*Everyone had enough money. I expected to be shaken down constantly by aggressive panhandlers, but the only time I was asked was at a Dunkin' Donuts by a polite kid.
*We had perfect weather, but I bet it sucks to live there if it's either hot or rainy. NYC is a utopia of public transportation, and it was a dream not to have to deal with cars. But all the necessary walking would make it tough to get around in extreme heat or snow.
*An earthquake, even a tiny little 5.8 variety that the city experienced a while before I got there, would be freaking terrifying if you were stuck on top of the Empire State Building or inside a subway stop at the time.
*It would really blow to have kids there. Everyone who had a kid in tow also sported a look of gloom and misery. Guess it's not much fun to lug a stroller up a set of subway stop stairs. By the way, NYC is the least wheelchair accessible city I've ever heard of. If you break a leg or lose the ability to walk, stick with Jersey, I guess.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Broadway Musical Death Match: Why Addams Family Is Better Than Wicked
I saw two shows on Broadway last weekend, and was surprised at which one was better.
I expected to hate Addams Family because of how lame and stupid the idea to base a musical on that seems, but I actually liked that better than Wicked. Wicked was good in the second act but the first was way too slow and had mostly terrible songs and no famous people. We got stuck with the second-string cast that did the national tour. You go to Broadway to see the best of the best, not the roustabouts who play Topeka.
Addams Family at least had Brooke Shields, who was entertaining in a Surreal Life sort of way. That show reminded me of the billions of episodes of it I saw as a kid, and convinced me that the characters were always stronger than I gave them credit for. Also, Addams Family played in a tiny little theater, so the actors were basically on top of us. Wicked played in a giant megatron theater and we had terrible seats that still cost $17 trillion. The great Addams Family seats cost only $2.5 billion. So, better value.
One thing that angered me about Wicked was the way it handled the Scarecrow. Everyone who's read the books or seen Return to Oz knows that the Scarecrow becomes king, not some sick bastard who runs off with the Wicked Witch of the West for fornication in another realm, never to be seen again. And if the Scarecrow really was the witch's lover who got transformed into a brainless farm doll in an ill-advised attempt at magical protection by his spell-casting, pointy-hatted hook-up, why would he actively help Dorothy and the others try to hunt down and kill her, while pretending he didn't know that the Wizard of Oz was really the fat balloon man behind a curtain? I guess we're supposed to believe that he was just playing along as a way to hitch a ride back to his green-skinned love's wicked mansion, but that's quite a stretch, especially since she sets him on fire in the movie. Now that's some serious method acting to throw everyone off the trail.
I expected to hate Addams Family because of how lame and stupid the idea to base a musical on that seems, but I actually liked that better than Wicked. Wicked was good in the second act but the first was way too slow and had mostly terrible songs and no famous people. We got stuck with the second-string cast that did the national tour. You go to Broadway to see the best of the best, not the roustabouts who play Topeka.
Addams Family at least had Brooke Shields, who was entertaining in a Surreal Life sort of way. That show reminded me of the billions of episodes of it I saw as a kid, and convinced me that the characters were always stronger than I gave them credit for. Also, Addams Family played in a tiny little theater, so the actors were basically on top of us. Wicked played in a giant megatron theater and we had terrible seats that still cost $17 trillion. The great Addams Family seats cost only $2.5 billion. So, better value.
One thing that angered me about Wicked was the way it handled the Scarecrow. Everyone who's read the books or seen Return to Oz knows that the Scarecrow becomes king, not some sick bastard who runs off with the Wicked Witch of the West for fornication in another realm, never to be seen again. And if the Scarecrow really was the witch's lover who got transformed into a brainless farm doll in an ill-advised attempt at magical protection by his spell-casting, pointy-hatted hook-up, why would he actively help Dorothy and the others try to hunt down and kill her, while pretending he didn't know that the Wizard of Oz was really the fat balloon man behind a curtain? I guess we're supposed to believe that he was just playing along as a way to hitch a ride back to his green-skinned love's wicked mansion, but that's quite a stretch, especially since she sets him on fire in the movie. Now that's some serious method acting to throw everyone off the trail.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Review: Footloose
Every generation, it comes time for the cinema to teach us an important lesson about life. This lesson is that loud music and dancing are the devil's tools and must be eradicated by rule of law. A wise pastor/town dictator must obliterate that silly division between church and state.
To stoke fear in the hearts of the just, movies about this subject must present the sum of all fears -- that a hedonistic youth will shake the foundation of such just ordinances with a swirl of cartwheels and air-splits.
The new Footloose, like its 1984 progenitor, provides ample entertainment while stirring the pangs of wrath in your heart. The remake copies the original beat for beat, which is necessary because the first film was cinematic perfection that cannot possibly be improved on by man nor beast.
Leave it to director Craig Brewer to emerge from his humble beginnings, making the multiple Oscar-nominated Hustle & Flow, to rise to his true calling -- learning how to use the "copy" and "paste" functions of FinalCutPro to replicate the work of others.
Brewer expertly re-uses the two main songs from the original, "Footloose" and "Let's Hear it for the Boy," because in the past 27 years, no better songs than those have been invented. Even if, for some reason, this is actually no longer the way kids danced, and in fact never was the way anyone danced, but the style was just an odd 1980s movies construct, you must give the choreographers credit for driving home the point that dance is indeed an abomination that must be outlawed.
It's of little doubt that star Kenny Wormald, who plays the vile antagonist, the new kid in town with the loosest of feet, will go on to be the namesake of a parlor game called Six Degrees of Kenny Wormald in the future. Or that Julianne Hough will match the illustrious career of Lori Singer, and in 37 years be so far along that she'll be able to snag a role that's the equivalent of the bit part Dede Aston in season 12, episode 22 of CSI: SVU.
As far as acting goes, these kids certainly can dance, causing myriad problems for the heroic preacher played by Dennis Quaid, who finds deep layers of determination by refraining from splashing holy water on his detestable daughter or her malevolent suitor as they break the town's law repeatedly for 113 minutes.
Also, kudos to the choreography team for nailing the embarrassing arms-waving tap-dance-like style, which they copy from the first Footloose. They clearly did their research, discovering that this is exactly how kids dance today.
Starring Kenny Wormald, Julianne Hough, Dennis Quaid and Andie McDowell. Written by Craig Brewer and Dean Pitchford, based on a story by Pitchford. 113 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
To stoke fear in the hearts of the just, movies about this subject must present the sum of all fears -- that a hedonistic youth will shake the foundation of such just ordinances with a swirl of cartwheels and air-splits.
The new Footloose, like its 1984 progenitor, provides ample entertainment while stirring the pangs of wrath in your heart. The remake copies the original beat for beat, which is necessary because the first film was cinematic perfection that cannot possibly be improved on by man nor beast.
Leave it to director Craig Brewer to emerge from his humble beginnings, making the multiple Oscar-nominated Hustle & Flow, to rise to his true calling -- learning how to use the "copy" and "paste" functions of FinalCutPro to replicate the work of others.
Brewer expertly re-uses the two main songs from the original, "Footloose" and "Let's Hear it for the Boy," because in the past 27 years, no better songs than those have been invented. Even if, for some reason, this is actually no longer the way kids danced, and in fact never was the way anyone danced, but the style was just an odd 1980s movies construct, you must give the choreographers credit for driving home the point that dance is indeed an abomination that must be outlawed.
It's of little doubt that star Kenny Wormald, who plays the vile antagonist, the new kid in town with the loosest of feet, will go on to be the namesake of a parlor game called Six Degrees of Kenny Wormald in the future. Or that Julianne Hough will match the illustrious career of Lori Singer, and in 37 years be so far along that she'll be able to snag a role that's the equivalent of the bit part Dede Aston in season 12, episode 22 of CSI: SVU.
As far as acting goes, these kids certainly can dance, causing myriad problems for the heroic preacher played by Dennis Quaid, who finds deep layers of determination by refraining from splashing holy water on his detestable daughter or her malevolent suitor as they break the town's law repeatedly for 113 minutes.
Also, kudos to the choreography team for nailing the embarrassing arms-waving tap-dance-like style, which they copy from the first Footloose. They clearly did their research, discovering that this is exactly how kids dance today.
Starring Kenny Wormald, Julianne Hough, Dennis Quaid and Andie McDowell. Written by Craig Brewer and Dean Pitchford, based on a story by Pitchford. 113 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
This Email Made Me Happy
Hi, Phil,
My editor-in-chief read and enjoyed your proposal for LEARN TO SPEAK GEEK. Also, I discussed it at our general editorial meeting today and I think it went well. Right now, the proposal is being read by our publisher, our directors of sales, publicity and marketing, as well as our digital marketing/content manager. All of them seemed enthusiastic about this, so I am cautiously hopeful. I will be in touch soon, I hope.
Best,
-Book Editor (not his real name)
My editor-in-chief read and enjoyed your proposal for LEARN TO SPEAK GEEK. Also, I discussed it at our general editorial meeting today and I think it went well. Right now, the proposal is being read by our publisher, our directors of sales, publicity and marketing, as well as our digital marketing/content manager. All of them seemed enthusiastic about this, so I am cautiously hopeful. I will be in touch soon, I hope.
Best,
-Book Editor (not his real name)
Monday, October 03, 2011
How To Solve Any Problem
Send Desmond into the center of the island light and have him do whatever until the unstabbable guy who can become a smoke monster whenever he likes yet chooses to be an old man instead becomes stabbable and the parallel church world born of a nuclear time travel explosion pops up and rescues everyone in a big ol hugglefest.
In case you can't tell, I just shotgunned the entire Lost series in the past couple months.
In case you can't tell, I just shotgunned the entire Lost series in the past couple months.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Taking A 58-Year-Old And 4-Year-Old To Football Games
I've spent the past two Saturday nights at Arizona Stadium watching the Wildcats get the snot smacked out of them by far superior teams. In the first outing, I took my dad, who was on the verge of his 59th birthday. The week after, I brought my 4-year-old son, Luke, to his first football game.
There were similarities and differences in the outings.
SIMILARITY -- Everlasting nostalgic moments. When I was growing up, my dad took me to games regularly, always buying me a game program because he knew how much I loved to read through the rosters, coach bios and statistics. I still have all of them, stacked in boxes in my closet. Now they no longer sell programs, and just give them away for free. As we walked into the stadium, I spotted a box of the programs, scooped a pair out and handed one to my dad.
Befitting his name, Luke is a huge Star Wars fan, and he adored the band's questionable practice of playing Darth Vader's theme when the other team has the ball. (Should the band really admit via music that the enemy's possession of the ball is a sign of certain doom). Whenever the band started to play, he asked me, hope bubbling out his little eyes, whether it was going to be the Star Wars song again. He was crushed when it was a different jingle, and elated when his dream came true. When the band was silent, he spent most of the time humming his own, metal-and-beatbox-infused version of the tune. Now I will never be able to hear those notes again without thinking of Luke at this age.
SIMILARITY -- Endurance. Both the old and young man lasted until the final whistle. And both, like me, were disappointed when the drubbing was over and it was finally time to go home.
DIFFERENCE -- Calorie consumption. Neither my dad nor I saw the need to visit the concession stand during the game. But for Luke, the wonders of popcorn, cotton candy, soda and lemonade were 150 percent of the fun the event had to offer. In practice, the $15 I spent on refreshments largely went to waste. Meaning, I had to eat it after Luke got tired of it.
The salted giant pretzel looked good at the outset, but he struggled to devour half of it. He needed popcorn later on because he loves popcorn at the movie theater, but there wasn't as much butter as he remembered, and white cheddar seasoning wasn't an option as it is at Harkins. So he only ate a few bites. As for the cotton candy, he ripped off a glob from the bag and munched on it for half an hour, pausing to proudly display his purple and green beards, then abandoned ship and left the other half of the bag to rot. I excuse his finicky eating because of the double Whopper he wolfed down before the game, proclaiming it "the best sandwich I've ever had."
DIFFERENCE -- Football acumen. My dad and I exchanged a calm, reasoned patter of in-game analysis with the detachment of grizzled sportscasters. We've both had our hearts trampled too much by the game, and this team, to allow ourselves to get too jubilant or depressed.
Luke had a little trouble getting the chants down. When the crowd chanted "U of A," Luke interpreted it as a call to display his patriotism, shouting "USA!" When it was time to yell "Defense," Luke yelled "Depends!" Whenever the public address announcer revealed that a team took a timeout, Luke was sure that meant the players would have to go to their rooms until they calmed down. Also, he had trouble remembering that the team that we were rooting for was the Wildcats, whom he kept calling the Cardinals -- a result of my nearly half-decade long brainwashing campaign. It's lucky that I hadn't taken Luke the week before, when Arizona played the Stanford Cardinal. His brain might have exploded.
As the game ended, Luke was sure the Wildcats -- or Cardinals -- had won. He was angry when the final seconds ticked away and I told him that we had to leave. In his oblivious-to-the-final-score mind, it had been a perfect night, and it was a tragedy that it had to end.
He was right that in the grander scheme, the score didn't matter at all, and the evening had indeed been perfect. Both those Saturday nights were.
There were similarities and differences in the outings.
SIMILARITY -- Everlasting nostalgic moments. When I was growing up, my dad took me to games regularly, always buying me a game program because he knew how much I loved to read through the rosters, coach bios and statistics. I still have all of them, stacked in boxes in my closet. Now they no longer sell programs, and just give them away for free. As we walked into the stadium, I spotted a box of the programs, scooped a pair out and handed one to my dad.
Befitting his name, Luke is a huge Star Wars fan, and he adored the band's questionable practice of playing Darth Vader's theme when the other team has the ball. (Should the band really admit via music that the enemy's possession of the ball is a sign of certain doom). Whenever the band started to play, he asked me, hope bubbling out his little eyes, whether it was going to be the Star Wars song again. He was crushed when it was a different jingle, and elated when his dream came true. When the band was silent, he spent most of the time humming his own, metal-and-beatbox-infused version of the tune. Now I will never be able to hear those notes again without thinking of Luke at this age.
SIMILARITY -- Endurance. Both the old and young man lasted until the final whistle. And both, like me, were disappointed when the drubbing was over and it was finally time to go home.
DIFFERENCE -- Calorie consumption. Neither my dad nor I saw the need to visit the concession stand during the game. But for Luke, the wonders of popcorn, cotton candy, soda and lemonade were 150 percent of the fun the event had to offer. In practice, the $15 I spent on refreshments largely went to waste. Meaning, I had to eat it after Luke got tired of it.
The salted giant pretzel looked good at the outset, but he struggled to devour half of it. He needed popcorn later on because he loves popcorn at the movie theater, but there wasn't as much butter as he remembered, and white cheddar seasoning wasn't an option as it is at Harkins. So he only ate a few bites. As for the cotton candy, he ripped off a glob from the bag and munched on it for half an hour, pausing to proudly display his purple and green beards, then abandoned ship and left the other half of the bag to rot. I excuse his finicky eating because of the double Whopper he wolfed down before the game, proclaiming it "the best sandwich I've ever had."
DIFFERENCE -- Football acumen. My dad and I exchanged a calm, reasoned patter of in-game analysis with the detachment of grizzled sportscasters. We've both had our hearts trampled too much by the game, and this team, to allow ourselves to get too jubilant or depressed.
Luke had a little trouble getting the chants down. When the crowd chanted "U of A," Luke interpreted it as a call to display his patriotism, shouting "USA!" When it was time to yell "Defense," Luke yelled "Depends!" Whenever the public address announcer revealed that a team took a timeout, Luke was sure that meant the players would have to go to their rooms until they calmed down. Also, he had trouble remembering that the team that we were rooting for was the Wildcats, whom he kept calling the Cardinals -- a result of my nearly half-decade long brainwashing campaign. It's lucky that I hadn't taken Luke the week before, when Arizona played the Stanford Cardinal. His brain might have exploded.
As the game ended, Luke was sure the Wildcats -- or Cardinals -- had won. He was angry when the final seconds ticked away and I told him that we had to leave. In his oblivious-to-the-final-score mind, it had been a perfect night, and it was a tragedy that it had to end.
He was right that in the grander scheme, the score didn't matter at all, and the evening had indeed been perfect. Both those Saturday nights were.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Review: Moneyball
Baseball has always been far more interesting in movie form than in real life. Moneyball puts the romance, suspense and nostalgia of the game to the ultimate test, attempting to make front-office number crunching into compelling drama.
Other than the assumption that baseball is movie magic, there’s no reason Moneyball should be remotely watchable, let alone freaking amazing, which it surely is. Some Brad Pitt fans have no doubt declared that he’s such a magnetic personality that he could make a two-hour reading of the phone book interesting. This is the movie in which Pitt tries out the theory, only switching out phone numbers for on-base percentages.
