City of Angles

2011-05-17T19:54:00.001-07:00

So you can imagine the disappointment when, shortly after beginning my journey as an openly-gay man at the age of 18, I discovered that the fantasy world I’d created in my brain - in which all my youthful insecurities would magically fall away once I set foot on the streets of West Hollywood - was far from the reality. None of that disappeared. Worse, I became painfully aware that the old rules that had cruelly dictated the course of my life as a teenage pariah more or less still applied. The mold of the ideal may have changed, but what didn’t change was the fact that a mold still existed, and that it still didn’t fit. What was popular still wasn’t me.

Cat Power, Raymond McCarron, and Me

2010-10-03T22:01:00.001-07:00

I haven't written on here for a couple of months, but I felt inclined to share something I stumbled across on YouTube that really spoke to me and doesn't fit neatly into a 140 character slot.

Cat Power is amazing. Have you heard of her? Most people haven't, I'm assuming, because she's not an easy sell like Lady Gaga or god help us John Mayer. Her music is complex and soulful and speaks of great pain. If you haven't heard any of her songs, I highly recommend that you seek her out and bathe in the bruised, golden beauty of her voice.

But that isn't the purpose of my post. No, see, as I was browsing through Cat Power videos on YouTube, I came across a fanmade video of one her covers (she does a great cover, believe you me) - "Sea of Love", originally written and recorded by Phil Phillips. Over the song plays a succession of still photographs, and in the video description the photographer wrote about why he created the video and what the song, and his photography, meant to him - specifically how taking pictures saved him after enduring a terrible breakup, and how he felt Cat Power's version of the song spoke to the pain he was feeling.

Anyway, I felt it was a beautifully written (albeit grammatically awkward) piece of writing, and it in turn spoke to me.

Here's the full text of what he wrote (scroll to the bottom for the link to the video):

Sea of Love, by Cat Power.

nobody reads descriptions so this should be safely unread. i reached a milestone tonight, a million views on this video.

i write a confession, what happened. i started to take photographs to take my mind of a horrendous relationship breakup. i didn't want it to end but it did. it was the first time i felt so alone in this world. and then being without her mattered so much that it felt like i was dying.
This song was my anthem around the time. Cat Power it seemed, had suffered a similar fall from grace. it was and still is, a sad song.
this milestone then, a million views, makes me want to write something about why i uploaded this video in the first place, but the fact is that 95-99 % of viewers click on this video to hear Cat power sing Sea of love, and not view my pictures. of course that's why they click on it, they haven't heard of me, but they have watched Juno, and they have seen Cat Power on stage somewhere, or heard her voice on some friends' CD player. don't get me wrong, i am not insecure, i am totally confidant about my ability to take a photograph as a means to express myself. the music i use in my video merely aides the emotional connection, music has always done this.
i am nearing the end of my twenties. in a couple of months i will be thirty years of age. i don't have any children, and i don't have a partner. i make a living as a photojournalist and freelance photographer.
for as long as i can remember, i could never fit somewhere. there's nowhere i could call home. i barely recognise myself from the young man who entered university thinking that a formal education in psychology was going to make me happy, that this prescribed route was going to make me stop wondering, and actually live my life, instead of scratching at it, watching it.
the solace of a camera then seems in retrospect like an obvious thing to do, but as luck would have it, i finally found something that i was truly a natural at, expressing myself. you see i have a lot of pain. of course everyone and their dog has pain and i am no different, but what i find myself trying to do with the camera is just ignore everything that i have ever learned or experienced, just blissfully forget about the taxman, the banker, the things that make up the world around me, and just think about me.
when i take a photograph i am there, being hit by a wave, happy in a graveyard, in a box, or even a garden plastic rabbit, these are all expressions of myself. yes they exist and i didn't arrange them, but i am drawn to them as soon as i sense them, and for however long the scene is as such, i want to take a photograph of it, and when i do, i feel momentarily invigorated, an orgasmic sense of something recognised and understood and captured, a reflection of myself.
so from someone with no artistic background, via a Machiavellian relationship breakup, i find myself with the perfect medium to express myself with, the camera.

thanks for reading.

Raymond McCarron

my website: www.raymondmccarron.com

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CbMeAOTPJzM

The Cum Dump Song

2010-07-10T11:56:00.000-07:00

Was it something that I said?
Was I rotten, careless wretch?
Come and open up my mouth
And take the bad parts out

If only you would stay
I promise I'll behave
I won't eat all the cake
I'll stand out in the rain

Oh it's a damaged heart
That bites the host
It eats away
So soft and slow

Come on baby, fill up these holes
Your milk like sugar for my soul
Five minutes all I got is time
You know I've been waiting my whole life

The sunset is a halo on your head
Ashes where I am
Just another useless male
Got no soul left to sell

Oh it's a damaged heart
That bites the host
It eats away
So soft and slow

Come on baby, fill up these holes
Your milk like sugar for my soul
Five minutes all I got is time
You know I've waited my whole life

Carlos

2010-06-07T23:36:00.001-07:00

I know this guy named Carlos, see, and he's homeless. He lives, if you can call it that, in the vicinity of my apartment, and I pass him most days, as I'm walking to the grocery store or racing to move my car from a restricted parking spot (street sweeping, expired meter, 2 hour zone - you name it, I've got it). He's drunk a lot of times, guzzling malt liquor by 11am, head nodding as he struggles to keep from passing out on the curb. Like most homeless men, his clothes are dirty, his beard his long, and his nails are horribly long and packed with dirt (and god-knows-what-else). And I pity him. I know the connotations of that term, and yes that is exactly what I mean.

I've offered to help him a few times, by driving him to the free clinic (he claimed to be diabetic and have swollen legs, illustrating it by making a show of having trouble standing up), before I saw him walking and getting around just fine the over the course of the next few days. I've talked to him, at length, 15 minutes or more. I've prayed with him. I give him money sometimes, from the little that I myself possess. But mostly, I pity him, and I don't know what to do with that feeling. Or, more accurately, I don't know how to do what I know I should do, as a good human being. Help him. Get him to a shelter. Distinguish myself from the herds, who pass people like him every day on the street without even acknowledging their presence. But I don't. I am one of them, and until I take action I'm no better, and I know that.

What makes me perhaps even more guilty is that I've actually stopped to learn things about him and yet still fail to act. I know his name. I know he grew up on the street I now live on. I know he's gay, and was ostracized by his family as a teenager because of it. I know he once got railroaded into becoming a street prostitute, in a story he told me months ago while falling-down drunk at two in the afternoon, his speech slurred, his gaze unsteady. I know he worked as a waiter at a restaurant where Sally Field was a regular, and that one time she offered to give him a job as an extra in one of her movies (revenge thriller "Eye for an Eye" from '96). I know that he's always cold, even when it's 89 degrees outside. I know he's been in and out of shelters for the majority of his adult life. And possibly, that he's mentally ill (as many homeless people are).

And also, sometimes, I'm repulsed by him. It's not easy to say. But it's true. Those long nails, so unbelievably long, grotesque even. The untrimmed nose hairs. The filth on his clothes. The way he leers at me, drunkenly. How I flinch when he reaches his hand out to grab mine, or when he asks me for a hug. These are things I do not refuse him, but things that nevertheless make me cringe. And I don't think I'm a bad person for it. I think it makes me human.

The other day he asked if I was gay, and I told him yes. He asked if I'd be his boyfriend, when he got all cleaned up. I changed the subject. At one point, he reached out his hand, like he normally does, and against my better judgment I offered him my own. As he interlocked his fingers around mine I could feel one of those long nails, scratching against my palm - a lascivious gesture, an invitation. I finally managed to pull away and beat a hasty retreat back home, the orange juice I'd just bought at the store sweating in the heat, but not before having to forcibly remove my hand from his grip. It would almost be comical if it weren't so sad.

So he'll be there, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Wasting away what hasn't already been wasted, baking in the summer sun but still shivering, emptying bottles down his throat. Gazing at the street, and the passing cars, and all the bustle, the world literally passing him by.

Why do I feel so powerless to change it?

If You Read One Thing This Week, Read This

2010-05-26T01:47:00.000-07:00

I first read this close to a year ago, and just stumbled across it again. Originally it was run on Salon, but the link is dead. Luckily, someone else posted it in full on their website, and now I'm posting it in full on mine :-)

It's poetic, beautiful, and inspiring, qualities every writer strives for in their work but few achieve (myself included).

"The Heart of a Saturday Night" by Garrison Keillor

The driest May in Minnesota since the Dust Bowl. Venerable GM slides into bankruptcy and you shudder for the old Pontiac dealers and the retirees in Michigan. In the middle of the night, an Airbus drops out of the air into the Atlantic Ocean and the veteran traveler shudders to think of it. And the posthumous John Updike appears in the bookstore, a book of short stories ("My Father's Tears and Other Stories") and his last poems, written by "my right hand ... faithful old five-fingered beast of burden ...its labors meant to carve from language beauty, that beauty which lifts free of flesh to find itself in print."

In the midst of these ominous rumblings, I went to a lovely party Saturday night, which is newsworthy because I stopped going to parties a long time ago because it's boring to hear people talk about getting old, but then Saturday night there was this party and I went. A big brick manse on a quiet street, 30 people, half of them under 25, on a deck out back, hamburgers, fried chicken, chips, beer, wine, the usual repartee, and a lot of youth going on around us.

A boy and a girl with eager eyes, in the shadows, like badgers at a campsite. Three boys holed up with a video game. A beautiful coltish 16-year-old girl leaning around in a black strapless evening gown, trying out different personas (Dorothy Parker, Nancy Drew, Ava Gardner), who struck me as a reincarnation of Anne Frank. A teenage boy sitting with his nose in a book, making a great show of isolation. And an intensely quiet blond girl, a math whiz, who, with no reluctance, sat down at the piano when I asked her if she played piano, squared her shoulders and played the exquisite Chopin Prelude No. 2 in A minor, the notes of the slow movement like raindrops on birch leaves, smoke drifting by, an anguished old man pacing in the grass, and played it so beautifully it transformed the entire evening.

Transformation is no easy trick: It's what art promises and usually doesn't deliver. But she did. It was a difficult piece, and what she showed us was the intense poetry underneath her calm Lutheran exterior. She borrowed Chopin's passion and made it her own, an astonishment, and then she stood up awkwardly and we all clapped and whooped. It was so much more than what we deserved to hear, which is true of art, a lavish gift of the heart that shames pretense by its outrageous generosity.

I went back to the crowd on the deck and had a piece of rhubarb pie with ice cream, feeling buoyed up by the performance, and still feel buoyant days later. The plane falls, the company slides, the good man is gone, the lawn turns brown, but with Chopin you come back to basics: Do I regret this life? Is it, despite all our brave words, a cheat and a waste? Does it make any slight difference to the universe that we are present?

What depresses me about the old-age monologue is the air of regret -- Poor Me, I Am Unaccountably Sixty-Five, My Brain Is Leaking, My Legs Are Gone, Where Has It Gone, The Beauty And The Dream? -- and what makes me love cities, despite the uproar, are the constant reminders of the generosity of life, the readers on the subway, the cheeses in the deli, the pictures in the gallery, the musicians in the park. The exuberant salad eaten on the sidewalk amid bus exhaust and the drawn faces of passersby.

Playing the Prelude No. 2 in A minor is not a step on a career path. There is only one Emanuel Ax, and he has the Chopin chair for now, and there are plenty of dead pianists around on CDs. I suppose that you could argue for a correlation between mastery of the Prelude No. 2 and scholastic achievement leading to opportunities in computer programming, but meanwhile, it simply is an extravagant gift from the heart of a girl to the hearts of whoever is standing nearby. Life is good, no matter the disappointments -- O God the disappointments. Just square your shoulders and give them your utter best. As the late great Marilyn Monroe said, "I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful." Life is insurmountable, but we mount up every morning and ride forward. Thanks for being wonderful, dear heart.

(Garrison Keillor is the author of the Lake Wobegon novel "Liberty," published by Viking.)

© 2009 by Garrison Keillor. All rights reserved. Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc.

Neat-O

2010-05-25T23:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not an "Idol" watcher, but this was a great performance. In our disposable, cookie-cutter culture, I hope she's able to carve out an authentic place for herself.

P.S. The other one is a snooze -- I think his name is Lee or something. (We don't need another John Mayer, thank you. As a matter of fact, we didn't even need one.)

Good-For-Nothing

2010-05-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

Fingertips make tracks
Ridges down your back
So close, but floating high
Waking up I want to die

And I feel
Feel your weight
Scar my eyes
Fetal ache

Down I go
Sold my soul
You told my tale
You drilled the longest nail

Empty streets that call your name
A thousand plots burn through my brain
Your black hole eyes eat me up
I swear you fit me like a glove

And I know
That you're gone
And I cry
All alone

Down I go
Sold my soul
I chase my tail
I drilled the longest nail
(2x)

Woebegone

2010-05-13T22:39:00.001-07:00

Across the oceans, vast and blue
I’ll never find a one like you
Pearly smile, sweet caress
Without your touch, I’ll have no rest

The light it plays across my face
Flicker, flicker, god’s good grace
Here I’m not so much alone
In this dark place, I find my home

You’re there in every frame you know
Every glimmer, mirrored glow
Cast your cruel and careless spell
Make my life a fetal hell

You huff and puff and blow me over
And lay me flat, no four leaf clover
But I’ll rise up and haunt your dreams
I’ll lick your plate, I’ll lick it clean

It doesn’t matter what I do
I’ve got a hole now, running through
Like a flicker in the dark
To start a fire, just need a spark

Fuck You, Jan Brewer. You Too, John McCain.

2010-05-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

I just watched this on my friend Tlaloc's blog (poppedtarts.blogspot.com), and I just had to share here. I absolutely cannot wait for this shit, and I love that they mention Arizona at the beginning of the trailer:

The fact that human car-wrecks Lindsay Lohan AND Steven Seagal are both in it is just icing on the cake.

In case you aren't aware of the Arizona issue, there's a new law in the state that essentially makes it legal for law enforcement to racially profile Latinos. At best, the law (signed in late April by Republican governor Jan Brewer) is a horribly misguided attempt to crack down on illegal immigration. At worst, it's a major violation of, you know, the United States Constitution (ever hear the term "equal treatment under the law"?). Actually, it's both (not to mention a cynical attempt by Brewer and Sen. John McCain [who also supported the bill] to score political points in a midterm election year). Totally disgusting.

To read up on the issue:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/24/us/politics/24immig.html

There Is No "Can't" In "Canton"

2010-05-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I was in Canton, Mississippi, visiting the set of an independent featured entitled "Rites of Spring", directed by a neat guy named Padraig Reynolds (it sounds like "Patrick" if you say it quick enough and don't think too hard about it). I won't go into the specifics of the visit (gotta save these things for the website), but I will say one thing -- my luggage didn't arrive at the airport in Jackson, and therefore I had no change of clothes for the entire visit (which, admittedly, lasted all of 24 hours). I also had the hots for one of the producers, who apparently has a boyfriend but oh well who's keeping track (not that I stood a chance anyway minus my Fat Hair paste and Schick Quattro). I was on set for 12 hours, and in the course of two days I got maybe six hours sleep (at least two hours of which was plane sleep, which as we all know isn't really sleep, per se). Fun for all.

It actually was rather fun, though, albeit in a "well, I DID manage to get out of town of someone else's dime" kinda way. They were shooting in a cavernous abandoned school, complete with exposed brick walls, collapsing floors, and leftover literature with titles like "Why God Is Great" (we were in Mississippi, lest you forget) discarded on dusty shelves. I also got to meet some cool folks, including one actress who really needs to be a bigger star than she is and some blonde chick named "Missy" in craft services who provided me with loads of sugary goodness and pleasant conversation (although the coffee, sadly, tasted like it had been crapped out the back end of a goat). Also, the director, Padraig, used to be in some punk band called "Nukes", and his favorite director/main inspiration is John Carpenter, both of which automatically make him awesome.

I also missed my regular poker game last night, which is kind of good considering I've already unsuccessfully tried to ask out two of the guys there and it's getting embarrassing ("Melrose Place", I'm talking to you).

In other news, I would hereby like to invite American Airlines (and all other airlines, for that matter) to eat shit.

That is all.

P.S. I also interviewed Patrick Wilson today, and he's super dreamy. Now check out this sweet Bjork music video directed by Michel Gondry:

Why Can't I Find A Man? And Other Questions No One Cares About

2010-04-30T01:28:00.000-07:00

I'm lonely. I'll admit it; I'm not afraid. I'm fucking lonely. I haven't had sex in seven-ish months, and even then it was a one-night stand (admittedly, it was my decision to keep it that way). I've never been a man-whore (except for 4th of July weekend '08, when I very briefly went out of my fucking mind), but it's nice to feel wanted. Physically or emotionally, doesn't matter. Ok, it does matter, but you can't have it all now can you. Sometimes a guy just needs a good lay. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. I know it' s not polite to say it, but since when have I ever been polite here?

'05-'08 I was in a serious relationship, and in the course of that time I fell in love -- with someone else. His name was Grant, and I seriously, crawling-through-glass, crying-in-bed-with-my-knees-up-to-my-chest fell in love with him. I'm not afraid to say that either, although I am ashamed of the circumstances (cheating, you know). He broke my heart and didn't feel a bit sorry, and now he's a rapper in New York. I sincerely hope he fails miserably at it.

Then I fell for another guy -- not in love, not fell, maybe leaned. This is autumn '08. We go on a few dates, he strings me along. I sense a pulling away on his end but I'm desperate to hold on (it was a bad year), to ease the pain of rejection and the dissolution of my three-year relationship. It ends with me on the phone with my mother, sobbing and later listening to the Shins on my headphones ("New slang/When you notice the stripes/The dirt in your fries/Hope it's right when you die/Old and bony"). There was other stuff going on there. Like I said, it was a bad year.

I throw myself into work, into writing (The Next Great American Screenplay). I start this blog, and I get a lot of shit for it. I didn't care at that point, but I took some slings and arrows. You know, you shouldn't be so open with people Chrissie, you'll just end up hurting yourself in the end. I didn't listen, and you know I'm glad I didn't. I survived a difficult time by baring my soul, and it felt good to do it. I think in a way it saved my ass from something far worse than public embarrassment.

The Next Great American Screenplay never came to fruition, at least it hasn't yet. To be honest, it'd just be nice to sell something at this point. I'm a capitalist when it comes right down to it. Create something worthwhile, and then make a profit off of it. The Founding Fathers would be proud.

The blog? Well, I think in some ways I did get scared off. I don't update on Facebook anymore, in fact I barely write on here at all. I thought of making a go at it and realized I didn't have a theme. I still don't. "City of Angles" has turned into "Chris Writing About Himself, Mostly". Why don't you start a regular feature to get people interested? Focus on something people will want to read. Don't be so long-winded. Pictures, video. Fine, have it your way. No one has time for lengthy opinions anymore, I get it. I don't rant in five-page slabs anymore. I try to keep things simple. The blog is just fun and helps me get my thoughts out, it isn't meant to be anything to anyone else (at least it's not designed that way). I guess it never was. It's a canvas for my narcissistic tendencies.

Ok, so seven months. I'm horny, I'm sad. I don't think I'm bad-looking, I know I'm no Gap ad either. My face is chubby, I have deep-set eyes. I'm barely 5'9" (if I stand up straight). My teeth are slightly crooked, and my skin isn't great. But you know, on the positive side I have nice feet, and a good body that I work hard for. And I know there are guys that want me that I'm not interested in. You know, that's life. I want guys that don't want me back too. A lot, in fact.

Are my expectations unrealistic? I guess I shouldn't be hitting on guys that just guest-starred on "Melrose Place" (true story), which only hires exceptional-looking people with porcelain skin I imagine. Maybe I should start frequenting the gay dive bars on Tuesday nights, places filled with nice cute men who have receding hairlines and a slight gut and like playing pool with their friends. I can't cut it with the pretty boys, and it's taken me close to ten years to learn my lesson. Moveon.org isn't a political organization, it's the story of my fucking life.

So here I am, lying in my underwear and this is all just coming out of me at 2am. It's Friday morning now. I fly to Jackson, Mississippi on Sunday morning at 6:00. Shreveport the following week. Where's it all leading? I'm not really sure, but hopefully somewhere I can get laid.

Indulgence

2010-04-30T01:02:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I know I've posted about HOLE a lot in the past, but Courtney just came out with a new album (growing on me) and since I missed her on the Jimmy Kimmel show today (we were SIX SPOTS behind in line when they cut it off), I thought I'd allow myself this one INDULGENCE and post my favorite video of theirs ("Violet", off LIVE THROUGH THIS). Shit, it's not like anyone reads this fucking thing anyway.

Witness the rats and pickled eggs, the kiddie beauty queens and dirty old men, the women wrapping their legs around stripper poles like preying mantises. Most of all, it's got Courtney, in all her rage-filled glory, and this video caters in the aesthetics that for better or worse define her persona. I can't fucking help it, in her heyday she blew all these other bitches out of the water. She played ROCK MUSIC, not Sheryl Crow Top 40 "lite" b.s., not Madonna contrivance, but ROCK MUSIC. And she was crucified for it.