Pitt plays Oakland A’s general manager Billy Beane, who, judging from an early-film montage, was the worst baseball player in the history of mankind before tossing his hands up and trying to make it as a suit. According to the montage, Beane struck out in every at-bat, and never once was able to maneuver himself close to a ball that was hit to him. You know, pretty much like every Kansas City Royal in the last 25 years.
But one thing Beane can do is patch together a team of rag-tag misfits who make less than Taco Bell employees and turn them into a marauding machine that’s nearly as dominant as the Bad News Bears were at the end of their movies. Clearly possessing that which Genesis once referred to as “That invisible touch, yeah,” With a boy wonder, Yale economist sidekick (Jonah Hill) on his hip, Beane picks through the garbage heap of Major League baseball, uses crazy inventions called “math” and “spreadsheets” to identify winning qualities that other teams overlook, then gives them pep talks that make them want to get out onto that field and take as many walks as possible.
In layman’s terms, Beane takes a team and spins it off into a separate entity called Wynsterz, nodding in that cocky, I’m-Brad-Pitt-And-You’re-Not fashion as all the naysayers call him an idiot, then chuckling as the Wynsterz wins the AL West by 100 games while also getting users to pay double the price for cracked DVDs.
While there is some stirring on-field action to spice things up, most of this film is dialogue, meaning the screenwriters are every bit as much the stars of the film as Pitt. The writing sings because it’s so witty and clever, managing to talk about poignant life stuff such as family, loyalty and determination while pretending to reference fielding percentages and signing bonuses.
Director Bennett Miller handles the impossible film with the skill of his protagonist. He’s clearly a filmmaker who relishes a challenge, which is why I expect him to do just as well with his next project, IRS Tax Code: The Animated Musical.
Starring Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Wright. Written by Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin, based on a Stan Chervin story, which in turn was based on a Michael Lewis book. Directed by Bennett Miller. Rated PG-13. 133 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Other than the assumption that baseball is movie magic, there’s no reason Moneyball should be remotely watchable, let alone freaking amazing, which it surely is. Some Brad Pitt fans have no doubt declared that he’s such a magnetic personality that he could make a two-hour reading of the phone book interesting. This is the movie in which Pitt tries out the theory, only switching out phone numbers for on-base percentages.
Pitt plays Oakland A’s general manager Billy Beane, who, judging from an early-film montage, was the worst baseball player in the history of mankind before tossing his hands up and trying to make it as a suit. According to the montage, Beane struck out in every at-bat, and never once was able to maneuver himself close to a ball that was hit to him. You know, pretty much like every Kansas City Royal in the last 25 years.
But one thing Beane can do is patch together a team of rag-tag misfits who make less than Taco Bell employees and turn them into a marauding machine that’s nearly as dominant as the Bad News Bears were at the end of their movies. Clearly possessing that which Genesis once referred to as “That invisible touch, yeah,” With a boy wonder, Yale economist sidekick (Jonah Hill) on his hip, Beane picks through the garbage heap of Major League baseball, uses crazy inventions called “math” and “spreadsheets” to identify winning qualities that other teams overlook, then gives them pep talks that make them want to get out onto that field and take as many walks as possible.
In layman’s terms, Beane takes a team and spins it off into a separate entity called Wynsterz, nodding in that cocky, I’m-Brad-Pitt-And-You’re-Not fashion as all the naysayers call him an idiot, then chuckling as the Wynsterz wins the AL West by 100 games while also getting users to pay double the price for cracked DVDs.
While there is some stirring on-field action to spice things up, most of this film is dialogue, meaning the screenwriters are every bit as much the stars of the film as Pitt. The writing sings because it’s so witty and clever, managing to talk about poignant life stuff such as family, loyalty and determination while pretending to reference fielding percentages and signing bonuses.
Director Bennett Miller handles the impossible film with the skill of his protagonist. He’s clearly a filmmaker who relishes a challenge, which is why I expect him to do just as well with his next project, IRS Tax Code: The Animated Musical.
Starring Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Wright. Written by Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin, based on a Stan Chervin story, which in turn was based on a Michael Lewis book. Directed by Bennett Miller. Rated PG-13. 133 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Qwikster
After I switch over to Qwikster, I admit I will be just a little disappointed every time I open a red envelope and find a DVD in there instead of strawberry-flavored powder.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
How To Trick Others Into Thinking You're A Good Employee
Hating your job is no excuse to mope. No matter how miserable you are when you're on the clock, you'll only better your prospects by making the best of your situation.
Budgets Are Sexy offers some tips on how to be a better employee, or at least fake your way to appearing to be adequate:
*Smile. People drift toward pleasant folk. Being cheery can give you an extra edge that keeps you around amid layoffs or boosts your chances of a promotion.
*Don't run out the door at the first opportunity. Sticking around 5 or 10 minutes after the workday ends can go far in making you appear to be a dedicated worker.
*Hand out compliments, not criticism. Avoid vague, blanket brown-nosing and pinpoint specific, genuine things you can praise people for. When negative thoughts surface, send them back where they came from. Strategic gossip can build a rapport, but also places you at risk of being perceived as a malcontent back-stabber.
10 Tips to Be a Better Employee [Budgets Are Sexy]
Budgets Are Sexy offers some tips on how to be a better employee, or at least fake your way to appearing to be adequate:
*Smile. People drift toward pleasant folk. Being cheery can give you an extra edge that keeps you around amid layoffs or boosts your chances of a promotion.
*Don't run out the door at the first opportunity. Sticking around 5 or 10 minutes after the workday ends can go far in making you appear to be a dedicated worker.
*Hand out compliments, not criticism. Avoid vague, blanket brown-nosing and pinpoint specific, genuine things you can praise people for. When negative thoughts surface, send them back where they came from. Strategic gossip can build a rapport, but also places you at risk of being perceived as a malcontent back-stabber.
10 Tips to Be a Better Employee [Budgets Are Sexy]
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Lies That People Repeat And Believe In
"Everything happens for a reason." I guess this is technically true, if the reason is defined as "because people felt like making that happen." The belief that everything that occurs is to contribute to some positive ending is ridiculous. It's easier to believe that everything happens for an eventual negative reason.
"God never gives you more than you can handle." I think people who get run over and killed by trucks get more than they can handle.
"Karma will take care of it." The belief that you don't need to do anything to stop bad things from continuing to happen because a Final Destination-type invisible force will do it for you is just lazy.
"God never gives you more than you can handle." I think people who get run over and killed by trucks get more than they can handle.
"Karma will take care of it." The belief that you don't need to do anything to stop bad things from continuing to happen because a Final Destination-type invisible force will do it for you is just lazy.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
My Questions About Aquatic Medicine
I wonder how far along the field of underwater surgery has come. If a fish gets a spinal tumor, is he screwed or is there a chance to save him? Do they stand still to have their blood pressure checked? Can they get gill asthma? And if so, how do they take their inhalers?
Can dol-fins (my nicknames for dolphins' fins) be placed in cast? Is it considered poor form for octopi to squirt ink on them in playful attempts at signing them?
Sharks lose a lot of teeth, but how many is too many? If they forget to floss can they get cavities? Do they need to use mouthwash or does just swimming around with their mouths open all scary-like do the job?
Can dol-fins (my nicknames for dolphins' fins) be placed in cast? Is it considered poor form for octopi to squirt ink on them in playful attempts at signing them?
Sharks lose a lot of teeth, but how many is too many? If they forget to floss can they get cavities? Do they need to use mouthwash or does just swimming around with their mouths open all scary-like do the job?
Monday, September 12, 2011
I Just Wanted To Let You Know
The Cardinals are undefeated, the Cardinals are undefeated, the Cardinals are undefeated and the Cardinals are undefeated. Lastly, lest I forget to mention it, the Cardinals are undefeated. Life is grand. I only wonder if the Cardinals themselves take such pleasure in my successes.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Three Things I Am Enraged About At The Moment
1. Sending important emails that go unreturned.
2. Publishers who take weeks and weeks to evaluate a book proposal.
3. Scamtastic charities that name themselves something similar to other organizations and spend 90 percent of their donations in legal battles with the reputable charity.
2. Publishers who take weeks and weeks to evaluate a book proposal.
3. Scamtastic charities that name themselves something similar to other organizations and spend 90 percent of their donations in legal battles with the reputable charity.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
A literary analysis of "Stormin' Mormon"
Reader Peter Yates-Hodshon was kind and thoughtful enough to pen this review of my book, which is available as a $1 download on Kindle and Nook:
Although Phil Villarreal has not just penned the Great American Novel, Stormin’ Mormon, his debut, stands on its own as a must read. As film and video game reviewer for the Arizona Daily Star, Villarreal’s insightful, incisive, sometimes gritty critiques commenting upon our currently undulatingly “haunted” electronified culture give us pause; his analyses engage us, enrage us, entertain and entreat us. He is not solely a journalist; he is a keen observer (and commentator), not one to back down after stating his case.
The same can be said of Stormin’ Mormon…to an extent.
With some truly brilliant narratives (that are more the norm in his novel than the exception) and some downright authentic dialogue between his two protagonists, Villarreal paints a very graphic and – at times – comic portrait of our culture’s current incarnation. Through Villarreal’s storytelling, we confront our swirling reflections: we are inexorably chained to our battery-powered existence, umbilically hooked to the larger-than-life media leading us around by the hog ring of illusion, hopping from one bar or restaurant to another looking for “home.” We find ourselves vicariously “button-mashing through FIFA ’08 Soccer on the Xbox 360”; “[m]oving in with random karaoke guys”; ruminating about “Miami Vice,” Jim Rome, Maxim, The Rules of Attraction, 60 Minutes, Matrix, Cary Elwes, “World Series Thunderstix,” and Channel 13; and dining at “’Nico’s’…that makes the best steak, egg and cheese breakfast burrito mankind has ever known.”
Oh by the way, this all takes place right here in Tucson, Arizona…under the watchful eyes of Lute Olson and Wilbur the Wildcat.
Amiably and definitely without malevolence (because he might be describing the bulk of our shared consciousness), Villarreal depicts his two “heroes” as non-malicious, conniving near-losers standing at the brink of life. Saul Cruz, a not quite surly U of A graduate and wisecracking almost cowardly twenty-something Jim Rome wannabe, schleps as a sports shock jock for a local AM radio station. Jerusha Rockwell, the perfect counterpart to Saul, is a nearly 24-year-old, intelligent yet poorly motivated, foulmouthed undergraduate who lives by her wits, luck, looks, and financial dependence upon a clinging and demonized mother. Saul is a confused agnostic; Jerusha is a jack Mormon because “I, uh, have sex.” They almost seem like twins separated at birth.
Here’s the premise: Because his two protagonists, Saul and Jerusha, ravenously desire each other not so much because of an honest attraction but more because they have fallen out of love with their respective “soul mates,” they devise a ruse to chase away their lovers, to become devote Mormons. Comedically, this almost works as the vehicle for Villarreal’s two lusting heroes. The wind-up, the action which takes place before the ruse is put into effect, builds nicely; in fact, his portrayal of each character’s floundering relationship can be considered downright agonizing. This is a good thing: Not only do we strongly wish for Saul and Jerusha to make the carnal connection, we literally root for the ruse to work without a hitch (pun intended).
Ugly scenes of Jerusha and Jared (her current “bemused live-in boyfriend of three months”) locked in mortal combat instead of an embrace greet us at the outset. Similarly, we witness Saul bemoan the fact that spending time with his Baptist girlfriend Shannon has become a burdensome “requirement,” even though it was he who lamented her “dismissive initial response” to any type of cohabitation. The ugliness is excruciatingly palpable. All the characters, supporting and main, swear like sailors, eat like Huns, and have sex like pigeons. A reader’s head virtually swims in a more-than-graphic-Harold-Robbins tale of sexual-realm-of-the-senses angst.
Then the ruse.
Villarreal pulls this off neatly, but not so lightly. We do not find ourselves laughing so much as grimacing and shuddering. Was this not supposed to be a comedy? Is this actually becoming a tragedy…or a morality tale? And if this is a lesson, what are we to glean from Villarreal’s words? This is the drawback to his freshman outing: where is Villarreal’s voice?
As a polished cultural critic, Phil Villarreal guides us through the vagaries of our American miasma with aplomb. His work with the Star, more than bears this out: he tips us off to clunkers, brilliance, misses and hits. He nearly accomplishes the same with Stormin’ Mormon. Narratives that spring to life with little effort (the scene at McKale Center’s “press row,” a sordid and depressing depiction of a college bar, and radio station high jinx) provide Villarreal with amazingly astute vehicles for critique: we can sense a redundant, recurring cultural déjà vu. Have we progressed as a people? Comparably, he creates piercing encounters between characters that almost verge on the dialectic, especially when characters engage in heated arguments about mores and norms. Yes, the dialogue is that good, especially between Saul and Jerusha. The author speaks to us directly and without shame and demands that we listen carefully to what his characters posit. Here, within the meat of the book, deep into the narrative and neck high in dialogue do we find Villarreal’s strength as a writer: his realism is razor-sharp…and this is impressive for a first time author. We chafe and laugh and shudder simultaneously.
Yet, what is he telling us?
Reread Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and Boyer’s Sidelong Glances of a Pigeon Kicker, and you get a sense of voice, of revelation…direct or nuanced. As readers, we do not have to guess that Jim is already a free man, that Holden senses that post-WWII America is already culturally bankrupt, and that David’s desire to drive a cab smacks back at a society demanding complacency of its members. Also, we know that each author, as social critic and keen cultural observer, demands our commitment as readers to read not just scrupulously but to accomplish something in our own lives, to adjust and readjust our zeitgeist in order to (maybe) just save our own hides and (maybe) a few hides of friends and foes.
Villarreal, however, as sharp an observer as he is, seems content only to grasp at a literary brass ring, offering religion as our salvation. While maintaining a spiritual life is a road to transcendence, most assuredly in many cases, the avenues taken by his characters seem less than intelligently taken, done more out of distress (and societal duress) than out of conscientious free will.
Herein lays the rub.
Does Villarreal give up at the end of this first attempt to make a satisfactory and pointed statement about our fragile and less than robust collective national spiritual inclination; or is he heartily and honestly recommending humdrum organized religion as our one and only hope for realigning our (through his eyes) squeamish, skewed civilization…in a way, disturbingly condemning women to lives of abject servility? Does he use the evolution of his characters, supporting and main, to ostracize us, condemn us for not easily accepting what is readily available in the way of suitable and customary religious pursuits? Or, and this may be the case, does Villarreal purposely use Stormin’ Mormon to describe our feverish grasping at two-dimensional spirituality as a panacea, in order to make plain our tendency towards intellectual incompetence, to make plain our desire for taking the easy way out? If we read and consider and contemplate the quotations (from Jane Austen to Tupac Shakur) introducing each paragraph, we find ourselves sweating out this conundrum. Also importantly, Saul’s ultimate though open-ended development as a character appreciatively marks the crux of this possibly unintentional dilemma in voice. We need to ask: What is Villarreal serving up with Stormin’ Mormon?
Because this novel causes intellectual stress, it is a must read. Because his narratives and dialogue are gifted, this novel requires a pair of keen eyes. Because Villarreal has so much more to offer, pour over this book. It is a peek at what is to come because in time Villarreal’s voice will ring more clearly; his talent strongly suggests this. We need to have patience; the payoff will be his next work.
Although Phil Villarreal has not just penned the Great American Novel, Stormin’ Mormon, his debut, stands on its own as a must read. As film and video game reviewer for the Arizona Daily Star, Villarreal’s insightful, incisive, sometimes gritty critiques commenting upon our currently undulatingly “haunted” electronified culture give us pause; his analyses engage us, enrage us, entertain and entreat us. He is not solely a journalist; he is a keen observer (and commentator), not one to back down after stating his case.
The same can be said of Stormin’ Mormon…to an extent.
With some truly brilliant narratives (that are more the norm in his novel than the exception) and some downright authentic dialogue between his two protagonists, Villarreal paints a very graphic and – at times – comic portrait of our culture’s current incarnation. Through Villarreal’s storytelling, we confront our swirling reflections: we are inexorably chained to our battery-powered existence, umbilically hooked to the larger-than-life media leading us around by the hog ring of illusion, hopping from one bar or restaurant to another looking for “home.” We find ourselves vicariously “button-mashing through FIFA ’08 Soccer on the Xbox 360”; “[m]oving in with random karaoke guys”; ruminating about “Miami Vice,” Jim Rome, Maxim, The Rules of Attraction, 60 Minutes, Matrix, Cary Elwes, “World Series Thunderstix,” and Channel 13; and dining at “’Nico’s’…that makes the best steak, egg and cheese breakfast burrito mankind has ever known.”
Oh by the way, this all takes place right here in Tucson, Arizona…under the watchful eyes of Lute Olson and Wilbur the Wildcat.
Amiably and definitely without malevolence (because he might be describing the bulk of our shared consciousness), Villarreal depicts his two “heroes” as non-malicious, conniving near-losers standing at the brink of life. Saul Cruz, a not quite surly U of A graduate and wisecracking almost cowardly twenty-something Jim Rome wannabe, schleps as a sports shock jock for a local AM radio station. Jerusha Rockwell, the perfect counterpart to Saul, is a nearly 24-year-old, intelligent yet poorly motivated, foulmouthed undergraduate who lives by her wits, luck, looks, and financial dependence upon a clinging and demonized mother. Saul is a confused agnostic; Jerusha is a jack Mormon because “I, uh, have sex.” They almost seem like twins separated at birth.
Here’s the premise: Because his two protagonists, Saul and Jerusha, ravenously desire each other not so much because of an honest attraction but more because they have fallen out of love with their respective “soul mates,” they devise a ruse to chase away their lovers, to become devote Mormons. Comedically, this almost works as the vehicle for Villarreal’s two lusting heroes. The wind-up, the action which takes place before the ruse is put into effect, builds nicely; in fact, his portrayal of each character’s floundering relationship can be considered downright agonizing. This is a good thing: Not only do we strongly wish for Saul and Jerusha to make the carnal connection, we literally root for the ruse to work without a hitch (pun intended).
Ugly scenes of Jerusha and Jared (her current “bemused live-in boyfriend of three months”) locked in mortal combat instead of an embrace greet us at the outset. Similarly, we witness Saul bemoan the fact that spending time with his Baptist girlfriend Shannon has become a burdensome “requirement,” even though it was he who lamented her “dismissive initial response” to any type of cohabitation. The ugliness is excruciatingly palpable. All the characters, supporting and main, swear like sailors, eat like Huns, and have sex like pigeons. A reader’s head virtually swims in a more-than-graphic-Harold-Robbins tale of sexual-realm-of-the-senses angst.
Then the ruse.
Villarreal pulls this off neatly, but not so lightly. We do not find ourselves laughing so much as grimacing and shuddering. Was this not supposed to be a comedy? Is this actually becoming a tragedy…or a morality tale? And if this is a lesson, what are we to glean from Villarreal’s words? This is the drawback to his freshman outing: where is Villarreal’s voice?
As a polished cultural critic, Phil Villarreal guides us through the vagaries of our American miasma with aplomb. His work with the Star, more than bears this out: he tips us off to clunkers, brilliance, misses and hits. He nearly accomplishes the same with Stormin’ Mormon. Narratives that spring to life with little effort (the scene at McKale Center’s “press row,” a sordid and depressing depiction of a college bar, and radio station high jinx) provide Villarreal with amazingly astute vehicles for critique: we can sense a redundant, recurring cultural déjà vu. Have we progressed as a people? Comparably, he creates piercing encounters between characters that almost verge on the dialectic, especially when characters engage in heated arguments about mores and norms. Yes, the dialogue is that good, especially between Saul and Jerusha. The author speaks to us directly and without shame and demands that we listen carefully to what his characters posit. Here, within the meat of the book, deep into the narrative and neck high in dialogue do we find Villarreal’s strength as a writer: his realism is razor-sharp…and this is impressive for a first time author. We chafe and laugh and shudder simultaneously.
Yet, what is he telling us?
Reread Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and Boyer’s Sidelong Glances of a Pigeon Kicker, and you get a sense of voice, of revelation…direct or nuanced. As readers, we do not have to guess that Jim is already a free man, that Holden senses that post-WWII America is already culturally bankrupt, and that David’s desire to drive a cab smacks back at a society demanding complacency of its members. Also, we know that each author, as social critic and keen cultural observer, demands our commitment as readers to read not just scrupulously but to accomplish something in our own lives, to adjust and readjust our zeitgeist in order to (maybe) just save our own hides and (maybe) a few hides of friends and foes.
Villarreal, however, as sharp an observer as he is, seems content only to grasp at a literary brass ring, offering religion as our salvation. While maintaining a spiritual life is a road to transcendence, most assuredly in many cases, the avenues taken by his characters seem less than intelligently taken, done more out of distress (and societal duress) than out of conscientious free will.
Herein lays the rub.
Does Villarreal give up at the end of this first attempt to make a satisfactory and pointed statement about our fragile and less than robust collective national spiritual inclination; or is he heartily and honestly recommending humdrum organized religion as our one and only hope for realigning our (through his eyes) squeamish, skewed civilization…in a way, disturbingly condemning women to lives of abject servility? Does he use the evolution of his characters, supporting and main, to ostracize us, condemn us for not easily accepting what is readily available in the way of suitable and customary religious pursuits? Or, and this may be the case, does Villarreal purposely use Stormin’ Mormon to describe our feverish grasping at two-dimensional spirituality as a panacea, in order to make plain our tendency towards intellectual incompetence, to make plain our desire for taking the easy way out? If we read and consider and contemplate the quotations (from Jane Austen to Tupac Shakur) introducing each paragraph, we find ourselves sweating out this conundrum. Also importantly, Saul’s ultimate though open-ended development as a character appreciatively marks the crux of this possibly unintentional dilemma in voice. We need to ask: What is Villarreal serving up with Stormin’ Mormon?
Because this novel causes intellectual stress, it is a must read. Because his narratives and dialogue are gifted, this novel requires a pair of keen eyes. Because Villarreal has so much more to offer, pour over this book. It is a peek at what is to come because in time Villarreal’s voice will ring more clearly; his talent strongly suggests this. We need to have patience; the payoff will be his next work.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
My 2011 NFL Predictions
Playoff seeding in parentheses.
AFC East
(3)New York 11-5
(6) New England 10-6
Miami 8-8
Buffalo 3-13
AFC North
(1)Baltimore 12-4
(5) Pittsburgh 11-5
Cleveland 5-11
Cincinnati 4-12
AFC South
(2)Houston 11-5
Indianapolis 8-8
Jacksonville 8-8
Tennessee 5-11
AFC West
(4) Kansas City 9-7
San Diego 9-7
Oakland 7-9
Denver 7-9
NFC East
(4) Philadelphia 10-6
New York 8-8
Dallas 6-10
Washington 6-10
NFC North
(2) Detroit 11-5
(6) Green Bay 10-6
Minnesota 6-10
Chicago 5-11
NFC South
(3) Atlanta 10-6
New Orleans 9-7
Tampa Bay 9-7
Carolina 6-10
NFC West
(1) Arizona 11-5
(5) San Francisco 10-6
St. Louis 9-7
Seattle 4-12
Playoffs: First Round
New York over New England, Kansas City over Pittsburgh, Green Bay over Atlanta, Philadelphia over San Francisco
Divisional playoffs:
Houston over Kansas City, Baltimore over New York, Arizona over Green Bay, Detroit over Philadelphia
Championship games:
Houston over Baltimore, Arizona over Detroit
Super Bowl:
Arizona over Houston
AFC East
(3)New York 11-5
(6) New England 10-6
Miami 8-8
Buffalo 3-13
AFC North
(1)Baltimore 12-4
(5) Pittsburgh 11-5
Cleveland 5-11
Cincinnati 4-12
AFC South
(2)Houston 11-5
Indianapolis 8-8
Jacksonville 8-8
Tennessee 5-11
AFC West
(4) Kansas City 9-7
San Diego 9-7
Oakland 7-9
Denver 7-9
NFC East
(4) Philadelphia 10-6
New York 8-8
Dallas 6-10
Washington 6-10
NFC North
(2) Detroit 11-5
(6) Green Bay 10-6
Minnesota 6-10
Chicago 5-11
NFC South
(3) Atlanta 10-6
New Orleans 9-7
Tampa Bay 9-7
Carolina 6-10
NFC West
(1) Arizona 11-5
(5) San Francisco 10-6
St. Louis 9-7
Seattle 4-12
Playoffs: First Round
New York over New England, Kansas City over Pittsburgh, Green Bay over Atlanta, Philadelphia over San Francisco
Divisional playoffs:
Houston over Kansas City, Baltimore over New York, Arizona over Green Bay, Detroit over Philadelphia
Championship games:
Houston over Baltimore, Arizona over Detroit
Super Bowl:
Arizona over Houston
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Tiny Indiana Jones
If you've been on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, have you noticed how small the model of the hero is inside the ride? How am I supposed to take a 2-foot-tall Indy seriously?
I wish they would give him a squeaky voice and have him say "Help! Disney turned me small with an evil potion! Rescue and enlarge me!"
I wish they would give him a squeaky voice and have him say "Help! Disney turned me small with an evil potion! Rescue and enlarge me!"
Friday, August 19, 2011
How Webster Ruined My Career In Science
Webster is the reason I am not a famous scientist who has cured cancer or invented death rays. This has to do with the episode in which Webster played with his chemistry set without parental oversight and burned his house to the ground.
My aunt gave me a chemistry set for my seventh birthday, and my parents wouldn't let me use it unless they were there to help me, which they were never willing to do. Whenever I asked, they put it off and diverted me to other pastimes. Perhaps it was too difficult to set up and clean. Maybe they were afraid I'd poison myself with sodium biociroid (a chemical I just made up, because I had to, being that I am a writer and know nothing about chemical names) and it would be their fault because they allowed me to try to make a volcano out of it.
I could have been rebellious and played with the set on my own, but then came that Webster episode, scaring me crooked. I was so fearful that I too would incinerate my home that I let the set sit on a shelf inside my closet.
Years later, maybe when I was 16 or so, the Webster effect had worn off and I thought I would take out that set and finally get to chemistry-ing. By then I was already committed to study non-scientific things, but perhaps some re-ignited interest in the subject at the time could have steered me in the right direction before I hit college.
I opened each container and found nothing but congealed liquids and powders. The chemicals had all wasted away, as had my chances at Nobel Prizes or Death Ray Monthly Man of the Years. The following year I took a chemistry class and dropped it after a couple weeks because I couldn't wrap my malformed, un-scientifically stimulated brain around the concept of what a mole was.
The moral of this story is that every good person who dies of cancer and every bad person who lives to terrorize the earth because I was unable to invent a death ray to stop them has my parents to partially to blame. But mostly Webster.
My aunt gave me a chemistry set for my seventh birthday, and my parents wouldn't let me use it unless they were there to help me, which they were never willing to do. Whenever I asked, they put it off and diverted me to other pastimes. Perhaps it was too difficult to set up and clean. Maybe they were afraid I'd poison myself with sodium biociroid (a chemical I just made up, because I had to, being that I am a writer and know nothing about chemical names) and it would be their fault because they allowed me to try to make a volcano out of it.
I could have been rebellious and played with the set on my own, but then came that Webster episode, scaring me crooked. I was so fearful that I too would incinerate my home that I let the set sit on a shelf inside my closet.
Years later, maybe when I was 16 or so, the Webster effect had worn off and I thought I would take out that set and finally get to chemistry-ing. By then I was already committed to study non-scientific things, but perhaps some re-ignited interest in the subject at the time could have steered me in the right direction before I hit college.
I opened each container and found nothing but congealed liquids and powders. The chemicals had all wasted away, as had my chances at Nobel Prizes or Death Ray Monthly Man of the Years. The following year I took a chemistry class and dropped it after a couple weeks because I couldn't wrap my malformed, un-scientifically stimulated brain around the concept of what a mole was.
The moral of this story is that every good person who dies of cancer and every bad person who lives to terrorize the earth because I was unable to invent a death ray to stop them has my parents to partially to blame. But mostly Webster.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Review: 30 Minutes or Less
If Jesse Eisenberg and Michael Cera armwrestled, no one would win and daffodils would pop up from the table. This is actually my way of complimenting both actors. They do so well because they are easier to identify with than musclebound, machine gun-toting action stars.
Both actors thrive on their Beiberesque lack of traditional machismo, and the duo are engaged in an ongoing shadow rivalry to see who can be the biggest sap, weenie and pushover. Eisenberg holds serve with 30 Minutes or Less, his latest diary of a wimpy manchild.
Starring as a pizza delivery boy who’s captured by petty criminals, strapped with a vest bomb and forced to rob a bank, Eisenberg is more Jillinger than Dillinger. His character is a pathetic shell of a man who ducks and covers in a shell of extended adolescence as life plays cruel tricks on him. His passiveness and lazy ingenuity supplies the movie with its dainty charm and heart.
Tragically underused Aziz Ansari checks in as Eisenberg’s quote machine sidekick, seeming like a smarmy outcast from a 1990s Kevin Smith movie. Their tumultuous, Superbad-style codependency brims with unresolved angst from their teen years, forged with the undying bond that generates on dormroom-style couches between guys who watch all the Die Hards together.
The plight of Ansari, whom Eisenberg recruits to help him rob the bank, is bookmarked with the exploits of a parallel bromance between bullheaded moron Danny McBride and his submissive worshipper Nick Swardson. Think Stewart from Beavis and Butt-Head.
McBride, displaying the same trailer trash genius he flaunts in the HBO series Eastbound and Down, is bent on knocking off his domineering old man with a professional hitman, whom he plans to pay via the outsourced bank heist.
The plot is unapologetically stupid, and would be too idiotic to believe were it not for a 2003 tragedy which the movie mimics, despite the filmmakers’ likely lawyered-up insistence that it did not inspire their movie.
I’m glad 30 Minutes or Less isn’t based on the true story, because the more implausible the movie gets, the more enjoyable it is. Its laughs are hard and frequent, its action is breezy and energetic, and the casting is utterly perfect.
Your move, Cera.
Starring Jesse Eisenberg, Aziz Ansari, Danny McBride, Nick Swardson, Dilshad Vadsaria, Bianca Kajlich and Michael Peña. Written by Michael Diliberti, based on a story by Matthew Sullivan and Diliberti. Directed by Ruben Fleischer. Rated R. 83 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Both actors thrive on their Beiberesque lack of traditional machismo, and the duo are engaged in an ongoing shadow rivalry to see who can be the biggest sap, weenie and pushover. Eisenberg holds serve with 30 Minutes or Less, his latest diary of a wimpy manchild.
Starring as a pizza delivery boy who’s captured by petty criminals, strapped with a vest bomb and forced to rob a bank, Eisenberg is more Jillinger than Dillinger. His character is a pathetic shell of a man who ducks and covers in a shell of extended adolescence as life plays cruel tricks on him. His passiveness and lazy ingenuity supplies the movie with its dainty charm and heart.
Tragically underused Aziz Ansari checks in as Eisenberg’s quote machine sidekick, seeming like a smarmy outcast from a 1990s Kevin Smith movie. Their tumultuous, Superbad-style codependency brims with unresolved angst from their teen years, forged with the undying bond that generates on dormroom-style couches between guys who watch all the Die Hards together.
The plight of Ansari, whom Eisenberg recruits to help him rob the bank, is bookmarked with the exploits of a parallel bromance between bullheaded moron Danny McBride and his submissive worshipper Nick Swardson. Think Stewart from Beavis and Butt-Head.
McBride, displaying the same trailer trash genius he flaunts in the HBO series Eastbound and Down, is bent on knocking off his domineering old man with a professional hitman, whom he plans to pay via the outsourced bank heist.
The plot is unapologetically stupid, and would be too idiotic to believe were it not for a 2003 tragedy which the movie mimics, despite the filmmakers’ likely lawyered-up insistence that it did not inspire their movie.
I’m glad 30 Minutes or Less isn’t based on the true story, because the more implausible the movie gets, the more enjoyable it is. Its laughs are hard and frequent, its action is breezy and energetic, and the casting is utterly perfect.
Your move, Cera.
Starring Jesse Eisenberg, Aziz Ansari, Danny McBride, Nick Swardson, Dilshad Vadsaria, Bianca Kajlich and Michael Peña. Written by Michael Diliberti, based on a story by Matthew Sullivan and Diliberti. Directed by Ruben Fleischer. Rated R. 83 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Entering 27th Grade
I am starting 27th grade this year. I'm not quite as afraid of it as I was kindergarten, and am pleased that there will be no homework or finals. And it's OK if I forget my locker combination, because I no longer have a locker, at least when I'm awake.
I must admit that I am a little afraid of my teacher, though. Mr. Life. Everyone says he's a dick.
I must admit that I am a little afraid of my teacher, though. Mr. Life. Everyone says he's a dick.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Review: The Change-Up
I believe it was Socrates who once advised “Never pee into a public fountain while wishing you had the life of a friend who’s peeing next to you, lest you run the risk of a magical statue smirking as it transplants your brains and causes a brief electrical blackout in all surrounding buildings.”