Whatever happened to chicks like her? Karen O. (who I love) is the closest modern-day, semi-mainstream artist I can think of that comes close. I'm sure there are others. Would a stage-diving hellion, howling from her very gut while playing a guitar and sporting smeared lipstick and ripped nylons (sorry for the platitudes, but still), ever make it on the neutered radiowaves of today? Yeah, I know they were neutered long ago, but the prospects now are more abysmal than ever.

Some Things I've Learned, And Things I'm Still Learning

2010-04-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

At heart, I'm a deeply insecure person. I don't take criticism well. It harkens back to my school years, when I felt like an alien in my own skin. I was never the kid others wanted to play with (or at least play nice). In many ways, this hasn't changed much.

I have strong opinions, and those are tough to hold onto. The reason being that the stronger your opinions, the more the world will try to beat them out of you. I'm gonna hang onto mine until I'm given a good reason to let them go.

People will try to change you, always. Being able to recognize the intention behind it is the greatest survival skill I know. If you end up rearranging your values for an asshole, the joke's on you.

Selfishness is an incredibly destructive quality. It starts wars, and it never led to anything good for 99.9999% of people. I'm guilty of selfishness on a massive scale, and it stems from a bottomless want in me that can't be quenched or medicated. I don't want to be a statistic, I want to win. I know it's not healthy.

My creativity is my lifeblood, and I would die without it. I withered for years until I realized this. I didn't realize it because I didn't think I was good enough; sometimes, I still don't.

The metaphoric possibilities of storms and other weather patterns have basically been exhausted, and yet I still try to find ways to make them fresh.

The purity of children and puppies, but especially children, has been debated through time by philosophers and religious leaders, but when I look at my niece and nephew -- 2 and 3 -- I tend to believe the naysayers are full of shit. Children up to a certain age are fucking PURE -- just look at them. Past the age of ten, all bets are off.

The best friend I ever had was my dog Chopper -- half Doberman, half Chow. His tongue was half blue (that's the Chow). He was beaten with a belt when he was a puppy, by a man that I know and despise, and he never recovered from it. I think I related to him because I felt beaten down too; he was my friend when no one else would be. Our favorite place to go was the beach by the schoolhouse; he loved to play Frisbee and swim in the ocean there. When he died, I was 24, and I wasn't around to see him go. I still miss him.

I don't know if I'll ever be religious, but I know I'll never be an atheist. To me, atheism stinks of the same moral certitude as Christian or Islamic fundamentalism. I don't hold the keys to the universe, and I refuse to pretend that I do.

Cynicism isn't always cheap. Sometimes it's necessary.

Open Wide

2010-04-21T23:39:00.001-07:00

Guitar strings and magazines,
The newsprint stains my callused hands
As I leaf through the ADD
And cultural regurgitation.

Songs that have meaning matter to me
But pop fluff clogs the radiowave arteries.
I let it slide past, leaving it for idle ears
Minds like dirty sponges cloaked in the filth
Of society's refuse

I write things; sometimes well, sometimes amateur.
I strive for solid pillars of granite
But often end up with sliding liquids,
Words tumbling down storm drains
Off to be mixed up and watered down,
Tumbled about and quickly forgotten
In the sea of Twitter-account diarrhea
That passes for news these days.

A civilization of thinkers, now an island
Shrinking.
The stones on the beach smoothed out
And leeched of color, bone-white,
Mixing with the skeletons
Who grip their smartphones like life-rafts,
As if unaware they've passed on.

That's the only color now.
Electronic displays, glowing,
Cluttered with brands and logos
And bright shiny things.
Playing against the dark.
Still screaming, still selling
(Open wide, sir, I promise you won't be sorry.)
As empty sockets stare back, blackly, like tombs.

My thoughts on Lady Gaga (Everyone else has an opinion, so I guess I do too)

2010-04-21T00:30:00.001-07:00

She's a very, very good pop musician and she'll be around for a long time to come. I'm not a huge fan of her music, but there are some catchy songs in there. Her "Telephone" video is some kind of genius. I tried so hard to loathe her, but at the end of the day you can't deny the girl's a real talent. Shades of Madonna (another artist whose music I don't care for but who is also a stunningly talented and savvy musician). I'd prefer she dial down the pretension a bit, though. Just because she wears crazy outfits doesn't mean she's creating great art (see: Cher). When you boil it down to the songs, they're exceptional dance tracks but not exactly groundbreaking.

Nerd Chic is Shit

2010-04-14T18:20:00.000-07:00

Open your mind to the possibilities of not dressing like this.

Let me say it right here and now: NERD CHIC IS SHIT. I shit on nerd chic. Nerd chic can eat my dick. It's yet another way for self-important hipsters to feel special. STOP IT, please. Those glasses aren't prescription, and stop trying to pretend that they are. They're taking up half your smug little face, they aren't flattering, and they make you look desperate besides.

Also, if you're over 40, for god's sake enough with the black Converse. They're fine for teenagers and young adults suffering through life crises, but when you're a 45 year old douchebag they don't make you look cool or rebellious -- they just make you look like a 45-year-old douchebag wearing shoes designed for 17-year-old narcissists.

Case in point: working out at the gym yesterday, I spotted a guy who couldn't have been younger than 35, totally ripped, wearing those fucking oversized glasses with the thick rims and -- (drum roll) black effing Converse!

See, if you're the type that enjoys sitting in Berkeley coffee shops, sipping espresso and reading Nietzsche on your Kindle, by all means. But this guy was so clearly a phony, so clearly NOT a nerd, it made me want to rip my hair out and wipe that smug look off his silly, silly face.

If you somehow happen to be reading this and you enjoy indulging in this phenomenon -- perhaps you feel like a Casanova wearing your loafers with no socks and skinny slacks -- I beg you to put your nerd chic affectations to bed. They're tired, they're boring, and they don't make you original.

Nerd Chic is SHIT. I SHIT on Nerd Chic. Nerd Chic can eat my DICK. Say it with me.

The Bitch Is Back

2010-03-26T00:58:00.001-07:00

So it's not exactly a Hole "reunion", since Court's the only original member in the band. But fuck it; this is her show, and as much as I wish she'd bring Eric and Melissa back, she still sounds fantastic. She's throwing off the same energy she brought to her live shows back in the "Live Through This" era.

She left us for awhile, but Court was always the real deal. She plays her own fucking instrument, she's intelligent, and she's fearless.

New album out April 27th.

"Violet"

And the sky was made of amethyst
and all the stars are just like little fish
you should learn when to go
you should learn how to say no

might last a day yeah
mine is forever
might last a day, yeah
mine is forever

when they get what they want, they never want it again
when they get what they want, they never want it again

go on, take everything, take everything, i want you to
go on, take everything, take everything, i want you to

And the sky was all violet I want it again, but violent, more violent
and i'm the one with no soul
one above and one below

might last a day yeah
mine is forever
might last a day, yeah
mine is forever

well they get what they want, they never want it again
well they get what they want, they never want it again

go on, take everything take everything i want you to
go on, take everything take everything i dare you to

i told you from the start just how this would end
when i get what i want i never want it again

go on, take everything take everyting i want you to
go on, take everything, take everything i want you to
go on, take everything, take everything i want you to
go on, take everything, take everything i want you to
go on take everything take everything take everything take everything

Today Was the First Day of the Rest of My Life

2010-03-06T21:35:00.000-08:00

Alarm on cell phone wakes me up at 8:30. I crawl off the couch around 9 (I've been sleeping in the living room a lot lately), throw some clothes on and catch a cursory glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror to make sure I haven't grown two heads in the middle of the night. I move my car out of its meter spot and snag a lucky space in my designated permit parking area. This is how we live our lives, in cubes. In inches. I think I heard it in a movie once.

Re-entering my apartment, I flirt with the idea of shutting the curtains and going back to sleep, but I decide against it. Water goes in, coffee comes out. I make oatmeal and throw in an extra tablespoon of brown sugar. Time to write; I'm behind on articles and need to catch up.

Juices flowing (NOT "Let Down"). The world smiles on me. I finish my article by lunchtime and email it to my boss. He's sick in bed. I track some things down to help him out. Grilled cheese and Tofurky for lunch. I brown the bread just right. The world smiles on me.

I return my mom's phone call from earlier in the day but the voicemail keeps picking up. I don't leave a message, I just keep trying. Eventually I get a hold of her and we talk for the better part of an hour; among the topics discussed are my niece and nephew, genealogy, Google Earth, and the Man (keepin' us down). I drop my late rent check off at the post office down the street; it'll clear if my unemployment check comes as anticipated next week. Money's tight these days.

I'd planned on hitting the gym, but I skip it -- the rain falls outside in a steady, tender flow, just like my excuses. I sit and watch it for a few seconds; its undulations directly determine the degree of my contentment. Alliteration often comes unexpectedly.

I make plans with my friend; dinner at 8. I show up at 7 and he whips together some pad Thai. We try and watch "The Negotiator" on TV but it doesn't take (no cable). During "Parenthood" the signal keeps going out. I adjust the antenna, but it doesn't take. Lauren Graham keeps dissolving into pixels.

My friend hops in the shower, and when he gets out we bicker. It's his dysfunction, but he's making it mine somehow, and I find myself defenseless against the barrage. I leave. Destroy yourself if you have to. I won't stick around to watch the fire.

Home, lonely (where is he, anyway, in this big bad world?), I attempted work on my script. It didn't take. But I always have my thoughts, and this screen, and a keyboard. Steady and carefree, the words roll past the dullness of my mind and tumble out in a whisper. Lubricated slightly by Simpler Times.

This is my gift, and I'm thankful for it. So many reasons to be thankful, in fact. After all, today was the first day of the rest of my life.

The List

2010-02-16T22:06:00.000-08:00

This house is amazing! God, it's huge. I want a house just like this someday. I feel important being here, getting past the door like that. I was so afraid I wasn't going to be on the list, like maybe he forgot to add me. That would be so embarrassing. The doorman seemed like he couldn't find me for a second, so I was really relieved when he did.

Everyone inside is so beautiful, or tall, or skinny, or just really happy. They're all laughing, constantly. With such conviction. How do they do that?

I wish I had skin like his -- it's so smooth. And his nose is really small and perfect. I hate my face sometimes.

From the balcony, you can see the city spread out below. Thousands of lights, like a collection of fireflies.

Did you watch "American Idol" this week? Me too! Simon seems nicer this season. And I like Ellen, too. You know, she's kind of pretty! I never really thought that before, but now I do. God, look at the lights down there. We're up so high.

You're getting another cocktail? I'll come with you! That bartender is so hot, do they pay him more to take his shirt off? They should! He's got a lot to offer. I wonder if he's gay? Do you think he's gay? No? He seems kind of gay to me. Bisexual? Oh, whatever! I don't believe in bisexuality.

Oh my god, Drew Barrymore is here! No way! I love her, she's so fun and carefree and seems to enjoy life so much! I like how she doesn't take herself too seriously. Someone told me she has dinners all the time with her inner circle of gay friends! I hear her house is amazing. Shut up, you've been there? No way! Is she nice? That's so awesome you got to meet her! Her "Prop 8" speech on Santa Monica Blvd. was so awesome! She seems sweet! Oh my god, I think she's coming over here. Do you know any of the people she's with?

It's cold out here! I wish it was summer again. I hate long sleeves! Plus, I've totally been hitting the gym and I want to show off my biceps! Feel them! Sexy, right? Ha, I'm just kidding!

Oh crap, is that the chick from "Jersey Shore"? Oh my god, it totally looks like her! You watch that show too? I love JWow! I watched like five episodes in a row yesterday! Haha! Dude, I am so buzzed off that drink. The bartender made it super strong! He seriously came off gay to me.

That old guy was totally just hitting on you! Oh my god, that's really sad. Seriously shoot me if I'm ever that old and still going to these parties. He's probably really lonely. Sad!

He was super hot! What show is he on? I don't think he was into me, but we should totally try to make friends with him.

I'm am soooo drunk right now, it's not even funny! Let's go look upstairs, I wanna see the rest of the house!

Hey, how are you?? So good to see you. You look fabulous! I love your sweater! It is kind of cold, huh? Wow, that's so amazing, congratulations! I'm pretty good, same old, same old! So good to see you too! I'm sure I'll run into you later on, we're gonna go grab another drink! Have fun!!

I totally need to pee! Ugh, the line is sooo long! I think they're doing coke in there. I saw a bunch of people go in together. What time is it?

Are you going in the pool? Oh my god, I am so not going in there in my underwear! You're crazy!

Yeah, I work in publicity. Just an assistant for now, I don't know if it's really what I want to do but I love all the free shit! And of course being around celebs, I just love it! What do you do? That's sooo cool! We should hang out sometime! How do you spell your first name again?

Five cocktails in and it's like I'm walking on air. I wish it could be this way all the time. Right now, it feels like it could. What if I could just keep this going, for the rest of my life? Feel as carefree as I do right now. I get so lonely sometimes. I don't want to think about that, though. For now, I really do feel like I'm finally fitting in. These people are starting to get me, I'm pretty sure.

God, it's cold out here. The sky is really pretty, though; the stars look just like diamonds. Twinkle, twinkle. Hello, goodbye. Hello, goodbye.

James Dean

2010-01-31T21:28:00.002-08:00

I don't really know when it happened: when I first laid eyes on you, or when you smiled at me, or maybe when I first saw the way you moved as you gathered the ingredients for my java-chip mocha Frappucino -- but none of that matters when you've fallen in love with somebody, does it? It doesn't matter how or when, it just matters that you are.

I think what really got me is your voice -- whisper-soft, cool and confident. It reminded me of one of those old movie-screen idols, the ones from the fan magazines. Like James Dean. Tall and thin, and elegant. Mysterious. And beautiful.

You really are beautiful, you know. The way you move, the way you smile. The way you drag on cigarettes when you're sitting out at one of those little tables in front of Starbucks. Sometimes I watch you when you don't know that I'm looking, and you grin to yourself and I wonder what you're thinking about. I want so badly to know what makes you smile that way, so that maybe I could.

I memorized what your car looks like. It's the brown, tattered one with all the bumper stickers. I picture you driving it sometimes, blowing smoke rings at passing cars. Cool, and carefree, maybe playing an Eagles song. That's how I imagine you, anyway.

To tell the truth, my heart jumps every time you come through my line at the grocery store to buy cigarettes. It jumps every time you speak in my direction, your lips forming words that sometimes I can't even process. God, you move just like a swan -- graceful, like liquid. How does a person get to move like that? I never have. I'm too short, and my shoulders are too broad. You just glide, almost like you're floating.

I think about you all the time. Even when I'm making out with my girlfriend, fondling her breasts, so soft and small. I hate the way she smells -- like must and powder. When I'm kissing her, I just imagine I'm kissing you. That makes it easier to take usually.

It makes me sad when I don't see your car as I'm driving in to work. It makes me sad to know you're off somewhere, free, and I'm stuck pulling carts in from the parking lot and bagging the groceries of old women and other people that aren't you. My only consolation is knowing that you'll be back at work again another day, and that I can wander off to Starbucks on my lunch break and you'll be behind the counter. I go over and over in my head what I'll say to you when I see you next, but of course it all comes out wrong when the time comes.

Every now and then, I profess my love to you when I'm all by myself -- in the car, or falling asleep in bed late at night. I think about making love to you, and how it would feel to have you next to me. Your warm, brown skin against mine, tracing the curve of your shoulders. Whispering things to you in the dark.

You're my James Dean. You'll be my James Dean forever. Just out of reach, ephemeral, a vision of impossible perfection. A mirage shining on a hot summer blacktop, gone just as quickly as it takes for a cloud to pass over the sun.

Status Update

2010-01-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure why you stopped calling. It must have been something I said. Was it that joke I made about Haiti? I guess it was a little too soon.

Still, I feel like we made a really great connection when we were together. I liked to think we were dating, even though we only went out twice. That's what I told other people anyway -- that we were dating.

I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being interested. I go over and over it in my mind, like a carousel. I remember you actually laughed at the Haiti joke (it wasn't really that offensive), so maybe it wasn't that. Was it because I was having a bad hair day the last time you saw me? I'm sorry if that bothered you -- my hair doesn't react that well to dry weather. I should probably invest in some leave-in conditioner.

Maybe I'm too feminine for you? I know my voice is high, and that I say the word "like" a lot. Some would say that's not a feminine characteristic I guess, but I would beg to differ on that. Sometimes when I hear my voice played back to me, it almost makes me want to cry.

It could've been, too -- looking back -- the fact that my stomach was grumbling after dinner when we were watching TV. I know the associations to be made with a growling stomach aren't all that pleasant or sexy to think about (it's just one small step to an extremely embarrassing situation, really). Sometimes I tend to eat too much when I'm nervous. I'll admit I need to work on that.

But you did act as if you liked me, and I really did feel a connection. I still remember the way you stroked the back of my neck as I was driving you home on our last date. I felt like that meant something.

If you give me another chance, I really feel like things will be different next time. People have often said it takes awhile to really get to know me. Sometimes I like to pretend it's because I'm really deep, but I don't think that's really the reason.

Still, I can't help but notice that you've been commenting on my Facebook status updates lately. Are you trying to send me a signal, or are you just feeling guilty? The last one in particular really made me feel like maybe you were still interested. Am I just misreading things again?

I want you to know that I think your status updates are really funny. I liked the one where you made a joke about Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton engaging in a cage match. I laughed out loud when I read it -- I just want you to know that. I hope you saw the comment I left -- it took me awhile to come up with it, to be honest. A couple of hours I think.

Maybe this is the way it was supposed to happen for us. My friend told me once not to worry, that relationships aren't linear and sometimes people circle back around. I'm not sure if she actually meant it, but that actually gave me a lot of hope. I hope and believe what she said applies to us.

I am getting a little nervous now, though. You haven't left any comments on any of my status updates in the last couple of weeks. On the one hand, I'd like to think that's just because you haven't been on Facebook lately, except I know that isn't true because I saw those pictures you posted of your birthday party. It looked like it was a lot of fun! You have so many friends. I guess you just forgot to include me on the Evite.

But still I wonder and I wait. I think that in the end it will all work out between us; I really do. One day I picture us laughing together, telling each other silly stories about how we tried to get the other person's attention but were afraid to do anything too drastic. I picture us doing this at a dinner party, with a bunch of our mutual friends, over wine and maybe some appetizers. To be honest (I hope this doesn't weird you out), I've even pictured us on a beach somewhere in tuxedoes, smiling as we pin red-rose boutonnieres on each others' lapels. I think that image was planted in my head after I saw a Chemistry.com sidebar ad on my Facebook home page with two guys doing the same thing. One of them looked a lot like you.

I think I'm finally starting to get you, though. I hope this isn't weird, but I've been spending a lot of time on your Facebook profile. I like hearing about you, and looking at your photos from summer camp when you were a kid. Did your friends really call you "Smelly Pants"? That's really funny. It also doesn't make me feel quite so insecure about that whole stomach thing from the other night.

Of everything I've learned about you, though, most of all I've learned that you really like to laugh. So funny that your favorite movie is "Anchorman" -- it's definitely in my Top Ten! Maybe we can watch it together one day, and quote the lines before the actors actually say them. We could make popcorn too, and cuddle until one of us falls asleep.

Anyway, through it all I'm really glad we've been able to remain Facebook friends, even if we do never see each other in person anymore. I'm sure that will change soon. Did I ever tell you how much I love your smile? It really is magnificent.

For the Record

2010-01-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

My "Cum Dump" entry is not about me, it's based on a person I used to know, who posted a real Craig's List ad selling himself as a "cum dump" after his boyfriend moved away. In a broader sense, it's about the gay psyche, and the tendency for some gay men to dull their pain and sense of worthlessness through sex. This guy I knew defined himself through his relationship, and when it ended I think he went a little crazy. I think we can all (at least gay men) relate to this feeling, though not necessarily in the extreme sense depicted below. I don't know what happened to the guy in question, but I hope he got better and I wish him the best.

As for myself, I'm actually pretty happy. Just for the record.

Cum Dump

2010-01-26T20:51:00.002-08:00

I just got my heart broken and I'm so depressed. I don't have anyone now, really, not anyone that cares. This guy, you see, he told me he loved me. He told me his world wouldn't be complete without me. And now he's gone, and I'm nothing.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, he's an actor. Actors are cruel by nature, that's what my mother always used to tell me. Fly by night, fairweather lovers. I should've listened to her. If I had, I wouldn't be in the state I'm in. I'm so alone.

He went to New York City, that bustle of humanity. He told me he was gonna be a star. The worst part of it is, I believed him when he said it. Someday, I'm gonna see his name in lights, surrounded by more lights, on a marquee someplace. And I'll still be a nobody.

I have dreams of my own, you know. Dreams that I once held in high regard. I used to wake up singing. I was my own fuel. Now they're just lingering, but they're ghosts mostly. They haunt me, like the memory of The One That Got Away. That's what I'm calling him now. My dreams are dead. I don't wake up early anymore.

Now I'm unemployed. I sit in coffee shops, drinking drinks I can't afford. I go to movies sometimes too, all by myself. Romantic comedies mostly, because they make me feel better. At least until the lovers get together in the end; that makes me sad because I know I don't have that. Sometimes, in the dark, after the final frame, I sit still all the way through the credits. The ushers kicked me out once. They told me they needed to clean it for the next show. I went home and cried over a plate of cold pasta.