That’s the age-old lesson in The Change-Up, which could also be called Freaky Friday With Porn or Vice Versa With Lots Of Cussing.
Back in my day – the 1980s – movies like this came out at least three times a week. Ungrateful sourpusses were always swapping brains, only to learn that the lives of those they swapped with are even more horrific than their own. We were a simple people, without internets or Lady Gagas, and it didn’t take much to entertain us. The fact that the concept has been unearthed like a zombie corpse is both genius and pathetic. Luckily for paying customers, the movie is funny enough that it most often veers more toward the genius side of the equation.
Among the myriad ways in which the film succeeds:
*It lets Ryan Reynolds be Ryan Reynolds. Too many movies give Reynolds mega power rings from the planet Oa or plague him with Amityville Horrors or, worse, Sandra Bullock. This movie just lets him be the guy he was as one of the guys in the show Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. Meaning, it lets him be charming, sex-obsessed and do that thing where he whips his head toward the camera while delivering witty lines out of the side of his mouth. If they had an American Idol based on doing that rather than singing, Ryan Reynolds would at the very least make it to the Hollywood round.
*It proves Jason Bateman does not employ a blind monkey dart thrower who chooses romantic comedy scripts. Or, if he does employ such a creature, it occasionally can hit targets other than the dregs of The Switch, The Promotion and The Ex. Bateman plays the buttoned-down family man who swaps brains with the womanizing slacker played by Reynolds.
*It explores the untapped comedic realm of abusing computer-generated babies. Who knew they were good for knife fights, projectile pooping, counter-surfing and crib-braining? Writers Jon Lucas and Scott Moore, that’s who.
*It manages to frame the female breast as a weapon of torture on several occasions. Just trust me on this one. Or don’t and steer away from some disturbing sights.
As with most comedies, most of the best stuff is near the beginning, and the obligatory story and life lesson elements sap the middle and end of much of its joy. But The Change-Up wins more than it sins, and had me laughing and cringing. The movie may not be quite as good as the 1980s masterpieces it copies, according to my corrupted memories that hold up Joe Montana as a lava-slinging volcano god of fire and Alf to have been a worthwhile show. But hey, the work of the likes of Kirk Cameron and Fred Savage in their primes cannot be truly copied, just imitated and spliced with boob jokes.
Starring Ryan Reynolds, Jason Bateman, Leslie Mann and Olivia Wilde. Written by Jon Lucas and Scott Moore. Directed by David Dobkin. 113 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
That’s the age-old lesson in The Change-Up, which could also be called Freaky Friday With Porn or Vice Versa With Lots Of Cussing.
Back in my day – the 1980s – movies like this came out at least three times a week. Ungrateful sourpusses were always swapping brains, only to learn that the lives of those they swapped with are even more horrific than their own. We were a simple people, without internets or Lady Gagas, and it didn’t take much to entertain us. The fact that the concept has been unearthed like a zombie corpse is both genius and pathetic. Luckily for paying customers, the movie is funny enough that it most often veers more toward the genius side of the equation.
Among the myriad ways in which the film succeeds:
*It lets Ryan Reynolds be Ryan Reynolds. Too many movies give Reynolds mega power rings from the planet Oa or plague him with Amityville Horrors or, worse, Sandra Bullock. This movie just lets him be the guy he was as one of the guys in the show Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. Meaning, it lets him be charming, sex-obsessed and do that thing where he whips his head toward the camera while delivering witty lines out of the side of his mouth. If they had an American Idol based on doing that rather than singing, Ryan Reynolds would at the very least make it to the Hollywood round.
*It proves Jason Bateman does not employ a blind monkey dart thrower who chooses romantic comedy scripts. Or, if he does employ such a creature, it occasionally can hit targets other than the dregs of The Switch, The Promotion and The Ex. Bateman plays the buttoned-down family man who swaps brains with the womanizing slacker played by Reynolds.
*It explores the untapped comedic realm of abusing computer-generated babies. Who knew they were good for knife fights, projectile pooping, counter-surfing and crib-braining? Writers Jon Lucas and Scott Moore, that’s who.
*It manages to frame the female breast as a weapon of torture on several occasions. Just trust me on this one. Or don’t and steer away from some disturbing sights.
As with most comedies, most of the best stuff is near the beginning, and the obligatory story and life lesson elements sap the middle and end of much of its joy. But The Change-Up wins more than it sins, and had me laughing and cringing. The movie may not be quite as good as the 1980s masterpieces it copies, according to my corrupted memories that hold up Joe Montana as a lava-slinging volcano god of fire and Alf to have been a worthwhile show. But hey, the work of the likes of Kirk Cameron and Fred Savage in their primes cannot be truly copied, just imitated and spliced with boob jokes.
Starring Ryan Reynolds, Jason Bateman, Leslie Mann and Olivia Wilde. Written by Jon Lucas and Scott Moore. Directed by David Dobkin. 113 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Guest Post From 4-Year-Old Luke: DinoHawk
Once upon a time, there was a man. He got turned into a lizard by radiation. Then, he
got turned into a dino by more radiation. Finally, he was turned into a hawk. He had a rainbow colored beak and big sharp teeth inside. He had humongous feathered wings,
with scales on the feathers and very large feet that went all the way to China. He was called DinoHawk.
DinoHawk lived in a huge dirt hole in Tucson that water flooded all up. It was so huge
that almost all the houses fell in. The houses that weren’t in the hole were tilted towards the hole. He lived with his Mom and Dad and sister. They were all DinoHawks, too. The sister was all pink, the mom was all purple, and the dad was the same color as the boy DinoHawk. They were all humongous.
For fun, DinoHawk and his family liked to water and make tunnels, so they could go
places. The DinoHawks were also sea monsters with feet and hands. The cactus monsters were their friends. Everybody else was their enemy.
The DinoHawk family was mad that the houses had cameras and cannons to destroy the them. So they stomped all the houses and ate all the people.
God made the DinoHawks turn back into hawks and then dinos and then lizards and then
people again. Also, the people were made back by God. It was all about God. He made
all the people come back and all the houses be built back by builders.
got turned into a dino by more radiation. Finally, he was turned into a hawk. He had a rainbow colored beak and big sharp teeth inside. He had humongous feathered wings,
with scales on the feathers and very large feet that went all the way to China. He was called DinoHawk.
DinoHawk lived in a huge dirt hole in Tucson that water flooded all up. It was so huge
that almost all the houses fell in. The houses that weren’t in the hole were tilted towards the hole. He lived with his Mom and Dad and sister. They were all DinoHawks, too. The sister was all pink, the mom was all purple, and the dad was the same color as the boy DinoHawk. They were all humongous.
For fun, DinoHawk and his family liked to water and make tunnels, so they could go
places. The DinoHawks were also sea monsters with feet and hands. The cactus monsters were their friends. Everybody else was their enemy.
The DinoHawk family was mad that the houses had cameras and cannons to destroy the them. So they stomped all the houses and ate all the people.
God made the DinoHawks turn back into hawks and then dinos and then lizards and then
people again. Also, the people were made back by God. It was all about God. He made
all the people come back and all the houses be built back by builders.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Review: Crazy, Stupid, Love
Well, they got Crazy and Stupid right. My only suggestion to make the title more accurate is to change Love to Hate.
A romantic comedy with too many characters, too many insipid and meandering plotlines and too many commas in its title, Crazy, Stupid, Love comes up short in laughs. The movie plays like a lowlight reel of an entire season of a dopey sitcom that got cancelled halfway through the year. I counted six love stories, most unrequited – not including the one between me and the theater’s exit sign – but the movie would have been far better off had it simply focused on Ryan Gosling’s infatuation with himself.
As a Barney Stinson-by-way-of-the-Bronx ladies’ man who takes an unhappily separated Steve Carell under his vulture wing, Gosling could have been the heart of the film. The lines Gosling uses to seduce women are so awful that they’re halfway believable in that maybe they could be seductive in an ironic, see-how-I’m-not-trying-while-pretending-to-try-too-hard way. But Gosling is just a tiny cog in a larger, malfunctioning machine and disappears for scenes on end as the filmmakers shove in all manner of less interesting plot threads.
Worse, when Gosling does come back, the storytellers betray the fabric of his character, informing us that love at first sight transforms Tucker Maxes into Steve Urkels.
Steve Carell melds his hapless single guy nature from The 40-Year-Old Virgin with his harried family man act in Dan in Real Life. He succeeds at the former but falters at the latter, too-quickly becoming a suave Lothario under Gosling’s tutelage, only to abruptly decide that he wants to save his shattered marriage and make a dopey, climactic speech that bottoms off perhaps the worst scene I’ve seen all year.
Emma Stone and Julianne Moore, who normally bubble with personality, play the dullest characters they’ve yet encountered, indecisive, weak ciphers who are defined solely by the men they’re with. Analeigh Tipton, meanwhile, checks in on the other end of the dramatic scale as a 17-year-old babysitter involved in a pair of “eeeew”-inducing would-be romances, in puppy love with Carell while fending off desperate advances from his 13-year-old son, played by Jonah Bobo.
The movie starts off with some promise, which it balls up, spits on and drop kicks until you’re reduced to a puddle in your seat, begging for some sort of conclusion, sobbing when the plot takes yet another unnecessary turn to stretch things out. What I wouldn’t have given to exchange one of the title’s extra commas for an edit that made the sprawling crapfest 15 minutes shorter. But alas, no deal was to be had. The film, like the commas, just wouldn’t end.
Wow, did, I, dislike, this, movie.
Starring Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, Julianne Moore, Emma Stone, Jonah Bobo, Kevin Bacon and Analeigh Tipton. Written by Dan Fogelman. Directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa. 118 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
A romantic comedy with too many characters, too many insipid and meandering plotlines and too many commas in its title, Crazy, Stupid, Love comes up short in laughs. The movie plays like a lowlight reel of an entire season of a dopey sitcom that got cancelled halfway through the year. I counted six love stories, most unrequited – not including the one between me and the theater’s exit sign – but the movie would have been far better off had it simply focused on Ryan Gosling’s infatuation with himself.
As a Barney Stinson-by-way-of-the-Bronx ladies’ man who takes an unhappily separated Steve Carell under his vulture wing, Gosling could have been the heart of the film. The lines Gosling uses to seduce women are so awful that they’re halfway believable in that maybe they could be seductive in an ironic, see-how-I’m-not-trying-while-pretending-to-try-too-hard way. But Gosling is just a tiny cog in a larger, malfunctioning machine and disappears for scenes on end as the filmmakers shove in all manner of less interesting plot threads.
Worse, when Gosling does come back, the storytellers betray the fabric of his character, informing us that love at first sight transforms Tucker Maxes into Steve Urkels.
Steve Carell melds his hapless single guy nature from The 40-Year-Old Virgin with his harried family man act in Dan in Real Life. He succeeds at the former but falters at the latter, too-quickly becoming a suave Lothario under Gosling’s tutelage, only to abruptly decide that he wants to save his shattered marriage and make a dopey, climactic speech that bottoms off perhaps the worst scene I’ve seen all year.
Emma Stone and Julianne Moore, who normally bubble with personality, play the dullest characters they’ve yet encountered, indecisive, weak ciphers who are defined solely by the men they’re with. Analeigh Tipton, meanwhile, checks in on the other end of the dramatic scale as a 17-year-old babysitter involved in a pair of “eeeew”-inducing would-be romances, in puppy love with Carell while fending off desperate advances from his 13-year-old son, played by Jonah Bobo.
The movie starts off with some promise, which it balls up, spits on and drop kicks until you’re reduced to a puddle in your seat, begging for some sort of conclusion, sobbing when the plot takes yet another unnecessary turn to stretch things out. What I wouldn’t have given to exchange one of the title’s extra commas for an edit that made the sprawling crapfest 15 minutes shorter. But alas, no deal was to be had. The film, like the commas, just wouldn’t end.
Wow, did, I, dislike, this, movie.
Starring Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, Julianne Moore, Emma Stone, Jonah Bobo, Kevin Bacon and Analeigh Tipton. Written by Dan Fogelman. Directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa. 118 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Stormin' Mormon Chapter 1
So my novel, Stormin' Mormon, is now available as a Kindle download for a dollar. Please, please, please buy it and command all your friends to do the same. Here's chapter one:
PART ONE
1
The rabbits became strange in many ways, different from other rabbits. They knew well enough what was happening. But even to themselves they pretended that all was well, for the food was good, they were protected, they had nothing to fear but the one fear; and that struck here and there, never enough at a time to drive them away.
Richard Adams, Watership Down
Jerusha awoke from a midafternoon nap to the jolt of icy fingers sliding up her thigh. She squeaked, jerking upright from her couch, startling the chunky, straw-haired man who hovered over her.
“Your hands are cold. What the hell, Jared, you think that’s romantic or something?” Jerusha’s bemused live-in boyfriend of three months recoiled.
“Come on, now, baby,” he said. “Don’t call me unromantic. It’s cold out there. I was just trying to warm up inside you a little bit.”
Jerusha giggled and pulled Jared on top of her, kissing him with fury before guiding his head down to her breasts, then between her legs. Jared submerged beneath her skirt, pulling her thong off with his teeth, then lunged to suck on Jerusha’s neck. He sunk in, Jerusha’s hands caressing his suddenly shirtless back, then released a moan that morphed into a scream.
“Owww!” Jared yelled out, jerking upright as he pawed the fresh fingernail scratches on his back. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Jerusha flipped into recovery mode, pulling her underwear back on and scooting
herself away, twisting her head a quarter turn away from Jared, hoping to shield a quick wipe of her eye.
“Oh, come on,” Jared protested. “Are those tears? I’m the one who should be crying. We’re about to have sex when you rip out my fucking spine like Mortal Kombat and shit.”
“I’m not crying,” Jerusha retorted. “Get over yourself. It was just something in my eye. And don’t try to put the blame on me. I’m not the one who stopped.”
Jerusha and Jared bickered back and forth for 20 minutes, volleying the blame for the failed sexual encounter. The argument was less about sex than leaving the toilet paper roll on top of the commode rather than affixing it to the dispenser. Buried passive-aggressive resentments channeled their way to the surface until the disagreement escalated into a full-blown shouting match. Jersuha took the opportunity to wail on Jared’s insecurities, chastising his lack of ambition and minimum-wage job at the copy shop. Jared shot back that Jerusha didn’t know how to show affection, and accused her of flirting with every dude she met.
“Maybe I do flirt, but at least I’m not an antisocial 30-year-old freak,” Jerusha screamed. “At least I know how to talk to people! You’re lucky I’m this way, otherwise we never even would have met!”
Jerusha was right, at least about the latter point. It was she who had first approached Jared at the lonely karaoke bar in what seemed like years ago but was actually only a few months past. She pondered this as she locked herself in the bathroom and called her friend, Dena. She’d understand.
Jerusha’s former roommate – and technically her present roommate, according to the lease they still shared to keep Jerusha’s mom off the scent – formed the closest bond with her due to like upbringing in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As Mormons, the girls had grown up in a rigid, puritanical manner, ever wary of their own sexuality and raised to aspire to become Stepford babymaking machines. Now that they were away at college in Tucson, they were free to make their own choices, and both girls relished the opportunity to rebel against the draconian rules they’d grown up to despise. They drank coffee and booze – both forbidden by the church – all they liked. They refused to sit at home solemnly on Sundays, the holy Sabbath. As Mormons, they were expected to tithe – meaning hand over 10 percent of their income to the Lord. Oh hell no. It was tough enough for a college girl to get by on student loans and a meager monthly allowance from her parents. Moving in with random karaoke guys was a big Mormon no-no, which made it all the more appealing to Jerusha. Dena wasn’t as big a fan, because the move-in meant she didn’t see her best friend as much. Since the move-out, Dena and Jerusha did most of their communicating on the phone, often in situations such as this, when Jerusha was lamenting on her living arrangement.
“I feel ---“ Jerusha paused. “I feel like…”
“What is it, sweetie?”
Jerusha sobbed.
“I feel like I skipped dating and went directly into marriage.”
Saul ambled into his two-bedroom apartment to a familiar site: His roommate, Brad, was stuck to the TV screen, wireless controller in hand and headset affixed. He was button-mashing through FIFA ’08 Soccer on the Xbox 360, engaged in a battle of smack-talk with his online opponent.
“You are my son, beyotch,” Brad spoke into cyberspace with a cool matter-of-factness. “Just ask your mother. I broke into your house 15 years ago, threw your dad off her and knocked her up. Afterward I think she paid me. I don’t remember.”
“Geez, Brad, don’t you have anything better to do than harass teenagers?” Saul said, grabbing the other controller.