Now the only thing I can do to dull my pain is watch old reruns of "I Love Lucy". I really like that episode where they're trying to eat all the chocolate off the conveyor belt because they can't keep up. That's kind of how I felt with him, my actor ex-boyfriend. I couldn't keep up with him, because he knew I didn't have the light. He wasn't drawn to me anymore. I guess I've always been boring.

He's probably on Broadway now or guest-starring on episodes of sitcoms, or maybe he's in a cat food commercial. I don't turn on the TV anymore. I used to Google him and follow his every move on his MySpace page, but it just hurt too much. I would see him posing in pictures, with lots of other people, and they would all look so beautiful, like they were having so much fun. I pictured them having lots of inside-jokes and ribbing each other in good humor over drinks. Champagne flutes maybe. I don't go on his MySpace page anymore. I deleted my account. I don't think he noticed.

But these dreams, these dreams. I still hold onto them, but they're so light sometimes I can almost feel them floating away, up into the clouds. Maybe dreams weren't meant for people like me.

I'm just so lonely, you know? I wonder sometimes if anyone else ever feels lonely. Sometimes I think I'm the only one in the world. My next-door neighbor said hi to me yesterday. I said hi back, but I'm too shy to start a conversation. I listen to him watching TV, and talking on the phone through the wall sometimes. He comes and goes often, not like me. I just sit here and stare mostly, and wonder what it all means. Sometimes I sit in the dark and nothing goes through my head but air and street sounds.

I just need a release. That's why I'm leaving this Craig's List ad. I'm sorry to give you all that back-story. I guess I just wanted to let it all go one last time before moving on and becoming what I was meant to be. I'm comfortable with the notion that this is all there is. If there is a God, I think this is what he intended for me.

I want to be your cum dump. I want it in my mouth, in my nose, in my ears. I want it all over my body, in every orifice. I want it dripping down my back like hot wax. I want it on my legs, and my feet. I want to roll around in it. I want it to consume me. I want you to stand over me and let it all out. You don't have to love me. You don't even have to touch me. I just want to be your cum dump.

Writer's Block

2010-01-26T20:51:00.001-08:00

Songs That Keep Me Sad

2010-01-24T20:24:00.000-08:00

A lot of people listen to happy music when they're feeling sad, but I've always been a wallower. Here are my favorite songs to wallow to.

Sigur Ros, "Njosnovelin (Untitled #4)"

Explosions in the Sky, "Your Hand in Mine"

Band of Horses, "The Funeral"

Beck, "Lost Cause"

Bon Iver, "Flume"

The Innocence Mission, "Brotherhood of Man"

Patsy Cline, "She's Got You"

The Raveonettes, "Dead Sound"

The Shins, "New Slang"

Smashing Pumpkins, "Farewell and Goodnight"

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Maps"

Radiohead, "Let Down"

Kerosene

2010-01-23T09:52:00.000-08:00

You picked me up on the side of the road
In the rain
Half-moon eyes and kerosene stare
As I opened the door and got in
We moved, but it wasn't very far

Words tumble out, and float away
Caught up in my own device
I didn't know how lightly you tread
I didn't know.

I keep the spring loaded still.
I was sleeping before, when you snuck by
And took my limbs.

Bitterest of lessons
Kerosene can light a path or burn it away.

You left me stranded this time

The Rude Pundit

2010-01-20T10:22:00.000-08:00

This is kinda sorta awesome...the kind of thing I'd probably write if I were a political blogger (for better or worse). Listen, at least the guy is aware, and proud, that he's "Lowering the level of political discourse." Kudos for that. (Click on the link below for the article in question, entitled "Random Observations on Last Night's Massachusetts Knockdown".)

The Rude Pundit

I Was Having A Good Day

2010-01-19T16:20:00.000-08:00

Until I saw your face, staring out at me from my computer screen. I don't know why I even opened the invitation -- I knew the party would be in New York, and of course I wouldn't go. I wish I'd never opened it; I wish I'd never seen your eyes. The black pupils, drifting up and up, beneath your lids.

I was sitting on the same couch I sat on with you, those years ago, when I meant something to you. That made it extra hard, I think. I can't help but shudder, I can't help but feel that feeling, when I'm confronted with you. Even after all this time, it makes me ache.

I hardly think about you anymore, you know; not more than I can take. Some days you never even cross my mind. But today -- today. What is it about your face, about remembering you, that makes me feel so alone and empty? Why should you, of everyone on this Earth, have the power to stir such a reaction in my gut, to uproot that old familiar tingling in my head? I guess I'll never know; nature, feelings can't really be explained.

There's a chair at my kitchen table that makes me think of you every time I have to move it to sweep the floor. I brush the ache aside every time, let it slide down my back into a puddle on the ground to be mopped up. Still, that chair brings with it a vision of you, unfailingly. Sitting there, looking out from lowered brows, gazing at me. Your hand cupped around your mouth as you laughed at something I said, whatever stupid thing it was, in an effort to make you love me. You always did that, like you were embarrassed to show your smile. I don't know why; I always thought how I would've died to have those teeth, like pearls against your dark skin. How I wanted them to consume me, anyway, though I knew deep down inside I could never possess them.

So why, after all this time? Again the question plays upon my mind on an endless loop, maybe for the rest of today, maybe for the rest of tomorrow. I guess because I haven't found another since you, and I'm afraid I might never find another one again. And it hurts. For now, it hurts. A dull airlessness ending where it's ended every time before, down the rocky path of resignation and regret. A trudge, against the setting sun, and then back up the path, toward its rise. But still the throb, coiling in some secret compartment, ready to spring again.

A Few Articles

2010-01-18T23:21:00.000-08:00

Shiny forehead, check. Peeing myself, check.

I've been slacking A LOT on my blog the last few months, and part of the reason is that the writing job I got last October has been taking up the majority of my time. So, because I'm lazy and I'd like to keep my blog current without having to be creative, here are links to some of my articles on Bloody-Disgusting. I know you've both been dying to read these! I just know it!!

My unique look on the "Twilight: New Moon" press conference (lots of shit talking):

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/18072

Four Recent Signs of the Apocalypse:

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/17925

Ten Biggest Horror Movie Duds of the '00s (people went nuts on me for this):

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/18389

My review of "Twilight: New Moon" (in case you were thinking of seeing it):

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/film/2433/review

Most Influential Figures in Horror in the '00s (I'm pretty sure I was called a "douche" about 100 times):

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/18563

My visit to the set of the reality show "Scream Queens":

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/18545

My red carpet report from an independent vampire movie called "The Bleeding" (I have two words for you: Geretta Geretta. Just trust me):

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/18108

Just fake it and tell me you read one of 'em.

Lessons Learned in '09

2010-01-09T19:32:00.000-08:00

Those looking for positive enlightenment, go read that framed poster of "Desiderata" in your bedroom or something.

January: You can absolutely complete the first draft of a screenplay in ten days. Just don't expect it to be any good.

February: If you're going to talk shit about someone on your blog, it's probably a good idea to skimp a little on the details. Especially if they live next door to you.

March: That guy who broke your heart? He really doesn't give a shit about you. Stop crying, you pussy.

April: Nobody cares that it's your birthday.

May: The only thing more pitiful than bailing in public and shattering your front teeth on the pavement? Bailing in public and shattering your front teeth on the pavement while racing to beat the cover charge at a trashy gay bar.

June: Michael Jackson was actually a saint in disguise. The disguise of a creepy, painfully thin man-child with a tiny prosthetic nose.

July: If at any point you decide it might be a good idea to share awkward, intimate details about your sexual awakening as a gay teenager on the Web, think again.

August: When it's 95 degrees outside and your one-bedroom apartment has no air conditioning, it gets really, really hot. Kind of like Hell.

September: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'm a total dumbass.

October: People are assholes.

November: When one of your most cherished, trusted friends hires you for a job and promises to pay you for your services, sign a fucking contract. (see: October)

December: Christmas is kinda gay.

What can I say? I'm sort of like an old, wizened sage perched on a mountaintop and holding the Staff of Knowledge. Except resentful. Very, very resentful.

Happy New Year!

Suck My Dick, You Tactless, Insensitive Bitch

2009-12-10T11:31:00.001-08:00

I know I haven't written for a long time, but I fully intend on starting to post on a regular basis again starting this month. Learning to juggle my personal blog, plus my paid writing gig, plus my screenplay has proven a bit difficult. When it comes down to it, I tend to be kind of a lazy-ass.

Anyway, I thought this little tidbit might strike the fancy of some of you who enjoy a healthy dose of shit-talking on occasion, so here goes:

Last night I helped out at an event put on by my former boss, who is a superhero human rights advocate, and a non-profit organization she is a board member of. Essentially, it was a screening and cocktail reception to kick off a new, awesome human rights campaign centered around the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Universal_declaration_of_human_rights) that the organization has put together. In short, it's a great campaign being organized by a group of great people.

My part in the event was very minimal (I wrote a draft of the evening's program and volunteered to assist in whatever was needed the night of), but it was a genuinely cool thing and I was happy to be a part of it. In case you were wondering, the film being screened was Clint Eastwood's Invictus, about Nelson Mandela and the 1995 Rugby World Cup in South Africa. So people that came to the event got free food, free drinks, and a free movie that hasn't been released to the general public yet. Pretty sweet.

The problem was, the invite went out to so many different lists, and the film was so high-profile, that the unexpectedly huge response was more than the small army of volunteers could handle. Within a day or two the event was sold out, and overall they got 1,500 RSVPs for a 365 seat theater. Which is great, except not so much for those trying organize the logistics of the RSVP list. Essentially what we did is send out one email to those who made the cut, and another to the other, oh, 1,100 people or so telling them we wouldn't be able to accommodate them.

Well, let me tell you: the check-in area last night was a fucking nightmare. I don't know how many people who were told not to come actually came, but judging by the numbers it must have been a lot. Making matters worse, several people who had been told to come weren't able to get in because of some screw-ups with the RSVP count (ok fine, and maybe I was partly at fault for that, seeing as I smuggled my parents in even though I hadn't reserved spots for them, so judge me for being a hypocrite if you must).

Anyway, let's just say there was a lot of screaming, a lot of crying, and possibly a little bloodshed. And maybe, just maybe, some unexpected bowel movements and involuntary urination for those volunteers tasked with handling the rantings and ravings of a battalion of angry senior citizens and malcontents. I know I peed myself at least once or twice -- those fuckers can get pretty scary.

Well, all's well that ends well, and in spite of the insanity leading up to it, the event itself went according to plan and everybody that made it inside was happy. As for those that didn't, well...let me share with you one particularly rude email I received in my inbox last night (I was the one who sent out the confirmation and rejection emails, lucky me). Not only did this whore send the email to me, she sent it to the entire Amnesty International activist list and used my name as an example of the "incompetence" that apparently rattled her so badly that she felt she must tell dozens of people about it:

>
to		alerts@takeaction.amnestyusa.org
cc		Chris Eggertsen
date		Wed, Dec 9, 2009 at 9:55 PM
subject		Re: You are invited to a special screening of Invictus
mailed-by		earthlink.net
signed-by		earthlink.net

hide details 9:55 PM (14 hours ago)

As a supporter of Amnesty International for several decades, I believe AI would want to know what happened this evening to supporters like me who RSVPd for the special screening.

As soon as I received the invite, I RSVPd. Last night, I received a confirmation from Chris Eggertsen: On behalf of the TheCommunity.com and the City of West Hollywood, we are confirming your attendance on December 9th, for the UDHR Campaign launch event and screening of “Invictus”. We look forward to seeing you.

This evening, my husband and I drove from Redondo Beach to the Pacific Design Center, excited about the reception and the movie screening. We now liken our experience to a misadventure.

We never got to the reception, wherever it was. Instead we stood in a long line, which only seemed to move when some Hollywood insider gave tickets to friends in line. Many of us ended up with an apology, souvenirs and a refund for parking. Strange that people working the table had a box of souvenirs, like they were prepared for what happened to us. I guess they felt it would justify what happened.

We still intend to see the movie. Moreover, I will continue to support AI, especially when it comes to women rights violations.

The point of this message: What happened is very atypical of a human rights organization.

Please do not invite me to another movie screening if people in the movie industry don't have to RSVP and are given free tickets that are intended for AI supporters who RSVP.

J*** ******

First off, I love how she characterizes the event as a bunch of "Hollywood insiders", even though it was an event for a human rights organization. And why the fuck did she feel the need send it to Amnesty International's list? Clearly she didn't understand it wasn't even an Amnesty event, but an event for another organization. Clearly she didn't care enough about the actual cause to notice this. Anyway, I could go an and on about this bitch and others like her (I've worked several events in the past and there are always bitter assholes like her that the event planners and volunteers are forced to deal with), but there's no need for me to do anything but cut and paste. See, the bitch used my name (which, let's be honest, isn't that big a deal given how little cache it carries, but no matter) in her impassioned vendetta, and that's not nice considering I was just a volunteer trying to help out and was not involved in the nuts and bolts of the event. Therefore, when I say "cut and paste", I mean I will now cut and paste the email I sent in reply for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

from	Chris Eggertsen
to
date		Thu, Dec 10, 2009 at 9:53 AM
subject		Re: You are invited to a special screening of Invictus
mailed-by		gmail.com

J***,

I wouldn't waste any more time on this except for the fact that you dragged my name through the mud in service of your vicious, unnecessary and childish attack. Therefore, I feel I have the right to respond.

First of all, I was a volunteer at the event just trying to help out, the low man on the totem pole if you will. I don't appreciate you using MY NAME in a negative fashion and sending it out to the entire AI action list. What happened was not my fault and it was incredibly unfair for you to do that.

Second, your description of the event as being a bunch of "Hollywood insiders" giving tickets to their friends who weren't on the list is laughable. It's a reductive statement at best; a callous one at worst. The organizers of the campaign to spread the message of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights are not Hollywood insiders; they are people dedicated to the cause and are not at all who you portray them to be. Yes, some mistakes were made at the check-in table, and we're truly sorry that several people who were on the RSVP list failed to gain entrance to the reception and screening. But out of anger and spite you chose to characterize the event as simply a "Hollywood" affair while failing to mention that it was an event put on for the cause of human rights, that a lot of good people put a lot of hard work into. Shame on you for that.

Third, the souvenirs you speak of were indeed there for the purposes you state. As anyone who has ever organized an event knows, a backup plan is essential in case something goes wrong. We received 1,500 RSVPs for a 365 seat theater and knew that there would be an overflow of people despite our best attempts at accomodating everyone. Handing out the souvenirs and picking up the tab for their parking fees was a nice thing for us to do, despite your best efforts at making it sound like a negative thing.

Although in the course of planning and assisting in the production of several events in the past I have encountered many like you, it still never ceases to amaze me how petty and immature a person can be. In the scheme of life, not getting into a movie screening is small potatoes. I actually feel bad for you, because by sending that nasty email last night (which was essentially the "adult" equivalent of a temper tantrum) you effectively showed off your true colors to dozens, if not hundreds, of people. In your mind, it was just a free movie screening and cocktails. Never once did you mention it was in service of a truly worthy cause, put on by good people who work every day to ease the suffering of those less fortunate.

Sincerely,

Chris "Hollywood Insider" Eggertsen

Oh, and if you're wondering about the title of this post, that's what I wanted to say to her in my email but decided against. As always, I leave my gutter-trawling to the blog.

My Adoring Fans, Part 2

2009-10-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

Mom, can you get me a Sunkist?!

A few choice comments left from B-D fans in response to my last article, "The Top 10 Stephen King Adaptations":

Grime, in his infinite wisdom, said: "1408 wasn't good. 1. The Mist 2. Silver Bullet 3. Children of the Corn. 4. It 5. The Shining ------ Mr. Eggertsen, Your list sucks dick."

jonnothin (not in any way afraid of caps or exclamations points) said: "ok hold the f-ck on! Not only does this dude ignore THE best adaptation(STAND BY ME) but also the 2nd BEST (CREEPSHOW)???!!! This list is ass."

nohandtyper (writing via breathing tube?) said: "Best adaptation means that it was well written based on the source material. The Shining DOES NOT MAKE THE LIST. Have you even read the source material? The movie and book for the Shining are two different creatures all around. Damn, do your freakin homework right for once!"

rusted31, clearly going after my job, said: "Eggertson, you and your lists so far suck!! You say Christine isn't a good movie? Are you mad !!Its better than 1408, which was awful, and Pet Semetary is way better than Cujo. Whoever hired you has faild big time."

crow454, holding onto old grudges, said: "This the same guy who put Quarantine on a best of type list but not REC? Looks that way. I'll forgo the order, but no Apt Pupil, Creepshow, Stand By Me, Children of the Corn, Shawshank, Green Mile, Graveyard Shift, Firestarter, or Salems Lot (it was trimmed down from miniserires into a movie, 2 versions)?! Those are all better than the turd that was 1408, even Pet Semetary..."

In response to my "Misery" entry, where I called Rob Reiner a "Big-Studio Cocksucker", BillLoomis, getting personal, said: "Rob “Big-Studio Cocksucker” Reiner" ??? Jeez man...i thought this was a top ten list. Why don't you tell us how you really feel about Rob Reiner? Rob directed Stand by Me..one of the greatest SK films ever. Looks like the only COCKSUCKER in town is you!"

For the record, here's my list:

1) The Shining
2) Carrie
3) The Mist
4) Misery
5) 1408
6) Cujo
7) The Dead Zone
8) Pet Sematary
9) Silver Bullet
10) Christine

You can read the full article, along with all the tactful comments, here: http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/17797

I ignored miniseries, Stephen King movies written directly for the screen, and non-horror adaptations (because it's a site catering to horror fans). And for the record, I really do think Rob Reiner is a Hollywood cocksucker. He's also extremely wealthy, so I think he can take it.

My Adoring Fans

2009-10-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

As I wrote in my last post, I'm now a writer for Bloody-Disgusting.com, an awesome website devoted to all things horror. Well friend(s), I'm happy to report that the B-D community couldn't have been more welcoming! It truly is nice to be loved and appreciated. Below, a sampling of some of their warm and gracious comments.

On my "Top Ten Claustrophobic Movies List":

cryocore said: "You havnt seen [REC]. Then get the fuck out you know nothing stereotypical American tool. Any idiot that puts Quarantine on a best of list, and hasnt seen [REC] is nothing short of a moron. Chris seriously FUCK OFF! or get a clue. Your choice. Yeah douches like this REALLY annoy me. Mos of what is wrong with cinema these days can be put soundly at the feet of the US audience."

maynardmorrissey said: "Yeah, fuck Quarantine. Watch [REC] you ignorant fool!!!"

Superfly76 said: "The list is total shite, where on earth did you grab Cube and Quarantine from? Those films surely fail to make the top ten of ANY list. Cant agree with much of this list (besides Shining, and even that wouldnt make number 1), same narrow minded list that is thrown together over and over again."

Slasher Freak said: "Uh yeah get this Chris Eggertsen off B-D."

bdwolfe312 said: "Yeah, so far not loving Chris Egghead..."

In response to my comment that watching The Descent made me feel like I was trapped in an angry lesbian's vagina during menstruation, Steviris said: "I find it inappropriate to say the vagina was that of a a lesbian. Angry, fine. Vagina, fine. Menstruation, an odd comparison but still fine. However, when you write lesbian, you're singling out a whole sexuality -- and what does that have to do with the movie? If it was an all-male cast, would you say it felt like being stuck in an angry gay man's asshole? Of course not, so you're clearly associating something unpleasant with lesbians, something I find derogatory. As a long-time Bloody-disgusting fan, I would like to see what removed -- just the lesbian part."

Ah, can you feel the love? Palpable, isn't it? Oh but wait, there's more.

On the article I wrote about attending the press day for Saw VI (which I'm sure is going to be just an amazing, quality piece of cinema):

Molcoo said: "Chris, you are completely wrong when you say that 'the fans agree the quality has dropped since the first one.' Who the hell do you think you are, thinking that you speak for everyone? That's just YOUR opinion that the series has been declining since the first one. You come off very arrogant by saying that."

Ok, fine. Maybe not so loving.

Hey, I'm just happy people are reading my work.

P.S.: For the record, some of the B-D readers have actually been really, really nice. As usual, I just enjoy bathing myself in negativity.

My New Writing Gig

2009-10-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

So I'm now a paid freelancer for one of my favorite websites, Bloody-Disgusting.com. You can check out my first article here:

http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/news/17736

I got to attend a Saw VI Press Day at Universal Studios, which was pretty awesome. I felt very official! I participated in a round-table discussion with the filmmakers and cast, then did on-camera interviews with three of the cast members.

I'm not really a fan of the series (in my opinion, if you're going to make a crappy B-movie, you should at least try to have a sense of humor about it, and the Saw movies tend to take themselves way too seriously), but it was a great experience nonetheless.

Anyway, I'm working on a bunch more stuff for the site, so I'll post updates here when more of my work gets posted. In the meantime, I will try to start updating my blog more regularly again. I know both of you have been crying yourselves to sleep every night over my recent absence.

I would actually love to watch the big-insurance CEOs strapped onto this merry-go-round contraption in real life. Not to kill them -- just to watch them disintegrate into screaming little bitches.

An Interview With Esther Lustig or: I Had A Locker Next To Her For Four Years, And All I Got Was This Lousy Brain Tumor

2009-09-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

A few snippets from the mind of Esther Lustig:

In her open letter to the CEO of the company responsible for the Snuggie: "Swaddled in your cloak, I was reborn. I breached the chrysalis and emerged a sturdier, more powerful human being. Like a glorious creature of flight, I embraced the day with the kindest salutation to the morning air. Then I returned to your placental chamber and allowed my mind to guide me back to slumber."

On her list of "Ten Types of People" she could do without: "Self-righteous cyclists. You can be as righteous as you want in conversation but you really cannot invent your own left turn from the center lane maneuvers and expect to live. I get it, you’re healthy, but I have a vehicle."

In her open letter to the "Fat Police at MSNBC": "In closing MSNBC, try reporting some actual news. It’s good for the soul. And stop telling people to join faith-based weight-loss programs, it’s weird. I choose one faith, gentlemen, and that’s the teachings of early 90’s Prince. The purple one commands me to look in the mirror, look beyond the mirror and say, 'I like ‘em fat. I like ‘em proud. You gotta have a mother for me so move that big ass ‘round this way so I can work on that zipper, baby.' Tonight, MSNBC, you’re a star…and I’m the big dipper."

If you just finished reading through those ruminations and didn't at least crack a smile, I don't know what to tell you except maybe it's time to develop a sense of humor. I mean, come on. It's creative, it's funny, it's endearingly random -- what you would call, in the writing world, a "voice", and a pretty damn engaging one. More specifically, the voice of Esther Lustig.

When we went to high school together, I was always a little intimidated by Esther. Not physically intimidated, mind you, but on a purely intellectual basis I knew she was a hell of a lot smarter than I was and, what with my dismal self-esteem, I didn't think I'd be able to handle her giant case of braininess and unique brand of sarcastic humor for more than a minute or so without transforming into a putrefied, gelatinous puddle of self-loathing. But I always secretly wondered what made her tick, and always found her, in our few genuine encounters, to be not only incredibly smart but a fucking riot to boot.

Fast-forward ten years. High school is an awkward, painful, but (thankfully) distant memory. Freshman year is a blur of misery, senior year is better but not by much. But now I'm reconnecting with a lot of people from that time (and earlier) via this new-fangled Facebook deal, and I'm finding that while some people haven't, um -- how do I put this lightly? -- changed all that much, quite a few seem to have grown into pretty decent fucking people. And by my estimation, Esther Lustig seems to have turned out alright.

Of all the things I've discovered about myself over the last decade, one of the most prominent is that I have little patience for people who take themselves too seriously. You know the type. We all have someone in our lives who enjoys talking incessantly about themselves and can't take a fucking joke to save their life, and let's be honest here -- half the time you just want to strangle them (Note: if you don't know anyone like that, I have a newsflash: you're probably the self-serious person other people want to strangle.) If you need an example, just watch an episode of "The Hills", or almost any reality show for that matter. Those are the kind of people I'm talking about.

Anyway, to follow from this, one of the reasons I enjoy Esther's writing so much is because it shows her to have a genuine sense of humor about herself, and for my money there are few qualities in a person I appreciate more. check out her Facebook Notes: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/notes.php?id=138701153, and/or her long-abandoned, now-finally-updated Wordpress page: http://fitymi.wordpress.com/.

In creative writing our senior year, I remember distinctly that there were two genuinely talented writers in the class: Esther and another girl we'll just call, for the sake of this blog, Pretentious Art Whore.

Pretentious Art Whore was one of these people that genuinely thought, and I'm sure thinks to this day, that, as the saying goes, their shit don't stink. Now granted, she was an immensely talented girl -- thoughtful, a beautiful writer, sophisticated beyond her years. But she was also so high on herself that, when she would read one of her poems aloud in class, I swear to god you could actually hear thirty eyes rolling at once. She acted like she was Maya Angelou's spiritual sister, reading her poetry at a formal White House dinner after just having won the Nobel Prize. In other words, as talented as she was, she really wasn't someone you felt compelled to hang out with after school (unless you were they type to enjoy sitting around smelling her farts all afternoon -- one of her own favorite pastimes).

Esther, on the other hand, while just as talented as Pretentious Art Whore, was pretty much as down-to-earth and friendly as they came. She possessed the kind of off-the-cuff wit that made you want to sit and have a chat with her (even if, like me, you felt a little intimidated by her intelligence). Looking back, I really wish I would've made the effort to get to know her better.

Lucky for me, she was more than happy to sit down for (and by "sit down for" I mean "answer my questions via email") an interview, and her answers were just as chuckle-inducing as I imagined they would be (she also emailed them to me in about 15 minutes -- working hard or hardly working?). Here they are, for your reading pleasure:

Q: You’re one funny chick. What the hell have you been doing with yourself for the last ten years?

For the last ten years, I undertook a mission to discover man’s true purpose in the face of adversity. In a labyrinth constructed by my forefathers, Jorge Luis Borges and Samuel Beckett, I sought to define the essence of creativity. Nah, that’s bullshit. I bounced around jobs and grad schools until I found the right fit at a major disaster relief organization that rhymes with Bread Dross.

Q: In creative writing class senior year, our teacher had the tendency to tell uncomfortable stories about her father’s suicide. I think there were also some cringe-y molestation anecdotes somewhere in there. Looking back, would you say she was the Mackenzie Phillips of Buena High School?

That was the only class in which I received a truly unfair, miserable grade because I called her out on her own horseshit. If she was the Mackenzie Phillips of BHS, I was the Spuds Mackenzie. Still am.

Q: Besides my sweet ass, what’s your fondest memory of me from high school? I’m sure there are many, so take your time on this one.

Our lockers were next to one another for four years. Sorry if you wound up with radiation poisoning from mine.

Q: I’m looking for an S&M “master” to my “slave” for our 10-year high school reunion coming up this November. Will you fill that role for me? I see myself on a dog leash wearing assless chaps.

Since I’ve been back in Ventura for the last few years, every weekend is like a high school reunion, mostly filled with people I actually want to see. I don’t think I’ll go to the official hootenanny because, well, I’m not going to pay money to relive awkward memories. I can just make new ones.

Q: If you could be the love child of any two celebrities, who would they be and why?

Martin Landau and Cher. I believe this is self-explanatory.

Q: Flava Flav approaches you on the street and asks you to “wind his clock”. What do you do?

Ask him if he’s accounting for daylight savings time? When I’m sober, I’m exceptionally polite. When I’m not, I’ll make a funny hand motion and run up to some cops screaming, “Smoke this, rastas!”

Q: You’re hilarious and incredibly talented – have you ever tried your hand at writing a book or screenplay? I picture you as the next Diablo Cody, except funny and without all the self-conscious, sub-Dawson’s Creek dialogue.

Thank you. One has to have an epic set of balls to rename themselves “Diablo Cody” and not be a bail bondsman. I wrote a book about teaching critical theory for undergraduate college students. It’s something I thought I’d like, but upon further examination, it’s rhetorically flawed and sort of embarrassing. I’ve done a couple stints writing for magazines and newspapers and spent a year ghostwriting for various sources. The problem with ghostwriting is that you have to be able to write about anything at-length and remove your personal style. Oh, and you can never put it on your resume. One night, I found myself writing about dietary supplements for a men’s magazine and wondered if I’d make more as a phone sex operator. So I became a phone sex operator for about two weeks and realized that I’m horrible at talking on the phone, sex, and phone sex. I couldn’t stop laughing. Currently, I am putting the finishing touches on a screenplay about the 1918 boxing circuit in Long Beach called, “Kid Mexico of Signal Hill” and a book of my open letters is in the works.

Q: Besides Jesus, who or what is your number inspiration as a writer?

Flannery O’ Connor. (Note: If you don't know who Flannery O'Connor is, here's a link to her Wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flannery_O%27Connor)

Q: The loss of Michael Jackson was one of the most horrifying national tragedies in recent memory. Does he “moonwalk through your dreams”?

It’s weird that you mention MJ. I’ve been revisiting his music for a month and all of his solo work centers on a theme of being tried and judged. That’s some heavy shit. Perhaps he waltzes through my dreams as some sort of composite figure. I don’t know. Most of my dreams occur in a movie theater and I’m walking around with my late grandmother making plans about where to go afterward.

Q: You have yourself listed as “widowed” on your Facebook status. Is losing your significant other anything like the delightful movie Bounce starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Ben Affleck?

I’m spiritually widowed. I’d imagine that’s how Ben Affleck feels all the time.

Q: Besides writing open letters and Photoshopping your face onto old-school yearbook photos, what else do you enjoy doing with your time?

Making bongs out of oddly-shaped household goods, watching movies, wearing a Snuggie. If you wanted some sort of exciting answer, I could say “I like to write exciting answers.”

Q: Now that we have a hot President (or PILF), I am proud to be an American for the first time since my Reagan-era dreams were shattered. Dude isn’t the messiah we were all hoping for, but I’ll bet you he’s an excellent lay. What do you think is Obama’s favorite sexual position?

He seems pretty zen, so obviously he favors one of those weird “jade stalk on lotus” sort of things.

Q: I play the drums and guitar and for the last year have been unsuccessfully attempting to form a queercore band called CumDump. Will you be my muse?

Only if you wear matching 1920’s university cardigans and call yourselves, “Magna Cum Dump”.

Q: Last night I suffered a terrifying nightmare that I had grown coarse black over my entire back. Can you interpret this for me?

Robin Williams fetish.

Q: Also on your Facebook profile, you refer to yourself as a “Jewish American Princess”. If you could go back and put on the ultimate super sweet sixteen party, what would it look like and who would be your A-list musical guest?

It would look like a party Val Kilmer might host in Real Genius. My A-list musical guest? Some sort of Motorhead/Led Zep/Sabbath megaband fronted by David Lee Roth.

Q: Please list your Top 5 Southern-fried, Confederate flag-waving, pistol-whipping, driving-your-car-down-the-freeway-at-unreasonable-speeds rock songs.

Tuesday’s Gone: Skynyrd
Never in my Life: Mountain
Rockin’ into the Night: 38 Special
Keep Your Hands to Yourself: Georgia Satellites
La Grange: ZZ Top

Q: Tlaloc refused to answer this question, but I don’t want it to go to waste so now I pose it to you: Do you have ho’s in different area codes?

Not anymore. I’m being good.

Esther in high school. In her words: "1996...Smiths shirt, xxxtra pudge, blowing bubbles, wearing a thermal...LET'S DO THIS!"

Long Live Propecia!

2009-09-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

No, not the men's hair-loss drug (which I'm tied to for life, by the way -- $200 every three months to keep my hair? What homo would say no to that shit? Let me put it this way -- if I was a homeless crystal meth addict, I'd still find a way to pay for it), but Propecia, the take-no-prisoners ghetto-fabulous advice maven! Boyfriend isn't satisfying you in bed? Your wife refuses to suck dick? Confused over the general state of your love life? Just sit back, light up a pipe and ask Propecia the crack ho! Bitch will set you straight:

Note: Thanks to Tlaloc for turning me on to this -- please visit his blog for more invaluable nuggets of goodness: http://poppedtarts.blogspot.com/

A Note To The Girl With The White iPhone In The Checkout Line At Walgreens Last Night

2009-09-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

You know, you must think you're pretty important. You waltz in the store, conspicuous white iPhone appended to your ear and Marc Jacobs sandals attached to your feet, the walking embodiment of shallow L.A. culture, chatting incessantly away with one of your vapid friends about whatever bullshit you sorts of bitches talk about (inevitably revolving around you, her/him, or some combination of the two), and don't even extend the checkout clerk the courtesy of pulling yourself away from your oh-so-meaningful conversation for 30 fucking seconds to say hello and smile in her direction while she dutifully pulls the brand of cigarettes you indicate from the wall behind her.

Believe it or not, that clerk is an actual human being, with a brain and feelings. Hard for you to fathom, I'm sure, or even consider, given the whirlwind of your astonishing existence. I'll bet you never even stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, uttering a kind greeting, or at least an acknowledgement of her service, might have been appreciated by her or helped to lift her spirits at the end of a long day working for minimum-wage at a crappy job. But I guess to people like you, she isn't a person. She's beneath even being recognized or thanked, because in your world she doesn't matter. She's just a clerk, standing behind a counter, who might as well not even be there.

I think it's funny when people blame technology for the increasing depersonalization of our world, for the watering-down of true human connection, as if having a Blackberry or an iPhone is an excuse for being churlish and disrespectful. What I think is that it's simply a way for assholes like you, Walgreens Girl With The Marc Jacobs Sandals, to further assert your self-imagined superiority over those you deem less worthy of your attention and respect. Shocking, I know, but some people (myself included), still place their calls on hold while paying for our groceries; some of us still ask the clerk standing on the other side of the checkstand how their day is going, and thank them for helping us before going on our way. But maybe you've never been that person at the checkstand, or behind the ticket counter or the takeout window. Maybe you've always been the customer, never the servant, and haven't ever felt the sting of being ignored for the work you do (however insignificant others may see it), at least until the sting gives way to numb expectation and, finally, resignation.

I encounter self-absorbed cunts like you, Walgreens Girl With The Marc Jacobs Sandals, on a daily basis here in the City of Angles -- you can't be avoided, sort of like maggots in a festering trash heap. You and your ilk waltz around all sorts of establishments -- restaurants, grocery stores, nightclubs -- with your perfectly coiffed hair and oversized leather trend-bags bearing logos like "Prada" and "Louis Vuitton". With your ugly, strappy gladiator stilettos and your vaguely orange-colored mystic tans. Completely oblivious to the peons around you, making your way in packs of similar L.A. automatons, all of you raised on the lie that somehow you're better than the rest, more deserving of adoration and the expensive things that can be bought with an American Express card.

But when it comes down to it, none of you are special in the ways that matter. Sure, one of you may have a bigger expense account, or a more overpriced hairstyle, or a better job title. But you're all the same, in that you're all robotically obsessed with yourselves and everything that entails; all of you settled into a dead-end life of empty small talk, forced smiles and endlessly updated Twitter accounts.

A lot of people might say I'm judging you unfairly, Walgreens Girl With The Marc Jacobs Sandals. I say you're a dime a dozen, and I've seen enough of you to know what lies at your core. Nothing but fluff, wrapped around a hollow center, any trace of humanity long ago smothered by the blanket of your own ego-fueled desires. I'd say I feel bad for you, but empathy requires a projection onto someone who feels deeply the ache of their own shortcomings and dashed expectations. You and your kind simply don't fit that bill, because you've all (male and female) put yourselves on autopilot towards a single destination -- the Island Of Self-Gratification -- happiness being only a thing that can be bought and manipulated and charmed into being.

The only people I feel sorry for in the scheme of your existence, Walgreens Girl With The Marc Jacobs Sandals, are those recognizable human beings (a group from which you disbanded long ago) who are forced to suffer your callow narcissism for longer than the brief moment I observed you in the checkout line at the drug store.

It's like they were having a competition to see who could look more vacuous and self-important, and Audrina won.

According To The Internets, My Top 20 Films Of All Time

2009-09-18T15:37:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered a website called Flickchart.com, which allows all of us obsessed list-makers out there the opportunity to create our own Top 20 lists of the greatest films of all time (you can also separate them out by genre -- so you have your top 20 dramas, top 20 comedies, top 20 horror films, etc.), without putting too much critical thought into it (because where's the fun in that?).

The mechanism is simple -- their system will randomly generate two films side-by-side, and you pick whichever film you like better by clicking on it. It then adds these films to the list in relation to which you like better. For example, say your very first match-up is The Godfather vs. Material Girls (I think the choice here is obvious -- overrated Mob drama or top-notch screwball comedy starring those two loveable Duff sisters? Francis Ford Coppola is "So Yesterday"!). You pick whichever is your favorite, and then your choice appears at #1 and the loser appears at #2. The more movies you rate, the bigger your list grows and the more accurate (apparently) it is as a reflection of your true Top 20/50/100, etc. Sound like a meaningless waste of time? Oh, it is. God bless America.

What makes it more accurate is the fact that movies already on your list come up again and again, and are matched against other films already on your list. So if Torque is below Citizen Kane and you know that's just, like, totally backwards, when they finally come up against each other you have the opportunity to set the record straight. If you haven't seen one of the films that comes up (or either of them), you simply click on "Haven't Seen It" and the program automatically generates one or two new choices.

Anyway, after rating over 1,000 movies in over 4,000 match-ups this way, I have to say that my list, while certainly not right-on, is actually pretty close to what I would have imagined. Admittedly, it gets a little old after awhile (I'm pretty sure the amount of time I spent on the website is equivalent to at least a full day of my meager life) but for the first few visits at least, it's positively addictive, to the point where you kind of just go into a meditative state where the (overrated) "real world" just melts away. I call it my happy place.

And now, without further adieu, my top 20 films of all time (or at least close enough), each followed by a short commentary:

1) Raiders of the Lost Ark: I've watched this movie at least a dozen times (probably more), and it never loses its magic. A face-melting good time, with Harrison Ford back when he was one hot mutha. This one and Last Crusade are my favorites in the series; Temple of Doom is pretty awesome; Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a piece of shit. Tip: Dress as Indiana Jones for Halloween. If random people at the party aren't throwing their pussies at you (the boy or girl variety) left and right, then there's something horribly wrong with you.

2) The Exorcist: This one's for you, Tlaloc! It's not the scariest film of all time (in my opinion), but of course I wasn't around in 1973 when people were fainting in movie theaters (although admittedly the majority of those people were probably on acid). For its time, I'm sure it was positively shocking. Today, it still stands as one of the greatest films, horror or otherwise, ever made. Oh yeah, do yourself a favor and watch the original -- not the "extended version" or whatever the hell they call it. The "spiderwalking" scene isn't that scary (in fact, it's actually kind of laughable), and it has a completely different, tonally-inappropriate "upbeat" ending that is total bullshit and also makes no fucking sense.

3) Amores Perros: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's first film, and still his best. Unforgettable, shocking, and completely mind-blowing (in that you literally want to blow your brains out after watching it). I mean, it's pretty depressing stuff, but also absolutely brilliant. It's one of these, how are all of these stories linked together and what does it all mean, and we're all human after all type movies (i.e. Crash, Babel, etc.) that we're all totally fucking sick of, but this is the first of the modern crop and by far the best.

4) City of God: Interestingly enough, I watched this film and Amores Perros within a couple weeks of each other. Another brilliant film, this one about two brothers that take divergent paths (one criminal, the other straight-and-narrow) after growing up in the slums of Rio de Janeiro. Will also make you want to commit suicide (in a good way). The gang of child criminals in the earlier portion of the film is positively terrifying, and there is one scene involving a gun and a cornered young boy that I can guarantee you'll never forget.

5) American Graffiti: This is one of those movies that just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside (and also makes you wish you grew up during the 1950's, at least until you remember that it wasn't exactly a good time for minorities). Interestingly enough, it was directed by a pre-Star Wars George Lucas, before he hopped in bed with "The Man" and was actually able to, you know, write and direct characters that were recognizably human. It's sort of like Dazed and Confused -- a movie you can watch over and over again, not just because it's fun to watch but because it has a real depth that sneaks up on you. Watch for all the familiar faces -- Ron Howard, Harrison Ford, Suzanne Somers (in the metaphorical white Thunderbird), etc.

6) Dazed and Confused: Speaking of -- this is one of my absolute favorite films of all time, by one of my on-again, off-again favorite directors of all time, Richard Linklater. Like American Graffiti, it makes you feel nostalgic for a time period that you may not have even experienced (in this case, the 1970s). Matthew McConaughey is also not insufferable and actually really funny here, as a sort of marginally-smarter Jeff Spicoli-type, except seven years out of high school. Overall, the movie creates a genuine mood; sorta makes you want to have a sit in your parent's driveway with a bunch of friends on a summer afternoon while swilling warm beer and having a toke or two. In other words, it makes you want to be 17 again. Bliss.

7) Blue Velvet: I mentioned this in an earlier post as one of my favorite horror films of all time (even though it's not technically a horror film -- or any other type of film for that matter), but clearly it's actually one of my favorite films of all time, period. It's just so unlike anything else, but in an accessible (for David Lynch) way. The visuals are striking, and the performances by Dennis Hopper and Isabella Rossellini are suitably bizarre. Once the helium-sucking gets going, there's no looking back. Small-town suburbia has never looked so bleak, or beautiful.

8) JFK: The film most likely to turn you into a conspiracy theorist. Arguably Oliver Stone's best film, but definitely my favorite (ok, so it's a toss-up between this and Natural Born Killers). It's over 3 hours long, but you won't even feel it. Simply riveting, from first scene to last. Seriously, that bullet could not have come from the book depository!

9) Terminator 2: Judgement Day: As much as I love the first film, this one is my favorite of the series. Yeah, the CGI looks a little dated in the light of 2009 (remember when they were the most amazing special effects you'd ever seen??), but it's one of best sci-fi/action films ever made. James Cameron is a genius, and he's at his best here (although does anyone else think Avatar looks like a $300 million live-action Pokemon movie?).