“What up, son.” Brad said. To him, it was the funniest thing in the world to call people his son. If you ever challenged the notion, perhaps on the grounds that such a circumstance were physically impossible since you were the same age as him, Brad would counter with an elaborate story of how he had seduced your mother when he was only a fetus, and since he hadn’t yet gone through puberty, he’d impregnated her with piss, thus “impissinating” her. The only way to battle this sort of illogic was to throw his nonsense right back at him, claiming that it was he who was actually your son.
Saul took no offense at being called Brad’s impissinated offspring. He saw it as a sign his best friend had completely returned to normal, following the bizarre, zombified state Saul had found Brad after he returned from his two-year Mormon mission six months previously. Most good Mormons head abroad at age 19, often to Third World countries, going door to door in hopes of converting impoverished people to their faith. Brad wasn’t a good Mormon. His two favorite pastimes were drinking and fornication, two vices highly discouraged by his church. His father had nonetheless prodded him into going on a mission at age 21, but in a pre-mission sit-down with his bishop, Brad had admitted that he had recently received oral sex.
He was commanded to repent the blow-job and abstain from sex and alcohol for two years in order to become purified enough to start his mission. Brad did no such thing, but when he met the bishop again at 23 he remembered to lie about his extracurricular activities, and was thus allowed to waste two years of his life living in Argentine shacks. When Brad came back, he no longer cussed, drank or lusted, but within weeks he was showing signs of his old form. After three months of living back at home, Brad moved in with Saul and reverted completely back to his original self.
“What’s going on, hooker,” Saul said, switching the game off online mode. “Time for you to take a slapdown from someone your own age.”
“That’s if my daughter-in-law allows it,” Brad said. “I thought you’d be at Shannon’s by now.”
“Right. Yarrrgh,” said Saul, realizing that he’d forgotten he’d promised his girlfriend he’d meet her for dinner. “Son of a bitch. I’m so sick of going over there.”
“Dude, you don’t even like hanging out with her. You’ve said you’re tired of screwing her. Why don’t you just break it off?”
“I didn’t say that. I would never say something like that, even if it were true. That’s just what you say about Brandy,” said Saul, referring to Brad’s girlfriend, whom he’d met online and converted to Mormonism. Brad shook it off.
“Any time you mention Shannon, you always do it in that beaten-down voice of yours. Just drop her and move on.”
“Easy for you to say,” Saul snapped back. “You’ve never broken up with anyone. You just cheat on them until they leave you. A breakup done through talking is not exactly the easiest thing to do.”
“I know, man. They always cry. There’s nothing you can do once they start crying.”
“I wish she’d cheat on me or something. Then at least I’d have a reason, and it wouldn’t be my fault.”
“Just tell her the truth,” Brad said. “You know, that you’re gay.”
“Hey, just because your mom is so ugly that she resembles a dude that doesn’t make me gay,” Saul said.
Brad started to reply but halted as Saul jetted out the door.
“Let’s do the CD thing again soon,” Brad called out. I’m running a little low on cash.” He was referring to the Buymart return fraud scam he and Saul ran with unopened CDs he snuck home from his job at the radio studio. Saul was afraid the habit would land them in prison.
“I don’t know, man,” Saul said. “Maybe. Hey, are those dudes coming over?” he asked, referring to the home teachers – members of the Mormon hierarchy who visited the homes of wayward members in order to make sure they were on the right path. With his penchants for vodka swilling, gambling and womanizing, Brad was an intensive case study of wrong pathfulness, and the home teachers made their visits biweekly.
“Yeah, they’re coming over,” Brad grumbled. “They should be gone around seven.”
Saul nodded and started for his car.
As Saul drove to Shannon’s apartment, a few miles away, he pondered Brad’s idiotic, if poignant words. Do I really talk about the woman I love like that? Saul wondered, chastising himself over the possibility.
PART ONE
1
The rabbits became strange in many ways, different from other rabbits. They knew well enough what was happening. But even to themselves they pretended that all was well, for the food was good, they were protected, they had nothing to fear but the one fear; and that struck here and there, never enough at a time to drive them away.
Richard Adams, Watership Down
Jerusha awoke from a midafternoon nap to the jolt of icy fingers sliding up her thigh. She squeaked, jerking upright from her couch, startling the chunky, straw-haired man who hovered over her.
“Your hands are cold. What the hell, Jared, you think that’s romantic or something?” Jerusha’s bemused live-in boyfriend of three months recoiled.
“Come on, now, baby,” he said. “Don’t call me unromantic. It’s cold out there. I was just trying to warm up inside you a little bit.”
Jerusha giggled and pulled Jared on top of her, kissing him with fury before guiding his head down to her breasts, then between her legs. Jared submerged beneath her skirt, pulling her thong off with his teeth, then lunged to suck on Jerusha’s neck. He sunk in, Jerusha’s hands caressing his suddenly shirtless back, then released a moan that morphed into a scream.
“Owww!” Jared yelled out, jerking upright as he pawed the fresh fingernail scratches on his back. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Jerusha flipped into recovery mode, pulling her underwear back on and scooting
herself away, twisting her head a quarter turn away from Jared, hoping to shield a quick wipe of her eye.
“Oh, come on,” Jared protested. “Are those tears? I’m the one who should be crying. We’re about to have sex when you rip out my fucking spine like Mortal Kombat and shit.”
“I’m not crying,” Jerusha retorted. “Get over yourself. It was just something in my eye. And don’t try to put the blame on me. I’m not the one who stopped.”
Jerusha and Jared bickered back and forth for 20 minutes, volleying the blame for the failed sexual encounter. The argument was less about sex than leaving the toilet paper roll on top of the commode rather than affixing it to the dispenser. Buried passive-aggressive resentments channeled their way to the surface until the disagreement escalated into a full-blown shouting match. Jersuha took the opportunity to wail on Jared’s insecurities, chastising his lack of ambition and minimum-wage job at the copy shop. Jared shot back that Jerusha didn’t know how to show affection, and accused her of flirting with every dude she met.
“Maybe I do flirt, but at least I’m not an antisocial 30-year-old freak,” Jerusha screamed. “At least I know how to talk to people! You’re lucky I’m this way, otherwise we never even would have met!”
Jerusha was right, at least about the latter point. It was she who had first approached Jared at the lonely karaoke bar in what seemed like years ago but was actually only a few months past. She pondered this as she locked herself in the bathroom and called her friend, Dena. She’d understand.
Jerusha’s former roommate – and technically her present roommate, according to the lease they still shared to keep Jerusha’s mom off the scent – formed the closest bond with her due to like upbringing in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As Mormons, the girls had grown up in a rigid, puritanical manner, ever wary of their own sexuality and raised to aspire to become Stepford babymaking machines. Now that they were away at college in Tucson, they were free to make their own choices, and both girls relished the opportunity to rebel against the draconian rules they’d grown up to despise. They drank coffee and booze – both forbidden by the church – all they liked. They refused to sit at home solemnly on Sundays, the holy Sabbath. As Mormons, they were expected to tithe – meaning hand over 10 percent of their income to the Lord. Oh hell no. It was tough enough for a college girl to get by on student loans and a meager monthly allowance from her parents. Moving in with random karaoke guys was a big Mormon no-no, which made it all the more appealing to Jerusha. Dena wasn’t as big a fan, because the move-in meant she didn’t see her best friend as much. Since the move-out, Dena and Jerusha did most of their communicating on the phone, often in situations such as this, when Jerusha was lamenting on her living arrangement.
“I feel ---“ Jerusha paused. “I feel like…”
“What is it, sweetie?”
Jerusha sobbed.
“I feel like I skipped dating and went directly into marriage.”
Saul ambled into his two-bedroom apartment to a familiar site: His roommate, Brad, was stuck to the TV screen, wireless controller in hand and headset affixed. He was button-mashing through FIFA ’08 Soccer on the Xbox 360, engaged in a battle of smack-talk with his online opponent.
“You are my son, beyotch,” Brad spoke into cyberspace with a cool matter-of-factness. “Just ask your mother. I broke into your house 15 years ago, threw your dad off her and knocked her up. Afterward I think she paid me. I don’t remember.”
“Geez, Brad, don’t you have anything better to do than harass teenagers?” Saul said, grabbing the other controller.
“What up, son.” Brad said. To him, it was the funniest thing in the world to call people his son. If you ever challenged the notion, perhaps on the grounds that such a circumstance were physically impossible since you were the same age as him, Brad would counter with an elaborate story of how he had seduced your mother when he was only a fetus, and since he hadn’t yet gone through puberty, he’d impregnated her with piss, thus “impissinating” her. The only way to battle this sort of illogic was to throw his nonsense right back at him, claiming that it was he who was actually your son.
Saul took no offense at being called Brad’s impissinated offspring. He saw it as a sign his best friend had completely returned to normal, following the bizarre, zombified state Saul had found Brad after he returned from his two-year Mormon mission six months previously. Most good Mormons head abroad at age 19, often to Third World countries, going door to door in hopes of converting impoverished people to their faith. Brad wasn’t a good Mormon. His two favorite pastimes were drinking and fornication, two vices highly discouraged by his church. His father had nonetheless prodded him into going on a mission at age 21, but in a pre-mission sit-down with his bishop, Brad had admitted that he had recently received oral sex.
He was commanded to repent the blow-job and abstain from sex and alcohol for two years in order to become purified enough to start his mission. Brad did no such thing, but when he met the bishop again at 23 he remembered to lie about his extracurricular activities, and was thus allowed to waste two years of his life living in Argentine shacks. When Brad came back, he no longer cussed, drank or lusted, but within weeks he was showing signs of his old form. After three months of living back at home, Brad moved in with Saul and reverted completely back to his original self.
“What’s going on, hooker,” Saul said, switching the game off online mode. “Time for you to take a slapdown from someone your own age.”
“That’s if my daughter-in-law allows it,” Brad said. “I thought you’d be at Shannon’s by now.”
“Right. Yarrrgh,” said Saul, realizing that he’d forgotten he’d promised his girlfriend he’d meet her for dinner. “Son of a bitch. I’m so sick of going over there.”
“Dude, you don’t even like hanging out with her. You’ve said you’re tired of screwing her. Why don’t you just break it off?”
“I didn’t say that. I would never say something like that, even if it were true. That’s just what you say about Brandy,” said Saul, referring to Brad’s girlfriend, whom he’d met online and converted to Mormonism. Brad shook it off.
“Any time you mention Shannon, you always do it in that beaten-down voice of yours. Just drop her and move on.”
“Easy for you to say,” Saul snapped back. “You’ve never broken up with anyone. You just cheat on them until they leave you. A breakup done through talking is not exactly the easiest thing to do.”
“I know, man. They always cry. There’s nothing you can do once they start crying.”
“I wish she’d cheat on me or something. Then at least I’d have a reason, and it wouldn’t be my fault.”
“Just tell her the truth,” Brad said. “You know, that you’re gay.”
“Hey, just because your mom is so ugly that she resembles a dude that doesn’t make me gay,” Saul said.
Brad started to reply but halted as Saul jetted out the door.
“Let’s do the CD thing again soon,” Brad called out. I’m running a little low on cash.” He was referring to the Buymart return fraud scam he and Saul ran with unopened CDs he snuck home from his job at the radio studio. Saul was afraid the habit would land them in prison.
“I don’t know, man,” Saul said. “Maybe. Hey, are those dudes coming over?” he asked, referring to the home teachers – members of the Mormon hierarchy who visited the homes of wayward members in order to make sure they were on the right path. With his penchants for vodka swilling, gambling and womanizing, Brad was an intensive case study of wrong pathfulness, and the home teachers made their visits biweekly.
“Yeah, they’re coming over,” Brad grumbled. “They should be gone around seven.”
Saul nodded and started for his car.
As Saul drove to Shannon’s apartment, a few miles away, he pondered Brad’s idiotic, if poignant words. Do I really talk about the woman I love like that? Saul wondered, chastising himself over the possibility.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Review: Friends with Benefits
Justin Timberlake definitively proves he’s a talented actor in Friends with Benefits, given the fact that his character is only an extreme mega-douchebag, rather than the tremendous, mind-blowing super-douche he usually plays. To be scientific about it, that’s an 85 percent reduction in douchiness.
The scaled-down level douchiosity is critical for Friends with Benefits, given that it’s a romantic comedy, and Timberlake is playing the lead, meaning you’re not supposed to actively root for him to be pied in the face. I wouldn’t say Timberlake is likeable in the movie – his character is a pompous, privileged magazine editor with a six-pack whose biggest dilemma is that he’s having too much sex with Mila Kunis – but nor is he Rupert Murdoch. You don’t need to be able to relate to Timberlake in the movie, just tolerate him. And Timberlake is nearly always highly tolerable.
This is Kunis’s movie, her attempt to rip the romcom tiara off Katherine Heigl’s wig, and she does so with her teeth, while sporting a mean yet still come-hither look in her mood ring eyes. Kunis is feisty and fun, and has a long career ahead of her in silly films such as this. She and Timberlake ping-pong contrived yet entertaining screwball comedy dialogue back and forth, in between copious sex scenes and soul-searching moments where each stares off into space. In those downtimes, they seem to be attempting to read the stars and discover how many minutes it will be until the next sex scene starts, to which the answer is usually three minutes.
These poor kids. You really feel for them, because they like each other so much that they don’t want to ruin it with all the sex. And they have so much sex that they don’t want to ruin it with emotions. So they sex one another into secretly falling in deep like, while becoming embarrassed of their feelings, as so often happens to all of us, day after day.
Director Will Gluck, who’s got a nice thing going, having directed the catch-you-off-guard funny Fired Up and Easy A, maintains his edge, peppering the film with humor that pokes fun at the contrivances of the genre while twisting them into something halfway exciting despite its predictability.
Above all, Friends with Benefits must be revered as an educational tool. The film correctly identifies New Yorkers as cheery people who convene for spontaneous flash mobs like happy, well-choreographed zombies whenever the plot calls for it. Likewise, Friends with Benefits identifies snowboarder extraordinaire Shaun White, in a cameo appearance, to be the demented street thug he’s always seemed to be when pulling off 1080 double reverse McTwistGriddle Deluxes on the slopes.
Bridesmaids has been ordained as the romantic comedy of choice for the year, but I’d go with Friends with Benefits. While the latter holds a distinct edge in diarrhea humor, FWB has it beat in Kris Kross references, which count double in my book.
Starring Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake. Written by Keith Merryman, David A. Newman and Will Gluck, based on a story by Harley Peyton, Merryman and Newman. Directed by Gluck. Rated R. 109 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
The scaled-down level douchiosity is critical for Friends with Benefits, given that it’s a romantic comedy, and Timberlake is playing the lead, meaning you’re not supposed to actively root for him to be pied in the face. I wouldn’t say Timberlake is likeable in the movie – his character is a pompous, privileged magazine editor with a six-pack whose biggest dilemma is that he’s having too much sex with Mila Kunis – but nor is he Rupert Murdoch. You don’t need to be able to relate to Timberlake in the movie, just tolerate him. And Timberlake is nearly always highly tolerable.
This is Kunis’s movie, her attempt to rip the romcom tiara off Katherine Heigl’s wig, and she does so with her teeth, while sporting a mean yet still come-hither look in her mood ring eyes. Kunis is feisty and fun, and has a long career ahead of her in silly films such as this. She and Timberlake ping-pong contrived yet entertaining screwball comedy dialogue back and forth, in between copious sex scenes and soul-searching moments where each stares off into space. In those downtimes, they seem to be attempting to read the stars and discover how many minutes it will be until the next sex scene starts, to which the answer is usually three minutes.
These poor kids. You really feel for them, because they like each other so much that they don’t want to ruin it with all the sex. And they have so much sex that they don’t want to ruin it with emotions. So they sex one another into secretly falling in deep like, while becoming embarrassed of their feelings, as so often happens to all of us, day after day.
Director Will Gluck, who’s got a nice thing going, having directed the catch-you-off-guard funny Fired Up and Easy A, maintains his edge, peppering the film with humor that pokes fun at the contrivances of the genre while twisting them into something halfway exciting despite its predictability.
Above all, Friends with Benefits must be revered as an educational tool. The film correctly identifies New Yorkers as cheery people who convene for spontaneous flash mobs like happy, well-choreographed zombies whenever the plot calls for it. Likewise, Friends with Benefits identifies snowboarder extraordinaire Shaun White, in a cameo appearance, to be the demented street thug he’s always seemed to be when pulling off 1080 double reverse McTwistGriddle Deluxes on the slopes.
Bridesmaids has been ordained as the romantic comedy of choice for the year, but I’d go with Friends with Benefits. While the latter holds a distinct edge in diarrhea humor, FWB has it beat in Kris Kross references, which count double in my book.