10) The Grifters: Ok -- was it just me, or was The Queen one of the most intensely boring films ever made? Yeah, Helen Mirren was great, and it was well-crafted, ok, but Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was all the fuss about??? Talk about wanting to shoot yourself in the head -- that movie made me want to run over my own face with a lawn-mower. Anyway, I digress -- this is by the same director, believe it or not (Stephen Frears), and it concerns a young con artist (John Cusack, back when he was at the height of his fuck-ability) who has his loyalties torn between his con-artist mother (Anjelica Huston) and con-artist girlfriend (Annette Bening). Poor John! There is an undercurrent of incest here (for all you incest-movie junkies), but don't let that scare you away. This is top-shelf stuff, with a final scene that will never leave your mind.

11) There Will Be Blood: Yeah, the ending was a little ridiculous ("I... drink... your... milkshake!"), but overall this is a work of genius, with a terrifying/brilliant performance by Daniel Day-Lewis. As opposed to that other bleak, multiple-Oscar nominee from 2007 (No Country For Old Men), it isn't perfect. But as a pure vision from a one-of-a-kind filmmaker, it's unparalleled. No one could have made this movie but P.T. Anderson.

12) Inglourious Basterds: I'll admit, maybe this one is a little unfair. After all, it showed up on Flickchart like a week after I first saw it, and it was still incredibly fresh in my mind, an advantage many of the older movies didn't have. But let me say again -- this is uncut Tarantino with balls flapping, and it is a vital part of his oeuvre. I hesitate to say that it's better than Pulp Fiction because it's been awhile since I've seen that one, but it's pretty damn close.

13) Sideways: No, I'm not a middle-aged neurotic white man with a drinking problem, and I still think this movie is great, as well as being Alexander Payne's best (which is saying a lot). It sounds like a stodgy road movie for old people on paper, but it surprised me by being such a sincere mix of comedy, pathos and real sweetness when I first watched it. Virginia Madsen's monologue really is the centerpiece, I think -- but it's really one of these films that not only gets better and better as it goes along, but better with age; like a good bottle of fine wine. The final scene is perfection -- it couldn't have ended any other way.

14) Chinatown: Haven't seen it, you say. Shame, shame. It's a sweeping crime epic with a real heart, made by a master director at the top of his game. The screenplay is held up as being one of the best ever written (at least that's what Syd Field told me), but to see it all tied together on screen is truly magnificent. Polanski, Nicholson, Dunaway -- '70s filmmaking was never better. Strangely enough, it's the second movie on this list that has a sub-plot dealing with incest. Am I one of those incest-movie junkies I mentioned earlier? (shudder)

15) Natural Born Killers: Again, I can't decide whether I like this or JFK better (even though Flickchart seems to be telling me it's JFK). Then again, they never came up together, and honestly I don't know which I'd choose if they did. Actually, yeah I do. It would be this one. It's Oliver Stone's Inglourious Basterds, if you will -- the full flowering of his unique style. For my money, Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis would totally kick Bonnie and Clyde's ass -- no contest. The satire is incredibly sharp here, as are the performances. And the visual style -- well, rent the DVD and watch the extras; it will come as no surprise that many of the cast and crew were dropping acid during filming.

16) Minority Report: Admittedly, this is the first film on this list that I would say probably doesn't deserve to be on here, but it's still a balls-to-the-wall Spielberg extravaganza, with some of the most riveting sci-fi/action sequences I can remember. Anyone who doubts that Spielberg is capable of molding art and popular entertainment into one film need only watch this as proof that he can. Yeah, Tom Cruise is in it, but he's given few opportunities to laugh or smile that creepy, empty smile, mostly because he's usually running from shit and generally having a rough go of it. One of Spielberg's best latter-day movies.

17) The Conversation: Like Chinatown, this is another amazing example of the golden era of 1970s filmmaking. It stars Gene Hackman as a surveillance expert who suspects that two people he is surveilling will be murdered and tries to decide if he should intervene. A classic paranoid thriller directed by Francis Ford Coppola that he directed in between his two Godfather opuses. One of the rare small-scale thrillers that packs a big wallop -- it draws you in slowly and plays you like a piano, as Hitchcock would have said. By the end, you're left stunned and grateful. How can a movie be so fucking good?

18) Kill Bill, Vol. 1: As anyone who has read my last string of posts knows by now, I'm a huge Tarantino fan, and it's a toss-up between this (along with Kill Bill, Vol. 2) and Inglourious Basterds as to which is my favorite film of his. Honestly, it's hard for me to separate this from Vol. 2 because they are really one work (Tarantino initially devised them as a single film), but somehow this one ended up on the list and Vol. 2 didn't. At the same time, they are in a lot of ways (strangely enough) two very different movies. Vol. 1 is a bona-fide splatter-fest with an amazing, full-scale action-movie climax, while Vol. 2 takes a more personal approach, with its best fight sequence taking place in a trailer, for chrissakes. Both are brilliant. You'll never have more fun at the movies.

19) The Wrestler: Another case of a very recent film ending up on the list, probably due to its freshness in my memory. That being said, this is really great, poignant stuff (the speech Mickey Rourke's character gives to his daughter is really, really, beautiful and completely heartbreaking and made me blubber and cry like a baby) from Darren Aronofsky, whose last movie, The Fountain, was an ambitious, unintentionally comedic dud (just think -- Hugh Jackman drinks cum from a tree and engages in naked tai chai against a starry background in one movie!). This is Aronofsky stripped down to his most humane essence (none of that disorienting Requiem For A Dream shit), and it suits him well.

20) The Shining: Yeah, so this one was also on my top horror films list, but it truly is a masterpiece and deserves a spot, maybe not in my top 20 but definitely in my top 50. Way better than the book (did you see the pretty awful T.V. version with freakin' Rebecca De Mornay and the dude from Wings? Yeah, that was the one Stephen King liked better), in that it's not much like the book at all. Jack Nicholson of course gives a terrifying performance, but check out Shelley Duvall, a.k.a Skeletor; somehow she grows even more emaciated and pale as the film goes on, and by the end you're pretty sure she's actually afraid of Jack Nicholson (and probably Kubrick too, who legend holds put his actors through a real-life horror show all his own).

So there you have it. Another pointless list that nevertheless is relatively reflective of my tastes. Again, the website is http://www.flickchart.com/; remember, it's incredibly addictive. Don't say I didn't warn you.

My Adventures In Health Care, Part 1

2009-09-16T16:01:00.000-07:00

What the fuck are these assholes on the Health Net website smiling about? Oh yeah: they're on Medicare.

There are some great perks that go along with not having a job -- near-unlimited free time, sleeping in on weekdays, the ability to browse for funny videos on YouTube without worrying about your boss looking over your shoulder. At least for the first couple of months, not having to report for duty every Monday-Friday morning kind of rocks, and it reminds you that there's more to life than pushing papers and drifting off during staff meetings -- like catching up on Oprah, for example.

That being said, there are also immense downsides to not having a job, first and foremost of which is that after that first couple of months, you start to feel like kind of a loser. You know you've been unemployed for too long when you actually start lying to people when they ask how long it's been, or say something vague like, "a few months" or "it's been awhile". Three months? Ten months? Nobody has to know.

Other downsides include the aforementioned "perks" of having near-unlimited free time, sleeping in on weekdays (trust me, it gets old fast) and the ability to endlessly browse for funny videos on YouTube (come to think of it, I actually liked my boss.)

One of the biggest downsides, though, is the fact that you actually have to worry about purchasing an individual health plan (or one for you entire family, which I can't even imagine and don't want to). For nearly five years, I didn't even have to think about it -- everywhere I worked, I was well-taken care of and I always had pretty good health insurance. Of course, once you're laid off and your HR person tells you not to worry because you're eligible for COBRA do you realize that eligibility does not equal affordability.

For those of you who don't know, I was laid off last December (a.k.a. "a few months ago"), and accordingly I myself had to go shopping for individual health insurance. After weighing my options (and, frankly, procrastinating for a couple of months), I ended up going with a plan from those fucking bastards over at Health Net. We're talking bargain basement here -- looking back on it, I was basically paying $47/month for next to no coverage. But hey, my prescriptions were covered as long as they were generic (they are), and I'm a pretty healthy dude so what the hell? There's no way I'm going to be unemployed for longer than the six months the health plan covers, right?

Well, six months later and nary a job in sight, I was shocked to discover that a renewal notice had indeed arrived in the mail from Health Net (oh shit, is it August already?), and so I diligently (ok, after waiting a couple weeks) went on their website and filled in all of the information I'd filled in six months prior. Easy, right? Jesus, what the hell is everybody so worried about? The system seems to be working alright for me.

About three weeks later, I was getting a little worried because I hadn't heard anything yet, my current policy had technically expired and I was getting a little low on my "fun" pills, if you know what I mean. It certainly hadn't taken that long the first time -- after all, it's only short-term coverage that's supposed to be quick and easy, so what the hell? Well, I'll tell you what the hell -- it took longer than before because little did I know they had been conspiring in their little Health Net vampire-bat cave for the last three weeks looking for reasons to deny me, a perfectly healthy 28-year-old man. And deny me they did.

The day I found out was just your average, typical unemployed-loser-type day. I was just sitting around, minding my business, with that blinding late-afternoon L.A. sun (here I put my fingers in the shape of a cross and hiss through my teeth) creeping its way across this ugly tan carpet in my living room that I've been staring at for the last nine months, and contemplating whether I should take the plunge and open the week-old pile of mail gathering dust on my coffee table. After all, I thought to myself it had been a week, and I should probably open that nice big envelope I got in the mail from Health Net, which is clearly a "congratulations and welcome back to the Health Net family" packet of information and such, because for god's sake they don't send rejection notices in a 10X12 envelope. And besides, I need to get my fun pills refilled anyway, so I guess it's time to crack that baby open, tear out my new insurance card along the dotted lines and march it over to Walgreens.

Wait, what's this? This "regretfully", is that even a word? "Cannot be approved"? Um...clearly they meant to send this to a middle-aged woman in the Midwest dying of cancer, certainly not to me, a perfectly health 28-year-old man. But no, that is my name at the top of the letter, and, well, yeah, that is indeed my address...

Yes. I, Christopher James Eggertsen, who has never been diagnosed with any major health problems or incurable diseases or even crabs for chrissakes, was rejected by those motherfuckers at Health Net because...well, read it for yourself:

"Health Net's underwriting decision was based in whole or in part on a report we received from Milliman IntelliScript regarding your prescription drug history."

Ok, hold the fuck on. My PRESCRIPTION DRUG HISTORY??? What the fuck!! These are run-of-the-mill medications that I'll bet at least half of the U.S. population is on. This is the basis of their decision? How can a person be turned down because they take a couple of pills? I never even go to the fucking doctor! And need I remind them that they approved me for the exact same health plan six months ago?

Oh, but what's this? If I go on a more expensive plan (what they call "guaranteed issue"), several options of which are handily listed in this delightful little packet (no wonder it came in a 10x12 envelope), they may be able to reconsider their decision. The cheapest of these? $357.50/month. Well shit, I guess an insurance company will guarantee pretty much anybody as long as they agree to a good ol'-fashioned ass rapin'.

Luckily, they also listed an 800-number for their "Individual Underwriting" department, so I called it because, hey, that's what phone numbers are for right? And surely, once they hear an actual, needy human voice on the phone Mr. Big Bad Insurance company will be more considerate and understanding, right?

Well, after scrolling through several confusing "menus" for about half an hour (which is sort of the equivalent to going to a restaurant where all the items are listed in Cantonese and none of the waiters speak a lick of English), I finally reached a rep -- oh, wait, no. I'm sorry, that's just a recorded message. You know the one -- "Please hold and a representative will be with you shortly."Oh, but if you press "4" now, you can leave a message on their answering machine and they'll return your call! Well, how considerate of them! So I do, I press "4" and I leave my name and number in a terse tone of voice so they know I mean it.

That was a few days ago. It took them about 48 hours, but they actually did call me back (of course I wasn't available to take their call -- boo-ya, Health Net! How does it feel getting a taste of your own medicine? What's that you say? It feels just fine? Oh, alright then). Anyway, we've been playing phone-tag since then, but I'll be sure to report back once I manage to get one of these ass-wipes, I mean people who are just doing their jobs, on the phone.

As for right now, as in this very minute, I'm living without a safety net, my friends. No reckless driving or mass consumption of alcohol or meth orgies for me until I can get this whole mess sorted out. And since the swine flu is coming again soon (a booga booga!), maybe I'd better just stay the hell inside and quarantine my ass.

Of course, now that I know the health care crisis applies to me, I'm super pissed. Not that I don't care about everyone else because I do (and frankly I actually was paying attention before all this mess), but now it's gotten me where my perfectly healthy 28-year-old ass lives.

Translation? Me and the Man is gonna have some words. I will cut a bitch. Of course -- I'd better make damn sure I'm not the one getting cut.

P2 Movie Review or: Because I Just Can't Get Enough High-Brow Entertainment

2009-09-12T03:04:00.001-07:00

"Before I brutally rape and kill you, I am first going to force you to watch The Four Feathers in its entirety, including the DVD extras."

I wrote this film review as a sample for a well-known website catering to fans of horror movies, and since I've been relatively unproductive lately re: blogging, I thought I would post it here just to keep this bitch updated.

Ok, so I will expand on this a bit. I'm a fim criticism junkie. I frequent Rotten Tomatoes and other review aggregators the week leading up to Friday's releases to see how the critics have weighed in on them. Ever since I was 11 or 12 I've been reading movie reviews, and have more than once thought about becoming a critic.

I enjoy, especially, those film critics who bring an acerbic wit to their reviews and who at the same time analyze films with a decidedly intellectual bent (I'm not talking the factory-ordered schlub at your local paper here). There are a few that I return to over and over again -- the late Pauline Kael (if you've never read a Kael review you need to pick up a copy of "I Lost It At The Movies" -- she's crazy brilliant), Anthony Lane at the New Yorker, Stephanie Zacharek at Salon, even Roger Ebert (who isn't necessarily the virtuoso those other three are, but whose love of cinema comes through in every review -- or at least in his earlier years it did).

Anyway, P2 just happened to have been the last horror movie I'd watched before applying for this writing gig, so I chose to review it for the simple fact that it was still so fresh in my mind. Anyway, let me know what you think. Perhaps there's a reason I haven't heard back from the website?

Here's the review:

Wes Bentley was never an actor I particularly warmed to, particularly in his best-known role as a teenage malcontent in Sam Mendes’ over-praised, “the suburbs are Hell didn’t ya know” 1999 film American Beauty. There was a lurking, closed-off, almost creepy quality to his performance in that film that hinted at a much darker inner life. Of course, that's the way the role was written, but Bentley didn't seem to possess much charisma in the real world either. Looking back, it's just that dead-eyed, lackluster quality about him as a personality that may have doomed his career as a movie star – that and a raft of poor career choices (including the almost universally-panned Kate Hudson historical vehicle The Four Feathers). So perhaps it’s no surprise that he should turn up as a deranged parking garage attendant in P2, a film by first-time director Franck Khalfoun that I recently watched on DVD. It’s the sort of role he may not have envisioned for himself, coming fresh off American Beauty as a newly-minted teen star, and probably not a place in his career that he would prefer to be ten years later. But regardless of all that, it’s a role that suits him well.

Of course, there wouldn’t be a movie if there weren’t a young, beautiful victim there for the tormenting, and we have her in the character of Angela Bridges (played by a fine Rachel Nichols), a put-upon young office assistant in a New York City high rise just trying to get out of work to spend time with her family on Christmas Eve. Of course, the plot has other plans for her, and after a succession of slowly-escalating inconveniences (the car won’t start, the front doors of the building won’t open, the security guard is nowhere to be found) she finds herself being stalked through the catacombs of the building’s parking garage by Wes Bentley’s Thomas, who holds the keys to the kingdom and who, by the way, has developed kind of a psycho-stalker thing for poor Angela. See, parking attendants have a lot of power, what with their access to the security cameras and all, and if they’re like poor Thomas, alone and unbalanced with only a vicious Rottweiler as their companion, that can be kind of a dangerous thing.

If the setup sounds rather generic (beautiful young girl stalked through a foreboding environment by a sadistic madman), that’s because it absolutely is, and the film predictably goes through its paces with almost clockwork efficiency. Nevertheless, the film works on its own merits, because despite its generic tendencies it hits its marks with energy and style.

Khalfoun, who co-wrote the tight script with horror maestro Alexandre Aja (director of the underrated High Tension and the even better Hills Have Eyes remake) and Gregory Levasseur, has a knack for mayhem, and if he doesn’t reach the level of twisted genius that Aja has shown to great effect in his films, there is a workmanlike quality to his direction that keeps us engaged despite our brains telling us we’ve seen this all before. He is helped greatly by his cinematographer, Maxime Alexandre (also the cinematographer on the aforementioned Aja films), who gives the dank confines of the parking garage a claustrophobic, tomb-like quality. It’s this visual slickness that reels us in, and keeps us there, for just as long as the story requires (the film is a brisk 96 minutes). Granted, there is no real psychological depth to the characters that might have helped to elevate this blood-red fluff above standard genre fare. We are given virtually no insight into Angela, other than that she is frustrated with her job and was the victim of sexual harassment by a lascivious middle-aged coworker after the company Christmas party; Thomas is deranged for no discernible reason other than the fact that he’s a freaking parking garage attendant, which come to think of it might be enough to drive anyone crazy.

But in a way, that’s part of the charm of P2. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is – a polished distraction perfect for a late night movie-fest with friends when nobody feels like doing much in the way of thinking. The setup unravels with just the right amount of build-up before we get to the bloodletting; we are introduced to Angela and a small cast of supporting players – including the aforementioned lascivious co-worker (played by Simon Reynolds) and the inevitably benign African-American security guard Karl (Philip Akin). They are in the midst of that final winding-down of the office on Christmas Eve, with people scurrying about and wrapping last-minute gifts on their way to family gatherings. But poor Angela, her callous boss yapping at her from the other end of the phone, can’t seem to catch a break. By the time she gets down to her car and realizes it’s dead, she’s the only employee left in the building. Enter Psychopath Parking Attendant – he’s friendly, sure, but there’s something not quite right…

The film does a good job of capturing the palpable sense of urgency that goes along with being the last person left at the office (having been one of those people myself, more times than I’d like to count) and all of the attendant anxieties that accompany holiday get-togethers. Nichols is a vaguely appealing presence here, and she does what she can with an underwritten role. When Bentley’s character offers to jump-start her car, we of course know that it won’t because he, for god’s sake, is the one who broke it in the first place. And therein lies the main problem with the film -- we are easily able to telegraph almost everything that happens. Of course the executive who harassed Angela in the elevator will turn up as one of Thomas’ victims later, and of course Karl the good-hearted security guard is already dead and that’s why he’s nowhere to be found. In truth, the script, while doing its job adequately, doesn’t work very hard (it really took three people to write this thing?), as if the film were solely an excuse to show off Khalfoun’s chops as a visual stylist. And perhaps that’s all it is. But had we been treated to a couple of unexpected plot reversals, or a bit more imagination perhaps, the thrills would have undoubtedly felt more substantial.

Nevertheless, Khalfoun does show an affinity for the genre, and once things get going we can’t be bothered to care. By the time Thomas takes Angela prisoner and chains her to a chair in his small underground office, Christmas lights twinkling in the windows and soft holiday music playing on the stereo system, we have been effectively abducted by the sheer precision of the filmmaking. We know what we’re in for, but the cat-and-mouse of it all is fun – the feeling is not one of “I have no idea what’s going to happen next”, but rather one of, “Just how exactly is what I know is coming next going to happen?” And in this, Khalfoun, Aja and Levasseur don’t disappoint. While I wouldn’t call the film “white-knuckled” entertainment, I would call it clever in how it utilizes the limited milieu (one sequence involving an elevator and a fire hose is particularly stand-out). There is something ephemerally satisfying about it all; you know you’ll forget it as soon as you reach your car in the parking lot (or get up to turn off your television), but nevertheless it works because there is a real craftsman at work, and the two main performers give it their all.

At the end of the day, when it comes to modern horror/thrillers you could do a lot worse than P2 (i.e. the absolutely dreadful Friday the 13^th remake). You could also do a lot better (i.e. either of the aforementioned Aja films). As for Wes Bentley, this poorly-marketed film unfortunately didn’t do much for his career. Perhaps he should give suburban angst another try.

Come to think of it, if you watch this trailer you've pretty much seen the movie.

America's Next Top Bottom: An Interview With Tlaloc Villareal

2009-09-09T09:21:00.000-07:00

There’s a long-standing rumor (of which I am shocked and appalled because I in no way started it) that Tlaloc Villarreal and I, after graduating high school together, didn’t reconnect again until spotting each other one fateful early morning in a bath house off Santa Monica Blvd. after doing too many horse tranquilizers. Again, I have no idea where this rumor came from, but I was really high that night so I decided to leave it up to Tlaloc in this interview to either confirm or deny (or just plead ignorance) whether he was in fact the Mexican dude getting fisted in the showers on the night in question.

For those of you that know Tlaloc, the above-mentioned situation might seem antithetic to the man himself. In that regard, I can’t really blame you. Tlaloc is one of the most kind-hearted guys you’re ever likely to meet, here or anywhere. Which isn’t to say that’s all he is. He’s also generous, and self-effacing, and honest. And possibly a little naughty.