Starring Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake. Written by Keith Merryman, David A. Newman and Will Gluck, based on a story by Harley Peyton, Merryman and Newman. Directed by Gluck. Rated R. 109 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
New Book Proposal
I wrote a book proposal called Learn to Speak Geek in 30 Days or Less, and several publishers are now taking a look at it, well aware that they can either shatter my soul or elevate me to the blissful heights of an Arizona Cardinals Super Bowl appearance with their yays or nays. Hopefully more than one will be into it, and a bidding war will commence. But that's getting way too far ahead of myself.
This is the third new proposal I've written since Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel came out, the others being Half@ss Dad and The 100 People You Meet in Internet Hell. Both of those made it as far as editorial board meetings at publishers -- the get-togethers in which the top brass gives the thumbs up or down to books brought to them by editors -- before being shut down. Hopefully the third time will be a charm, I'll be forced to get by on four hours of sleep a night for the next several weeks as I finish the book up, and it will be in stores next year. If not, maybe it will be the fourth time that will be the charm. Or the four-hundredth. One way or another, I'll get there.
This is the third new proposal I've written since Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel came out, the others being Half@ss Dad and The 100 People You Meet in Internet Hell. Both of those made it as far as editorial board meetings at publishers -- the get-togethers in which the top brass gives the thumbs up or down to books brought to them by editors -- before being shut down. Hopefully the third time will be a charm, I'll be forced to get by on four hours of sleep a night for the next several weeks as I finish the book up, and it will be in stores next year. If not, maybe it will be the fourth time that will be the charm. Or the four-hundredth. One way or another, I'll get there.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2
Oh, this final Harry Potter movie is a tear-jerker indeed. The plucky underdog, whose struggles you’ve followed through seven previous films, finally gets his time in the sun. He faces down his relentless and terrifying – not to mention annoying – nemesis for the final time. And it ends in heartbreak.
Forgive me this spoiler, but this movie hit me straight in the heart and I can’t go on without addressing the way this saga concludes. If you are to watch this tragedy, you must know in advance that Tom Marvolo Riddle, known also as Lord Voldemort, finally meets his end at the savage wand of the sadistic, wand-wielding killer whom the film series is named after.
Prior knowledge of Voldemort’s untimely passing allows you to better appreciate the time you have left with our slot-nostriled mentor, who is unfairly persecuted for his sublimely innocent will to resurrect his soul and put together an army of black-hooded marauders to dispatch a gang of hippies in order to take a stand stand for wizards’ rights.
I envy you, dear reader, because I didn’t realize Voldy was going to die at the end of this thing, despite having read the book. Sure, I figured, J.K. Rowling felt the need to pander to be “edgy” by killing off her protagonist in the final volume, but surely Hollywood – with its penchant for escapism and happy endings – would correct the author’s error and grant us the conclusion that just seemed so right. Not to mention logical.
I mean, just look at the facts. Voldemort is not only roundly acknowledged as history’s most powerful wizard, and surely tougher than a 17-year-old Hogwarts dropout. Plus, he took such great care to hide horcruxes – magical totems that fuel him with power and provide him avenues to come back to life – in such daunting places as an impenetrable Gringotts vault, his pet, computer-animated snake who’s constantly at his side and, most cleverly, in Harry’s detestable soul – that his death seems about as likely as a Casey Anthony “not guilty” verdict. So you can understand my frame of mind when I put a $10,000 bet down with my local bookmaker that Voldemort would pull off a triumph. But you know what they say about Murphy and his damned law. I have now lost my kneecaps as well as my belief that life, even for someone so proud and altruistic as Voldemort, is anything more than a toxic sequence of soul-poisoning travesties.
Emotions aside, I must heap credit upon director David Yates for crafting a superb finale to his grotesque spectacle of horror. I am sure to have nightmares about Daniel Radcliffe, his beady eyes glowering beneath those ice-cold spectacles, coming after me with his satanic incantations and deadly wand, which for some reason in the final two movies has transformed into a laser gun. Radcliffe’s Potter is a devilishly abominable creation, capturing the dogged determination of Jason Voorhees, creepy ability to infiltrate the hero’s mind of Freddie Krueger and coldhearted penchant for casual animal cruelty of Dora the Explorer.
Bravo, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. You have broken my spirit and taken away my idol. You are such a good movie that I will have to pretend you don’t exist. For me, the series ended with triumph at the end of Part 1. But as the maxim goes, the only stories with happy endings are those that aren’t yet finished.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, Alan Rickman and Ralph Fiennes. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the J.K. Rowling novel. Directed by David Yates. 130 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Forgive me this spoiler, but this movie hit me straight in the heart and I can’t go on without addressing the way this saga concludes. If you are to watch this tragedy, you must know in advance that Tom Marvolo Riddle, known also as Lord Voldemort, finally meets his end at the savage wand of the sadistic, wand-wielding killer whom the film series is named after.
Prior knowledge of Voldemort’s untimely passing allows you to better appreciate the time you have left with our slot-nostriled mentor, who is unfairly persecuted for his sublimely innocent will to resurrect his soul and put together an army of black-hooded marauders to dispatch a gang of hippies in order to take a stand stand for wizards’ rights.
I envy you, dear reader, because I didn’t realize Voldy was going to die at the end of this thing, despite having read the book. Sure, I figured, J.K. Rowling felt the need to pander to be “edgy” by killing off her protagonist in the final volume, but surely Hollywood – with its penchant for escapism and happy endings – would correct the author’s error and grant us the conclusion that just seemed so right. Not to mention logical.
I mean, just look at the facts. Voldemort is not only roundly acknowledged as history’s most powerful wizard, and surely tougher than a 17-year-old Hogwarts dropout. Plus, he took such great care to hide horcruxes – magical totems that fuel him with power and provide him avenues to come back to life – in such daunting places as an impenetrable Gringotts vault, his pet, computer-animated snake who’s constantly at his side and, most cleverly, in Harry’s detestable soul – that his death seems about as likely as a Casey Anthony “not guilty” verdict. So you can understand my frame of mind when I put a $10,000 bet down with my local bookmaker that Voldemort would pull off a triumph. But you know what they say about Murphy and his damned law. I have now lost my kneecaps as well as my belief that life, even for someone so proud and altruistic as Voldemort, is anything more than a toxic sequence of soul-poisoning travesties.
Emotions aside, I must heap credit upon director David Yates for crafting a superb finale to his grotesque spectacle of horror. I am sure to have nightmares about Daniel Radcliffe, his beady eyes glowering beneath those ice-cold spectacles, coming after me with his satanic incantations and deadly wand, which for some reason in the final two movies has transformed into a laser gun. Radcliffe’s Potter is a devilishly abominable creation, capturing the dogged determination of Jason Voorhees, creepy ability to infiltrate the hero’s mind of Freddie Krueger and coldhearted penchant for casual animal cruelty of Dora the Explorer.
Bravo, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. You have broken my spirit and taken away my idol. You are such a good movie that I will have to pretend you don’t exist. For me, the series ended with triumph at the end of Part 1. But as the maxim goes, the only stories with happy endings are those that aren’t yet finished.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, Alan Rickman and Ralph Fiennes. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the J.K. Rowling novel. Directed by David Yates. 130 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Jobs I've Had That Did Not Make It Onto My LinkedIn Profile
Here are the jobs, years and duration of employment, followed by the total amount made on each:
Construction worker for two weeks in 1994, $60
My mom's friend offered up me and her son to help haul discarded junk around a distant abandoned lot that the man she would one day leave her husband for had purchased. He fired us because he caught me relaxing when he pretended to leave but secretly watched us from the bushes.
Arizona Amateur Sports Monthly freelancer in the summer of 1996, $0
I wrote two articles about high school sports. Neither was ever published. The magazine lasted two or three issues, never to be heard from again.
Chick-fil-A employee for one day August 1996, $34
I was hired and put to work within the span of three hours, then trained for another hour and left on my own to run a student union restaurant for 10 hours. I quit the next day, for what I said were "personal reasons."
Saguaro International Speedway PR guy in 1997, $0
I went to a couple meetings, wrote some post-race press releases, then winced as the manager laughed when I asked if I would be paid. We never spoke again.
Hockeyinsider.com freelancer for two months in 1999, $0
I wrote a few articles about the Tucson Gila Monsters for this startup. I begged these guys for money, free hockey tickets, a poster, anything, but never heard back.
Construction worker for two weeks in 1994, $60
My mom's friend offered up me and her son to help haul discarded junk around a distant abandoned lot that the man she would one day leave her husband for had purchased. He fired us because he caught me relaxing when he pretended to leave but secretly watched us from the bushes.
Arizona Amateur Sports Monthly freelancer in the summer of 1996, $0
I wrote two articles about high school sports. Neither was ever published. The magazine lasted two or three issues, never to be heard from again.
Chick-fil-A employee for one day August 1996, $34
I was hired and put to work within the span of three hours, then trained for another hour and left on my own to run a student union restaurant for 10 hours. I quit the next day, for what I said were "personal reasons."
Saguaro International Speedway PR guy in 1997, $0
I went to a couple meetings, wrote some post-race press releases, then winced as the manager laughed when I asked if I would be paid. We never spoke again.
Hockeyinsider.com freelancer for two months in 1999, $0
I wrote a few articles about the Tucson Gila Monsters for this startup. I begged these guys for money, free hockey tickets, a poster, anything, but never heard back.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Review: Horrible Bosses
If Alfred Hitchcock lived in our time, had an eighth of his talent and was obsessed with blunt sex jokes, Horrible Bosses is exactly the movie he would make.
Then again, if he lived during our time, he wouldn’t be able to rip off his own Strangers on a Train and likely would have had to turn to Spartacus or West Side Story for inspiration. Be thankful that didn’t happen, because while gangs of finger-snapping greasers in ancient Roman armor making vagina jokes sounds great on paper, it would likely be severely lacking in practice.
Luckily for all, the duty to make Horrible Bosses falls to director Seth Gordon, who goes for an Office Space gets run over by Strangers on a Train vibe. Despite all the funny people in the movie, it didn’t make me laugh all that much, but strangely kept me more interested in the story. I admit that watching a movie this dumb for the story is like reading Playboy for the ads.
Charlie Day, Jason Bateman and Jason Sudeikis play guys who subscribe to the maxim “Don’t like your job? Join the club. It’s called everyone, and we meet every day at the bar,” which if was not originally said by Mark Twain, should have been. Each is troubled by a boss who makes his life miserable, and after some false starts they get the idea that making a pact to kill them would set things right. I feared that the movie would take the overly bleak, Very Bad Things route by going through with the murders to reach a movie-ending existential lesson, or cop out by having the guys learn that lesson before any blood was spilled, making the movie soft enough to air on ABC Family. The fact that I’m giving the movie a positive review will tell you that the plot takes a different direction entirely.
Of all the considerable acting talent in the film, it’s the villainous bosses who shine the brightest. Kevin Spacey is back in viscous, Swimming with Sharks mode, Jennifer Aniston is as adorable as an overly aggressive lunatic can be, and Colin Farrell somehow wipes away all his cool as a toupee-donning cokehead.
The humor never quite bowled me over. Even Day, whom I consider to be the funniest actor alive, as well as the main attraction of TV’s greatest comedy, brings his C game. Bateman and Sudeikis are serviceable straight men, and Jamie Foxx does a low-rent impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson.
Somehow the suspense kept me intrigued and guessing about the fates of these dopey screenwriting constructs that pass for characters. I applaud the movie particularly for its inventive, thought-provoking display of the pros and cons of using OnStar-like navigation system.
Horrible Bosses is no Office Space or Strangers on a Train. But then, few films are. In a week in which The Zookeeper is coming out, it seems you could do worse.
Starring Jason Bateman, Charlie Day, Jason Sudeikis, Jamie Foxx, Jennifer Aniston, Kevin Spacey and Colin Farrell. Written by Michael Markowitz, John Frances Daley and Jonathan Goldstein. Directed by Seth Gordon. Rated R. 108 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Then again, if he lived during our time, he wouldn’t be able to rip off his own Strangers on a Train and likely would have had to turn to Spartacus or West Side Story for inspiration. Be thankful that didn’t happen, because while gangs of finger-snapping greasers in ancient Roman armor making vagina jokes sounds great on paper, it would likely be severely lacking in practice.
Luckily for all, the duty to make Horrible Bosses falls to director Seth Gordon, who goes for an Office Space gets run over by Strangers on a Train vibe. Despite all the funny people in the movie, it didn’t make me laugh all that much, but strangely kept me more interested in the story. I admit that watching a movie this dumb for the story is like reading Playboy for the ads.
Charlie Day, Jason Bateman and Jason Sudeikis play guys who subscribe to the maxim “Don’t like your job? Join the club. It’s called everyone, and we meet every day at the bar,” which if was not originally said by Mark Twain, should have been. Each is troubled by a boss who makes his life miserable, and after some false starts they get the idea that making a pact to kill them would set things right. I feared that the movie would take the overly bleak, Very Bad Things route by going through with the murders to reach a movie-ending existential lesson, or cop out by having the guys learn that lesson before any blood was spilled, making the movie soft enough to air on ABC Family. The fact that I’m giving the movie a positive review will tell you that the plot takes a different direction entirely.
Of all the considerable acting talent in the film, it’s the villainous bosses who shine the brightest. Kevin Spacey is back in viscous, Swimming with Sharks mode, Jennifer Aniston is as adorable as an overly aggressive lunatic can be, and Colin Farrell somehow wipes away all his cool as a toupee-donning cokehead.
The humor never quite bowled me over. Even Day, whom I consider to be the funniest actor alive, as well as the main attraction of TV’s greatest comedy, brings his C game. Bateman and Sudeikis are serviceable straight men, and Jamie Foxx does a low-rent impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson.
Somehow the suspense kept me intrigued and guessing about the fates of these dopey screenwriting constructs that pass for characters. I applaud the movie particularly for its inventive, thought-provoking display of the pros and cons of using OnStar-like navigation system.
Horrible Bosses is no Office Space or Strangers on a Train. But then, few films are. In a week in which The Zookeeper is coming out, it seems you could do worse.
Starring Jason Bateman, Charlie Day, Jason Sudeikis, Jamie Foxx, Jennifer Aniston, Kevin Spacey and Colin Farrell. Written by Michael Markowitz, John Frances Daley and Jonathan Goldstein. Directed by Seth Gordon. Rated R. 108 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Sports Cards: Thieves Of Youth
In my closet I have at least a dozen boxes of sports cards. Collecting baseball, football and basketball cards was a passion from age 11 to 14, and as I saw it at the time, a shrewd investment. Sure, it would take every bit of my allowance and free time to buy, sort and protect the cards, but it was all for a higher cause. I was certain that they would one day be worth a bunch of money, like the Mickey Mantle cards from the 50s and whatnot. At age 11, for instance, I theorized that I would be able to sell the cards for enough money to buy a car at age 16.
That prediction turned out to be true, if it was a Hot Wheels car I was looking for. Maybe I could have even bought a whole set of them, with a plastic track and pretend fire station to boot. But alas, my cards have lost most of the value they had 16 years ago. Now I would be lucky to be able to exchange all 100,000 or so I've got for a single Matchbox car.
The problem is nobody kept their cards from the 50s. They used them as bike wheel noisemakers and only the few hoarders who were lucky enough to not have their moms throw out the cards with the rest of their childhood junk were able to cash in. People from my era just kept their cards with the expectation that they would one day be worth something, rendering them worthless.
So now my shoeboxes of cards are stacked high in my closet, as precarious as a booby trapped Indiana Jones temple. I can never flip through them and reminisce, because to do so would likely trigger an avalanche and cause my death. I haven't looked at the cards since I moved into my house 7 years ago, and can't say for sure whether or not they're actually still up there. For all I know, they could have disintegrated, been eaten by moths or been stolen by a cat burglar who bypassed all my stuff in search of my 1990 Donruss complete set. If such a thief did rob me, I hope he at least left me my Cecil Fielder autograph and box of old Nintendo Powers.
That prediction turned out to be true, if it was a Hot Wheels car I was looking for. Maybe I could have even bought a whole set of them, with a plastic track and pretend fire station to boot. But alas, my cards have lost most of the value they had 16 years ago. Now I would be lucky to be able to exchange all 100,000 or so I've got for a single Matchbox car.
The problem is nobody kept their cards from the 50s. They used them as bike wheel noisemakers and only the few hoarders who were lucky enough to not have their moms throw out the cards with the rest of their childhood junk were able to cash in. People from my era just kept their cards with the expectation that they would one day be worth something, rendering them worthless.