In other words, the man’s got layers. Using the word “nice” to describe someone often creates the impression that they’re boring, or “Stepford-y”, or virginal in some way. And while sometimes that impression is accurate, with Tlaloc Villarreal it couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s anything but boring – in fact, he’s a blast to be around. He’s funny and smart, and he has strong opinions on things. He likes to tip a few back on occasion, and unlike a lot of “nice” people, he doesn’t become a touchy, angry prick after taking a few too many nips on the cooking sherry.

One of the best things about Tlaloc, though, is that he’s incredibly self-aware. He’ll be the first to admit his shortcomings, and the first to laugh at them. There is a self-effacing quality there that doesn’t feel calculated or cheap (like one of those insufferably bad “one man/woman” shows where the performer is sooo lonely and can’t get a man [yawn] because they’re so neurotic and their even more-neurotic Mother tries to set them up with a friend’s son who just graduated from law school and is hot and available and oh-no these jeans don’t fit anymore so I’m gonna eat a pint of ice cream and isn’t it funny how pathetic my dating life is? Aren’t I cute? Please love me! [zzzz]). Ok, sorry. That was a long parenthetical, but you get the point. Tlaloc’s insecurities come from a real place, not a “look-at-me-world” contrivance. If you live in L.A. and have even an ounce of discernment left, you know the real deal when you see it.

Lucky for me, I have the opportunity to see much more of Tlaloc now than I ever have before. Back in December I started a writing group, and when it came to deciding who I would be willing to spend an hour or more with every two weeks who was also a struggling screenwriter (trust me, that’s hard), Tlaloc was the first person that popped into my head. And while our drinking/bitching sessions, I mean writing group meetings haven’t exactly led to a higher standard of living or personal fulfillment for any of us so far, to be honest I just appreciate his company and genuinely look forward to seeing him. Because really, I think we have a lot of things in common (and probably more than Tlaloc himself would like to admit).

One thing we don’t have in common is that he has this thing called a real full-time job, and I, um, don’t. Utilizing his considerable talent for scouting shameless media whores in service of his job as a casting associate on America’s Next Top Model, Tlaloc never ceases to make me laugh/cringe with his funny/disturbing casting stories. Honestly, I can’t think of a better job; he gets to travel to cities all over the country and approach complete strangers on the street to ask if they want to try out for a reality show produced/hosted by that vacuous bitch, I mean America’s Sweetheart, Tyra Banks. What could be better? I ask you.

In addition, Tlaloc enjoys (as I do) blogging to his heart’s content, and it is on his blog that you can spy the real Tlaloc Villarreal at work. The name of the blog is “Popped Tarts” (http://poppedtarts.blogspot.com/), and I read it regularly (you should too). While he doesn’t talk shit about people nearly enough in my opinion, it’s nevertheless a good read and exposes him (in a good way) as the thoughtful and honest person he truly is. Now if only he would really expose himself (if you know what I’m saying), then it would be even better. Did I mention he’s single and available and really cute?

Anyway, so to get on with the freaking interview already, I met Tlaloc at his sprawling Hollywood Hills McMansion, complete with panoramic views of the “little people” down there, for an afternoon of chatting and inappropriate/highly offensive questions. (Note: By “Hollywood Hills McMansion” I of course mean “West Hollywood apartment”). He was a good sport about it, although I did notice that when I first arrived he told me I could publish the interview without getting his approval first, and in our last email exchange nervously inquired if he could see it before it went “to print”. In other words – maybe he didn’t initially realize exactly what he was in for.

Hi Tlaloc, thanks for sitting down with me. Let’s get started. We’ll begin with an easy (read: boring) question.

Q: You and I are both horror film geeks. What is your favorite horror movie of all time?

I think I’m going to be pretty generic and say The Exorcist, because I think it’s the one film that has really influenced my own vision of what a horror film should be. (He stutters a bit here). Sorry, I’m not very articulate when it comes to speaking, I’m a better writer. Anyway, I think there’s nothing scarier than a sweet little girl getting possessed by the devil and going on this downward spiral to where you see her physically and psychologically go to the darkest place any human could possibly go. Just visually, there are certain scenes that will never leave my mind. The scene with the crucifix is one of those. I actually tend to think about it often. And that voice…I’ve actually tried to recreate that voice, and I can’t quite do it. (I ask him to try it for me and he does a frighteningly precise reading of that famous line: “Let Jesus fuck you! Let Jesus fuck you!”)

Give me a description of your perfect man. Besides me, obviously.

Um…(struggling)…well the number one thing that I look for in someone else is – this sounds so cheesy – but openness. Someone who’s open with themselves and with other people and ideas. I generally prefer someone who is creative and nice. I don’t “do” bitchy guys. Being smart goes a long way – you don’t necessarily have to be book smart, but at least know a little about the world and its surroundings and your place in it – be aware of who you are. When you’re aware of yourself and your growth, nothing is more attractive to me than that. And also being aware of your faults and willing to admit to them, and work on them. Usually the guys I like tend to be a little younger than myself. Definitely darker features, smaller build, and I’m just gonna say it – they have to be white. You don’t have to be the hottest thing in town – personality goes a long way. But obviously there does have to be some physical attraction. Wait, did I just describe myself?

Q: I’d like you to give me your honest take on Tyra Banks, who you technically work for as a casting associate on “America’s Next Top Model”. Is she as insufferable in real life as she is on television?

(Smiles) Tyra’s great. Next question.

(Sigh)

Q: Ok, fine. Which creepy, old rich guy would you rather give a hand-job to in order to further your career – David Geffen or Roland Emmerich?

Definitely Roland Emmerich.

Why?

Because disaster films turn me on.

Q: Ok, next question. How do you feel about my ass? Is it hard for you to keep your hands off it?

Well, I haven’t actually touched it.

But you want to.

Sure. I’ve touched a lot of asses in my time. Honestly though, asses don’t really do anything for me. Whether it’s flat or round, it really does nothing. I can look at someone’s ass and it can be really amazing, and I won’t think anything of it. I would notice their shoulders or calves first. Someone’s forearms are hotter to me than their ass.

I tend to find different things attractive than what most people do. Like eyebrows. I’m obsessed with them. Someone’s eyebrows can definitely turn me on.

You’re a total freak.

Or legs. I like legs. Also, another interesting thing – guys wearing flip flops are such a turn-on for me. But I’ll never wear them. I think they’re gross on me, but I love them on other guys. That being said, there’s nothing wrong with my feet. No fungus or anything. It’s just that I almost feel like a poseur when I wear sandals, like it’s not natural for me.

Q: You’re confronted with a Sophie’s Choice situation, so to speak – do a line of blow with Whitney Houston back-stage or trash a hotel room with Courtney Love. Which do you choose and why?

Hmm this is hard because I’d love to just sit and talk to Whitney and I know doing a line with her would bring us closer --

(Note: At this point he notices a hot shirtless guy through his living room window and cuts off the interview in the middle of his sentence. By the time I look over Hot Shirtless Guy is gone, but somehow I still have a boner.)

Sorry, I get distracted really easily. So yeah, as I was saying I would love to get into Whitney’s head but I’m not about to sit and do lines of blow with her because drugs aren’t my thing.

Yeah, right. If Whitney Houston asked you to do a line of blow with her, of course you’d do it. Besides, she’s kind of scary and you wouldn’t want to refuse her.

I’ve vowed never to do certain drugs again. I’ve experimented in the past, and I’m out of that phase and wouldn’t do it again. (thinks about it) Ok, maybe just once. All of that being said, I would love to trash a room with Courtney. Although I’m a little scared of her and feel like she would kill me in the process.

I actually think about destruction a lot, throwing a hammer into a T.V. or a window, etc.

Q: Talk to me about your aspirations. Besides casting vapid wannabe models in a reality television show, what do you want to do when you grow up?

Actually, my dream ever since I was a kid was to cast vapid wannabe models. I came out of the womb yelling "fierce" and "strut for your lives, bitches!" No, I kid, I kid. My aspirations growing up actually ranged from architect to cartoon animator to actor. I used to draw a lot. I would draw blueprints of my dream houses and also create my dream houses out of Legos. I would also draw Disney characters all the time and would try to draw realistic versions of people. I got pretty good at it, actually. There's a picture of me as a baby that I drew from a photograph and it was pretty much a carbon copy. I think I was in elementary school when I drew it.

I kind of regret not taking art classes or continuing with my drawing. If you can tell by my answers, I was a pretty lonely kid, always in my room creating things and dreaming of the future. Oh! I almost forgot. You know what used to be my dream job in middle school? I wanted to produce the opening sequences of movies. You know when a movie starts and you see the credits on the screen? I used to be obsessed with what fonts they used. I would sit at the computer for hours trying out different fonts and typing "Paramount Pictures Presents: A film by Tlaloc Villarreal", etc. Wow, that is so so nerdy of me. And odd, I think.

Anyway, Chris, I digress. Now that I'm halfway grown and my gray hairs are starting to outnumber the black ones, I have different aspirations. When I grow up I'd love to be a paid writer. I've been writing scripts and short stories since high school. As you know, I just finished 2 pilots that I'm revising and will send out to agents and managers around town very soon. Writing has become my passion. I've been an avid reader as long as I can remember and I think my imagination goes down some paths that nobody else's does. I like it, but it makes me think I'm literally crazy at times. I want to get my thoughts out there for people to see.

I also have a certain view of the world that I like to share with people. I feel that my view sets me apart from most, and it used to bug the shit out of me. But not anymore. Actually, years ago, on two separate occasions, two people told me that they know in the future I will make it big and share my view of the world with others. I dunno, we'll see. One can only hope. Maybe I just want to be understood because I feel like I never have been? Who doesn't? Who knows. Ew gross, I sound like Pink right now.

Q: We knew each other only peripherally in high school and subsequently lost touch until we discovered later on that we’re both raging homos. How do you cope with the black hole in your life that occurred during the years we lost touch?

Well, I remember you as the really quiet guy in Ms. Powers’ creative writing class senior year. I'd see you around campus and wonder what you were like. I really did. I barely heard you speak, which is saying a lot because I was a pretty reserved teenager myself. And I knew you had Algebra or something like that with my sister. I should have known that you were a raging queer boy. I wonder how different both our lives would be if we'd been friends and come out to each other at that time. I would be a very different person right now, I think. You became a big old man whore before I ever did (laughs), just kidding. Sort of. So, that black hole? I guess we'll never know. I wish we could see the different ways our lives would turn out had we done certain things differently. I recently wrote a blog post about that. I'm obsessed with the Butterfly Effect.

Q: Let’s set the record straight right here – are you going to again deny the fact that we reconnected at a bath-house in West Hollywood after doing too many horse tranquilizers?

Seriously? People really are going to believe that's true, Chris. Don't do this to me. Ok, fine, it's true. Just kidding. Don't print that. Ok fine, print it. Fuck it.

Q: Going further into the darkest, most uncomfortable reaches of your past, you’ve talked with me a bit before about your mother being a psychologist who continually mind-fucked you as a child. In fact, you’re even writing a TV show with a mother character very similar to that. Would you care to go into the painful details of your childhood with me now?

Oh, wow. Well, I think the child of any psychologist or psychiatrist can tell you that when you grow up in that kind of situation your parent is constantly analyzing things about you and analyzing situations, telling you what to do in a practical way, like how to fix things. It does become annoying. So whenever I had a problem or was upset or frustrated my mom would sit there and try to talk the situation out in a very logical manner instead of just acknowledging that it sucked. It was always her giving advice, not comforting me. I think the most fucked up thing about that is now I’m like that. I’m always the guy who’s trying to be practical and logical with everything. Which I think totally annoys my friends.

So I tend to stay unemotional about things for the most part. I’m definitely the person whose friends roll their eyes when I try to get to them to look at both sides of the situation and not get upset when they’re in the wrong, because if you analyze everything you do, you’re not always right.

Q: How many times have you been fisted? If you haven’t, would you like to try it with me now? I have a vat of warm Vaseline waiting out in the car, and I promise to go slow.

I can honestly say I’ve never done that, and I can honestly say I’m not interested in doing that ever. At least not for a long time.

So you’d be open to it at some point?

Um, get back to me on that. I’ve always said I would try anything once, but I would have to be in a comfortable situation with “The One” if I were to consider trying that.

So you would allow someone that you were in love with to stick their fist in your ass?

Well I’m sure they can try but it’s not going to work. I never really understood fisting, and I don’t really care to. That’s all.

Q: What was your longest relationship with a guy? In your answer, please be sure to describe, in agonizing detail, the circumstances surrounding the end of the relationship.

Oh geez…you know what’s funny, my ex just texted me last week telling me he just broke up with his boyfriend. I don’t know what to think about that [the fact that he texted me about it], but it is what it is. My longest relationship lasted six and a half months. Ok, my longest relationship with a guy lasted that long. There was an interesting situation when I was a teenager where I was in a relationship for a year and a half with a girl. But that was more of a Fatal Attraction/Swimfan relationship so let’s not go into that.

So she was obsessed with you. Is she in an institution anywhere at this point?

Not that I know of. I think she might read my blog though, so maybe we should just stop talking about it. But that was a long time ago so I’m over it. Anyway, with my ex [the guy he was in a relationship with the longest] it was great for awhile but my own personal issues got in the way. (Note: He belches here, then laughs hysterically, not because it’s necessarily funny, but because we’ve both done a few horse tranquilizers at this point). Basically the bottom line is, I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship at that point. And he knows this. We recently had a long heart to heart a few months ago where he finally got closure, because I think he was never really understood why the relationship ended. I was at a point in my life where I didn’t know what I wanted and I ended up hurting him horribly in the process. And I felt bad about it but at the same time we both learned about ourselves in the process and grew from it and that’s what life is about.

Would you ever get back with him?

No. But I’ve done a lot of growing since our relationship ended. I mean, a lot. And years and months of introspection have brought me to a place where now I know what I want and I’m not willing to put myself and another person in that sort of situation again.

Q: I’ve posted several blogs speaking out against racism to appeal to my African-American audience. As a wetback, excuse me, as a Chicano-American, please describe to me your own thoughts on the subject.

Um….

Oh, I’m sorry. Do you find the term Chicano to be offensive?

No, I was raised thinking that’s what we’re [Mexicans] supposed to be called.

So that doesn’t offend you?

No, but the wetback part did. But you know, I’m really sensitive to racism and more than that inequality in general. Even before I knew what it was [racism], I always had compassion for other people who were different and who suffered any kind of violence or name-calling or teasing or anything like that. I guess I’ve always rooted for the underdog, maybe because I knew what it was like to feel different my whole life. I’ve just always been compassionate towards people suffering from injustice and it also comes a lot from my parents. My parents are extremely liberal to the point of being activists. So I was raised like that.

Did you guys have a lot of drum circles at home?

Actually, that’s an American-Indian thing.

Oh. (Note: What I meant to imply here was that his parents were dirty hippies, but apparently he didn’t get the reference. I chose to move on.)

So no, we didn’t have drum circles. (he laughs) We were too busy mowing people’s lawns and working in the fields.

Q: How do you feel about tacos?

Pink tacos?

Sure. You did have a girlfriend for a while.

Oh yeah, I did eat out the pink taco on occasion. I wouldn’t recommend it. Oh! By the way! Kogi tacos are awesome, oh my god, I’m completely obsessed. There’s a kogi truck you can track online and they have the best tacos ever. It’s like Asian style meat in tacos and they’re absolutely amazing, I’m totally obsessed. The pork ones are the best. There’s a place called The Alibi Room in Marina Del Rey that has kogi tacos actually. Go there, I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Well, I’m a vegetarian so…

My grandparents actually used to have cows, chickens, etc. My grandmother had a ranch. My mom was actually born and raised on a small ranch in Mexico. Anyway, I have to say I’m sorry you’re a vegetarian. I feel really bad for you.

Yes, I am deprived. (Note: Tlaloc Villarreal is a sadistic animal killer. PETA, are you there?)

Honestly, there is nothing more pleasureful -- (he stops to think)

You mean pleasurable?

Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that, I was an English major for god’s sake! Anyway, sorry. There’s nothing more pleasurable in this world than a nice juicy cheeseburger.

What about a veggie burger?

No, I don’t want a burger made out of leaves. I want a burger made out of a fat-ass cow.

(Note: Here I tell him about cows that have holes, or “fistulas”, drilled directly into their stomachs in order to test the digestibility of cattle food [since cows are not able to properly digest the nasty shit we feed them – they’re supposed to eat grass]. People can then reach their hands directly into the cows’ stomachs and rummage around inside. You can watch a video of it here: http://www.metacafe.com/watch/329860/holy_cow/. Mmm, yummy!)

So Tlaloc, does that make you want to eat less beef?

No, it makes me want to eat more.

Q: Lady Gaga – hermaphrodite? Or just a transvestite with an incredibly small penis?

(He thinks way too hard about this) The second one.

That’s not an answer. (Note: Here I find out that he hasn’t seen the infamous Lady Gaga hermaphrodite video. I show it to him.)

I don’t believe it. I don’t think she’d be in a short skirt with no underwear live on stage if she didn’t want that to come out.

So maybe she did it for attention?

No – if she did it for attention, then it has to be a fake penis. I don’t believe she’s a hermaphrodite.

I can’t believe you’ve never seen that video.

Honestly, I’ve been so out of touch with anything celeb or pop culture-related lately. I never watch T.V., I never listen to the radio, and I stopped reading gossip blogs and tabloids. So basically my only source of celebrity gossip is through friends or people talking at the office. But mostly I’ve been working a lot and haven’t really been keeping up.

So you’re unintentionally ignorant on these important topics?

No it’s not unintentional. I actually used to be obsessed with that stuff. I used to visit PerezHilton multiple times a day, I had tons of Us Weeklies sitting around the apartment, I used to watch Extra and Access Hollywood and E! News on a weekly basis. But I made a conscious decision back in January of this year to stop with all that. I just felt that it was consuming my life, and it started when I developed a very deep dislike of Perez Hilton. I basically refused to log on to his site anymore because I didn’t want to contribute to giving him money in any way.

What do you dislike about him? (Note: Maybe the question should have been – can you think of anything not to dislike about Perez Hilton?)

Well, I’ve always found him annoying. I also have some friends who have personally met him and they say he’s just as big a douche as I’ve always imagined him to be. And I think what he does is disgusting and I don’t want to support it. I came to realize that I was part of the problem, when you look at the bigger picture of this obsession with celebs, issues with paparazzi in this town, the invasion of privacy, not to mention what Perez Hilton does – making fun of people and just his complete lack of respect for anybody. It just really got to me. Actually, I’d like to quote Oprah here – I had an “Aha!” moment. I just didn’t want to be part of the problem anymore. Instead of being the person who says “I know how wrong it is” but then doesn’t do anything about it. I don’t think it was just that, though. I had a moment where I decided I just wanted to have that attitude about everything in my life. I wanted to be proactive regarding my issues and problems.

What effect has that had on your life?

Well, I honestly feel so much better not knowing what’s going on in the celeb world. I feel like there are just so many more important things going on.

Oh, please. Name one.

Myself, actually.

So you’re selfish.

Yes, I am. (Laughs) Really, when you realize you’re obsessed with something and it consumes so many of your thoughts on a daily basis, when you take that away you’re left with what’s really important. For example, the economic crisis.

What are you talking about? Isn’t this the dot-com boom?

Oh, right.

Ok, so you’ve purged your celeb obsession from your mind. But seriously, you know you still want to look at tabloids and gossip sites.

I’ll be honest, there are times I really want to log onto a gossip website just to see what’s going on. It’s fun to hear the really juicy stuff. It’s not good for you though – it’s bad. And once I make a decision like that I stick with it.

Ok, fair enough. But did you hear what happened with Britney today?

(He perks up) What, are you serious? What happened?

Nothing. I just made that up.

Q: Tlaloc, you are a man of many talents. Writer, casting legend, heartbreaker. Tell us something about yourself that America doesn’t already know.

(He can’t think of anything. The Jeopardy! theme plays.) Um…well, I’ve never been a bottom before.

Really. (He tries to change the subject but fuck that, I’m forcing the issue.)

Do you have a desire to be a bottom?

I’m not saying I haven’t tried, it just hasn’t worked out. And, uh…we’ll see what happens in the future. Why, are you offering?

Of course. I already offered to fist you.

Right.

Q: Are you ever jealous of the girls on Top Model?

(He thinks for awhile. Jeopardy! theme again.)

Like do you ever want that life?

To be completely honest, I don’t want the life of anyone who’s ever been on a reality show.

Good point.

Q: What was your worst/most soul-degrading casting experience ever?

Oh my god, yes. I have a story. My very first casting job was for Extreme Makeover, and we received several audition tapes from a woman who actually sent in hour-long movies of herself defecating, pissing, douching, masturbating with a dildo, and showering. With extreme close-ups of everything.

Genius. And you guys watched the entire thing?

Yes, we made copies for everyone in the office to take home. That definitely was the craziest experience I’ve ever had -- she was insane. It’s funny because the first tape she sent in was just your average audition tape, with her talking about herself on camera, but she never really said much of any substance. So my casting producer told her to show more of herself, and so she sent in those tapes. I guess she took his suggestion to mean he wanted to see more of her physically. Really, what disturbed me the most was that she looked totally normal. Like, she was someone you could be sharing a cubicle with at your office job, but she was bat-shit crazy. After an experience like that you definitely start looking at your own co-workers, like what the hell do they do when they’re at home?