So now my shoeboxes of cards are stacked high in my closet, as precarious as a booby trapped Indiana Jones temple. I can never flip through them and reminisce, because to do so would likely trigger an avalanche and cause my death. I haven't looked at the cards since I moved into my house 7 years ago, and can't say for sure whether or not they're actually still up there. For all I know, they could have disintegrated, been eaten by moths or been stolen by a cat burglar who bypassed all my stuff in search of my 1990 Donruss complete set. If such a thief did rob me, I hope he at least left me my Cecil Fielder autograph and box of old Nintendo Powers.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
The Circus Shoulda Been Watching Me
I took my kids, ages 4 and 2, to the circus Saturday. Jessica stayed at home because she "tore her ACL," "needed surgery" and "couldn't move while drugged up and suffering constant, immense pain." Read between the lines, though. CRAZYcoughcoughIRRATIONALcoughANIMALLOVER.
I'm sure I appeared to be a weekend divorced dad. Why else would a dude take his two tiny kids to the circus alone? And while we're asking questions, why do circuses still exist in 2011? How does the ringmaster find such talented people willing to live what must be such tough existences? They surely don't make much money and have to risk their lives constantly while traveling to sweaty little towns to perform in front of audiences who secretly hope they fall off their trapezes. The ringmaster must have compromising photos of everyone, including the elephants.
I guess the trapeze-swinging horses getting shot out of cannons through flaming hoops made of burning tigers were impressive enough, but the acrobatics and daring it took to corral those little monsters in the space of two seats met and surpassed anything Barnum & Bailey executed on the arena floor. Sworn enemies of one another, the kids elbowed, gouged and whined against one another for space on my lap throughout the 750-hour performance.
We left for three bathroom breaks, collectively drank two sodas and a bottled water, ran up and down the stairs during the intermission and somehow decided together that we did not need to spend $20 on a flashing sword or $12 cotton candy.
Most of the time Emma stared at the baby sitting next to us, while Luke peppered me with questions about whether the people were seeing were real or robots. We were loud and obnoxious, but no more so than anyone sitting around us. Thus, we didn't really bother anybody. Well, possibly except for the family sitting in front of us who retreated to the empty row in front of them. But maybe, just maybe, they moved because they wanted a closer view and not because they were sick of getting their seats kicked by 4, 2 and 32 year olds. Yeah, let's just go with that.
I'm sure I appeared to be a weekend divorced dad. Why else would a dude take his two tiny kids to the circus alone? And while we're asking questions, why do circuses still exist in 2011? How does the ringmaster find such talented people willing to live what must be such tough existences? They surely don't make much money and have to risk their lives constantly while traveling to sweaty little towns to perform in front of audiences who secretly hope they fall off their trapezes. The ringmaster must have compromising photos of everyone, including the elephants.
I guess the trapeze-swinging horses getting shot out of cannons through flaming hoops made of burning tigers were impressive enough, but the acrobatics and daring it took to corral those little monsters in the space of two seats met and surpassed anything Barnum & Bailey executed on the arena floor. Sworn enemies of one another, the kids elbowed, gouged and whined against one another for space on my lap throughout the 750-hour performance.
We left for three bathroom breaks, collectively drank two sodas and a bottled water, ran up and down the stairs during the intermission and somehow decided together that we did not need to spend $20 on a flashing sword or $12 cotton candy.
Most of the time Emma stared at the baby sitting next to us, while Luke peppered me with questions about whether the people were seeing were real or robots. We were loud and obnoxious, but no more so than anyone sitting around us. Thus, we didn't really bother anybody. Well, possibly except for the family sitting in front of us who retreated to the empty row in front of them. But maybe, just maybe, they moved because they wanted a closer view and not because they were sick of getting their seats kicked by 4, 2 and 32 year olds. Yeah, let's just go with that.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
My Interview With Ultimate Coupons
I did an interview with Ultimate Coupons about the book. Here's an excerpt.
Do you think people can take their finances or frugality too seriously?
Yes, and this book is a mockery of that mentality, as well as something of a satire of all those dry, overly serious personal finance books out there. There are more important things than scrimping on every penny you come across, but in writing this book I pretended like there isn’t. Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel is sort of an evil robot’s approach to personal finance.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I Was Nearly A Walmart Ice Thief
I attempted to leave Walmart with a shopping cart full of groceries when an elderly women wearing a blue vest accosted me and demanded I show her a receipt. I handed it over grudgingly, telling her that I didn't have to show it to her and she didn't have the right to demand it.
"I'm only asking because you have ice," she said. "I need to make sure you paid for it."
"Of course I paid for it," I shot back, getting even less polite and composed than I was before, which is saying something because I was previously approximately negative 100,342 pisseroids on the pissometer. I might have even muttered something less than becoming under my breath about how nonplussed I was about the scenario, having to take a valuable 32 seconds out of my day to show her my receipt like a common ice thief.
She looked over the receipt and found that in fact I hadn't paid for it, then demurely allowed me to confirm this by handing it back. I was indeed nearly an ice thief.
I moped back to the checkout woman who had overlooked the ice and paid for it, accepting precisely five apologies from her.
And then when I left again I went to the other exit because I was afraid of once again coming into contact with the woman who so authoritatively served me. There was only a greeter at that other exit, and she was far too busy pulling out shopping carts for people to think to question my ice purchase as I walked into the existential void that is the Walmart parking lot. My thoughts involuntary turned back to the receipt checker.
I was probably the one ice thief she's caught in her 47 years on the job, and her vigilant stoppage of my near ice thievery no doubt will give her another 47 years of determinational fuel to stop and check the receipts of others who buy ice there. She is the proud lion, king of the jungle that is Walmart at Cortaro and I-10, and I am nothing more than a hyena, lurking in the shadows, desperate to evade her all-seeing gaze and furious bite of jungle justice.
"I'm only asking because you have ice," she said. "I need to make sure you paid for it."
"Of course I paid for it," I shot back, getting even less polite and composed than I was before, which is saying something because I was previously approximately negative 100,342 pisseroids on the pissometer. I might have even muttered something less than becoming under my breath about how nonplussed I was about the scenario, having to take a valuable 32 seconds out of my day to show her my receipt like a common ice thief.
She looked over the receipt and found that in fact I hadn't paid for it, then demurely allowed me to confirm this by handing it back. I was indeed nearly an ice thief.
I moped back to the checkout woman who had overlooked the ice and paid for it, accepting precisely five apologies from her.
And then when I left again I went to the other exit because I was afraid of once again coming into contact with the woman who so authoritatively served me. There was only a greeter at that other exit, and she was far too busy pulling out shopping carts for people to think to question my ice purchase as I walked into the existential void that is the Walmart parking lot. My thoughts involuntary turned back to the receipt checker.
I was probably the one ice thief she's caught in her 47 years on the job, and her vigilant stoppage of my near ice thievery no doubt will give her another 47 years of determinational fuel to stop and check the receipts of others who buy ice there. She is the proud lion, king of the jungle that is Walmart at Cortaro and I-10, and I am nothing more than a hyena, lurking in the shadows, desperate to evade her all-seeing gaze and furious bite of jungle justice.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Review: Bad Teacher
Copying off the paper of Bad Santa, and even going so far as to swipe a couple of its punch lines, Bad Teacher would seem to be doomed because its parts aren’t up to factory standard.
Cameron Diaz would seem to be no better equipped to play a sulphur-spewing hardass than Billy Bob Thornton is to wear spandex and star as one of Charlie’s Angels. Director Jake Kasdan (Orange County, Walk Hard) is no Terry Zwigoff (Crumb, Ghost World) and since there are so many bad movie teachers out there, it’s just not as funny to see one in its own movie as it is to see a rogue department store St. Nick.
But Bad Teacher works better than it should, thanks to Diaz rising to the occasion as the conniving, booze-swilling, pot-smoking, obscenity-uttering center of her own universe, Miss Halsey. She’s a terrible, unlikable person with no self-esteem or ambition. She’s proudly shallow, indifferent to her job and so callous to the needs of her students that if she sees someone crying or being bullied, she walks the other way. She’s the reason charter schools exist.
Miss Halsey’s philosophy is Every Child Left Behind. She sleepwalks into class on the first day, throws a movie on to one of her middle school’s antiquated TVs, then proceeds to take a nap. She repeats the process every day, despite the fact that her tattle-tale neighbor, Miss Squirrel (Lucy Punch) is onto her.
It’s not that Halsey is lazy. She works harder than any other teacher, because her goals, which include scamming enough money for a boob job, finding ways to smoke pot while on campus and making life hell for Miss Squirrel, are loftier than simply grinding through the state grade level standards.
Diaz is excellent, and she has plenty of help for Punch, who channels Sarah Palin by way of Miss Krabappel, and Jason Segel, a slacker gym teacher who longs for Halsey’s withered, black heart. I could have done without Justin Timberlake, who plays the independently wealthy substitute teacher and object of lust for all female teachers. Timberlake has snapped out of his brief flicker of The Social Network awesomeness to retreat back to his Love Guru idiocy.
Bad Teacher entertains with a steady stream of laughs subverted by occasional islands of unfunny blandness. Oh, look. A loud fart! A lesbian teacher who displays her attraction for women! A fat teacher who dances! Fat people shouldn’t dance!
Cameron Diaz shouldn’t be as good as Billy Bob Thornton, either. And maybe she isn’t. But she proves she can be every bit as bad.
Starring Cameron Diaz, Lucy Punch, Jason Segel and Justin Timberlake. Written by Gene Stupnitsky and Lee Eisenbeg. Directed by Jake Kasdan. 92 minutes. Rated R.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Cameron Diaz would seem to be no better equipped to play a sulphur-spewing hardass than Billy Bob Thornton is to wear spandex and star as one of Charlie’s Angels. Director Jake Kasdan (Orange County, Walk Hard) is no Terry Zwigoff (Crumb, Ghost World) and since there are so many bad movie teachers out there, it’s just not as funny to see one in its own movie as it is to see a rogue department store St. Nick.
But Bad Teacher works better than it should, thanks to Diaz rising to the occasion as the conniving, booze-swilling, pot-smoking, obscenity-uttering center of her own universe, Miss Halsey. She’s a terrible, unlikable person with no self-esteem or ambition. She’s proudly shallow, indifferent to her job and so callous to the needs of her students that if she sees someone crying or being bullied, she walks the other way. She’s the reason charter schools exist.
Miss Halsey’s philosophy is Every Child Left Behind. She sleepwalks into class on the first day, throws a movie on to one of her middle school’s antiquated TVs, then proceeds to take a nap. She repeats the process every day, despite the fact that her tattle-tale neighbor, Miss Squirrel (Lucy Punch) is onto her.
It’s not that Halsey is lazy. She works harder than any other teacher, because her goals, which include scamming enough money for a boob job, finding ways to smoke pot while on campus and making life hell for Miss Squirrel, are loftier than simply grinding through the state grade level standards.
Diaz is excellent, and she has plenty of help for Punch, who channels Sarah Palin by way of Miss Krabappel, and Jason Segel, a slacker gym teacher who longs for Halsey’s withered, black heart. I could have done without Justin Timberlake, who plays the independently wealthy substitute teacher and object of lust for all female teachers. Timberlake has snapped out of his brief flicker of The Social Network awesomeness to retreat back to his Love Guru idiocy.
Bad Teacher entertains with a steady stream of laughs subverted by occasional islands of unfunny blandness. Oh, look. A loud fart! A lesbian teacher who displays her attraction for women! A fat teacher who dances! Fat people shouldn’t dance!
Cameron Diaz shouldn’t be as good as Billy Bob Thornton, either. And maybe she isn’t. But she proves she can be every bit as bad.
Starring Cameron Diaz, Lucy Punch, Jason Segel and Justin Timberlake. Written by Gene Stupnitsky and Lee Eisenbeg. Directed by Jake Kasdan. 92 minutes. Rated R.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Love from PT Money
Thanks to PT Money, which named Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel as one of the best personal finance books. An excerpt:
One of the most enjoyable personal finance books I’ve every read is this one by Phil Villarreal. It goes through some items that you probably wouldn’t do to save money — and some that you might actually consider. A hilarious treatise on saving money by any means.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Best Part About It's A Small World At Disneyland
Is how they play that great song over and over again. Just when you're fearful they'll stop at 400 ear-maiming times in a row, they go on playing it another 700 times as you sit there throughout the 90 hour experience.
Monday, June 20, 2011
I Think My Son Tried To Make Me Cry
We were building megablocks together and he looked me in the eyes and told me "Dad, I want you to remember me just like this. Even when I get old and move far away. I promise I will always visit you. Not just on Sundays, but Mondays, Tuesdays and Sundays."
He hasn't gotten me yet but every time I think about that moment I get closer to tearing up. He's a clever one.
He hasn't gotten me yet but every time I think about that moment I get closer to tearing up. He's a clever one.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
My Predictions For E3
Nintendo will call its new console the Blast Processor. It will include special controllers with lava fountain screens and be able to be used as a hat at British royal weddings.
Gamers will get to go hands-on with a Halo party game called What the Halo.
Sony will reveal that 80 percent of its net profits will go toward buying pot for hackers in hopes that they will mellow out and stop attacking it.
There will be a new Duck Hunt, and it will be a first-person shooter starring Mario with a machine gun. And yes, you will get to kill the dog this time.
Madden 12 will just be Madden 11 in new boxes and no one will notice.
Atari will reveal it's getting out of the video game business and will resort to selling jaguars. Not old game machines, actual jaguars. On the black market.
Crystal Dynamics, makers of Tomb Raider, will reveal that Lara Croft will look completely different in each of the next seven games, just for the hell of it.
Activision will unveil a subscription program that monitors the amount of breaths players take while playing Call of Duty online. Each breath will go toward achievement points and perks, and cost players a penny.
Gamers will get to go hands-on with a Halo party game called What the Halo.
Sony will reveal that 80 percent of its net profits will go toward buying pot for hackers in hopes that they will mellow out and stop attacking it.
There will be a new Duck Hunt, and it will be a first-person shooter starring Mario with a machine gun. And yes, you will get to kill the dog this time.
Madden 12 will just be Madden 11 in new boxes and no one will notice.
Atari will reveal it's getting out of the video game business and will resort to selling jaguars. Not old game machines, actual jaguars. On the black market.
Crystal Dynamics, makers of Tomb Raider, will reveal that Lara Croft will look completely different in each of the next seven games, just for the hell of it.
Activision will unveil a subscription program that monitors the amount of breaths players take while playing Call of Duty online. Each breath will go toward achievement points and perks, and cost players a penny.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I Am Glad Canada Is Getting Its Hockey Team Back
Good job on swiping that Atlanta Thrashers, Winnipeg. Hockey belongs in Canada and not in the Deep South. Actually, maybe you could have moved the team even further north, such as the North Pole. And maybe you could have brought all the other teams with you.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Review: The Hangover: Part II
Reunion movies, which exist only to reunite main characters from good movies so they can try to recapture the lightning that has long left the bottle, are almost always destined to fail. This is so for the same reason that your high school reunion sucked, and the Facts of Life reunion show wasn’t quite what you were hoping it would be.
But rules are made to be broken, and The Hangover: Part II is made to break rules. I won’t bother explaining any of the jokes in the movie, not because I don’t want to spoil them, but because I doubt my ability to justify my laughter at ugly, mean and stupid jokes that are still clever enough to catch me off guard and crack me up. The movie embraces its wrongness and willingness to offend on as many levels as possible to such a degree that you just have to sit back and marvel at the high wire act. The act I’m referring to is one in which the metaphorical goal is not to stay on the high wire, but to face-plant off of it and splatter the audience with blood and an assortment of bodily fluids. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
The interesting thing about the movie is how lazy it is, refusing to deviate a single beat from the drunken mystery plot it established in the first movie. Think of a favorite drunk friend who likes to tell the same story over and over again. You hang out with the guy and he insists on telling the story again and again, and it stays funny, not only to him but you. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
The movie basically tries to bore you, put has so much raw talent on hand, in terms of actors and writing, that it’s funny in spite of itself. Too many scenes are spent forcing characters to acknowledge that they’re repeating their idiocy of the first movie, forced to piece together a night gone wrong after they wake up following a blackout. Too much time is spent ratcheting up false drama about whether or not the insane mysteries will be solved, and too many red herrings try to throw you off and make you think that characters who will definitely appear again have disappeared forever. Plus, there’s a monkey, which just reeks of desperation. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
There is but one goal of the movie, though, and it accomplishes it with just about as much success as the first Hangover: Be funny. The movie made me laugh so hard, so often that I could hardly collect my thoughts, nor wish that I could. Ed Helms is too perfect a square, Bradley Cooper is too self-assured in his self loathing and Zach Galifianakis is too wild a wildcard to let the humorous energy stop from bouncing off the walls. The guys could make 12 more of these movies, do just as well every time and get audiences to laugh and laugh at themselves for laughing. That’s a lot of laughing, and that’s The Hangover: Part II.
Starring Ed Helms, Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifianakis and Ken Jeong. Written by Craig Mazin, Scot Armstrong and Todd Phillips. Directed by Phillips. Rated R. 102 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
But rules are made to be broken, and The Hangover: Part II is made to break rules. I won’t bother explaining any of the jokes in the movie, not because I don’t want to spoil them, but because I doubt my ability to justify my laughter at ugly, mean and stupid jokes that are still clever enough to catch me off guard and crack me up. The movie embraces its wrongness and willingness to offend on as many levels as possible to such a degree that you just have to sit back and marvel at the high wire act. The act I’m referring to is one in which the metaphorical goal is not to stay on the high wire, but to face-plant off of it and splatter the audience with blood and an assortment of bodily fluids. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
The interesting thing about the movie is how lazy it is, refusing to deviate a single beat from the drunken mystery plot it established in the first movie. Think of a favorite drunk friend who likes to tell the same story over and over again. You hang out with the guy and he insists on telling the story again and again, and it stays funny, not only to him but you. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
The movie basically tries to bore you, put has so much raw talent on hand, in terms of actors and writing, that it’s funny in spite of itself. Too many scenes are spent forcing characters to acknowledge that they’re repeating their idiocy of the first movie, forced to piece together a night gone wrong after they wake up following a blackout. Too much time is spent ratcheting up false drama about whether or not the insane mysteries will be solved, and too many red herrings try to throw you off and make you think that characters who will definitely appear again have disappeared forever. Plus, there’s a monkey, which just reeks of desperation. That’s The Hangover: Part II.
There is but one goal of the movie, though, and it accomplishes it with just about as much success as the first Hangover: Be funny. The movie made me laugh so hard, so often that I could hardly collect my thoughts, nor wish that I could. Ed Helms is too perfect a square, Bradley Cooper is too self-assured in his self loathing and Zach Galifianakis is too wild a wildcard to let the humorous energy stop from bouncing off the walls. The guys could make 12 more of these movies, do just as well every time and get audiences to laugh and laugh at themselves for laughing. That’s a lot of laughing, and that’s The Hangover: Part II.
Starring Ed Helms, Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifianakis and Ken Jeong. Written by Craig Mazin, Scot Armstrong and Todd Phillips. Directed by Phillips. Rated R. 102 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The Perils Of Playing L.A. Noire
The game is pretty passive-aggressive with its post-case evaluations. This is one I got after I arrested the wrong Black Dahlia murder dude:
"You should have looked in the traschcan for a screwdriver. Now the Black Dahlia dude killed your grandma and you don't exist. Have fun disappearing like Marty McFly."
The worst part is the game doesn't allow you to go back from a previous save to re-do the case unless you start over from the beginning. So now thanks to my inability to play a video game properly I'm disappearing right now as I type thi
"You should have looked in the traschcan for a screwdriver. Now the Black Dahlia dude killed your grandma and you don't exist. Have fun disappearing like Marty McFly."
The worst part is the game doesn't allow you to go back from a previous save to re-do the case unless you start over from the beginning. So now thanks to my inability to play a video game properly I'm disappearing right now as I type thi
Monday, May 23, 2011
Talky restaurant owners
Why do restaurant owners think you like it when they barge in and interrupt you when you're trying to eat, just to fish for compliments?
Do they do it just to mess with people? Interrupting conversations or accosting you right as they see your mouth is full?
You are not Rocky Balboa. This is not the movie Rocky Balboa. You don't have any cool stories of how you beat Mr. T. Get out of my face so I can eat.
Do they do it just to mess with people? Interrupting conversations or accosting you right as they see your mouth is full?
You are not Rocky Balboa. This is not the movie Rocky Balboa. You don't have any cool stories of how you beat Mr. T. Get out of my face so I can eat.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Sports Show
Is incredible. It gets better each week, and Norm Macdonald is every bit the comic genius he was a decade and a half ago. His new show is something special, like Chappelle's Show, that's just too good to last, so you just know you need to appreciate it while it's there.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
My Solution To The Healthcare Crisis
Is to get the government to declare the entire country to be a workplace, so if anyone gets hurt, they get workman's comp and all treatment is free.
Sure, we may not have the money to do this. But then again, we don't have the money to do anything that we do, so why not throw this in as well?
Sure, we may not have the money to do this. But then again, we don't have the money to do anything that we do, so why not throw this in as well?
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Lyrics To Adele's Rolling In The Deep Chorus
The song is playing nonstop in my brain, and here is what the chorus sounds like:
The stars of your love
They leave me breakfast
I can't help feeling
We could have had it allllllllll
(Never gonna miss you, never had maps too)
Rolling in the deeeeeep
(Jesus played God of War, rolling in the deep)
You had my heart insiiiiiiiiiiiide of your head
(Never gonna miss you, never had maps too)
And you paid it to the deeean, yeah.
(Jesus played God of War, rolling in the deep)
The stars of your love
They leave me breakfast
I can't help feeling
We could have had it allllllllll
(Never gonna miss you, never had maps too)
Rolling in the deeeeeep
(Jesus played God of War, rolling in the deep)
You had my heart insiiiiiiiiiiiide of your head
(Never gonna miss you, never had maps too)
And you paid it to the deeean, yeah.
(Jesus played God of War, rolling in the deep)
Monday, May 16, 2011
Books I Have Not Read But Have Probably Pretended In Conversation At Some Point That I Had Read
1984
Animal Farm
Anna Karenina
Fight Club
Pretty much any important book that there's a movie of is a viable candidate for this list. Although I have read a surprising amount of books that became movies, including all three of The Lord of the Rings, which were incredibly boring.
Animal Farm
Anna Karenina
Fight Club
Pretty much any important book that there's a movie of is a viable candidate for this list. Although I have read a surprising amount of books that became movies, including all three of The Lord of the Rings, which were incredibly boring.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
5 Advantages Of Your Wife Tearing Her ACL While Playing Volleyball
As long as you stay out of crutch range, she cannot smack you when you make a joke she doesn't like.
She cannot go out shopping and spend all your money.
She has something to complain about other than you.
Five Guys for dinner on a Wednesday night is no longer a lofty dream, but a realistic possibility.
She will finally want to share in your passion of sitting around and doing as little as possible while watching movies.
She cannot go out shopping and spend all your money.
She has something to complain about other than you.
Five Guys for dinner on a Wednesday night is no longer a lofty dream, but a realistic possibility.
She will finally want to share in your passion of sitting around and doing as little as possible while watching movies.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
PhilSpaceSterBook
I am going to invent a social network that allows only me as its member. It will be called PhilSpaceSterBook and I will spam the hell out of myself with friend requests, event announcements, and invitations to play the game PhilVille.
The network will allow me to keep track of all my developments and tag myself in embarrassing pictures I wasn't aware existed. I will most likely unfriend myself due to my abuse of PhilSpace, and may even report myself to administrators.
I'm hoping this thing takes off and allows me to cash in for millions or even billions. But before that happens I will be sure to screw over my partner, who of course is also myself, forcing him to sign over all his shares to me. Eventually I will probably sue myself because of this cruel betrayal, but I will be able to pay myself off with a settlement and resume making more and more money with ads and whatnot.
Anyway, I'm taking investments, so let me know if you want in.
The network will allow me to keep track of all my developments and tag myself in embarrassing pictures I wasn't aware existed. I will most likely unfriend myself due to my abuse of PhilSpace, and may even report myself to administrators.
I'm hoping this thing takes off and allows me to cash in for millions or even billions. But before that happens I will be sure to screw over my partner, who of course is also myself, forcing him to sign over all his shares to me. Eventually I will probably sue myself because of this cruel betrayal, but I will be able to pay myself off with a settlement and resume making more and more money with ads and whatnot.
Anyway, I'm taking investments, so let me know if you want in.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Coming To A Laser Hologram Theater Near You
Inspired by Thor, my 4 year old son has announced the first two films he'll direct. The first movie will be called Creatures of Dino Dan: Marvel vs. Capcom 10, and will star Dino Dan (a dinosaur-man creature he invented), as well as Godzilla, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters, the Ghostbusters themselves, Thor, Green Lantern, Iron Man, Og (Which calls Joker when he becomes a giant after ingesting Bane's venom drug) and Captain America.
He said after that movie he and his preschool friends, who will help him make his films, he will make Dawn of Dino Dan: Marvel vs. Capcom 10, which I assume will be a prequel, and will star "all the same guys." He said no girls other than his mother will be allowed to watch the movies, because they would have nightmares for months and months.
Don't expect these movies to hit theaters for a while, if for no other reason than all the time it will take to work out all the intellectual property rights involved with the characters.
He said after that movie he and his preschool friends, who will help him make his films, he will make Dawn of Dino Dan: Marvel vs. Capcom 10, which I assume will be a prequel, and will star "all the same guys." He said no girls other than his mother will be allowed to watch the movies, because they would have nightmares for months and months.
Don't expect these movies to hit theaters for a while, if for no other reason than all the time it will take to work out all the intellectual property rights involved with the characters.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
My Stand-Up Routine
(I will pause for laughter in between each of these one-liners.)
Black people are different than white people.
Marriage is difficult.
Women think about and react to things in ways men do not.
Airplane food is low-quality.
Television and movies exaggerate stuff from real life.
My boss is difficult to work with.
There are some unconventional things that most people like that I do not.
My kids say things that adults would never say.
Something abnormal happened to me once while I was engaging in sexual intercourse.
I do not enjoy it when my mother in law lives in my house for a month.
Poor people like me were raised differently than rich people.
My parents used harsher discipline methods on me than I do for my own kids.
Again. Black people are different than white people.
Black people are different than white people.
Marriage is difficult.
Women think about and react to things in ways men do not.
Airplane food is low-quality.
Television and movies exaggerate stuff from real life.
My boss is difficult to work with.
There are some unconventional things that most people like that I do not.
My kids say things that adults would never say.
Something abnormal happened to me once while I was engaging in sexual intercourse.
I do not enjoy it when my mother in law lives in my house for a month.
Poor people like me were raised differently than rich people.
My parents used harsher discipline methods on me than I do for my own kids.
Again. Black people are different than white people.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Review: Something Borrowed
From OK:
Usually Kate Hudson’s appearance in the cast is a sparkly-lip-glossed kiss of death for a romantic comedy. Reading off her filmography causes me physical pain. Bride Wars. Alex & Emma. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Raising Helen.
When you have to go back to You, Me and Dupree as evidence that not all Kate Hudson romcoms are garbage, you’re talking box office poison with cyanide-like potency.
And the thing is, it’s never her fault that her movies are so bad. To the contrary, she’s usually the only force that makes a movie watchable. If glitter were made into a human form, it would be Kate Hudson. She leaves imaginary trails of stardust wherever she walks, and her smile can case planes to crash with laser pointer like efficiency. Too bad her agent seems to choose her movies by dartboard.
Luckily, Something Borrowed is every bit as good as You, Me and Dupree. Which is to say it’s perfectly enjoyable while you’re in the theater and so forgettable as soon as you walk out that you’ll need to look it up on IMDB afterward to confirm that the movie actually exists.
Based on a novel by Chick Lit Master Overlord Emily Giffin, the movie may be as predictable as a Madonna marriage, but it’s blessed by enough magnetism from the cast that it’s easy to pretend you’re actually worried about how things will turn out.
Rachel is a Poindexterish, movie-ugly (meaning hotter than 98 percent of the population but not as hot as an aging Kate Hudson) lawyer played by Ginnifer Goodwin who is all sad panda that her bestie, Darcy (Kate Hudson), is about to marry Most Boring Man Alive (Colin Egglesfield), whom Rachel has always secretly loved oh so hard.
There’s also Jim From The Office – that’s the guy’s real name, according to the long-form birth certificate he showed Donald Trump last week – who is Darcy’s platonic buddy who just goes around doing Jim things, such as looking superior to people when they say dumb or inappropriate things. Jim would be the best part of the movie, if not for Hudson, who is somehow even more attractive now that her looks are fading and she’s starting to look semi-attainable. I rooted for Rachel to break up the marriage mainly because I wanted Darcy single, which I’m sure is what Giffin intended back when she thought this whole thing up.
The excellent supporting cast also includes Ashley Williams as Jim’s psycho, pathetic hanger-on, and Steve Howey as a bro-tastic womanizer who tried to insta-seduce everything on the screen, especially the women.
Something Borrowed accomplishes that all-too-elusive task – it made me like it against my will and despite my biases, and it made me like that I liked it. I enjoyed its walk of shame, and can’t wait for its projected sequel, Something Blue, in which Kate Hudson will be older, less attractive, and thus even hotter.
Starring Ginnifer Goodwin, Kate Hudson, John Krasinski and Colin Egglesfield. Written by Jennie Snider, based on the book by Emily Giffin. Directed by Luke Greenfield. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
Usually Kate Hudson’s appearance in the cast is a sparkly-lip-glossed kiss of death for a romantic comedy. Reading off her filmography causes me physical pain. Bride Wars. Alex & Emma. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Raising Helen.
When you have to go back to You, Me and Dupree as evidence that not all Kate Hudson romcoms are garbage, you’re talking box office poison with cyanide-like potency.
And the thing is, it’s never her fault that her movies are so bad. To the contrary, she’s usually the only force that makes a movie watchable. If glitter were made into a human form, it would be Kate Hudson. She leaves imaginary trails of stardust wherever she walks, and her smile can case planes to crash with laser pointer like efficiency. Too bad her agent seems to choose her movies by dartboard.
Luckily, Something Borrowed is every bit as good as You, Me and Dupree. Which is to say it’s perfectly enjoyable while you’re in the theater and so forgettable as soon as you walk out that you’ll need to look it up on IMDB afterward to confirm that the movie actually exists.
Based on a novel by Chick Lit Master Overlord Emily Giffin, the movie may be as predictable as a Madonna marriage, but it’s blessed by enough magnetism from the cast that it’s easy to pretend you’re actually worried about how things will turn out.
Rachel is a Poindexterish, movie-ugly (meaning hotter than 98 percent of the population but not as hot as an aging Kate Hudson) lawyer played by Ginnifer Goodwin who is all sad panda that her bestie, Darcy (Kate Hudson), is about to marry Most Boring Man Alive (Colin Egglesfield), whom Rachel has always secretly loved oh so hard.
There’s also Jim From The Office – that’s the guy’s real name, according to the long-form birth certificate he showed Donald Trump last week – who is Darcy’s platonic buddy who just goes around doing Jim things, such as looking superior to people when they say dumb or inappropriate things. Jim would be the best part of the movie, if not for Hudson, who is somehow even more attractive now that her looks are fading and she’s starting to look semi-attainable. I rooted for Rachel to break up the marriage mainly because I wanted Darcy single, which I’m sure is what Giffin intended back when she thought this whole thing up.
The excellent supporting cast also includes Ashley Williams as Jim’s psycho, pathetic hanger-on, and Steve Howey as a bro-tastic womanizer who tried to insta-seduce everything on the screen, especially the women.
Something Borrowed accomplishes that all-too-elusive task – it made me like it against my will and despite my biases, and it made me like that I liked it. I enjoyed its walk of shame, and can’t wait for its projected sequel, Something Blue, in which Kate Hudson will be older, less attractive, and thus even hotter.
Starring Ginnifer Goodwin, Kate Hudson, John Krasinski and Colin Egglesfield. Written by Jennie Snider, based on the book by Emily Giffin. Directed by Luke Greenfield. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
That Dream Where You're Back In High School
When I dream that I'm back in high school, I'm not a teenager. I'm whatever age I actually am when I have the dream, and my dream brain rationalizes a perfectly-fine-at-the-time explanation as to why I'm there.
As I advance deeper into my 30s, it becomes more difficult to justify my presence. Last night the reasoning was that I had gotten a job without adequate training, so I had to go back to high school to pick up whatever training I was missing. As I sat in class, I realized that I was older than my blue-wigged teacher, and decided I would write a post about how odd it was for a high school student to be older than his own teacher.
Then I woke up and actually did that. Sorta.
As I advance deeper into my 30s, it becomes more difficult to justify my presence. Last night the reasoning was that I had gotten a job without adequate training, so I had to go back to high school to pick up whatever training I was missing. As I sat in class, I realized that I was older than my blue-wigged teacher, and decided I would write a post about how odd it was for a high school student to be older than his own teacher.
Then I woke up and actually did that. Sorta.
Monday, May 02, 2011
A News Report
Sources tell me that Osama bin Laden was killed. That is all. As you were.
Breaking: here is actual footage.
Breaking: here is actual footage.
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