It’s kind of depressing, but you just get so desensitized to people’s dysfunction and suffering and that’s one reason why I’m kind of ready for a career change. Basically, nothing fazes me anymore. I’m rarely moved by people’s bad experiences or shocked by things. Because one of the questions they ask in casting sessions is what do people not know about you that would shock them? And some of the answers I’ve gotten have been totally crazy. People will say the craziest, most shocking and disgusting things to get on T.V. At this point nothing affects me anymore.

Q: I know you travel all over the country for your job. Tell me – do you have ho’s in different area codes?

(He laughs.) Next question.

Pussy.

Q: Your younger sister Naya, who I’m pretty sure I cheated off of in Algebra 2 senior year, is a humanitarian out saving people from starvation in third-world countries and such. How does it feel to live in her shadow?

Um, I’ve saved lives too.

Could you expand on that?

I make people’s dreams come true. And what is she doing? Putting food in people’s mouths and teaching people about AIDS and stuff? I mean, I make people famous. There’s nothing more humanitarian than that.

True.

Q: How do you feel about bondage? Are you into it?

(Thinks.) I can’t say that I am.

You thought about that for awhile actually. Are you sure?

I’d try anything once, like I said. See, here’s where I hope my parents aren’t reading this.

So you would try it once? With a random stranger?

Not with a random stranger. Listen, who doesn’t like it rough every once in awhile? But that being said, you can just ask any of the people that I’ve --

Fisted?

No, dated.

What’s the difference really? Fisting, dating. It’s all kind of the same thing.

Right. Well, I’m actually really very sweet and romantic when it comes to matters of the bedroom.

(Note: At this point, Tlaloc breaks down [possibly due to the astronomical amount of horse tranquilizers we’ve consumed], and I break out the warm vat of Vaseline and fist him like no man has ever been fisted before. It’s actually very romantic, until he begins shooting blood out his ass and screaming like a little girl. I take him to the emergency room, and after a few more hours of excruciating pain and about twenty stitches, he recovers and we make our way back to his apartment and continue on with the interview.)

Q: Tlaloc, you’re honestly one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. Do you believe the old adage that sometimes it’s possible to be too nice?

You know what, I’ve thought about this a lot. Because I’ve been told by people in the past that I am too nice, and I’ve definitely been taken advantage of in the past because of how nice I am. As I’ve gotten older I guess I’ve gotten harder, and more, um —

Erect?

That too. But you know what, no, I don’t think you can ever be too nice.

But you admit you’re not as nice as you used to be.

Yes. I’m definitely not as nice as I used to be.

(Note: At this point he spots Hot Shirtless Guy through the window again, and we get up to look. Alas, by the time I spot him he’s already put his shirt back on. Goddammit).

Sorry about that. Anyway, I just don’t have as much patience anymore for people. I’m still a nice guy – I’m nice to everyone I meet. Honestly, I’m the kind of person who will smile at strangers on the street.

So you’re one of those creepy nice people that enjoys being kind to random strangers? Good to know.

Yes, that’s right. But I’ve definitely got my dark side.

Q: Back to more important matters. There’s been a lot of attention on the late Michael Jackson lately, but I think his sister LaToya’s brilliant musical career has been unjustly overlooked. What’s your favorite song of hers?

I’ve never heard a Latoya Jackson song. All I know about her is that she had that psychic network from back in the day.

Honestly, there’s just no justice in this world.

She made music?

Yes!! Several classic albums. I can’t believe you didn’t know this.

(Note: LaToya Jackson’s AllMusic.com page begins with the following, totally unfair and frankly offensive pronouncement: “Perhaps the least-talented sibling in the Jackson family…”. Clearly, AllMusic.com has never heard LaToya’s classic 1984 album, “Heart Don’t Lie”.)

Q: I consider Teddy Kennedy’s legacy to be that of a true patriot and great American, although I was surprised to find out after his death that he was actually Jesus Christ himself. It was especially perplexing for me due to the fact that I found out Michael Jackson was Jesus after his own death about a month ago. And then Natasha Richardson. Can you explain these seemingly paradoxical occurrences to me?

It’s the Jesus Juice. We know Michael Jackson drank it. I think the autopsies will reveal that Michael and Natasha both drank the Jesus juice.

(Note: I don’t understand this “Jesus Juice”. He explains that it refers to Michael Jackson feeding kids alcohol but saying it was Kool-Aid so they would be more likely to allow him to touch them in their naughty places. What that says about Natasha Richardson I can only speculate.)

Q: Your blog, Popped Tarts, is a potent window into the soul of Tlaloc Villarreal. How do you think history will judge you?

Positively, I hope.

Cut the bullshit. Seriously.

I mean look, I definitely put myself out there sometimes. I just want people to like me, and let’s be honest who doesn’t?

(Note: Hot Shirtless guy is, well, shirtless again and we are interrupted once more. We’ve basically become voyeurs at this point. Tlaloc decides he’s not hat hot, but I would totally bang him. To ease my raging erection, we decide to invite him over and proceed to take turns fisting him, then post the results on the Internet before continuing on with the interview.)

I think after this interview they’ll probably see me as a pathetic, horny guy.

Q: Jimmy cracked corn and I don’t care. What say you?

(He thinks long and hard.)

Come on. Try to think of something clever.

(He thinks for several minutes, but due to our latest round of horse tranquilizers can’t think of a goddamn thing. Finally, he manages to come up with something halfway decent.)

Jimmy watched porn and he likes bears.

Ok, good enough. Anything else you’d like to say?

Yes. (He belches extremely loudly). Did you hear Lady Gaga is a hermaphrodite?

Mix It Up

2009-09-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

I know it's passe, but I love creating mix CD's for people; in our increasingly de-personalized world, nothing says you care more than burning 20 of your favorite songs to a piece of polycarbonate plastic and sharing it with a loved one.

I haven't made one for awhile, but today I spoke with my sister and she's going through a bit of a hard time; just general life stuff getting her down. Part of her anxiety stems from the fact that she's extremely busy and barely has time to take a breath, much less work out some of her frustration at the gym. When she finally does get some time to herself, sitting in front of the T.V. and kicking up her heels starts looking pretty good. I guess that's the sort of thing that happens when you have a 2 1/2 year old at home.

Anyway, she asked me if I would burn her a C.D. with some good workout songs to get her motivated, because she knows I have incredibly good taste in music and will provide the sonic boost she needs to make frenemies with the treadmill again and get back down to punishing herself. I'm a firm believer in the power of physical exercise and its ability to transform a shitty day into a great one, so I'm more than happy to oblige.

Anyway, I thought I'd share the track listing with you, as I enjoy sharing useless information with the world (and also feel the need to post at least something on my blog this week). Feel free to duplicate it, and let the good times roll:

1) Courtney Love - "But Julian, I'm A Little Bit Older Than You" (America's Sweetheart)
2) Britney Spears - "Freakshow" (Blackout)
3) Black Francis - "Threshold Apprehension" (Bluefinger)
4) Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Run Through The Jungle" (Cosmo's Factory)
5) CSS - "Jager Yoga" (Donkey)
6) Le Tigre - "FYR" (Feminist Sweepstakes)
7) The Cure - "Never Enough" (Galore)
8) Yeah Yeah Yeahs - "Zero" (It's Blitz!)
9) Phoenix - "One Time Too Many" (It's Never Been Like That)
10) Led Zeppelin - "Ramble On" (Led Zeppelin II)
11) The Kills - "Sour Cherry" (Midnight Boom)
12) MGMT - "Electric Feel" (Oracular Spectacular)
13) The Raveonettes - "Love In A Trashcan" (Pretty In Black)
14) M83 - "We Own The Sky" (Saturdays = Youth)
15) Regina Spektor - "Us" (Soviet Kitsch)
16) The Rolling Stones - "Bitch" (Sticky Fingers)
17) Pixies - "Vamos" (Surfer Rosa)
18) The Temper Trap - "Sweet Disposition" (Sweet Disposition EP)
19) Dandy Warhols - "Bohemian Like You" (Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia)
20) Elvis Costello & The Attractions - "Pump It Up" (This Year's Model)

Ok Jen, it's coming your way. I hope this provides the motivation you need. Oh, and for chrissakes, could you buy an iPod already? You can find a used one on Craig's List for like 30 bucks.

There Is A God

2009-09-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

I just received this email in my inbox, and it just might be the most awesome thing I've ever seen. I don't think I need to say much except -- thank you, Tracy GoodTimes, for being a raging whore and letting the whole world know about it. (Note: You will need to click on the image to view it in full size.)

From:
To:
Subject: FW: They need a "for dummies" book for Facebook.
Date: Thu, 3 Sep 2009 09:45:34 -0700

From:
Sent: Tuesday, September 01, 2009 10:12 AM
To:
Subject: Fwd: They need a "for dummies" book for Facebook.

--Forwarded Message Attachment--
From:
To:
Subject: They need a "for dummies" book for Facebook.
Date: Fri, 28 Aug 2009 10:14:26 -0700

WHAT AN IDIOT!!!

Wow…not only is the message content bad – did anyone notice her status?

With Windows Live, you can organize, edit, and share your photos. Click here.

The Substance Of Style: An Editorial In Defense Of Quentin Tarantino

2009-09-01T21:20:00.000-07:00

I wrote this piece as a sample for a writing job, and I felt it was worth posting:

In Johann Hari’s recent article in the Independent, entitled “The Tragedy Of Tarantino: He Has Proved His Critics Right” (http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/johann-hari/johann-hari-the-tragedy-of-tarantino-he-has-proved-his-critics-right-1777147.html), he takes the notoriously celebrated/loathed director to task for (gasp!) trivializing violence in his films. It’s an old argument, and one that I can certainly understand; but it is just this sort of attitude towards filmmaking that irks me for its very suggestion that violent films that are shot in a stylistic, tongue-in-cheek fashion are less worthy than those that take a less-daring, more somber approach. The logical through-line to that argument seems to be that filmmakers somehow have a moral responsibility to present death in its proper, real-world context, and if they fail to do so in a way that pleases the viewer, their films are thereby less valuable as pieces of art.

As a cultural critique I can certainly understand Hari’s point, but as a denunciation of a very talented director I think it ignores a greater fact about art: it is a fantasy, and fantasies are by their very nature expressions of their creator’s particular worldview. Telling Tarantino to stop filming violence in a stylistic fashion would be like asking Peter Paul Reuben to paint Jesus Christ on the cross without the high-contrast lighting or diagonal composition. And I wonder what Hari thinks about The Producers, the classic Mel Brooks comedy? Would he consider milking the fictional play “Springtime For Hitler” for laughs to be insensitive and somehow amoral in that it “trivializes” the human toll of the Holocaust?

I suppose Hari’s argument might be that The Producers is a comedy and Inglourious Basterds is not, but that’s selling Tarantino short. Tarantino is a comedian, albeit one with a wider palette of cinematic influences than Brooks. The brilliance of Tarantino’s films lies in their deft juggling of all different types of genres: thrillers, comedies, gangster films, martial arts films, Westerns, horror films, tragedies. And American cinema is all the better for it. I don’t believe that you can’t or shouldn’t mix comedy and weighty subjects in a single movie. Shouldn’t we be thankful that we have an American filmmaker who does, and more so one who is so adept at mixing these elements together without sacrificing one for the other?

I’m frankly less moved by “classier” Oscar-bait like Hotel Rwanda, the 2004 film directed by Terry George. Like Inglourious Basterds, that film is also about genocide and the conflict surrounding it. But while the intentions of Rwanda are certainly noble, I believe it trivializes violence much more than Tarantino does in Inglourious Basterds for the very fact that it glosses over the nastier aspects of the conflict with a superficial Hollywood sheen. While Basterds doesn’t flinch from the war-time violence, Rwanda averts its gaze when it should be facing the violence head-on. I frankly came out of Hotel Rwanda feeling mostly unmoved; the film surely had something to say, but the message had no bite. This is, unfortunately, indicative of an all-too-common tendency in Hollywood. The major studios (not to mention filmmakers) too often treat adult audiences with kid gloves, and do a disservice to them by softening the blow. George’s film would have touched more people in a real way by showing the true bloody horror of it, and, yes, perhaps bringing a bit more style to bear.

So no, I don’t agree that Tarantino glorifies violence simply because it might be accompanied by a jokey bit of dialogue. If anything, he takes more time than a lot of directors do when it comes to calculating the human toll of all that carnage. To use Inglourious Basterds as an example, think of the scene where a young Nazi officer, in a stand-off with Brad Pitt’s character, announces he has a newborn baby back home after all of his compatriots have been blown to smithereens. Here we are given insight into the humanity of his character; he isn’t just a faceless, comic-book Indiana Jones-style Nazi. He is a human being who happens to be fighting for an evil cause. We may be repulsed by him, but Tarantino doesn’t let us off the hook easily by reducing him to a caricature.

Let’s take the Kill Bill films as another example. Early in Vol. 1, Uma Thurman’s character arrives at a pleasant suburban home and confronts Vivica Fox, and after a lengthy battle during which Fox’s daughter comes home from school, brutally kills her. Before Thurman is able to leave the house, Fox’s daughter saunters into the kitchen to see her dead mother bleeding on the floor. Now, a lesser director wouldn’t have filmed that scene, or even introduced the young girl at all, and swiftly moved on to the next action set-piece. But Tarantino films it because he recognizes the moral dichotomy at the heart of this encounter. While perhaps Fox’s character did deserve to die, by introducing her young daughter into the mix he forces the audience to identify just as much with the child as with Uma Thurman. If that doesn’t show the human cost of violence, I don’t know what would.

Tarantino’s gift as a filmmaker, I think, is that he is able to wring real pathos from the stylized worlds he creates. Think back to the harrowing “Ezekiel 25:17” scene in Pulp Fiction, where Samuel L. Jackson’s character reads said Biblical passage before blowing away a roomful of low-level criminals. During his speech, Tarantino lingers on the faces of these men as they contemplate their own mortality. Again, a lesser director would have just gunned them all down immediately, Steven Seagal-style. Tarantino didn’t have to linger, but he did. I think that says something.

My point in highlighting these scenes is simply to show that Hari’s criticism of Tarantino as a hollow exhibitionist is incredibly unfair; it’s as if he watched a montage of only the most violent snippets of Tarantino films on YouTube before formulating his opinion. Sure, he stylizes violence, but he stylizes everything in his films; he is a director with a keen and distinctive visual sense. Just because a shot where someone is murdered is framed in a particularly dynamic way doesn’t mean the director is glorifying the murder. And you know something? I would be disappointed if Tarantino suddenly began filming these types of scenes in a static, ordinary manner. By doing so he would simply be neutering part of what makes him so special. At the same time, his divisiveness as an artist is also a part of what makes him special; so I say, keep it coming, haters. One thing you can’t deny -- the man’s got chutzpah. How many other mainstream American directors can you say that about?

Honestly, I could watch him annihilate this crazy bitch over and over again.

Doh! or: Why Sometimes I Just Need To Keep My Stupid Goddamn Mouth Shut

2009-08-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

I went to an old co-worker's birthday party last night, and I was in a great mood. I'd successfully escaped the worst of the day's suicide-inducing triple-digit heat by huddling with my laptop in a nearby Coffee Bean for the better part of the afternoon, and I'd managed to work a bit on my screenplay, which by the way is taking forever to finish.

So my friend picks me up and we head over, grab a stiff drink, say hello to the birthday boy, meet a couple new people. Everything is just fine. Another of my old co-workers walks over then with his wife (blonde, pretty) whom I didn't recognize at the time but looking back now realize I actually had met before (when I was drunk at our company Christmas party a few years ago). Which isn't to say that she's forgettable in any way, just that I was wasted and it was dark. Anyway, so the four of us get to talking and she seems like a nice girl, and he's a great guy; the conversation is flowing.

And then -- well, then I had to open my rotten goddamn mouth and say something extraordinarily retarded, and worse than that absurdly offensive, to said wife whom I thought I'd never met before but actually have.

It happened like this:

Old Co-Worker's Wife Whom I Thought I'd Never Met (But Actually Have): You look familiar for some reason. Have we met before?

Me: Hmm, I don't know -- maybe we have. I'm not sure...

( Awkward silence. I feel I should say something more.)

Me: I mean, I have met blonde girls before. So...

(Note: As soon as the words left my mouth, I began to wonder what exactly I'd even meant by that, BECAUSE IT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE!)

She gasps and turns to her husband.

Her Interior Monologue: Did this retard really just say that?

Her Husband's Interior Monologue: Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did.

Her: (trying her best to remain jovial) Wow. (through shocked laughter) What does that even mean?

My Interior Monologue: Oh, shit. Oh, shit Chris what the hell? What the fuck is wrong with you? Backpedal, backpedal you stupid ape.

Me: Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that. I have no idea what that means. I'm sorry, that totally didn't come out right.

(Note: I've since attempted to decode the meaning behind my statement and so far I haven't found an answer for it. Which leads me to only one possible conclusion: I'm a complete dumbass.)

Her: (laughing, still shocked) What, like we're all interchangeable?

Me: (red-faced, pee dripping down my leg) No! No! I'm sorry, that was totally not what I meant. I'm so sorry. Can we just start over?

(We re-introduce ourselves in a cutesy, let's-put-this-horrible-debacle-behind-us fashion: "Hi, I'm Chris, it's so nice to meet you for the first time ever!" ha ha ha. Ouch.)

Anyway, I think she was still a little peeved about the whole thing. The rest of the conversation felt stilted, awkward. I was pretty sure I'd offended her on a deep level. I had become the asshole who'd made a sweeping (albeit unintentional) generalization about an entire (quite large) group of people.

Let's face facts: I'd basically just called her a dumb blonde right to her face.

Needless to say I had an uphill battle ahead of me, and while I attempted a valiant comeback, I'd venture that she probably doesn't harbor any warm feelings for me after that particular encounter.

As she and her husband (my old co-worker) beat a hasty retreat, my parting words to her, although they were meant in the best spirit possible, rang hollow despite my best efforts at sincerity:

Me: Just for the record, I don't dislike blondes. I love blondes! Blondes are the best people ever! Hahaha!

(Note: She smiled back at me then as if I were a schizophrenic homeless person screaming at a telephone pole.)

Anyway, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Please don't hold the fact that I'm a complete dumbshit against me, Old Co-Worker's Wife Who I Thought I Hadn't Met Before But Actually Have And Who Is Super Awesome And Not At All Like Any Blonde Woman I've Ever Met. Honestly, I really don't have anything against people with light hair. I even like albinos; I watched that movie Powder, like, one whole time all the way through. Not that I'm comparing blonde people to albinos in any way shape or form, I'm just saying that if I like albinos it logically follows that I like blonde people too. Did I mention you're super awesome and I love you more than my own mother and I would take a bullet for you? Can you hear me from the bottom of this hole?

Thanks to Powder, I learned that not only do albinos have feelings too, they can also control electricity.

The Kid's Alright or: Why I Wish YouTube Existed When I Was An Aimless Youth

2009-08-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

So I was at Barnes & Noble on Saturday afternoon before heading into the movie (admittedly I was browsing in the magazine section, but of course I was reading the latest article on health care reform in The New Yorker [cough]) and ran into a kid that I took a screenwriting class with at Santa Monica College last summer. Here's pretty much how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, do I know you?

Kid: Yeah, we took screenwriting together last summer.

Me: Oh, yeah! How are you buddy?

Kid: Good, you still writing? How is your cowboy movie coming?

(Note: Referring to my screenplay as a "cowboy movie" sounded vaguely demeaning, as if I were six years old and I'd put on a play [complete with lines like "Howdy pard'ner!" and "Stop right there, you downright dirty bandit!", etc.] in my parent's living room for the neighborhood kids. But I let it slide.)

Me: Oh, it's good. Almost finished with it. How's your writing coming along?

Kid: Well, I've mostly been putting up YouTube videos and stuff.

Me: Oh, cool. Wait, so where are you going to school now? What are you, 19? 20?

Kid: No, I actually just turned 16.

(Note: I begin to feel vaguely creepy at this point. My friend begins nervously thumbing through a magazine.)

Me: Oh, wow. 16, huh? Just turned, you say?

Kid: Yeah.

Me: I forgot how young you were. Anyway, I'll have to check out your YouTube videos sometime.

(Note: In my mind I'm beginning to morph into a balding, forty-something pervert with a sweaty upper lip and greasy hands.)

Kid: Ok, cool. Give me your email address! (I do.) Anyway, nice seeing you!

Me: You too. See ya.

So the next day I get an email from the kid with a link to his YouTube videos, and I decide what the hell, he seems like an intelligent dude and maybe his videos aren't so bad. Now I must point out here that I harbor an irrational hatred towards teenagers. They're loud, they're annoying, they listen to shitty music, and frankly they make me feel old. Basically, I just want nothing to do with them.

So anyway, I check out his YouTube page and you know something? The kid's alright. He's funny, he's thoughtful, he has good timing, and he's not nearly as intolerable as most teenagers. Here's the video I like the best (I also recommend "God Talks") :

And here's the link to the rest of his videos: http://www.youtube.com/user/ajlay14

So, subscribe or leave some comments for the kid. Both of you. (Note: His name is Adi Eshman and he just might own the world someday).

Inglorious Bastard

2009-08-23T16:05:00.000-07:00

"I told you to stop talking, you stupid bitch!"

-- Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee in a screening of Inglourious Basterds at the Landmark Theater in West L.A. on Saturday

Ok, so it was about an hour into the film and I was in Tarantino heaven. I'd been sitting next to this asshole (as in right next to him) as he cackled at inappropriate moments, repeated lines of dialogue under his breath, and generally acted like a crazed lunatic watching the movie in his living room rather than in the middle of a packed movie theater. But I persevered. I wasn't going to let this prick-face ruin the magic that I'd paid $12.50 for.

The movie was genius, as all of Tarantino's films are. I was engrossed, transported. By the end of the first brilliant scene Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man's irrational mutterings and ill-timed laughter had faded to a low hum in my right ear. If it had been any other movie by any other director, I probably wouldn't have been able to ignore him. But thank the cinematic gods, Tarantino's spell had succeeded in fully enveloping me and reducing that blithering, drool-spilling twit to a gnat swooping just far enough away for me to remain unperturbed.

Of course, that was before he uttered, no, screamed, that opening bit of dialogue right in the middle of a particularly intense scene. Two twenty-something girls in the row in front of us had I guess been talking during the film, which somehow he'd managed to hear over the sound of his own mouth-breathing hysteria. I certainly didn't hear it, although I'd been successfully numbed to my surroundings by that point, so perhaps they had in fact been whispering amongst themselves. But it couldn't have been that loud for chrissakes. Certainly not loud enough to warrant such an insane response. Whatever happened to a polite tap on the shoulder, or a whispered plea? Of course, we aren't talking about your average movie fan here. We're talking about Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man.

Ok, so he didn't open with the "bitch" line, but it didn't take very long for it to escalate. He actually started in with quite possibly the most polite, sane reaction he was capable of mustering: (in a loud, angry voice) "Could you two please be quiet?" Now, had these two particular twenty-something girls been the wilting-flower types, it likely would have ended there. But oh, no.

Girl #1: "Why don't you be quiet?"

Oh, shit. Oh, that's fucking great. Hadn't she been tuning in to his mentally-unbalanced behavior? What the hell was she thinking? I mean sure, he'd been rude about it, but when a mentally ill person tells you to keep your voice down, you just do it for god's sake.

Alas, it was too late. She just couldn't keep her goddamn mouth shut.

Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man: (yelling, unhinged) "I told you to stop talking, you stupid bitch!"

And the spell was broken. I had been metaphorically pulled by the greasy, undoubtedly poo-smelling crazy hands of Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man back into the real, gum-on-the-floor, sweaty-armpitted, economically-depressed, WWII-didn't-end-in-an-awesome-De-Palma-esque-shootout/firestorm-in-an-opulent-movie-theater-in-France world. Fuck. At this point, Girl #1 gets up from her seat, her hands balled up into fists, and towers over the little weasel while simultaneously opening her big goddamn mouth again and giving it right back to him: (yelling) "Don't you tell me to shut up, motherfucker! I'll kick your motherfucking ass!"

Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man: (screaming at the top of his lungs in a vaguely girlish, child-like squeal) "You fucking bitch you better shut the fuck up fucking cunt bitch!"

Ok, at this point I have to admit I was just a tad mortified and actually beginning to fear for my safety. It was that feeling you get when faced with a bottomless pit of human, Daddy-touched-me-in-my-naughty-places rage by a complete stranger. When you can sense in the quiver of someone's voice the sanity-draining demons that have plagued them throughout their life. There's actually an acronym for it, which I will be coining in just a moment. You've heard of T.M.I. (Too Much Information)? Well, this was something far worse -- T.M.D. (Too Much Dysfunction).

T.M.D. is bad enough when you encounter it in your personal relationships -- it's never a fun ride (unless you're one of those people who thrives on drama, in which case could you seriously just calm the fuck down and see a therapist already?). But when you confronted with T.M.D. in the presence of total strangers, especially when you're in a dark, crowded movie theater, it's another thing altogether. It's all the more disturbing because you don't even know these people and you have no idea what horrible occurrences in their past could have caused them to go so completely nutty. Your mind starts racing as you try to figure out the source of their madness -- did he/she drop too much acid as a teenager? Were they forced to watch animal pornography as toddlers? Do they pick up runaways on the side of the highway and chloroform their asses before chaining them down to metal tables and torturing them mercilessly, only to then strangle them with their bare hands and have sex with their dead bodies? Did they go to Catholic school?

Ok, so maybe in my sick mind I take these sorts of things way too far (see my post from last week entitled, "Fuck Yeah or: Six Horror Films That Helped Make Me Into The Complete And Utter Sicko I Am Today"). But honestly, the guy went fucking batshit. Ok, they both did -- but I couldn't exactly blame the girl. While maybe she should've just left well enough alone, I understand that sometimes tempers flare when you're dealing with a perversely unhinged man-child.

Soon enough, their mutually enraged voices began to overlap into a potent, unnerving brew of antagonism and dysfunction that succeeded in rattling my cage and caused me to miss several seconds of some of that juicy Tarantino dialogue. Oh for fuck's sake, I wonder if one of them has a gun, probably the guy, what if I get shot right here in my seat...oh christ...

So then Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man leaps out of his seat, masking his mortification at being emasculated by raising his voice even more as he practically vaults over the people at the other end of the row and heads for the exit: "I need a fucking manager in here right now! Somebody get me a fucking manager!", his insane voice trailing out the door as he went on to terrorize the poor, trembling ushers. The girl sat back down then, and he was gone, and hopefully he wouldn't be back, but now goddammit I've missed at least a couple minutes of the film and more than that I may never be the same again.

Thankfully, after about 15 more minutes of pondering the unfortunate incident and entertaining thoughts of Deranged Quentin Tarantino Devotee Man rushing back into the theater and mowing the rest of the audience down with an Uzi (thankfully, he didn't return), I succeeded in fully immersing myself in Tarantino Land once again.

Well friends, Inglourious Basterds did not disappoint. It was a thrilling, unbearably tense exercise in audience manipulation that is as wildly brilliant and visionary as anything you're likely to see all year. The first scene itself is one of the most squirm-worthy cinematic moments in recent memory, and I think demonstrates that at the core of the film lies not a shell but a real heart (albeit one on the brink of explosion). There is real pathos here -- it is a revenge fantasy, yes, but one borne from something real and unbearable. Tarantino has planted a seed in one of the most dreadful stains of human history and bloomed it into the darkest of flowers, a flower that maintains the properties of the earth it was grown from but also represents a damaged, alternate beauty.

In short: go see it, now. Don't wait for it on DVD, don't watch the grainy bootleg version from Korea, get a babysitter if you have kids (if you can -- I know being a parent is hard). This is big-screen, mind-blowing, genius, movie-of-the-year shit. And for God's sake, if you find yourself next to a crazy dude and he asks you to keep your voice down, be smart about the situation and control your temper. Just remember: he could have a switchblade.

If anyone remotely resembling Steve Buscemi sits down next to you in a movie theater and it's not Steve Buscemi, and he acts in the least bit unhinged, do not under any circumstances make direct eye-contact, whisper to the friend sitting next to you, or move a goddamn muscle.

Fuck Yeah or: Six Horror Films That Helped Make Me Into The Complete And Utter Sicko I Am Today

2009-08-17T12:29:00.000-07:00

Admittedly I have a bit of a morbid sensibility, which is probably why horror is my favorite film genre. This might possibly have something to do with my tormented adolescence, or maybe I just like watching people being sliced to smithereens and impaled on spikes and shit. Regardless, one of my favorite pastimes is introducing friends and family to the films I enjoy the most -- and giving them shit when they fall asleep or say things like, "It wasn't that great." Of course, due to my rather wicked preferences, a high percentage of the films I screen for people are horror movies -- good horror movies, that is.

Below, a selection of my greatest hits, in the hopes that at least one of my two readers will follow my advice and check them out. All the films here are pre-1990, which is not to say there are no good horror movies produced in the last 20 years (there are many), but simply because I enjoy the kick-ass trailers (all of which are included here), produced in the "Golden Age" of horror film advertising . If you're one of these people who doesn't enjoy horror movies, maybe you just haven't seen any of the good ones. Or maybe you have and that's why you refuse to watch any more of them. I'll admit, most people have probably seen a majority of the films below, so forgive me for being redundant. I just love them all so much.

Carrie: Yeah, it's a pre-Scientology John Travolta's first film, but that's not why you should watch it. You should watch it because it's one of the greatest horror movies ever made. If you're anything like me, you'll be rooting for Carrie White all the way.

Blue Velvet: So technically this isn't a horror film, since like all of Lynch's movies, it refuses to be pigeonholed. But whatever, this movie kicks ass -- even if this were a list of my favorite romantic comedies, I would still probably find a way to include it. It's (arguably, of course) David Lynch's best film, and quite possibly his most coherent. And it's twisted as fuck, in the best possible way. Did I mention it has Dennis Hopper (at his most perverse) inhaling nitrous oxide and speaking in a baby voice? Just watch the damn thing already.

Black Christmas: A lost classic, directed by the brilliant Bob Clark (director of A Christmas Story). No, I'm not talking about the inevitably crappy 2006 remake with Michelle fucking Trachtenberg (full disclosure: I never saw it). I'm talking about the film where John Carpenter stole all his tricks for Halloween. I'm talking about Margot Kidder as a booze-soaked sorority girl who gets stabbed to death with a glass fucking unicorn. I'm talking about some of the creepiest phone-call-from-a-killer scenes in cinematic history ("I'll stick my tongue up your pretty pussy!"). I'm talking about one of the greatest horror films you've never seen. Netflix the bitch (or better yet, watch it instantly on your computer -- as of this writing, you can).

Alien: I know you've seen it, now rent it again. Or better yet, buy it and add it to your permanent collection. Before Ridley Scott went all Hollywood on us and directed that Oscar-winning piece of shit otherwise known as Gladiator, he was a true film artist. If you haven't seen it but you paid to watch Body of Lies in the theater, you should be ashamed of yourself. My advice? Scrub yourself clean, burn Russell Crowe in effigy, then sit down and experience a work of genius. And don't hate yourself when you are simultaneously repelled and enamored by the titular, H.R. Giger-designed Alien. That's the whole point, get it?

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The first time I saw it, I could barely make it all the way through, and even by that point (I think I was 19) I was well on the road to becoming almost completely desensitized to on-screen mayhem. Halfway through the protracted dinner table scene, I was curled up in a fetal position and screaming at my friend ("Please make it stop!"), barely able to look through my fingers while Marilyn Burns was belting out ear-piercing shrieks so convincingly you'd swear it was a documentary. I actually sort of liked the 2003 remake, but it's not even on the same playing field as this Tobe Hooper original. Unsparing, depraved, sadistic -- you get the picture. If you haven't seen it before and you aren't convinced yet, let me just put it this way -- if you can make it through this brilliant -- yes, brilliant -- film, you can make it through almost anything. It's called building character.

The Shining: I really shouldn't have to sell you on this one. Jack Nicholson in one of his greatest performances (for my money, the scene where he's talking to little Danny in the bedroom is one of the most unnerving father-son exchanges ever, and also the scariest scene in the film). Stanley Kubrick. The little girls in the hallway ("Come and play with us, Danny"). Steadicam bliss. Shelley Duvall as Skeletor. Ok, except for that last one. Bottom line: if you haven't seen this movie, you can't genuinely call yourself a horror fan. It's like being in a rock band and never having heard a Zeppelin song (oh for the love of god, "Stairway To Heaven" doesn't count).

This Is What My Page Feels Like

2009-08-13T09:17:00.000-07:00

:-(

The Bird

2009-08-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting in the same park I sat in when I first found out you were gone, and we played our final game of back-and-forth texting. I felt broken and overwhelmingly, painfully alone that day. I remember lying on my back on a cement wall and staring up at the vicious blue sky with my headphones on, and experiencing the true emptiness of it all. I wouldn’t have minded if it had fallen on me, on all of us. I wanted it to.

I thought you had finally destroyed everything – the world had ceased making sense. The dream was dead, and I was left only to ponder my own weaknesses. I cried openly in the park; there were people nearby, but they might as well have been statues. The tears were corrosive, merciless. There was a finality about them.

But that was the great lie, the same one I always tell myself when something hurts so bad I just want to carve it out. I wasn’t destroyed. I was injured, and it left scars. But I fought through the pain, like I always do, and I eventually made peace with it. Of course I realize now that it was never the end, but that day it really felt like it. Not only the end of whatever it was that we had, but the end of existence as I knew it.

You’re 3,000 miles away now, and I know we’ll probably never speak again. We might pass each other on a city street one day, and maybe the feelings will be raw once more, if only for a brief moment. Or knowing me -- more than a few brief moments.

The funny thing is, I think you and I are the same in a lot of ways. We are both easily hurt. The difference is, you bury it and hide it away, while I bleed it out for all the world to see. I guess that’s part of what attracted me to you; your vulnerability. There was a quality to you that was akin to an injured bird in the road, with cars rushing by.

Actually, you remind me of one particular injured bird I encountered a couple of years ago. It was a crow, and its wing was broken. I was on my way to work but I stopped to help it, because I couldn’t stand to leave a desperate animal alone; I never have been able to. I wondered how many people had passed it by, on their way to wherever they were going. In my cynical worldview, I figured there were many.

I called 4-1-1 and they directed me to a city agency that deals with wounded, non-domesticated animals. They told me they would send someone in the next hour.

While I was waiting for them to arrive, I approached the bird and it startled. It tried to fly, and it did somehow, but it wasn’t able to fly high enough to avoid a passing SUV. The SUV hit it, and of course they kept going. I thought sure the impact had killed the crow, but it was still alive and I saw it staggering to the other side of the street.

Now, not only was the bird’s wing broken, but its leg too. It was dazed and frightened, but it managed to hide away in a tangle of vines growing over a fence from someone’s yard. I tried to keep my distance, afraid the same thing might happen again, but I couldn’t help but want to hold the bird close and make it feel safe. I know the bird wouldn’t have known what I was trying to do, that it would have tried to hop away, or fly on its one good wing. So I let it be; I just watched over it. I thought to myself then just how naked an injured thing is, left to the elements and to the noise. How cruel the world can be.

The man from the agency came then, and he took what looked like a metal noose at the end of a long pole and deposited the bird into a small cage. There was a brutality to the way he handled it that made me want to cry. The look on its face was one of terror, of complete exposure and at the same time complete isolation. I still think about it sometimes, and it still makes me sad. I guess because I know how that feels.

That’s sort of how I saw you, I guess, and still see you. A wounded bird, shrinking back from any indication of help or love. Never wanting to appear vulnerable but unable to keep from appearing that way.

I saw your secret, you know; not in its details but in its enormity, the darkest elephant in the room. I sensed a deep cut inside you; a wound that wouldn’t heal, maybe because you didn’t want it to. And I got sucked into it – a part of your uncanny appeal.

You sent me a text the next day. I had fled to Ventura the night before to get away from the crushing walls of L.A., closing in like a vise, squeezing out every last ounce of life left inside me. I know what your message probably said. In broad strokes, it was undoubtedly a final rejection, delivered with the softest of blows you could muster. But I never read it. In a strange way, the mystery of what you wrote was what sustained me over the next weeks and months. I think, when all is said and done, that what remains unknown is sometimes the thing that eases the ache the most.

But I still can’t rid your eyes from my memory, the way the pupils almost floated up beneath the lids and disappeared. Dear god, they burned themselves into my brain the first time we were alone. Like the crow on the street that day, they spoke volumes to me, and they taught me things. I’ll never forget them.

Free Speech Is A Privilege, Not A Right or: Wait, How Does That Go Again?

2009-08-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

A 20-year-old rapper gets sentenced to two years in prison for writing lyrics about killing a cop in one of his songs. TWO YEARS. Wtf, mate?

Here's the song that started all the fuss:

Wrong finger, Antavio.

If he were famous (or white), do you think he would have gotten two years for this? Doubtful. N.W.A., anyone?

The irony here is undeniable. If anything, N.W.A.'s song ("Fuck tha Police") had a greater chance of inspiring kids in the inner city to shoot cops because they were famous. Their song was blasting out of boom boxes on every city street corner in 1988. Have you ever heard of Antavio Johnson? Didn't think so. Nobody knew who the fuck he was until a few days ago. Of course now that his story has made national news, his song is going to get thousands of hits on YouTube, and hey, maybe he'll even get a record deal out of it. Interesting.

Listen, I'm not one of these individuals who believes violence in film/television/music can't inspire real-life violence. To claim that is totally ludicrous. It absolutely can, and it has. But guess what? The people committing these acts are a little unbalanced to begin with. So are you going to trample on someone's First Amendment rights and throw them in prison because a wacko might potentially be inspired to shoot up a post office or a school after listening to their song? Give me a break.

Read the full story here:

http://www.bvblackspin.com/2009/08/10/rapper-cop-killing-song?icid=main|aimzones|dl5|link5|http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bvblackspin.com%2F2009%2F08%2F10%2Frapper-cop-killing-song

Ten Thoughts From The Weekend of 8/7 - 8/9

2009-08-09T20:44:00.000-07:00

1) I've always loved them, but now I'm absolutely positive CCR is one of my fave singles bands of all time. John Fogerty is a genius. Evidence? Mardi Gras. He finally caved and allowed Doug Clifford and Stu Cook to have an equal share creatively (they wrote and produced and, oh Jesus Christ, sang on several tracks), and as a result it sucked ass. That album, which ended up being their last, serves as a painful reminder of the destructive potential of the human ego. Fogerty must have gotten a good laugh out of it.

If I had to die in a nuclear attack, this is probably the song I'd want to disintegrate to.

2) I wish L.A. had a more extensive subway system. I took the L.A. subway for the first time this weekend and actually sort of enjoyed it. Of course, Westsiders are going to have to wait a long time for a less-stressful commute. Based on projections, by the time the subway is extended to Westwood, I'll be 51 years old: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2009/01/mta-unveils-new.html Fuck me. Won't we be underwater by then?

Is that Ewan McGregor?

3) Even cheesy theme restaurants can be fun if you're with the right people. I went to that orgy of tourism and bad taste, the Universal Citywalk, for a friend's birthday dinner on Saturday (I forgive them; they're out-of-towners). If he wasn't an awesome dude, I probably would have come up with an excuse not to go, but he is an awesome dude so I went. And in spite of my trepidation, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. In case you were wondering, dinner was at the Saddle Ranch, so what also made it enjoyable was watching drunk girls flailing about on those mechanical bulls (especially when they bailed hard), and the fact that there were a couple of waiters I wanted to bone.

Ok, so I couldn't find any mechanical bull riding videos that were funny, except for those mean-spirited ones where the person riding it is overweight/obese and the person taking the video calls them "fatty", etc. Well, fuck that. This is better -- a bunch of total morons invited to sit inside the ring during a rodeo halftime show while an angry REAL bull is unleashed. Actual quote from one of the participants: "It never crossed my mind at the time that there would be any danger involved." Frankly, I was kind of rooting for the bull.

4) Ultimate Fighting is totally gay. While I was at Saddle Ranch, they were playing the Ultimate Fighting Championship on about 300 different TV monitors, and I couldn't help but notice how homoerotic it is. When I first walked in and saw it, one hot sweaty dude was on top of another hot sweaty dude in the missionary position, and he was totally humping him. Did I mention they were hot? Boner city.

This is sort of how I feel when I'm watching a UFC match.

5) Amy Adams is annoying. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Amy Adams. Aww, isn't she adorable? No. Please make her go away. We don't need another Reese Witherspoon (in fact, we don't even need one anymore -- remember when she used to make good movies?). Julie & Julia was fantastic every time Meryl Streep was on screen; whenever it switched over to the modern-day portion I felt myself wanting to groan. Watching Amy Adams act is kind of like watching a chipmunk nibbling on an acorn. That chipmunk might be nibbling on that acorn with consummate skill, and it might be kind of cute for a few seconds, but it doesn't mean I want to sit there and watch it for two hours.

She always nails it on the first take.

6) I think I'm lactose intolerant now. Dairy is no longer my friend. Goodbye, cheese. We had a good run, didn't we? Or is it runs?

I don't know where this bathroom is, but I want to go there.

7) Driving in Silverlake/Echo Park without GPS or proper directions is confusing. I never did make it to that BBQ. Fucking hipsters.

I'm pretty sure I had a nightmare like this once.

8) If a British horror/comedy is hyped as being the next Shaun of the Dead, it probably isn't. I love Edgar Wright's comedic zombie masterpiece -- it' s sharp, funny and balls-out brilliant. On the other hand, there's a little movie called Severance (sort of a comedic Hostel), which is less sharp, less funny and basically makes you want to watch Shaun of the Dead again. Don't fall for it. (However, Danny Dyer, one of the main actors, is pretty fucking hot, and he enjoys taking off his clothes for photo shoots. Here are a few shots of him in various states of undress: http://mynewplaidpants.blogspot.com/2007/05/gratuitous-danny-dyer.html. Now you don't have to watch the movie. You're welcome.)

NOT a film by Edgar Wright.

9) Sleeping kicks ass. I slept for over 50% of the day yesterday, and I don't feel at all guilty about it.

This is exactly what I look like when I sleep. And by "exactly", I mean not at all.

10) I'm still single. Outrageous.

Ok you guys, seriously. Enough with the twirling.